Chapter Text
Someone had already made the campfire.
It was a good fire, adequately constructed and not too smokey. It burned well. The scent of oak mellowed the air, and the warmth of the flames cheered the still dark morning.
Frederick frowned at the fire, his tinderbox redundant in his hands.
It was nothing to be disappointed about. Truly. If anything, it was a boon. It was one less thing for him to worry about, and he ought to be happy to know there was someone in camp willing to take on this responsibility.
But he was incredibly disappointed.
“Good morning, Frederick.”
He was surprised to see Robin striding up to him, her coat buttoned up against the cold. He did not know her as the type of person who woke before dawn. In fact, he knew she wasn’t.
“Robin,” he said, nodding his head in greeting. “You’re up early.”
“It is early,” she agreed. She yawned, her jaw clicking softly. “In fact, it’s criminally early. The hour is not human.”
“You needn’t have woken.”
“I didn’t.” In the firelight, her grin might have been a grimace. “You can’t wake up if you never went to sleep.”
“You didn’t sleep?”
“I couldn’t. And not for lack of trying.”
She did look tired, Frederick thought. Now that he was looking, he saw the heaviness pressed into her brows. It was a special kind of misery to be unable to sleep.
“It is not yet sunrise,” he said. “If you lie down now, you might yet sleep for an hour.”
“I don’t think that will work.” She knelt near the fire, warming her hands. “But don’t worry. If it gets really bad, I’ll just crawl into a wagon and nap.”
“It may be bad for morale for the soldiers to see our tactician napping on the job.”
“It’ll be worse for morale if their exhausted tactician gets everyone killed.”
Point taken.
“So, Frederick,” she said after a moment. “Why were you glaring at my poor little fire?”
It was not the sort of thing he ought to be taken aback by. Yet Frederick was taken aback.
“This is your fire?” he asked. “You made this?”
“Yes,” she said. “And yes.”
Her answer could not have been more straightforward, but he was still confused. He had asked the wrong question.
“Why?”
The fire popped. His grip tightened slightly around his tinderbox.
“Why?” She repeated the question, a dry smile playing across her lips. “I offered, didn’t I? A few days ago? As thanks for training with me?”
She had, he remembered now. But he did not remember accepting.
“I was awake anyhow,” Robin continued. “So I figured I’d save you the time and trouble. I even built the fire normally, you know. No magic or anything. I wasn’t expecting thanks, but I didn’t think it deserved being glared at.”
The pride in her voice was tangible. Was she actually offended that he’d slighted her fire, or was she just pretending to be? He could never quite tell with her.
“It is a fine fire,” Frederick said. “Though the wood might have been staked a bit neater.”
“The wood stacks,” she agreed, nodding. “Right.”
That was sarcasm, wasn’t it? Was she teasing him?
“I…don’t believe I was glaring.”
“Oh, you were. If you’d seen your face, you’d agree.”
Perhaps she was being difficult because she expected an apology. If so, that was ridiculous. He would give her no such thing.
“Well,” he said.
She nodded, very intentionally looking at the flames. And not at him.
“It is a good fire, Robin.”
She nodded again.
“Yeah. It is, isn’t it?”
--
The next few days saw his morning routine return to normal. He rose, built the fire, did his exercises and drills, completed a weapons and armor inspection, patrolled the camp, and prepared tea for Chrom and Lissa. He completed his tasks with a newfound appreciation. It felt good to be back in the rhythm of things. Better than good, in fact. It felt right.
And then there was Robin at the end of the week, crouching in the morning dark, sparks hopping from her flint.
“You’ve stacked the wood quite neatly this time,” he said, marshaling all his willpower to smooth the irritation from his voice.
“High praise,” she said, watching as the kindling took, smoke curling into the air. “I’ve been practicing.”
To usurp you, his mind warned. Frederick promptly banished the thought. She could not “usurp” the simple task of building the morning’s fire. There was no need for dramatics.
“I pray that you slept,” he said.
“I actually did. Mostly.”
“And how do you find the hour? Any more human?”
“A little.”
Robin stood, brushing the dirt from her knees. The flames billowed up, pushing back their shadows. Frederick was not, to his knowledge, glaring at this fire.
“I think I could learn to like waking up early,” Robin said breezily. “I don’t see the appeal of it now, of course. But you seem to think there’s something to it.”
“You don’t mean to make a habit of it?”
“I might.”
She gave him a sidelong grin, and his muscles instinctively tensed. He did not know what was happening, but whatever it was, it was dangerous.
“I was thinking,” she said. “Perhaps I could be responsible for making the morning campfire? That would free up some time for you to attend to your other duties. If you think my fire is adequate, that is.”
“That’s…” Bad. Terrible, even. “Very generous of you.”
He tried to flatten his voice, to sound bored. It was crucial to give her nothing to latch onto.
“But it is unnecessary,” he continued. “I am more than capable of completing my own chores.”
“Really, Frederick, I insist.”
She really stressed that word—insist. It was chilling, and Frederick felt the world narrow abruptly around them. There was the crackling of the fire, and the sound of air being pushed through her teeth. Robin smiled menacingly at him, waiting for his response.
He called her bluff.
“Very well.”
She’d wanted to tease him and had had her fun. But that was as far as it went. If she wanted to keep making the morning fire, she’d have to wake up early every day. He was confident that she would not keep it up.
--
For the next week, Robin was up before the sun. She prepared the fire each day. They were good fires—functional and tidy. Every morning she greeted him cheerily from the glow of her flames.
She had to be stopped.
Ashamed as he was to admit it, with this one daily act, she had upended his entire routine. There was no reason to be upset, yet he was. He was like a horse that, after seeing a snake across its path, was ruined with nerves for the rest of the day. His other tasks were suffering for it, and although no one had pointed it out yet, it was only a matter of time.
But how, exactly, was he supposed to stop her? No matter how hard he tried, Frederick could not find any fault with Robin’s fires. And he couldn’t ask her to stop without justification, could he? Especially after he had complimented her fire. (He should not have done that.)
But perhaps there was no avoiding it.
“Good morning, Frederick.”
Robin waved at him, holding what appeared to be a piece of dried meat. She was eating her breakfast in front of the campfire. The fire she had built. She seemed comfortably warm and entirely content with herself.
“I’m afraid I must ask you to stop,” he told her.
Robin took a bite of meat, chewing slowly. She had been smiling at him, and she continued to do so. But there was a stiffness to her expression that had earlier been absent.
“Stop what?”
He sighed. Of course she would make this difficult.
“It is not necessary for you to continue making the morning fire. Truly.”
That “truly” had slipped in against his better judgment. He hoped it didn’t make him sound too desperate. Whatever Robin thought of him in that moment, she did not allow it to show on her face. She stared coolly at him, her expression composed in an expert mimicry of mild confusion.
“I don’t understand,” she said. “Have my fires been unsatisfactory?”
“They have been…adequate.”
“Then what, exactly, is the problem?”
A good question, and one he had pondered extensively over the past few days. Frederick had yet to find his answer, but whatever it was, it was likely undignified. Although he had resolved to simply ask her to stop, he found himself scrambling for a reason.
“It is inefficient.”
Even as he said it, Frederick knew it was an incredibly weak explanation. He waited for Robin to eviscerate it. But she said nothing, which was worse. She was waiting, he realized with dull horror, for more.
“I’ve thought about it,” he lied. “And it makes little sense for you to rise as early to make the fire when I am already awake to do it. You are our tactician, after all. Certainly your energies would be better spent elsewhere.”
There. That was a plausibly reasonable explanation. He looked expectantly at Robin, who was still silent. She was thinking.
“Alright.”
Alright? Had he heard correctly? He was rather certain that he had. And yet there was something confrontational in Robin’s posture. She crossed her arms and shifted her weight to one hip. Small movements, yet it was like watching an archer notch an arrow pointed directly at him.
“So,” she said briskly. “Help me understand. Do you refuse to accept help from anyone? From women? Or just me?”
The wood groaned beneath the fire. In the branches above them, birdsong trilled the air. Frederick blinked at her, astounded.
“What?”
“Really, Frederick, you haven’t exactly been subtle about it.” Her words were casual, almost flippant, but her irritation was clear. “I know I’m not your favorite person, but ‘inefficient’? It’s ‘inefficient’ for me to take on one of the dozens of menial tasks that you do every day? Come now, you can do better than that.”
So, he thought, she had shot down his bluff after all. Though what she suspected was not true, either. At least, he didn’t think it was.
“Robin, I have no problem with you.”
“So you would refuse anyone’s help.”
“Yes.”
“Hm.” She was tapping her index finger against her arm. “I don’t believe you.”
He had felt awkward about having this conversation before, but now Frederick felt his own irritation flare.
“You seem to think you have me all figured out,” he said.
“I do, yes.”
“Well, did you consider that I might enjoy building the morning fire?”
Immediately, he was embarrassed to have said it. How petty it made him sound, and how unbelievably irresponsible it was to prioritize his own desires in that way. But it was the truth.
“Do you?” Robin asked. She had stopped tapping her finger against her arm and was watching him with pointed interest.
“Yes,” he admitted. There was little point in denying it now. “I…find it soothing. Meditative.”
He liked choosing a nice, dry spot to build the fire, and placing the wood just so. He liked the brittle texture of tinder, and how the tiny flame had to be sheltered from the wind. How each small, measured act brought a little order into the world, a little light and warmth against the darkness.
He awaited Robin’s judgment, but to his surprise, it did not come.
“I hadn’t considered it,” she said instead. Her manner had relaxed somewhat, an openness returning to her expression. “I didn’t know it was important to you.”
Frederick nodded, not looking directly at her. He was still embarrassed.
“Well,” he said. “Now you know.”
The sky was beginning to gray with light. He could hear the faint sounds of waking, of feet shuffling through the grass and armor being pulled on. But the morning was still quiet, and it would be for a while yet.
“I’ll stop,” Robin said. “To be honest, I do really, really hate waking up this early.”
She smiled slightly—a peace offering he was more than happy to accept.
“You have become quite adept at making a fire,” he said in return. “If I ever need assistance, I’ll know who to ask.”
“You won’t need assistance,” she laughed.
“I might.”
He probably wouldn’t.
“Well, thanks anyhow,” she said. “Though I really did want to be of some help to you. At least at first. I wanted to repay you somehow, for training me.”
“There is nothing to repay. It is my duty to train new recruits. I’ve only done what is expected of me.”
It was the truth, and Frederick saw no need for Robin to trouble herself over it. Yet saying so seemed to dampen her spirits. He frowned. That had not been his intention.
“Still,” Robin said. “I’d like to do something for you. If there’s anything you want…”
“I am unaccustomed to asking favors.”
“I’m aware.”
But she wanted him to ask anyhow. That much was plain. Robin stared into the fire, and if he hadn’t known better, he would have thought she looked bashful. This meant something to her, Frederick realized, though he could not fathom what or why.
But then, perhaps he didn’t have to understand. He looked into the fire as well, at the flames pushing back the dark. It really was a good fire.
“Well, if you insist,” he said. He glanced quickly at her, at the strip of dried meat she held. Then he looked back to the fire. “I shall give it some thought.”