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Despite Robin’s assurances, Tharja wondered if she wouldn’t have preferred someone “normal” after all. Unlike herself, Robin sought out the company of other people. Normal people. She was comfortable around them, and they accepted her as one of their own.
That was not Tharja’s world.
Her magic, specifically her kind of magic, unsettled people. It had been less of a problem in Plegia, where the dark arts commanded as much respect as they did fear. Ylisseans took a less sophisticated view of it, and by extension, of her. Tharja was fine with it. She had chosen to turn her back on her home, and she could not regret the choice that had brought her to Robin. But she was aware of the shadow she cast, and how even her comrades regarded her warily. She’d thought she was fine with that, too.
Tharja lingered outside the tent. Robin had retired later than usual, having spent the evening with the other Shepherds. Tharja had lurked at the periphery of their easy camaraderie, aloof and alone. By choice. Still, she had felt a twinge of envy as the others flocked around Robin, as some stupid joke caused her to erupt into laughter.
She couldn’t give her that.
“Tharja? You’re there, aren’t you?”
The light from Robin’s candle splashed against the side of the tent. Instinctively, Tharja stepped back into the night. But the light remained, held by a patient hand. After a moment, she let herself in, bracing herself for Robin’s disapproval. But it did not come—it hadn’t in months.
“You’re right on time,” Robin said, setting the candle on her trunk and makeshift desk. Her hair was down. She’d removed her leather armor and had laid out her bedroll. Another change to her schedule—usually Robin would stay up to work for a few hours more. But they’d had a long day of marching, and she hadn’t slept much the past few nights. (Eleven hours over the past three days.)
“You were expecting me.”
“Not exactly. But you’re usually around, so I figured I’d check.”
Robin seemed unconcerned by the fact that she’d been lurking outside of her tent. In fact, she just seemed satisfied about being right. Tharja frowned. A warm, itchy feeling filled her chest.
“You’re so…” Foolish. Vulnerable. “…Trusting.”
“You think so?” Robin looked at her, and Tharja felt as if she were made of glass. “We’ve known each other for some time, Tharja. You’re not as spooky as you think.”
Robin tugged her boots off. She sat upon the bedroll.
“Come,” she said, patting the space next to her.
If anyone else had made her blush this hard, Tharja would have hexed them.
“You’re inviting me into your bed?” she asked, trying to sound less thrilled than she was. “That’s very bold of you, Robin.”
“You’re going to watch me sleep anyway, aren’t you?”
“…Perhaps.”
“Then I’d rather you do it where I can keep an eye on you.”
“So you’re watching me?”
Robin grinned wolfishly.
“Someone has to.”
The bedroll was narrow. It was a tight fit, even if they both lay on their sides. Robin shifted, trying to give Tharja more room. Then, giving up, she sighed and lay an arm over her waist. Tharja had never been more comfortable.
“What’s that?” Robin asked as Tharja slipped her hand under the pillow.
“A bag of lavender and horsehair.”
“…Oh.”
Robin didn’t say anything more, but her expression stiffened. It was only a slight tightening of the brow, but not beneath Tharja’s notice. Perhaps that hadn’t been a very “normal” answer.
“It’s a talisman,” she explained. “For a dreamless sleep.”
“Oh.
Up close, Tharja could appreciate the finer details of Robin’s surprise—the way she blinked twice very quickly, her eyes widening a touch. Then she smiled.
“You really have been watching me.”
Gods, she would kill for her.
“You…don’t think it’s strange?”
“It is strange. But also very thoughtful.” The arm around Tharja’s waist pulled her a little closer. “Thank you.”
It was too embarrassing to respond, so Tharja tucked her face against Robin’s chest instead. Her body was soft, and she inhaled her scent. Robin laughed, the sound humming over her skin.
“Your breath tickles.”
I love you, Tharja thought in elation and despair.
“I know a few sleeping curses,” she murmured. “In case the talisman doesn’t work.”
--
Fate was cruel.
Tharja knew that. It was one of the first lessons any dark mage learned. Fate was cruel and had no regard for the mortal lives caught in its weave. A child’s knowledge. And yet.
And yet.
It wasn’t fair, she thought in defiance of a lifetime of training. According to the Grimleal’s teachings, Grima’s return was inevitable. Therefore, it was inevitable that someone would be chosen as its vessel. There were hundreds, thousands of faithful who would have gladly given their bodies to the old god. It wasn’t fair that it had to be her.
“Please go.”
Tharja hesitated. She was no good at comforting people. If none of their comrades had been able to soothe her, how could she do any better?
But she couldn’t leave Robin alone.
“It’s me.”
Tharja leaned closer to the tent. It was quiet. Then she heard a muffled sniff.
“…Tharja?”
Robin’s voice was smaller than it had ever been, and Tharja’s vision whitened with rage. It was folly to sling one’s curses at the gods, but she knew, undoubtedly, that she would do the foolish thing.
“I’m coming in.”
It was still bright out, but the tent was made of heavy canvas. Robin sat in the tepid half-light, in the grass, among the scattered contents of her trunk. She made no effort to pick any of it up.
“Sorry.” Her eyes were hidden behind her hands. “I thought you might be Chrom.”
“You would have sent him away?”
“I don’t want anyone to see me like this.”
She would have enjoyed the distinction under better circumstances. Tharja had seen her cry before, but rarely. Robin was strong. She only cried when thought no one was watching. Though now it dawned on Tharja that perhaps she’d known she was there all along.
Perhaps she had wanted to be seen.
Tharja knelt in front of her. She held Robin’s wrists and gently pried them away from her face. Her eyes were painfully raw.
“There you are.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. Don’t ever apologize to me.”
“Tharja…” Her swollen eyelids blinked slowly. “You know about Grima, don’t you?”
“…Yes.” It was as if there were paste in her throat. “But I wasn’t raised in the faith. I can’t tell you much.”
“He said I’m its vessel.”
“He said it. That’s all.”
But words were potent. They were the stuff curses were made of.
“It’s true,” Robin said, and there was a resignation in her voice worse than grief. “I can feel it.”
So could Tharja. It would be useless to deny it. Disrespectful, even.
Robin sniffed again. She dabbed her nose with her sleeve.
“If I’m its vessel,” she said. “Is that why you’re—”
“No.”
“You didn’t hear me out.”
“I’m not going to let you speak nonsense.” She held Robin’s wrists tighter. “I care about you. Not some dead dragon.”
She wouldn’t look at her. She was staring at the back of her hand. The hand was gloved, but it didn’t matter. The mark remained.
“I've ruined things.”
“Anyone who matters will forgive you. Some of them already have.”
Robin shook her head. A lock of hair clung to her wet cheek.
“They don’t know what I am. They don’t understand.”
“I do.”
Her laugh sounded like a sob.
“Then you should know better.”
Tharja grabbed Robin’s face. Even as she kissed her, it seemed desperate. Pathetic. Loving her wouldn’t fix this. She knew at least that much.
But Robin was kissing her back, and right now, that was more important.
Robin collapsed against her, and Tharja swallowed her sobs and licked the tears from her mouth. In time, her despair ebbed. Still, she let Tharja hold her. Fingers threaded through her hair, Tharja was convinced of this body’s divinity, soft and sad and wonderful as it was. It was enough. There was no need to put any other god in it.
“You could do a lot better than me.”
“No.”
“You could.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” It was a promise to her. It was her threat against fate.
Tharja curled her fingers into the back of Robin’s coat, nails biting into her skin. She wanted her to feel it. She wanted her to know.