Work Text:
Wings
Maybe if he hadn’t been born with wings, then things would have been different. But he was, and there was no hiding from any of the Grimleal that this was their god reborn, and so Grima was not given so much as a moment of respite.
In the body of a child he was nevertheless expected to perform feats as impressive as his wingspan at his followers’ whim. At his “father’s” whim. At humanity’s whim, as always.
He was a god, as everyone thought of him.
No one cared that being a boy with wings was entirely new to him.
Desire
The Grimleal desired the destruction of the world. It was what Grima had promised to do long ago. Grima desired it too, of course. The unbearable can be tolerated for some time so long as the end is in sight. That is how the Grimleal could stand to wait years for their god to take his true form again, and how Grima could stand to wait years in the company of humans.
Everyone knew that this was Grima’s stance, so no one asked him, as they might a real boy, what hobbies he liked, or if he had any dreams.
Words
“Are you alright?”
Such words had never been said to Grima before. Why wouldn’t the master of all of Plegia be alright?
Or maybe the thought was, why would the god of despair be alright?
“I’m Chrom,” the prince with Naga’s Brand says, offering Grima his hand because he understands nothing. He thinks Grima is a sacrifice. “What’s your name?”
Grima shudders in the middle of the Dragon’s Table. The ritual couldn’t be completed, so he’s not yet the dragon. He’s still just a boy with wings.
“Robin,” he says. He has to bide his time.
Chrom’s hand is warm.
Wish
“I wish…”
Grima stops himself before he says something completely daft. Ylisse isn’t much different from Plegia, or anywhere else, but sometimes he forgets to pay attention to the world as a whole and gets caught up in the everyday antics of Chrom and his Shepherds, and in his distraction he thinks ridiculous things like I wish that I were human, that I could live a normal life with you…
“What is it, Robin?” Chrom asks. “You can tell me anything.”
Grima wishes that he could. But for the first time in his life, he’s afraid of reaching the end.
Breath
Grima chokes on his breath.
“What do you mean you know?”
Chrom explains it was obvious, when he interrupted the Grimleal’s ritual, who the winged boy at the center of the altar was supposed to be.
“But you’re yourself, before you’re anyone’s god,” Chrom says. “And you looked like you wanted to be free.”
“Free…” Grima echoes. “But you’ve always kept me with you.”
“Do you want to go?”
“No,” Grima admits. “I was going to ask if I could stay.”
In the warmth of Chrom’s arms, he can no longer deny that he desires more than a bitter end.