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“Master Grima…”
Aversa’s sultry voice grates on Grima’s ears. It’s ironic that he hasn’t killed her yet—the gods know how many years he spent trying, back when she spent her days with Gangrel, back before… everything became clear to him. But now that his cause is the destruction of the world, there are none so willing as her and the “father” she shares with him to follow his command, and it is occasionally useful to have a servant with a brain not infested by insects.
Still, he finds her general presence… displeasing. He prefers to send her away on missions, but unfortunately that means he must tolerate listening to her report back from time to time.
“Do not speak to me that way with the mouth you’ve used to kiss that lecher,” he growls. “Now tell me, have you discovered the secrets of the Einherjar’s power or not?”
“It’s hardly ‘secret.’ The old man is weak, handing out his precious heirlooms to absolutely anyone who caters to him, be it by playing on his fears or his desires,” Aversa sneers. “They’re little more than playing cards, and hardly worth your time.”
“In other words, you couldn’t keep control of them, despite their master playing right into your hands,” Grima says. “Why even bother returning to me in such a sorry state?”
Aversa is smart enough to figure out how to flee through the Outrealms for her life. She must have some trick up her sleeve.
“Oh, please… I would never lose at such a childish game.” Aversa chuckles. “I merely gambled until I came across a more interesting prize…”
She summons a card into her hand, but infuriatingly, she keeps its front side hidden from Grima.
“This single card is worth more than the others?” Grima asks incredulously. “Is it somehow more powerful? Does it summon the specter of Naga herself?”
“It’s not its power that matters,” Aversa says. “After all, even summoning the gods would be futile against your might—”
“Your flattery is worthless,” Grima growls. “Get to the point.”
“Hmm…? Is my show not exciting you, Master?” Aversa pouts exaggeratedly. “I think you’ll find the ending entertaining. As you know, the Einherjar are reflections of great heroes from other worlds and times… Well, this one happens to be part of a… newer… collection.”
“Show me,” Grima demands.
At the snap of Aversa’s fingers, the card spins around midair, revealing…
“Chrom…” Grima whispers.
“It seems he’s making quite the name for himself across the Outrealms,” Aversa says. “Or, well, one from another world is, anyway…”
Grima barely registers her words. He snatches the card up before Aversa can do anything else with it, and he cradles it in his hands as he studies it. It feels like a completely ordinary card to his fingers, but he can sense the magic it holds deep within. Chrom’s portrait is depicted beautifully—it isn’t a piece that Grima has seen before, but it is of a quality as fine as any ever displayed at Ylisstol Castle. And were Grima to call on this card, he knows that Chrom’s likeness would appear before him, indistinguishable from the real thing to his senses.
Grima inhales deeply.
“This must never fall into the hands of his daughter,” he breathes out.
Lucina and her band of orphans are all so determined to die horrifically. Grima would grant them a quick end in honor of their parents’ sacrifices, but they simply insist on clinging to pointless hope and dragging out the whole affair. If they were to discover a way to bring the Shepherds back, even in phantom form…
No. Grima is getting sick of playing games. He will not allow the ghosts of his past to get in the way of the inevitable.
“Return to the Outrealms,” he orders Aversa. “Wherever Chrom goes, his Shepherds always follow. There are more cards yet, and I want them delivered to my hands. Do not fail me, or the next thing your dear Old Hubba will have to collect will be your scattered bones after I tear you apart!”
“… As you wish, Master Grima.” Aversa’s expression darkens, but not with fear. That’s the problem with her and Validar—they are so aware that their lives are not their own that they aren’t afraid of losing them. “Will you see them destroyed?”
Something other than flirtation underlies her tone this time. Something akin to pity… But he won’t tolerate it from someone like her. Her life has been naught but a lie, too, though in her case the truth still lies dormant. Validar will never let her know that all her childhood memories are false, that he never saved her from anything, that all he did was doom her to the burden of destroying the world with the fell dragon.
It’s pathetic.
But Grima won’t tell her, either. Her life isn’t important. Why should anyone care if she thinks it better than it truly is?
“My plans for the Einherjar are none of your concern,” Grima growls. “It depends on what they can do for me…”
Grima’s fingers tighten around Chrom’s card. He would never be so stupid as to summon the real man before him. That would only lead to another murder. An Einherjar bound to his service, however, poses no threat.
Grima doesn’t need a phantom’s assistance, of course. But so long as he has the card in his possession anyway, it would be a waste not to summon it.
“Now, begone,” Grima mutters, dismissing Aversa without glancing up. “And go pay Validar a visit before you disappear. I do not care to waste my time explaining everything to him when you can do it as easily.”
“Right away, Master.”
Her words come quicker than usual—only slightly, but it’s unmistakable to Grima. Even though Validar cares nothing for her, she still misses him.
It’s truly pathetic.
But at least with the two of them preoccupied for a while, he is assured a moment all to himself.
The soulful eyes of Chrom’s portrait seem to pose a challenge, daring Grima to pull him into the world. Whoever—or whatever—created this depiction certainly captured his spirit correctly. Despite every hardship the world threw at him, he never lost his determination to fight until the bitter end.
Then Grima blindsided him. It was a matter of chance—of fate. He wouldn’t have fallen so quickly to anyone else.
He would obviously make for a powerful ally. Never would he take Grima’s side of his own volition, of course… but his Einherjar reflection won’t have any choice in the matter.
Grima tugs at the card’s magic with his own, and immediately, a familiar shape takes form before him.
“Huh? Robin?” Chrom exclaims the moment he opens his eyes. “What’s going on? This… This is Plegia, isn’t it? Did we finally defeat Gangrel?”
“Ah…” Now Grima understands why Chrom looks younger than he remembers. The problem lies not with Grima’s soul, but with the Einherjar’s creation. In some other world, Chrom must have saved the Outrealms before winning the war with Plegia. “Yes, we won. At long last. However… I’m afraid Gangrel was nothing in the grand scheme of humanity’s evil…”
He pauses. How can he even begin to describe the state of the world? How can he possibly explain the monster he has become—an evil strong enough to crush all lesser evils—to this young lord whose idea of justice is yet so unrefined that he is still fighting in the name of his older sister? How can he make Chrom understand?
In truth, the answers do not matter, for it is not Chrom from the past that he speaks to, but merely an imitation of him that cannot change.
“Robin…” Chrom reaches for Grima’s shoulder. The magic fueling him is powerful; his touch is as warm as any living human’s. “This isn’t my world, is it… The fact that you had to summon me here… I’m gone. I can tell. And now things are dire. I’m so sorry…”
Grima chuckles humorlessly.
“What makes you think that?” he asks.
“I can see the sorrow in your eyes.”
“What—?” Grima scoffs, shaking Chrom’s hand off of him. “You’re making things up.”
It isn’t as though he can help it. The Einherjar are unaware that they are not real. Chrom knows only that he has been summoned, and everything else is a fabrication of his mind.
“Hey, it’s alright…” Chrom says gently. “Whatever the reason, I’m glad you called me here. I may not be your Chrom, but I promise I’ll fight for your world with the same strength I fight for my own.”
Grima grits his teeth.
“And what if I tell you we’re not fighting for my world?” he asks. “What if we’re fighting against it?”
There’s no point to this line of questioning. An Einherjar must obey its summoner. He’s curious, that’s all. Can even evil sound good when passed through Chrom’s lips?
“Gods… Are things really that bad for you?” Chrom is prone to frowning, but this one is particularly tragic. It’s as though he’s heartbroken. Even his murder didn’t cause him this much grief. “It’s probably my fault. I’ve always been afraid I’d drag you down…”
“N-No—”
Grima’s protest is cut short when Chrom pulls him into his embrace. Even as a ghost of himself, Chrom is strong. If Grima weren’t the fell dragon, he wouldn’t be able to move.
“Oh, Robin…” Chrom breathes. “When I was young, I was too powerless to protect Emmeryn from the stones our people threw at her. But I’m better now. I swear I’ll protect you… Even if it means fighting against the whole world.”
“Chrom…”
Grima closes his eyes. No matter what Chrom says, there is no sorrow in them.
“You’ll be quite the figure by my side.”
Chrom isn’t real. None of this truly matters.
Still, he doesn’t move from Chrom’s arms.
Chrom is dead, and Grima is friendless in the world. Why should anyone care if he imagines that he isn’t?