Chapter Text
i.
“It’ll all be over now, Robin.” Falchion gleams with a brandish (wind whips past her ears: a prayer of its own trying to whisk away her dangerous thoughts)—and in that moment, the ancient sword in Chrom’s hand almost feels divined—like the thing finally has its own destiny realized.
Chrom’s voice is strong and sure, his shoulders squared, sounding every bit as much a hero as he looks in that moment. It’s a sight that Robin would be pleased to carry with her wherever she’ll go: a last look at her King, looking ever valiant beneath the fading sun. “I’ll handle it from here.”
The fell dragon keens, very much in pain. Something forlorn and archaic within Robin winces (she is still Grima, after all, and Grima is still her). A phantom ache blooms in her chest as she gazes down at her other self. The fell-blood within her roars, pounding at her ears—calling out for empathy. For mercy.
She couldn’t have it, she knows, as Chrom turns to her with a nod, his unspoken offer of ‘together?’ waiting for a response. Stand beside me, he means to say. Be there with me.
(Always. . .)
When Robin spares a glance behind her, at where Lucina and Morgan and the others are waiting by the fray, fending off the advancing Grimleal to buy time, Ylisse’s Chief Tactician closes her eyes for a moment and clears her throat.
‘Hear, my lady, that although the King might succeed in putting the fell dragon to slumber, the dangers of its next reawakening will continue to cast a shadow over our land. There’s a chance that you may be long gone before it happens again, but in your daughter and future son, the Fell line lives on—and maybe it might even become your children, or their children, for that matter, who would bear the mark of becoming its next vessel.’
Tiki’s words have haunted her for days—all her restlessness boiling up to this final conflict. They’re honest words, soft-spoken and voiced crystalline: a heed passed down from the divine dragon, herself.
Robin had thanked the Voice of Naga soon after, her gratitude just as honest.
‘Thank you…for providing me with everything I need to know.’
Robin thinks of her Lucina (her brave, wonderful girl) sobbing late in her tent when she thinks no one can hear her—wracking from the horrors of some desolate future that’s made a home behind her eyes. Grima frightens her—far more than she’d ever let on—and the possibility of subjecting her child to another iteration of this fate (no matter how distant or unlikely) makes Robin’s stomach go sour.
And then she remembers her sweet boy, Morgan, alone and cowering from the Risen in the Ruins of Time. Sharp but boyishly innocent, forcibly offered up to the Table at Plegia, screaming for his mother and father; Grima taking over. He might grow to loathe himself then, to wallow alone in despair once nothing else is left.
And Chrom…her darling Chrom, heart breaking beyond repair as their children suffer. Her Chrom, who'd been no stranger to loss—having it chip away at pieces of his heart long before they've fought their wars.
What she’d give to never see any of them in pain.
So Robin makes her choice: she nods back at Chrom—face stern and decided. He gives her a smile in return, features lighting up in relief.
Robin always loved that smile; it’s the one he’d always save up just for her (both in conflict and in the quiet).
Grima is crouched down, hacking at its lungs where Robin had aimed a wizened Thoron. The fell dragon beneath them keens, form quaking, and for a moment, Robin almost loses her footing. Chrom shoots out a hand to steady her, and after giving her husband a silent word of thanks, she proceeds to straighten up once he lets go.
Her gaze turns to her other self with a wince. She can’t drag this out any longer.
Beneath her robe, a hand clutches at Goetia. Robin recites the hex inside her head—careful not to miss anything—calling to memory the preciseness of how Henry had taught her the spell just a fortnight ago.
They advance towards Grima, side by side. Together.
(. . .but not this time, love.)
Before Chrom can strike the final blow, Robin rushes to push him aside and raise a quivering hand. Faintly, she can hear his cries of protest from behind her—but pays none of them any heed. Her other self—her broken self—looks up just as she lets loose a practiced Goetia.
“No!”
It hits Grima’s vessel without trouble, pushing the other Robin back from the force of the blow. Dark energy twists around the spell as lightning dances in anger.
Robin turns to her King, smiling despite her piercing discomfort. “Thank you, Chrom…for everything.”
A part of her can resonate with the searing pain that her other self feels. Her lungs give out, constricting—convulsing from the dark magic that threatens to devour it and leave nothing left. Robin staggers back with a gasp.
(“Mother!”
“Morgan, no!”)
Grima gives out its loudest roar, and Chrom has to cover his ears. In front of him, Robin falls. Unshed tears sting the corners of his eyes. He scrambles forward to catch her.
Beneath them all, the fell dragon’s form shudders. Its dark wings struggle to keep to the skies, but even with persistence, its efforts to keep going would eventually peter out. Screeching, the creature spreads its wings and tilts its weight down to a slow plummet. What lies below in wait is the sea, eager to claim its bones.
(“—Unhand me, Inigo!”)
Reinforcements arrive just as Robin planned. Pegasus Knights from Ylisse and Wyvern Riders from Valm—the lot of them rising up along the dragon’s flank to offer aid. Chrom can hear Lucina screeching in the distance, wailing ‘Mother’ until her voice runs raw.
(“Chrom? Chrom—we have to go now.”)
He doesn’t turn back to look for Morgan; it goes without saying that he must have felt just as distraught—if not more—than his older sister.
In the chaos of it all, the only thing that can manage to keep Chrom’s focus is Robin’s slow breathing. He clings to it (this solid rock at sea, slowly drowning in the tide), pulling her body closer to his chest as one hand reaches out in search of hers.
Through the smoky haze of his vision, Robin smiles up at him. Faintly, innocently. Just like she’d done a thousand times over.
Chrom’s face scrunches up in anger; the arm he has around her trembles.
“Don’t—smile at me like that!”
“So now I’m not allowed to smile at you?” Robin quips, wilting laughter in her voice. “Are you ordering me not to smile, sire?”
“You idiot!” Chrom’s voice begins to quiver. His brows knit together just as their hands find purchase on each other’s palms. She’s growing cold to the touch; Chrom doesn’t cease rubbing circles on the back of her hand with his thumb. “Gods—what were you thinking?”
Robin’s voice is small but sure. She has no regrets on the matter. “Something along the lines of a better future.” Her eyes blink lazily. “Isn’t that what we’ve always had in mind?”
Chrom grits his teeth. He doesn’t want to grow angry with her now—not when his lover is fading (and fast).
“Sorry for having to steal your hour in the sun, love,” she chuckles weakly, “but it’s all for the best.”
“Don’t—“
“Take care of everyone, alright?” And with a wavering breath, Robin closes her eyes, smiling. Pieces of her fade to purple light—weathering away just as her Goetia hex devours the shrinking, wailing form of her other self.
“Don’t leave me, Robin!” Chrom tries to shake her back into fighting. “Gods, don’t you think about leaving me now. You promised me, Robin—you promised—“
It’s only then that Chrom catches himself sobbing.
“Shush.” It’s a struggle, but Robin manages to place a cold, trembling finger against his lips. “I love you, okay?”
“Stop it!” he shouts, pressing her flush against him in hopes that it would keep her tangible and intact. It doesn’t, however—not when there’s no way of undoing what his wife had just done. “Robin, don’t go—don’t go—don’t leave me—don’t—”
Robin’s other self dissipates, form collapsing into the vortex carved out by Goetia. Soon enough, Robin fades, too, and Chrom clings loosely to dust.
It’s Sumia who fetches for him—who punches the sense back into him—while the rest of the units retreat. If she didn’t, Chrom would never have left the fell dragon’s back. He mounts the pegasus mechanically, holds on to the rider’s waist limply.
Sumia’s saying something to him—but the words are all garbled out. All he can hear is the wind. And all he can remember from Robin’s plan is their final rendezvous point. They’re heading towards Origin Peak to regroup.
His throat goes dry at the thought. He doesn’t know what to say to any of them.
What was there to say to any of them?
Below and behind them, Chrom watches from Sumia’s mount as Grima’s remains crash into the sea. It falls into the waves, piece by piece, stirring up the calm of the waters and giving rise to furious waves.
Chrom turns away.
All he can see behind closed eyes is purple dust and Robin’s smile.