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The change was so subtle at first that Grima almost didn’t notice it.
Almost.
But Grima had been beside Chrom the first time his older sister died, had witnessed grief warp the man in real time, had seen for himself that despair left harsher wounds than any physical blow ever could.
And the Chrom who met him at Carrion Isle was different. Not unrecognizable, just… changed.
Stronger.
There were rumors of something magical happening to him—of secret training only offered to the exalted line, of special blessings from Naga, of all sorts of utter nonsense made up only because no one wants to believe that Chrom could have become so powerful on his own merits. But Grima knows the truth. Oh, sure, Outrealm energy touches him now—he must have crossed into one some time after Gangrel’s defeat, and that explains how quickly he seemingly progressed—but his strength is his alone. The magic flowing through him is nothing but his inner anger given substance, and the aura of energy that emanates from him is much like the fell miasma that Grima himself gives off.
Of course, Chrom’s power is nothing compared to the fell dragon’s. The day Grima met him at Carrion Isle was proof positive that no mortal could ever hope to reach the same heights as Grima. Chrom’s newfound power had danced across Grima’s skin like chocolate over the tongue, but in the end, Grima knew it would come to nothing.
The Grimleal’s plans proceeded as intended. Grima’s plans proceeded as intended.
Only… they haven’t, exactly. At least, they haven’t yet. Because when the fated hour approached, and Chrom was to die at the hand of Grima’s past self…
… The audacious fool had the nerve to shrug off his traitorous friend’s Thoron like it was a mildly annoying bit of static! Grima’s own magic, a mere nuisance! Even coming from his unawakened past self, an attack like that should have hurt. But thanks to Chrom’s newfound prowess in magical resistance, he was able to neutralize the attack like it was nothing.
It doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t. Grima simply restored the body of this world’s fell dragon himself—it doesn’t matter what his other self chooses; they are the same as far as their magic is concerned. But now Chrom intends to seal Grima away, and while it’s not worth the effort to stop him from trying, it is rather boring waiting for an ending of an act that should have had its grand finale already.
That is why Grima is now at Mount Prism. Mere boredom, that’s all. He supposes there is some utility in making sure Naga doesn’t try some dirty trick—sending the Shepherds to yet another Outrealm for yet more training, perhaps—but even the strongest human in the world is nothing compared to a god, so there is nothing and no one for Grima to fear.
No… The strange feeling in Grima’s gut has nothing to do with fear. Ever since he saw Chrom shrug off his other self’s attack… no, even longer than that—since he saw the changes in the man back at Carrion Isle… Grima has wanted to observe him more closely. Grima knew the Chrom of his world more intimately than anyone. The story of the man’s tragic life and death is the same story as humanity’s downfall and Grima’s rise to reign over the world. The Chrom he knew was worn down, exhausted, broken in a way even a god couldn’t have fixed. So how did this one find it in himself to become greater than he ever was before?
“Heh… So my magic wasn’t telling me wrong. You really did follow us…”
Grima looks over his shoulder languidly as Chrom’s voice rings out behind him, just loud enough to be heard over the sound of the surrounding waterfalls. With a simple Warp spell, he could avoid this confrontation entirely, but the truth is that he hasn’t felt anything like the rush now flooding his veins in so long that the last thing he would ever want to do is avoid Chrom.
“Yes, you’ve developed quite the senses, haven’t you?” Grima’s lips quirk upwards. “It seems your daughter isn’t the only one who likes to interfere in worlds where she doesn’t belong.”
“Guess it runs in the family,” Chrom says. His soft expression is nauseating. “I’ve met some interesting people in my travels. Or… echoes of them, anyway.”
“And what is that supposed to mean?” Grima asks, feigning disinterest.
“Oh, you haven’t met them, then,” Chrom realizes. “That’s a shame. I think you’d find them interesting… It’s not every day you get to test your skills against a hero of legend, but I was able to fight several.”
“I see. Perhaps when I am finished laying waste to your world, I shall give it a try as well. It may entertain me… for an hour or so.” Grima hums. “Well, I suppose that explains how you were able to grow stronger. Though…”
Grima frowns. The Chrom of his world had not lacked bloodlust.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Chrom says. “When Emm died, I felt like all the light in the world had gone out. I felt like every swing of my blade only brought forth more blood to drown me. You’re thinking that there’s no way I should have been able to make it back home like that.”
“Something along those lines,” Grima admits. It’s not that much of a surprise that Chrom can guess his thoughts—the man knows his tactician, after all. The real surprise is that he’s playing along with Grima, that he hasn’t drawn his sword yet and chased him off the mountain.
“Well, you’re right,” Chrom says. “If I had crossed into those foreign worlds alone, I wouldn’t have known what to do with myself. I might never have found my way back… I might not have wanted to come back. But I wasn’t alone. My Shepherds were with me every step of the way.”
“Spare me the drivel.” Grima rolls his eyes. “Your power is not friendship. Friendship does not deflect thunder magic. Why don’t you tell me how you learned to do that?”
“Robin…” Chrom murmurs, suddenly so quiet that Grima nearly misses it, and Grima’s hands ball into fists at his side as the words of a dead man echo in his mind. This is not your fault.
No, Grima will never believe that fragile human bonds are anything but worthless.
After a moment, Chrom sighs.
“You’ve heard of the Saint-King, Alm,” he says. “The hero of the Valentian sagas. The one they renamed the continent after.”
“I am familiar,” Grima says.
“He appeared before me in the form of a dread fighter,” Chrom goes on. “After defeating him in battle, he shared with me the skills he had learned from his training in the class. He told me that they were his world’s most fearsome fighters.”
“Indeed, they are renowned for their prowess the world over,” Grima says. “Few in current times know the full extent of their secrets, however. You were fortunate to meet someone from a bygone era.”
Grima nods to himself. That explains the sudden shift in Chrom’s style. He’s always been a gifted swordsman, so picking up foreign techniques would have been nothing more than a fun challenge to him. Perhaps he was simply distracted from feeling the weight of his despair…
Temporarily distracted, that is. He’ll suffer like the rest once he realizes that victory against Grima is impossible and all his efforts were for nothing. Or, perhaps Grima will kill him before that realization happens. The time grows near…
But it isn’t now. Now, Chrom simply looks at him with a warmth that doesn’t belong in a gaze that is locked with the fell dragon’s.
“It’s been said that a dread fighter battles to win, to better himself,” Chrom says. “But also to protect those he loves… Alm was never just fighting for glory, you know. There was someone he was fighting to meet again. Someone he couldn’t be with unless things changed for the better.”
Grima scowls.
“You speak of Celica,” he says. “Rumor has it she was quite the fool, too. One would have to be to get along with her idiot of a husband.”
“Alm did what he thought was right,” Chrom says. “And so did Celica… Or at least, that’s what the stories say. Maybe it isn’t fair to judge someone else’s life when you aren’t the one who has to live it.”
“I wouldn’t get torn up about it,” Grima says. “What is or isn’t fair makes no real difference to this world.”
“It’s important to me,” Chrom insists. “And… I believe it’s important to you, too. You can say that it doesn’t matter, but you’re fighting pretty hard for someone who thinks fate is inevitable.”
“Please. I’m not even breaking a sweat.” Grima snorts. “I might as well be playing tic-tac-toe with a child.”
“If that’s the case, you’ve sure travelled a long way to win a game of tic-tac-toe.” Chrom smiles wryly. “Or was this not part of your original plan?”
“I—”
Grima grimaces, and Chrom shakes his head.
“That reminds me of a story about Celica,” Chrom says. “It’s said she sacrificed her very soul to restore balance to the world and bring peace. Sadly, it didn’t work like she thought it would. She was forced to fight against Alm, and the only thing he could do to free her from her torment was… kill her. But the two of them had proven their resolve in front of the Earth Mother, Mila, and she was able to bring Celica back to life.”
“Touching,” Grima sneers. “And yet meaningless. Alm and Celica went on to slay Duma and unite the continent. Too bad that empire fractured long ago! The peace they desired more than anything shattered when it fell in their descendants’ grasp! And, of course, even if it hadn’t…”
Grima chuckles darkly.
“No one’s legacy will matter when I’m through with this world.”
“If everyone just sits back and watches while you destroy everything, maybe…” Chrom says, frowning. “But I have no intention of letting that happen.”
“I’m sure you don’t,” Grima says.
What Chrom fails to understand is that his desires are irrelevant. Fate does not ask its pawns for their cooperation.
But of course, a hero like him has to be stubbornly optimistic to a pathetic degree. Otherwise, no one will cry when the villain wins. Only the pure-hearted experience tragedy. The vile receive mere comeuppance.
“I will defeat you,” Chrom says, his magical aura blazing red around him. “I promise you that.”
Grima chuckles.
“Bold words from someone who still has quite a hike to reach Naga’s altar,” he says. “I would love to knock your confidence down a peg right now, but alas, a battle here would be pointless. Come and find me when your blows have a chance of stinging, and then we shall see who is left standing in the end.”
“Fine. If it’s a fight you want, I’ll be the first on the field,” Chrom says. “But I won’t let it end the way you think it will. I will defeat you…”
He smiles thinly.
“I will defeat you, Robin… and then I’ll find a way to bring you back,” he swears. “Just like Alm and Celica.”
“Just like—”
Grima’s eyes widen, and he laughs uproariously. What can he do but laugh? Chrom may be able to serve as an acceptable understudy for Alm’s role, but Grima is nothing like Celica. The only thing he has in common with that gentle priestess is a raw talent for magic.
And yet for some reason, Chrom’s words tug deep at his mind and stirs a faint memory. A labyrinth. Terrors. A green-haired man and a red-haired woman, their hands entwined.
How ridiculous. Chrom and he are certainly nothing like Alm and Celica.