Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

 Strangely, the face of the person gurgling blood in front doesn't register in Chrom's mind as he slips his sword out of their gut. 

 Warm blood splatters across Chrom's face. They slump to the ground silently, unmoving after the convulsing subsides. Chrom stares blankly at the person, eyes both seeing and not. He raises his view to the rest of the field, once golden with the turn of the season, now red and littered with bodies. He easily spots Lissa kneeling by some familiar forms, the Mend Staff clutched in her hands. 

 He glances around for a final time, checking once again that there were no more barbarians left. The battle had been long and the enemies' reinforcements just kept coming and coming. He flicks his sword to the side, blood spraying off in an arc. How long had they fought? It must have been more than an hour-- his vision is blurring around the edges and he can't really see in focus anymore. His arm aches from a deep gash someone had done a while back. It stopped bleeding, but it still throbbed. 

 He finds a handful of other minor wounds as he stands there. There's a few in his side, along his thigh, his arm. He might've hyperextended a muscle in his leg-- it buckles when he puts too much weight on it. He doesn't really feel them-- he feels overall just numb. There's motion in the corner of his eye, and still battle-set, his muscles lock up, ready to move if needed. Frederick pauses, seemingly have noticed Chrom tense up. He doesn't move for a moment, but continues his stride to Chrom's side, most likely to report.

 Chrom takes in a breath (wheezing, wavering-- how long has it been since a battle's been this exhausting?) and gathers his wits.

 He is a prince and the captain of the Shepherds. They cannot see him falter, especially since they need him right now.

 "Milord," Frederick starts, pausing a respectful distance away from him. "Vaike, Stahl, and Sully retain severe injuries. Lady Lissa is attending their injuries, but the Staff may not last any longer if we are ambushed again. There are a number of others who are injured as well, but we do not have fatal loses yet..."

 He continues on, giving different status updates that frankly end up blurring into a monotone noise in Chrom's ears. (He'll just have someone repeat it to him when his mind clears up.) He blinks harshly a few times, trying to get his vision to clear. Frederick's armor bears a number of scuffs and heavy divots, most likely from when he had to take hits rather than par them. The pace of Frederick's reports slows, and Chrom looks up to notice that Frederick's finally realized that he's not actually hearing the report and the ugly wound on his arm.

 "Milord! We need to get you to Lady Lissa--"

 "No, Frederick. It's fine. I'm sure there's more people who need her aid more desperately than I," Chrom counters smoothly, not bothering to mention that he's set on the idea he's going to stand there until Lissa comes by because he's sure his leg will give if he moves.

 Frederick gives him a look that was obviously not convinced, so Chrom grins back. "It'll be fine. We should probably--"

 A flash of white cross the peripheral of his vision. He cuts off abruptly, jerking to see a head of white hair wandering about. Near his comrades. Near his comrades.

 No one in the Shepherds has white hair.

 Chrom staggers forward, his knuckles white on the hilt of his sword. Why are none of them noticing? There's a stranger, a barbarian in the ranks--

 But then, it's gone. There's no more white.

 "Milord? Milord, what's wrong?" Frederick asks, glancing around in alarm to see what had panicked Chrom so. Chrom blinks a couple of times, glancing back over the ranks. A few of them noticed and looked at him with concern or confusion, but he couldn't see the white hair again. But there was something. There can't be a blotch of white and it suddenly vanish--

 I'm growing delirious, he thinks, pushing down the rise of panic in the back of his mind.

 "It's nothing," Chrom says, maybe telling himself or Frederick, sheathing his sword. His hand lingers at the hilt, tension still in his shoulders. The person is gone, or they might have not existed at all. He's grew use to there being stragglers, that's all. "Mistook something for something else. Don't worry about it."

--

 "Has anyone been entering my room without my knowing?"

 Chrom's exhausted. He's been caught up with mapping and deciding strategies for the next battle, not to mention he's got other duties to attend to, both as prince and as commander of Shepherds. Then there's the sparring he's roped into when he really should be working on strategies. He's just about dead tired, but he doesn't let it show around anyone. 

 Frederick raises an eyebrow at the question. "Milord? No one has permission to enter without your allowance."

 Somewhere nearby, Vaike laughs boisterously and nearly breaks the table with how hard he's slamming his hand on it. There's a brief scolding from Maribelle, but aside from that, the mess hall is buzzing with the norm of conversations. They had gotten back from some border skirmishes a few days prior and everything seemed to be settling back into how they normally are: loud, but peaceful.

 Chrom scrubs a hand over his eye, feebly hoping it'll make him more awake. "Someone is. I'll leave for a while and return to see the maps I had rolled up unrolled and my pens and quills strewn out on my desk."

 Frederick's eyes widen in alarm for a moment until Chrom quickly adds, "They haven't changed any of the maps or plans that I've made. I just need to know what's doing it so I don't lose anything."

 "Could it be an assassin, milord?" Frederick suggests quietly, voice dropping low in apprehension. No one here would react well at the thought of an assassin. Whether it be for himself or Emmeryn, the idea of it made Chrom's stomach roil. He glances to where Lissa was speaking with Sumia a few paces away. She seems to have taken no notice to their conversation. Good. Lissa did not need the idea that there might be someone lurking around, a weapon with either his, hers, or Emm's name on it. If it were to be just that-- there would be little mercy when dealing with them. 

 "If it is, they haven't been doing a good job at making themselves unnoticed," Chrom jokes instead. Frederick doesn't seem to like the joke much at all.

 "Should we station someone to keep watch?" Frederick suggests. He looks about the mess hall, as if mentally picking through them to see who would be the best to do the job. His nose crinkles ever so slightly-- there must be very little people who fits the requirements in his mind. Chrom lets out a snort of a laugh, putting a reassuring hand on Frederick's arm.

 "It's fine. I doubt anyone here would do such a thing. I'm coming to think I'm getting a bit forgetful," Chrom says. 

--

 It's night. Maybe early morning? Chrom doesn't have a clue, but he does know that he needs a good tactician soon or he's going to die from no rest. 

 The next battle might have a muddy terrain, seeing the amount of erosion and a forecast of rain towards the border of Ylisse. There's no telling where the attack will come from, and if they happen to be on particularly unstable ground-- He has to get the soldiers that adapt best and attack well to go first and then the rest can come in, mainly as support. He's paired the people he thinks will be able to traverse safely and to their advantage, but the question is who...

 Chrom throws himself back in the chair, arms stretched over his head, popping them. His eyes are beginning to strain and his back aches from being hunched over so long. Maybe he should take a rest (when was the last time he had a proper rest?)-- but they only have a few days and everyone needs to be ready--

 "You shouldn't pair those two up."

 Chrom lets out a screech he would love to say didn't come from him.

 He jerks back, basically putting his full weight in the wrong direction. The chair tips and he lands on the ground with a heavy crash. He flips up onto his knee, about to dive for cover. Falchion's near his bedside-- depending on where the intruder is, he can--

 He pauses. There's no one else in the room besides him.

 "Who spoke?" He demands, wishing his voice didn't waver as much as he thought it did.

 It's dead silent. Chrom subconsciously picks up a letter opener, knowing he can still defend himself if there was the need. He waits quietly, eyes darting about the small room. There are no movements outside of his tent, and if there is someone inside with him, they haven't made a move.

 His grip tightens on the letter opener as he stands. He steps forward silently, warily looking around for anything he didn't recognize. 

 When he's near Falchion, he grabs it without a second thought and raises it. He's checked all the places someone would be able to hide, but-- nothing. There's nothing. There had to be someone here. They couldn't have left with him watching and-- who would've spoken if no one was there?

 Chrom grumbles aloud, stalking back to the table with maps sprawled across it. He uprights the chair and drops into it without a hint of grace, hunching over the plans once again. His grip is still tight on Falchion as he glances over everything.

 As much as he doesn't want to, he reviews the pairs and finds that he probably should split one of them up instead.

--

The day is bright when they visit the Ylisstol castle.

 Lissa is practically bouncing in excitement, saying something about it's been so long! We really need to visit more often, I'm sure Emm gets lonely! Her energy is radiating off her, and it's quite frankly infectious. Frederick does nothing to calm her down, and even he seems mildly mirthful. Chrom chuckles in amusement when he looks at them.

 The castle is, of course, just as grand as he remembers it. The ceiling seems unreachable as it towers above them, great arches and pillars everywhere. Chrom nods to the palace guards as he passes them, and they bow and welcome him as if he only left for a night.

 They enter the throne room where they were told Emmeryn would be waiting. It's majestically huge-- a second story for viewing and a grand set of stairs leading to the throne. He remembers running up and down these halls with Lissa when they were younger, not a care or thought in the world.

 Emmeryn smiles when she notices their approach. Lissa squeals and hurries up the flight of stairs, throwing her arms around her in the lieu of a hello. Chrom snorts fondly at her antics as he approaches at a much slower pace. Once Lissa releases Emmeryn from a rib crushing hug, Chrom hugs her gently and says, "It's good to see you again, Emm."

 "Same to you, Chrom," Emmeryn greets, resting a hand on his shoulder when he pulls away. "I hope you've been faring well?"

 Chrom nods. "We've just returned from another skirmish with Plegian barbarians and have been settling back into the normal swing of things. We need to do something soon, or I'm afraid they'll begin raiding more and more towns, sis." He says bluntly. He doesn't mean to spoil the mood of them meeting for the first time in a while, but it is the main purpose of their coming. 

 Emmeryn frowns at him. "You know we can't do anything about it. I will not accept waging war against Plegia over a few barbarians. They act on their own and do not reflect that of Plegia, regardless if they originate from there," she says simply. Her voice is finalizing, but Chrom's always had ways he can maneuver his opinion into consideration.

 Before Chrom can even respond, Lissa pops in with her input: "We shouldn't be talking about this right now! Emm, I gotta show you something I found when we were near Themis! That's where Maribelle is from, you know!"

 Both of them seem marginally grateful for the interruption. Lissa gleefully pulls Emmeryn away, beaming about the things she's picked up on during their trips. Frederick disappears to do whatever stewards do-- leaving Chrom alone for the time being.

 Chrom ventures off not soon later, retracing old steps down hallways he once ran down as a child. He feels nostalgic as he can remember the antics he did so long ago. He even remembers the tiny Lissa who would trot around with him, oo-ing and ahh-ing at everything he did, as if he were the coolest person around. She'd probably hit him soundly with the Healing Staff if he ever brought it up.

 He ends up strolling in a pathway near the gardens, just outside a castle wing. The hedges are in nearly identical condition from what he remembers. The sky is clear for what seems like forever, birds chirping nearby as a white noise. It's quiet aside from that, just him and--

 He comes to a complete halt, his hand flying to Falchion's hilt. A few paces away, there's someone else among the garden bushes, doting about. Chrom doesn't recognize them from any of the palace staff (and he can't think of any new recruits), and the white hair pulls him to the battlefield weeks ago when there was a stranger amongst their ranks. 

 Who is that?

 So many scenarios flash through his mind, but the most common one involves them being an assassin. An assassin for him? Or for Emmeryn? His throat tightens and he pulls Falchion free of its sheath without hesitation. 

 "Halt! State who you are, and your business!" Chrom calls, promptly making the white-haired man leap in start. The man looks back warily, before looking side to side as if Chrom was calling out to someone else.

 He was wearing… particular clothing. The cloak he had was a deep purple and looked too heavy to be suitable or comfortable in this weather. Neither did he wear shoes, which was a dumb idea near a rose bush.

 The man didn't say anything. His face paled to the color of paper, yet he apparently didn't feel the need to respond. Chrom ground his teeth and began taking long strides to the man. "Are you going to answer me? I will remove you from here if I need to."

 The man's eyes dart in panic as he steps back towards the bushes, "I, um-- wait--"

 Chrom stops just a few paces away, still towering over the other. Now that he was closer, he could really see the apprehension on the man's face. He also seemed… translucent, if that was the right word to describe him. His skin was paler than any other he's seen, unnatural to the point that it couldn't just be fear doing that. 

 "Well?" Chrom starts, narrowing his eyes. First he infiltrates the Shepherds, and now he's out for the Exalt? And he has the gall to remain here. Is this man an idiot? If I have solid proof, I'm going to--

 "It's, um, hard to explain?" He begins weakly, speaking in a way that he sounds unsure of his own words. The man steps back once more, his cloak brushing against the branches of the thorn bush. He winces. 

 "Bull. You will explain yourself, right now." Chrom says. He can tell he's being insufferable, but there is something off with this guy and he does not like it. Whatever it is.

 His mouth opens just as a voice he's all too familiar with calls out. "Chrom! Who are you talking to? Are the flowers that interesting to you?" Lissa teases, leaning over the railings so much that she might teeter over. Chrom blinks and turns to her, baffled at her nonchalant-ness. Does she not see the man in front of him? She can't possibly be joking. She should be able to directly look at this man-- she is looking directly at him, and yet-- "Emmeryn said that we might as well stay and eat since she thinks your meeting with her might take the rest of the day."

 There's a pause that stretches for a moment too long, and he only realizes it when Lissa tilts her head, a frown growing on her face. Chrom's throat suddenly feels dry as he chuckles for her, "Alright, I'm going to head that way in a moment."

 "Have fun staring at roses!" Lissa calls out brightly, hurrying off down the halls. Her shoes click against the floors, growing more and more distant. The second it's a mere distant echo, Chrom whirls on the guy.

 "What did she mean by that? She couldn't see you?" He hisses, his gloves creaking from strain against Falchion's hilt. 

 The guy somehow manages to hold his glare despite how much his hands shake. He swallows thickly. "Um, about that… You… Are the only one who can see me? I think?" 

 "The only one who can see you? From what? A mess up of a spell?" Chrom glowers, a migraine blooming just behind his eyes. This is getting out of hand, it's too ridiculous. He wants answers, not for this-- this man to play a joke on him. In a second, he has his blade leveled to the guy's neck. "Are you trying to kill the Exalt?"

 There's a pregnant pause before the guy's eyes widen comically. He splutters, raising his hands in a non-harmful way. "No! I can't, even if wanted to! Ah, I might as well just show you--"

 The guy reaches out to Falchions blade and Chrom jerks it away, but he can't exactly not see the man's fingers pass right through the steel of the blade. 

 "I'm kind of dead," the man starts, "so if I even had an ill-intention towards the Exalt, I couldn't do anything about it."

--

At first, Chrom nearly approaches Miriel to see if she knows anything about exorcism. He decides against it in the end.

 He is quiet. Chrom rarely notices him floating around the mess hall, observing the rambunctiousness of Vaike or the endless pit of a stomach Stahl has. He always does this without an expression on his face, so Chrom can't tell if he's envious of the living or just genuinely curious. (Chrom was worried that he was going to possess someone, but when days passed and no one was starkly different, he realized there was nothing to worry about.) 

 He only asks small questions when there's no one paying attention to Chrom, and that time is little to non-existent. More often than not, Chrom just sees him wandering in the corner of his eyes.

 He doesn't have a name. That was one of the first things he told Chrom; he doesn't know who he is and where he is from. 

 Chrom doesn't know what to do about him. He's just a ghost literally wandering around-- A ghost, for gods sake. He can't exactly go around and announce I've found the ghost of someone's loved one. Anyone care to claim him? He only sticks around because Chrom seems to be the only one who can see him, but that's it. As ridiculous as it is, Chrom pities him, because what else is he suppose to do? Pat him on the back, send him off? Just how stir crazy is this man, being unwillingly isolated as a ghost?

 When Frederick comes to him and informs him of another group of barbarians overtaking a border village, Chrom wonders what he's going to do. 

 "Are you sure? Didn't we make sure there was a guard set up in that village?" he begins, rubbing his temple. He sits heavily at a table as Frederick remains standing, as stern as ever.

 "Yes. The barbarians, however, are reported to have overpowered the guards," he reports crisply. From the stiffness in his posture, Chrom can only guess that Frederick thinks that this is possibly his own fault, for not advising someone with more qualifications to remain posted there.

 "Do you know if any of the villagers have been harmed?" Chrom asks, spotting the ghost floating casually into his line of sight. The white-haired man looks curious for the most part, listening in and peering at Frederick. 

 The other pauses, a grim expression crossing his face. "The reports did not say. It was from a neighboring town. There is no knowledge of what is happening within the village. That is why it is best we should move."

 Chrom sighs and stands, calling out for everyone's attention. He tells them of the situation, answers a few questions, and dismisses everyone to get ready to leave, feeling deja vu from not even a week prior. A few complain-- they had just gotten back already, hadn't they? Their complains weren't actually genuine, but Chrom knew they all wanted to stay in a place longer than a week for once. Frederick nods knowingly to him as he sits back down, and moves to go pack himself. Chrom sits for a moment longer, watching as everyone leaves.

 The garrison is quiet once it's entirely cleared out. The white-haired ghost gently lands on his feet, taking an once-over of the empty place. 

 "Are you not leaving?" he asks absently, not exactly curious about him staying behind. Chrom looks towards him, his eyebrow quirking in puzzlement. 

 "I will. I just, need to think. For a bit," he says, leaning back in his chair in a way that would have the house-nobles aghast. The ghost makes a noise of understanding and sits silently next to him (he isn't fazing through the chair-- does he know how to control it?). 

 He doesn't say a word, and Chrom is grateful for it.

--

It's midnight when they decide to take a rest from traveling-- everyone seems to need it, and Chrom really needs time to work on the strategies and tactics. 

 "Chrooom," Lissa whines, rubbing sleepily at her eyes. They had just finished eating game meat and other things they brought along (courtesy of Frederick). Everyone was now trudging to their tents, both full from the meal and dreading the battle for tomorrow. "Promise me you'll get some sleep tonight?"

 Chrom blinks to her, then forces a chuckle. "Of course I will. There's no need to tell me that." 

 (Then again, he never really listens…)

 Lissa pouts, pushing his arm in a non-agressive way, "I'm going to hit you if I wake up later and see that your tent light is still on. I will. Don't make me, I will hit you for making me get up out of bed-- Stop laughing, Chrom-- I really will!" She shrieks, smacking his arm as his laughter only grows louder and louder.

 Thankfully, Maribelle comes by and whisks Lissa away, talking about how she needs rest of her own. Lissa shoots a particularly venomous look over her shoulder to him, however, which only succeeds in making him snort. 

 The white-haired ghost floats by, watching the two healers flitter away. He had been absent throughout the duration of the meal, off doing whatever a ghost could possibly do. He lands mutely next to the prince after Lissa and Maribelle disappear around a corner. "What does she mean by that? Do you have insomnia?" he asks, arms burrowed in his cloak. By doing that, he looks cold, but Chrom's pretty sure ghosts don't feel temperature. Then again, all he knows about ghosts are from story books-- hell, maybe the dead are susceptible to temperature change.

 "No-- she's exaggerating, really. I just normally spend the night planning out the tactics for our next battle. There's been more than one time she's found me in the dead of night still working on them," Chrom snorts, waving a dismissive hand. He begins making way to his own tent with the ghost following close by. "I probably will have to do that tonight. I don't have much time to work on it aside from now."

 The ghost pulls a face, fazing through the tent's cloth as Chrom ducks past the flap. "You just promised her you'd sleep."

 "I didn't really promise," he grins wearily. Pulling out maps upon maps, he lays them across a collapsable table and pulls up a chair. He glances up, seeing that the ghost looks around absently, as if to find something of interest. "That reminds me-- I've been meaning to ask, but where do you go when everyone eats, or heads to bed? You can't exactly eat or sleep, correct?"

 Shrugging with a frown, the ghost peers over his shoulder towards the maps. There's a light that flickers in them as they dart around the parts of the map. He seems... taken with it, for the most part. "I wander, I guess. To look around the surroundings. I can't really sleep anymore, so I have to find something to do." 

 "Do you want a chair?" Chrom asks belatedly, pulling out a few pens and ink vials. 

 The white-haired man blinks in surprise, but he says yes in the end. Chrom has to go to Frederick's tent to acquire another chair ("I apologize, I forgot mine back at the garrison.") and comes back to see the ghost scrutinizing the maps. Chrom sets the chair down silently and carefully unclasps the armor he's wearing, watching as the ghost seems to be picturing things out in his mind. He sets it aside along with his sword and sits down, dreading but resigned to strategy work. 

 The ghost doesn't say much for a while, just watching everything unfold in front of him. He watches as Chrom initially sends units out to retrieve any citizens in immediate danger. He plans for him and Frederick to storm ahead with Sumia to take down the commander, and--

 "What if they have an archer positioned near the commander?" the ghost interjects, breaking Chrom's concentration and work flow. 

 "If they do, then either I or Frederick will have to take them down."

 "That's too risky, though. They could shoot down Sumia before either one of you reaches them. You should probably take someone else, like… maybe Sully? You could pair up with her and easily mow down any archers to make way for Sumia."

 Chrom blinks and turns to the other, "That's… not a bad idea. Do you happen to be familiar with strategies?" He's a little surprised he even knows Sumia or Sully. Well-- then again, the ghost has nothing to do, so maybe that's why he seems to know enough about the Shepherds already.

 "Uh, maybe," he says, a bit abashed, "it seems really familiar to me. Oh, you should probably get Stahl to go ahead with you to reach the villagers that are within reach and immediate danger…"

 Chrom smiles, something the ghost doesn't see as he continues to ramble about other things that might work. Maybe it won't be that long of a night.

--

He was right, for the most part.

 Chrom parries with a barbarian, shoving them with his weight. They stumble and he easily slashes them across the chest with a wide swing. He looks up and searches, quickly spotting Stahl skewering an archer as Sumia darts by overhead. Nearby, another archer falls by Sully's hand, giving Sumia clear way to take down a few swordsmen and mages. 

 Things were going greatly-- from what he could see, units have rescued and evacuated any captured civilians. The commander looked beyond furious, shouting different orders from his post, his safe spot. He clenches Falchion's hilt and begins dashing towards the commander. 

 Frederick calls out from somewhere, but it's drowned out by the screech of a downed brigand. Adrenaline surges through him, heart pounding. If he takes the commander down now, it'll be smooth sailing from--

 "Chrom!"

 He stumbles to a halt, whipping his head around. He zeros in on the white-haired ghost, who's facing another direction, like he's indicating something. And with that, he sees--

 An arrow goes flying past his ear, scoring the shell of it. The thrill from earlier literally plummets in his gut as he ducks down when he sees the archer pull back again. Another arrow sails right over his head, and would've hit him if hadn't ducked. He hears the arrow thunk soundly into someone else's back, and with a glance he sees it's a barbarian. 

 That could've been bad, he thinks, eyes wide, that could have been really bad. A second delay, it might have struck his skull. The archer curses and hurries to grab another arrow. Chrom takes one last glance at the commander. He's so close, he could reach out and--

 But no, the archer has their eyes on Sumia now that they've missed Chrom. He begins sprinting and easily reaches the archer in time. With a broad swipe, the archer falls just before the arrow flies. 

 He doesn't get the chance to check on the ghost because Frederick is calling out to him, barreling through the battle astride his horse, checking if he is unharmed. He calls back, rushing to Frederick's side to shove a pesky swordsman away from taking a chunk out of the horse's leg. 

 "What made you stop?" Frederick asks loudly, swinging his lance. It connects solidly across the gut of a barbarian, launching them nearly into a building. Chrom lunges forwards to cut down a mage with their eyes upon his steward.

 "I thought something was off!" Chrom shouts back, the lie easily rolling off his tongue. 

 When the battle slowly begins to die down, the commander finally takes a stand. His burly stature makes him look more powerful and stronger than he is-- there is immense strength behind each swing, but the hits don't strike true. Chrom's sure he only made it to the top by brute strength.

 He also can do meager magic. It's the unfair, nasty kind that can be done without large tomes and are often used in close combat battles. They only figure this out when Frederick gets a lovely new dent in his armor and goes flying off his stead.

 "Frederick!" Chrom shouts, paring with the commander. He kicks him away, lurching to get before his fallen friend. "Are you alright?" Frederick's horse neighs and bucks violently, startled from the magic spell. Frederick himself only looks winded, if not aching from the impact.

 "I will be, Milord," he says, lugging himself up to his feet. He staggers on his feet, trying to calm his horse.

 The commander took this opportunity-- Chrom was looking away for a brief moment, making sure no one made a move against Frederick. It's a bit too late when Chrom turns back around, the blade coming down too fast for him to parry. I can't--

 Something comes flying in from the side, striking sharply against the cross guard of the blade with a deafening ring. The commander roars in start, the blow having made the sword fly from his hands. Chrom glances and sees Virion with his sights down, lowering the bow in his hands. With a brief nod of thanks, Chrom moves to finish the commander.

--

"I think my name was Robin."

 It's a bit out of the blue, but Chrom doesn't mind.

 "'Robin'? Why do you think that?" he asks, reviewing a unit move on the plans. The ghost before him glances up, reaching for another map.

 It was night once again. (It never seems to be day when they need to do tactics.) It had become a normal thing for the ghost to help with the tactics ever since the fight at the border-- after how well things seem to go, there's no way he couldn't let them help. He seemed to be enjoying it, too-- it was one of the few things he could actually do. (It also let Chrom off on some of the burden, which he was incredibly grateful for.)

 He's been getting more sleep and some people have even noted that the battle patterns are getting more and more successful. Not that he can ever tell them that he found a tactician-- one that's a ghost. They can just continue to believe that he's getting better at doing this, if they want. He's not exactly trying to take credit. Just-- Who knows what would happen if the whole militia finds out he's been relying on a paranormal being to lead them to success?

 "I'm not completely sure," he says, un-scrolling the map with a bit of struggle. He's learned that he can only interact with things, just barely-- his hands constantly phase through them, but had enough of a presence to actually move things. "Someone pointed out a robin's nest the other day and it kinda struck a chord in me? I'm not sure how to describe it, but it seemed familiar and I think it's my name."

 Chrom hums in acknowledgement, tapping the pen as he waits for instructions on what to note. (It's come to this point because the pen kept dropping through the other's hands.) "It's not a common name from around here. It doesn't help with finding out where you're truly from."

 A look of melancholy crosses the ghost-- Robin's-- face. "Yeah. Not really."

--

"Milord?"

 Chrom opens his eyes to a canopy of leaves above him. The sun is filtering through the leaves, casting shadows all around him. There's a zephyr, making the leaves swap and sun shine right in his eyes. He squints against it uselessly before raising a hand to block it.

 "Yes?" he says aloud. He doesn't want to sit up from where he is now-- he's gotten too comfortable and he might not be able to settle again if he moves.

 The shadow of Frederick comes into the corner of his vision. The brunette stands a respectful distance away, looking at Chrom with a raised eyebrow. "Forgive me for waking you, but you've missed lunch and there's a storm on the horizon. I think it is best is you move indoors," he advises.

 Chrom doesn't move immediately, just staring back up into the canopy above him. A bird flits around the branches, seemingly putting together a nest just above the area he is. He's never been great with telling birds apart, but he thinks that this one is a robin.

 Ironic, he thinks. Sitting up begrudgingly, he rubs his eyes and looks around. Indeed, to the left of him there's a gathering of clouds in the sky that don't seem to be serene. The garrison building isn't too far away-- it's far enough away and the only reason he came over here was to not be disturbed for the most part. He then looks at Frederick, who has already picked up Falchion, which he had laid down next to him as he slept.

 "Is that all?" Chrom asks, rising and taking Falchion from Frederick. There's rarely ever a time when there isn't something else he needs to hear.

 Frederick pauses, thinking over his words before saying: "I do have some questions, Milord, if that is alright."

 It's his turn to quirk an eyebrow. Once in every blue moon does Frederick question him aside from his normal worries and such.

 "Have at it," Chrom says, stretching and popping his back contently.

 They begin to walk back to the garrison after a moment. Frederick clears his throat first before he speaks. "I do not mean to accuse you of anything, but have you not told us if you found a tactician?"

 Chrom blinks, turning to Frederick with an expression of surprise. Had the difference between tactics been that large? Chrom thought he was good at doing it… Plus, there's no way he could ever tell Frederick about Robin. Even if the knight is the most loyal person he knows, he would have doubts about Chrom's supposed ghost friend. 

 "I haven't. Am I getting better so quickly that you're mistaking it as someone else?" he jokes lightly. He feels a tiny twinge of guilt for taking the full credit of Robin's work that only he knows about.

 Frederick frowns. "Milord, how late are you staying up at night to make such strategies?"

 He's actually been sleeping more with Robin around. It sounds lame when worded in such a way, but Robin really does cut the time it take to make plans. He's even began recommending that he can finish up the plans while Chrom heads to sleep, so he can review them next morning. It's not a half-bad idea, but the stubborn part of him needs to be there and he refuses to let Robin to work all night long in his stead.

 "I'm not staying up too late, Frederick," Chrom says amused, grinning lopsidedly, "You're beginning to sound an awful lot like Lissa."

 "Milord, your rest is not something you can just forgo."

 Chrom waves a dismissive hand. "Don't worry too much about it. I've just gotten better at making them."

 A response doesn't come from Frederick and it's easy to tell that he's not satisfied with the answer. They walk silently for a few moments, nearly reaching a tense silence.

 "There is also a few tomes that Miriel had found recently. She doesn't have a need for them, so she's willing to give them to the Shepherds," Frederick says belatedly, awkwardly breaking the silence. "She recommends that we check over them before we put them in storage."

 "Ah, only if she did that with all the other tomes she had," Chrom jests.

 They reach the garrison with a lighter air than previously. Inside, it's not as loud as it usually is, probably because people retired for the storm or it was getting late. Since less people are about, it's easy to spy the small pile of tomes strewn across a table. Miriel sits not far from the tomes, one of them cracked open before her as she deciphers it.

 Robin is there too, of all things. He's floating near the tomes, inspecting the covers with interest. He seems to stay clear of a close proximity of Miriel, just incase her magic capabilities would allow her to notice his presence.

 Both Chrom and Frederick make way, making Miriel glance up and nod in acknowledgement.

 "Captain Chrom, Frederick," she says in a clipped way, "I assume you're here to store the tomes?" She turns back to the tome in front of her. Robin finally notices their appearance, waving a small hello to Chrom as he turns back to look at the covers.

 Chrom nods, hefting one of them and flipping to a page. None of it really makes any legible sense to him, but that's normal in his case of being just a swordsman. He wasn't very well taken to his lessons regarding magic when he was younger. "I trust that these were in good care?"

 "Of course," Miriel sniffs, "I've checked them all previously-- none of them are counterfeits."

 "Great, thank you," Chrom says. He turns to the paladin and says: "I'll handle taking these to storage." Robin hovers over to Chrom, peering over his shoulder to the pages of the tome. His eyes dart across the page, seemingly understanding what the words are.

 Frederick opens his mouth to say something back-- probably along the lines of it's not something that he should burden himself by doing-- but Chrom waves him off. "I need to check the queue, too. There's no need to worry yourself over this."

 The frown on his face only becomes more prominent, but he doesn't say another word. He moves away and Miriel turns back to her book, so Chrom hefts a few tomes and heads to the arsenal. 

 Robin follows not far behind, looking back longingly at the tomes. Once they're out of the mess hall, Chrom asks, "Do you have an interest in magic?"

 Shrugging, Robin lands on his feet gracefully. (He's really gotten how to float-- it doesn't look like he needs to think about what he's doing anymore.) "I guess? I don't think I was a mage, but tomes are interesting. These ones are different from the ones I've seen previously."

 Chrom doesn't respond immediately, seeing Maribelle coming down the hall. He nods to her as she passes, and once she's gone, says, "You've seen them before? Where?"

 A look of realization crosses his face. "Ah, I don't think I told you, then. I use to travel with a merchant band before I started traveling with the Shepherds. There was a merchant who mainly sold tomes, so I read them whenever he left them open for costumers to page through. I think they were less powerful tomes, though. These ones seem more… what's the word… grand? They're a lot more difficult to comprehend, that's for sure."

 "That's Miriel, for you," Chrom says, grinning towards Robin, "she's all about the ancient, powerful tomes. Do you think ghosts can even cast magic?"

 The white-haired ghost snorts in amusement, "I can't even lift up a tome. I doubt I could cast a spell without it fazing through my target."

 "Surely you can turn the pages?" Chrom opens the door to the warehouse, stepping in. He holds it open for Robin to enter. 

 The room is full with extra supplies like food, vulenaries, weaponry (rows and rows of swords and spears and javelins), and tomes. It's a shame they're never here at the garrison to retrieve the things they need when they need it-- (more than once have they required an extra supply of vegetables because Lissa flat out refuses to eat game meat.)

 Apparently to Robin, the arsenal seems to extend endlessly. A sound of amazement comes from him as he steps in slowly, craning his head to look at everything. Chrom snorts at the expression on his face. 

 He moves to the pile of tomes and sets them down wherever. He needs to take count of whatever's been used since the last time he's check and-- oh Gods, why'd he say he'd do this himself? There's probably hundreds of things to check up on!

 Pushing down his grumble, he asks aloud, "Should I leave a tome out for you? I mean, you could turn the pages and read whatever you need." 

 "You-- you would do that?" Robin asks incredulously, appearing at his side. He looks over the tomes with a certain amazement and reverence. 

 "Of course," Chrom says, "I mean, it'll give you something to do." He absentmindedly reaches up and moves his hand to Robin's shoulder.

 It passes right through. A sting of cold shoots down his arm, making him shiver. It was like his hand passed through a mass of mists, but the mists kept their shape that was Robin. Something drops in Chrom's stomach, it hitting him for the first time in a while that Robin is a ghost. He's known that, but something twists his gut. Robin doesn't truly exist. He exists, but not really. He's constantly surrounded by people, but no one knows he's there. 

 Just… just how lonely was Robin before he came across Chrom?

 Robin didn't even seem to notice the action, instead peering at the visible tome covers with a look of wonder on his face. 

 "Ah, which one do I choose?" he frets, just barely being able to push aside a few lighter tomes to peer at other titles. He's making it out to be much more of an important decision than it actually is. Turning and giving Chrom a sheepish smile, he asks, "Is it okay if you take more than one?"

 It takes a moment for him to find his voice. "Yeah, of course."

--

"Chrom? Have you been… studying magic?"

 That's the last thing he'd ever thought he'd be asked by Lissa. 

 He blinks in confusion accordingly, putting down the maps he had been carrying. They were in Regna Ferox upon Emmeryn's request. The battling along the border is progressively getting worse and worse-- they'd need the aid of someone to reduce the causalities by the tenfold.

 "No? You of all people know that I don't have a speck of magic energy in me," he says, quirking an eyebrow.

 Lissa twiddles her fingers, as if she's asking something risky. "I… I mean, I know that, but the other day I saw you had a tome with you and? I didn't think you would need a tome? You didn't even hand it off to someone else afterwards…"

 Ah, that's what she's talking about, he thinks with growing amusement. So she probably saw the tome Robin was currently having him lug around. It's only natural that she'd think that-- even Ricken had asked about it in the passing.

 He chuckles, ruffling her hair. She makes an irritated noise, nearly like the yowl of a wet cat, and whacks his hand away. "Don't worry about it. I was going to put it in the arsenal but got distracted quite a bit," he lies smoothly, nearly guilty for how easily it came. Lissa, though, pouts and crosses her arms.

 There's something else she wants to say. It's obvious in her posture and the downward quirk of her mouth, but she's pressing her lips together forcibly, trying to keep the words in. 

 "You can just say it," Chrom says, pulling her out of her thoughts, "I'm listening."

 Her posture relaxes just a tiny bit. "It's just-- I saw you when you were doing tactics the other night and…" --He goes rigid, but Lissa doesn't notice-- "A map un-scrolled itself? It wasn't like how they would do it if you just dropped a map and let it do it itself, it was more like someone doing it manually. But the map was in front of you? Like, on the other side of the table."

 A small well of panic builds inside of him, but he doesn't let it show. He raises an eyebrow instead of scowling. "Really now?" 

 "Yeah! You weren't looking up or anything, so I guess you didn't see it, but it unrolled right in front of you! It was so strange!" Lissa says, "I can't think of any other way you could've done that but magic! Though you didn't have a tome near you…"

 He lets out a loud laugh, shaking his head, "Lissa, you're imagining things. I can't do magic. And were you snooping on me? I said I do actually sleep at night."

 Spluttering, she blurts, "I know! I-I was just--"

 Chrom rolls his eyes, ruffling her hair again, "I don't need to hear it."

--

Chrom doesn't normally have straight up loathing for anyone. But-- but Gangrel pisses him off.

 Who-- who does he think he is? Sure, he's a king of a kingdom that happens to like raiding their villages and killing their civilians, but does he think he has the right to demand something from Ylisse? He captures Maribelle, and then demands the royal treasure from Emmeryn? Then he straight up tells them that he wants to kill everyone in Ylisse? He--

 He pisses Chrom off.

 Falchion's hilt feels like it's burning in his hands. No wonder a kingdom like Plegia is in such an awful state; with someone like that-- someone so despicable, so selfish, so fucking awful-- ruling over them, of course nothing would be right.

 Frederick moves to put a grounding hand on his shoulder. He seems to know the seething he's feeling, but Frederick knows its best not to act rash. Emmeryn casts a small look of gratitude towards Frederick.

 Robin's there, too, in the corner of his eye. Even though he has nothing to do with the problems between Plegia and Ylisse, he looks just as angry as Chrom feels. His hands are clenched into tight fists by his side, and the scowl on his face is deep-set. He can't help them fight, he can't yell his insults to Gangrel, but the fact that he cares about this gives Chrom a feeling of gratitude. 

 But, of course, once Gangrel simply sends all of his army down upon them, Chrom can now unleash the rage building in him. 

 (Maribelle is luckily rescued by Ricken, so he can easily go and fight without worrying for her life. The rotten bastard-- using her life like a bargaining chip--)

 Soldiers fall one by one before him. He mows through them like they're nothing, which he only feels a brief pang of guilt for, but the eyes of hatred and the sheer unyielding ruthlessness of them easily smothers the guilt. 

Gangrel's mounted atop the hill, laughing gleefully at the fighting below him. "Good luck getting out of this one, little prince!" he yells, grinning wickedly. Chrom lurches towards him, grip tight on his sword, but another soldier swerves into his path. 

 With a sneer, Gangrel steps forward, sword in his hands. "It actually might be nice to slay the prince of Ylisse myself," he boasts, raising his sword as Chrom cuts through the soldier blocking him. 

 Someone calls him from afar, and he before he reaches the Mad King, the air in front of him crackles. Chrom jerks backwards instinctively at the suddenness of it-- he's been struck by Thunders too many times already, he just knows it-- just in time for a bolt of lightning to rip through the air before his eyes, striking Gangrel on his temple. The sound that rips from Gangrel's throat sounds nearly primal,  hand flying to the mark as blood spurts from it.

 Chrom turns to the direction of the bolt and gaps. Robin stands there, a tome dropping from his hands. He doesn't look okay, it's not okay-- His hands are shaking and he looks exhausted, and he just casted magic.

 Gangrel looks up, his eyes full of uncontrollable rage, and turns to Robin. "You worthless piece of trash-- how dare you!"

 Chrom nearly drops his sword, gaping at Gangrel. Robin does too, looking caught somewhere between bewildered and straight up fearful. There's no doubt in his mind that the same thought process is going through Robin's head-- How in the name of Naga can he see him?

 Robin's posture literally shows the terror he's feeling. His hand, Chrom notes with a start, is steaming-- is that something from the tome--?

 Gangrel surges forward to Robin, making Chrom shout in start. He narrowly blocks Gangrel, taking a slash to the horse's flank. It rears, nearly making Gangrel topple over. Such loathing flames on his face, but Aversa steps in and advises Gangrel to leave. Now.

 "This isn't the end, little prince," Gangrel seethes, casting a vial look in Robin's direction before galloping off on his horse. Aversa looks in Robin's direction, eyes narrowed and searching, but she doesn't see anything. She turns and rides off as well.

 Completely forgetting the current situation, Chrom rushes over to Robin. "Are you alright?" he asks, looking down to the tome to cover the action of talking to Robin.

 Robin looks aghast, raising his hands before him. "He-- he could--"

 "I know," Chrom spats, "are you okay?" Using magic made him look more transparent than ever before, and it's terrifying. If-- if he were to--

 "I-- I will be, I think," Robin breathes quickly as if panic is rising in him, "I n-needed to know if I could use magic and-- it seemed like a good time--"

 "A good time to scare the shit out of me," Chrom says, scoping out the area before them. He lifts up the tome and it sizzles with excess electricity. "Go-- go head back to the healers and rest. Go somewhere out of this place. Don't try to use magic again."

 Robin nods numbly, his eyes showing the conflict his thoughts are in. He turns and takes a leap off a small cliff, catching into his float and diving down to a lower area. Chrom watches him go, his fingers digging into the tome cover before he runs back into combat.

--

No one saw it. No one saw it.

There wasn't much more of a relieving thought than that to Chrom at the moment. 

 The battle was a win for them. Emmeryn was thoroughly disappointed there was no way to interpret the battle as anything but a declaration of war, but she said it was something to review before acting. If Gangrel were to make another move as brash as that one, there would not be any hesitance.

 Robin, on the other hand, is not doing too well. 

 It might be because Gangrel saw him, or it might be that he was literally drained from using magic. He had used an immense amount of focus to just keep the book from phasing through him and staying out of sight, and using the damn tome snapped his energy.

 He's looking more ghastly than normal.

 He hadn't gone out to wonder much after the battle for a few days, taking most of his time in Chrom's room. A sullen air hangs around him when Chrom just observes him, but it goes away when Robin notices his gaze. He's paler-- somehow paler than he was before. Ghosts are always pale and ashy, aren't they? He didn't think they could get this pale. Maybe he's a bit more transparent, but Chrom doesn't want to think anything of it.

 Both of them have spoke about it. There-- there's no solid reason Gangrel should be able to see him (then again, there's no reason Chrom should be able to see him). Robin came up with the most reasonable theory-- maybe because he was hit with magic from Robin, he maybe became able to see him. It's a weak theory, one with little support, but what else are they meant to do? Robin's really the only ghost he knows, and he can't exactly test that theory.

 (Robin still reads the tomes. He's just now conscious of what using them could do to him.)

 He's back to watching over everyone when he finally goes out again. Everyone seems to be more tense, according to him. Like they all know that there's a war on the horizon.

 Chrom can't blame them.

 Frederick begins to see the effects, too.

 "We need to discuss this more with the Exalt," Frederick states. Chrom nods solemnly.

 "Without a doubt. We'll really require the help of Regna Ferox now. Thankfully they let Lon'qu join us," Chrom says, spying Lissa pester the said swordsman. 

 "Yes…" Frederick pauses, looking at Chrom sideways. There's a look in his eyes, and Chrom isn't sure if he's going to like this. "I do not mean to bring this up out of the blue, but it has taken place in my mind for a while. What happened when you fought with Gangrel?"

 He saw.

 Chrom really needs an award for how well he doesn't express his thoughts. Do they even have those kinds of things? "What do you mean?" he asks, his voice unwavering. Robin is watch Lissa and Lon'qu, watching how Lon'qu tries to escape her attention. He doesn't look their way.

 "I saw you two begin to fight," Frederick recalls, looking forward, "then there was a lightning bolt from the side, but no one was there to cast it. Both of you seemed to see the caster, but I could not. Were they hiding?"

 He expels the panic in him by digging his fingers into his palms. "They were probably out of sight to you, but they were there. It was a Plegian mage who only saw to aid Gangrel and tried to hit me, but had bad timing."

 "But I did not see you take them down? More than anything, you seemed… distressed."

 Why does Frederick have to have a good eye? Why did he have to be watching at that moment? Why wasn't there an easier way to lie out of this one?

 "After accidentally striking the Mad King, they panicked and made a run for it. They're probably rogue now." Chrom also needs an award for how well lies are coming to him now.

 But, of course, Frederick still has his suspicions. "Is that really all that happened? Why miss the chance to strike you?"

 "I don't know, Frederick," he puts on his finalization voice, one he uses to end conversations easily, and recently, to get out of saying the complete truth, "They can't do harm anymore."

 For a moment, Frederick is silent. It's terrifying, because Frederick always just accepts his answers.

 "Milord, I apologize if I am stepping out of turn," he starts and Chrom grows rigid, "but are you possibly lying to me?"

 Why does Frederick know him so well?

 "I'm not, and you're not stepping out of turn," Chrom sighs, "I just… I feel like I let everyone down because I failed to strike the Mad King then and there, just when I had the chance."

 To this, Frederick finally lets the conversation drop. "It is not your fault," he says sternly, "because I doubt anyone else would have gotten so close to achieve it."

--

 He awakes blearily, his eyes still heavy with sleep. It's still dark outside-- of course, what else did he expect, a full night of sleep?-- but his mind is already up and running and he feels sleep drifting further and further away from him. (Plus, the air is chilly and the mattress is scratchy.)

 He kicks the covers from the tangled mess with his legs. Sitting up, he blinks and waits for his eyes to adjust, looking around for nothing in general. It takes him a moment to realize he's in his tent, not his actual room-- ah yes, he's beginning to remember it now. They need to defend another village from Plegian brigands. This village is more inland than the others. Just how long will it be until they finally raid a city or town? They've already declared war, so... it's really only a matter of time, he guesses.

 Chrom swings his legs off the bed and stands, grimacing at the chilled dirt on the tent floor. He's not going to be able to sleep for the rest of the night, so he's got to make use of himself somehow. He swipes up Falchion as he shuffles towards the table he and Robin normally do war meetings at.

 The most recent tome Robin's taken to reading is carefully placed off to the side of a map laid out across the table. From what he's been told, this tome is mainly a fire tome. He can't recall what it's named.

 It makes him realize that Robin wasn't in the room. Normally he'd be sitting somewhere, near a dimly lit lantern Chrom would leave out for him and a tome nestled in his hands. He'd read for hours; then again, he had nothing else to do otherwise. Robin really seems to appreciate that Chrom can provide tomes for him to read. The lantern was out and the seat was unoccupied. Now, just where was that ghost?

 Even though he struggles not to acknowledge it, there's a growing feeling of dread in his gut.

 Ever since the Gangrel incident, they both have been wary around tomes. If Robin were to cast magic again, what would happen? Would he fade away even more? Or would he be more drained until he just can't exist anymore? He can't fathom a reason and if something happened while he was asleep--

 No, he forcibly shakes his head, clearing the onslaught of thoughts. He's probably out and looking around like he use to. It's not surprising-- they're in a new area and he'd like to venture out himself.

 Pushing the tent flap open, he looks to see if anyone else is awake before stepping out. The air is bitingly cold and he has to rub his arms to keep warm. He chooses a direction and heads off, hoping nothing bad crosses his way.

 It actually doesn't take long for him to find Robin. He's sitting at the crest of a hill not far from camp, staring out to the sky before him. He has an ethereal glow to him, even in the dark-- probably because he's a ghost-- but it makes it easier to spot him.

 Robin doesn't hear him when he steps up. (He's lacking his usual armor so he doesn't make much noise as normal.) He's looking eastward, leaning back on his arms. The breeze somehow gently ruffles his hair and the cloak splayed out behind him. His head is tilted back so the expansion of the sky is all he can see. This is probably the most serene he's seen Robin-- he nearly turns around without a word, but Robin notices him belatedly.

 "Ah. Couldn't sleep?" He asks, his voice soft in the silence.

 "You could say that," Chrom says, crossing his arms and looking towards the stars as well.

 Robin looks up at him curiously before patting the grass next to him. Sighing in resignation, Chrom slowly settles down next to him, shuffling to get comfortable. The grass is cold beneath his hands but he doesn't mention it.

 The stars gleam in the night sky like pin pricks and he could see what's got Robin so enticed in it. He looks at the ghost's face, seeing his eyes flitting from star to star, maybe even mapping out constellations in his mind. Does he know constellations? He might need to ask Miriel if she has a book on it so he can get it for Robin next time--

 "You know…" Robin starts, not looking his way. His eyes are now focused on one point in the sky. "I… I always wonder if I use to do this. Sitting outside and stargazing."

 Chrom smiles softly. "You seem like the type of person to do it."

 Robin's face drops a tiny, infinitesimal bit; Chrom barely noticed it. "Do I?" he asks, voice sounding distant with his thoughts, "What… What did I even do back then? Who was I?" The questions are rhetorical, aimless.

 Chrom finds himself speechless for a moment. The expression on Robin's face is something he cannot identify; its stoic, but there's cracks. The corners of his mouth tug down with a burden Chrom does not know, his eyes looking to something far beyond the sky.

 What… What was he meant to say?

 "I know you were great before," Chrom says confidently, "there's no doubt in my mind."

 "What if I wasn't, though?" Robin says through clenched teeth, like he was biting back the words.

 Pausing, Chrom tries to find the proper words to say. "You… what do you mean?" It's a bad question. Awful. But he's drawing a blank at the meaning of Robin's words and it's only making the dread in his stomach grow.

 Robin bites down on his lower lip, like he's trying to keep his mouth shut. It doesn't last long. "What if I wasn't a good person? What if I killed people?" Robin bursts, finally looking down from the sky and to his feet, which remained bare. "What if I was your enemy before, Chrom? What would I be, then?" He turns to him and of course only now is it that Chrom notices the look of being lost in Robin's eyes.

 There's an awful pause after his words. Chrom should've not let it happened, but he… Gods, he never thought about how much being like this would affect Robin. Is this… Is this what he thinks about every day? he wonders, his stomach dropping more and more, and… and I let him?

 Robin turns away, a flush suddenly coming over his face. "I-- I shouldn't have said that, ignore it--" he says uselessly. He rushes to his feet shakily, wringing his hands as he looks anywhere but Chrom. "Just a slip of words-- um, haha, y'know, what ifs are crazy things!" He forces, a stiff laugh coming from him that sounds dull to his own ears.

 Unsurprisingly, it doesn't pass Chrom.

 He stands somehow smoothly without any falters (though his gut is wrenching and his mind is rushing). Robin physically shies away at the look he's casting him.

 Chrom takes a deep breath, gathering his thoughts. "You… You don't have to hold it in," he says carefully, like saying the wrong word would destroy it all. "I… I may be  the only one who knows you exist, but you can tell me these things. You don't have to hold these burdens." He looks down to the grass below Robin's feet, through the transparency of his skin. "Robin, you're my friend. One of the closest friends I've had in years. And you just don't deserve to worry about this."

 Chrom looks up to Robin, and blinks in surprise. Robin looks lost in that moment. He shuffles his feet, trying to look anywhere but Chrom and he blinks rapidly. His shoulders are still slumped but his knuckles aren't white anymore.

 "It doesn't matter who you were previously," Chrom continues, "This is who you are now, and that's all that matters. You're Robin."

 Robin quickly moves to rub at his eyes, his breath hitching in his throat. "R-right. I'm Robin, a ghost tactician for a prince who's also the captain of a militia group." He snorts quietly.

 Chrom smiles for him, stepping closer. "Our story's quite the strange one, huh."

 Robin nods, scrubbing his face with his hands. They come to a rest over his eyes and Chrom gets a good look at the mark on Robin's hand. "I… I just… wonder if anyone's out there… waiting for me…" Robin says, just barely over the breeze. "I don't remember them and… I can't meet them." His voice wavers, his fingers curling in. "What… What will I do then?"

 "I'll find them." He takes a chance and reaches out, his hand shakily brushing over Robin's shoulder. He actually feels the texture of the cloak beneath his fingertips. "I promise you. I'll find those waiting for you." His hand curves over Robin's shoulder. 

 "Thanks." Robin laughs airily, moving his hands from his face. He seems to be rebuilding his composition. "I doubt you'll find anyone. But…" he pauses, as if unsure he should continue. "Can I… maybe… stay with you all? Until then?"

 Chrom squeezes his shoulder-- only he notices his fingers fuzzing through his cloak-- and smiles. "I thought you were from the beginning."

--

 "… I'm really beginning to hate being at war with Plegia."

 Chrom raises an eyebrow at Robin's words. Robin realizes just how badly worded it was.

 "Ah, sorry, I mean…" he sputters, flushing, "I hate that we have to fight against them, cause, y'know, war really sucks, but it's really beginning to grate my nerves that there's so many battles on sandy terrain? Is that worded better?" He winces, rubbing his forehead in resignation. "Gods, that sounded whiney. Please forget I said any of that."

 Snorting, Chrom leans back in his chair. It creaks against his weight, scraping against the little armor he has on. "Yeah, battling on sandy terrain is obnoxious. We don't have that many people who move quickly on their feet, especially through something like sand," Chrom says, aiding Robin from his disaster of explaining himself.

 Robin scowls, "That's what I meant. It's difficult to fight in their territory and sand is just annoying." He's trying to save what he said and busies himself with the map in front of him. "I mean… there's no end to it. Surely their soldiers aren't that agile to move across the sand that well either. Why continue to fight on areas where it's a disadvantage for both sides?"

 Chrom shrugs accordingly. "At least we're not putting the lives of civilians in villages in danger most of the time."

 "That's true," Robin says. Then he pauses, looking up to the ceiling of the chamber in thought. "If I may ask, what… what was the thing Gangrel was demanding from Exalt Emmeryn?"

 "The Fire Emblem?" He wasn't really expecting that. Then again, Robin knows nothing of Ylisse or Plegia or anything involving these kingdoms. 

 "Yeah. Isn't that what caused this whole war?" Robin asks absently. 

 Chrom hums in confirmation. "It's one of the treasures of Ylisse. It was made by Naga's fang. The first Exalt of Ylisse used it to defeat the fell dragon, Grima. It's incredibly powerful, so it's practically the key to Gangrel's plan to destroy us."

 Robin blinks at the information. "It was made by the dragon's fang? That's impressive."

 "Do you even know the story of Naga and Grima? or have you read it from a book I lent you?"

  "Not a clue," he says, reaching out to scroll a unneeded map. "We've got time, however. Mind telling me it instead of doing tactics? My brain's going to fry if I keep going." 

 Laughing, Chrom moves to help gather stray notes and pens. "You're the master Tactician here. If your brain fries, we're all doomed. But alright." He himself had been getting bleary-eyed from staring at that damn map all night. He could probably draw it with his eyes closed. 

 Robin grins briefly, scrolling up the continental tactic map. Just as he finishes tying it up, there's a knock at the door and it swings open. 

 "Pardon me, Milord, for interrupting your conversation--" Frederick steps in. In his arms is a stack of papers, no doubt from the Council. His eyes are trained onto the top sheets, as if preparing to have a discussion about the papers' contents. He raises his eyes only now, seeing the aghast look on Chrom's face and a map dropping onto the table. 

--

To his credit, Frederick hasn't said a word about it.

 It's strangely nerve wrecking. Frederick hasn't even changed his attitude towards Chrom-- he still does everything the same, worry the same, dote the same. Maybe he doesn't think anything of it? Maybe he doesn't think Chrom has lost his mind-- wait, no, that's impossible. Frederick's sure to think Chrom lost his marbles, he's just too polite to say anything. That's gotta be it.

 Even now, as Frederick trots on his horse beside him as the Shepherds march into an area where Plegia is overstepping their reign, he doesn't even show a notion of the event.

 "Chrom? Are you alright?" Lissa asks suddenly, pulling him out of his thoughts. He glances back to Lissa, who is atop a horse and looking a bit tired of moving already. 

 "I'm fine. How are you holding up?" he asks lightly. She sticks her tongue out at him, scowling.

 "How much longer until we get there?" she grumbles, shifting on the saddle, "My butt is killing me."

 "Just a bit longer, Lady Lissa," Frederick intervenes smoothly, "I see the site just ahead."

 "Are there any signs of troops?" Chrom struggles to see that far ahead, being on his feet instead of horseback. He also uses this opportunity to look for Robin, who's messing with Stahl's horse. (They've found that animals tend to notice his present, strangely enough.)

 Robin looks up at that moment and notes that he should probably approach. He leisurely floats over, listening in.

 "Not that I can see, but it would be best if we put up a perimeter in case they do come filing in," Frederick suggests. Chrom nods accordingly.

 The site is more of what remains of a long abandoned village. There's only a few ruins of buildings that once stood there-- no doubt there was more, but time has withered away anything left of them. This place was stuck somewhere in the frontier of the borders, a place where no one claims. It's just barren land, too-- it wouldn't be of any use for either country to control.

 They send out watches and put up a light perimeter of soldiers. Chrom frowns as he approaches what seems like a fallen home, Robin and Frederick not far behind. 

 Sand had long since made layers upon layers over whatever remains; not like there is much to cover. Books that must have been ages old are now nothing more than a few illegible, fragile pieces of paper. 

 "What do you think the Plegians would need from this place? There's nothing here." Chrom crosses his arms and looks to Frederick. "There's has to be something they're after-- I can't think of any reason otherwise."

 Frederick frowns in thoughts. "If there was something they needed, they've probably taken it already. Whatever tracks they left are most likely covered up from the sand gusts."

 Curiously, Robin moves over to the pile of nearly nonexistent books. His footsteps make soft imprints in the sand, but the wind is blowing and moving it so it's not noticeable. He looks like he's trying not to reach out and touch the books-- they'd probably crumble under his touch and Frederick was there.

 "That's true," Chrom says, moving to get out of the ruins. "It just makes me wonder what they wanted."

 A gust of wind rushes through the ruins, throwing up a wave of sand. Several soldiers raise their arms to cover their eyes. The books that Robin stands nearby flips open with the wind. The pages tear from the poor binding and flutter to the ground, some disintegrating at the contact. A block of a ruin erodes away at the wind, making Lissa anxious.

 Lissa makes a noise of apprehension, grasping the staff with white knuckles. "Chrom! Let's hurry up-- this place is giving me the creeps!" she says, glancing out towards beyond the ruins, as if checking for Plegian troops.

 Frederick steps up to a surviving page the same time Robin does. He picks it up with deft fingers even though his hands are armored. Robin has to peer over his shoulder to look at the contents.

 "What is it?" Chrom asks, striding over. "Any sign of Plegian magic or…?"

 "No, Milord," Frederick furrows his eyebrows. "It's not magic that I know of. It's a symbol."

 Robin goes rigid. 

 Frederick holds up the paper with care, presenting a symbol identical to the one on Robin's hand in faded ink on the paper. "Have you seen this symbol before?"

--

Robin was silent on the way back. 

 He didn't mention a word of the paper with the symbol. Not a word about how it could have possibly been something involving Plegia, something that Plegians wanted. 

 Chrom didn't mention that after poking around more in the papers (after Robin had gone away because he looked overwhelmed), a page torn and tattered beyond repair states that it was the mark of Grima.

 A ghost, no memory, no family, and an apparent follower of Grimleal. 

 What a turn of events. 

 They returned to camp without any bumps along the way. (It nearly seems like the world is pausing for Robin to mull over this.) The Shepherds either retire to their rooms or mess around the campfire. Chrom himself heads to the meeting tent, Robin absentmindedly following.

 The tent seems more gloomy than it usually is. Robin looks like his mind is out of this world and into another galaxy. Chrom sighs heavily, sits down, and waits for him.

 What are the chances? And how could he have not noticed? Robin's cloak, a cloak that is a deep purple with gold trimmings, isn't coincidentally similar with Plegian mages. How could he have not recognized the Mark of Grima, either?

 Robin is a Plegian. Was a Plegian. He was possibly part of a cult. He probably could have wanted Ylisse's demise. 

 If he had realized earlier, would he have accepted Robin?

 He double takes at the thought. How could he think of Robin in such a way? Robin isn't any different now. He's still a tactician, a ghost, a wanderer, a person filled with curiosity. He marvels at the stars every night, for Gods' sake. How could he think that Robin would be his enemy?--

 Robin lets out a shuttering breath, pulling Chrom from his thoughts.

 "Are… Are you okay?" Chrom asks carefully. Robin still looks really shaken from seeing the symbol.

 "Sure," he says in a voice way too steady for someone with his hands shaking. "It's… just… I don't know what Plegians would need to do that involves the symbol." He's not even looking at Chrom. He's glaring down to the back of his hands, his hand curled into a fist. "Did… Did you recognize it?"

 There's a pause and Chrom thinks Robin deserves to know. "It's the Mark of Grima. I… You were possibly part of a cult that worshiped Grima."

 Robin falters, looking at Chrom in alarm. "…What? I…" He starts, suddenly at loss for words. "I… I once wanted to revive the fell dragon? to destroy the world?"

 There's a certain franticness in his voice that keeps Chrom silent. He's never seen Robin really panic. Not when battles turn for the worst, not when someone nearly discovers his existence. The only thing that's come marginally close was when Gangrel saw him-- but that was just cold fear.

 "So then… my family lives in Plegia? I've been fighting against my family?" He breathes, "What… what if we fought my family? What if they're dead by my hands, Chrom?"

 "Robin, calms down," Chrom starts, rising from his seat. "You don't need to panic, you're not one of them anymore."

 Robin pauses to think. "But I'm still one of them."

 "No, you're not." Chrom presses, stepping towards Robin. "You're not apart of this cult anymore, even if they symbol marks your hand. You don't want the world to be destroyed, you don't want to revive the fell dragon. You're not a Grimleal. You are still Robin. The master tactician of the Shepherds."

 "A Grimleal," Robin snorts, his knuckles white as he clenches his fists at his side, "A Grimleal tactician leading a group of Ylissean soldiers. How ironic is that?"

 "Listen, Robin," Chrom tries, "The fact that you might have been a Grimleal means nothing--"

 "It does!" He cuts in, backing off. "I am your enemy, Chrom. The proof is right here!" He holds up his trembling hand, fist clenched tightly. 

 Something breaks in him. Chrom reached out and takes Robin's hand in both of his,  squeezing them. "You're not. You don't even believe yourself when you say that."

 Robin looks down, his hand curling in on Chrom's. "I… don't," he wheezes, "I don't know what to do now."

 "What you do," Chrom begins, letting go of Robin's hand, "is continue on as if knowing this doesn't change anything. Because it doesn't."

--

He hasn't seen Robin in days.

 He's not in the mess hall to observe, he's not in the sparring field to wander about the weaponry, he's not in the storage room to swap tomes and texts he's already read, he's not in his room for the battle meetings. Something is wrong.

 Was it because of what they found at the ruins? Had he actually convinced himself that he was a villain and left? He'd go out and find him and knock some sense into him if he had the time and--

 And of course, he can't do anything about it.

 Chrom's been incredibly good at not letting his worry show. No one else would know what his worry is directed to-- so he just can't let it show. If they don't see it, they don't worry. But he can't exactly hide the bags beneath his eyes from when he stays up all night, waiting and worrying for Robin and working on tactics. Alone. How long has it been since he had to work on tactics by himself--?

 "Milord, stop it."

 Chrom blinks in start, looking to Frederick. The stern look on his face has a twinge of concern, unnerving Chrom.

 "You're doing it again." He motions to Chrom's arm where he's been viciously digging his fingers into his biceps. He immediately pulls back, rubbing at the tender skin as angry red crescents glow against it.

 "Sorry," Chrom says uselessly, clipped. It's been happening a lot more. He would cross his arms, enter deep thought and his fingers would slowly but surely dig into his skin. Has he been slipping up in covering his worry? He really needs to stop doing that--

 "Milord."

 He looks up again, realizing that he had just been glaring daggers into the floorboards. Wow. He's really losing his ability to hide his stress.

 "Ah. Um. Sorry?" He says, grinning weakly. "I've got a lot on my mind."

 "Have you been sleeping well?" Frederick asks, never faltering.

 "The most recent tactics have been biting a chunk of my sleep away, but I still do." A white lie. He sleeps little more than a hour a night, if he's lucky. Tactics and worrying relentlessly takes a toll.

 Frederick frowns at him. "Milord," he presses, folding his arms. "I thought I told you that you can confide in me."

 "I-- I know," Chrom chuckles, because this whole situation is ridiculous and there's no way Frederick would believe in a ghost tactician. "It's nothing. This war is just getting to me."

 Frederick's armor clinks as he shifts. "I know I do not ask you to tell me things you already are not willing to, but you obviously haven't been resting well and everyone is beginning to be concerned for you." He casts Chrom a melancholy look, one that shakes him. "What's wrong?"

 Should… should he tell him? Should he let someone know that a ghost has been hanging around the Shepherds? Not only that, but said ghost is their Master Tactician? Should he let it be possible that Frederick might think he's finally lost his marbles?

 But how much longer can he keep it a secret? Frederick already has suspicions and he's sure so do others. And the fact that Robin is missing is literally eating him alive.

 His fingers dig into his bicep once again as he says quietly, "Alright. Just. Not here."

 No one in the mess hall notices their leave. The door shuts soundly behind Frederick as they move down an empty hallway. Chrom clears his throat nervously.

 "I, um…" Chrom starts. Frederick seems rattled that he's seeing Chrom finally lay down his worries. "Before I say anything, I… It may be hard to believe, but i'm not losing my mind. I swear.

 "… okay, so you remember back when I asked you if people were messing with my stuff all those months ago? Someone was. It… It was Robin."

 "Robin?" Frederick echoes, frowning. "I haven't met a 'Robin' around here."

 "That's the thing," Chrom continues, "Robin… Robin's a ghost. I didn't believe it at first but he showed me that he could faze through things and all that-- I don't know how, but I'm the only one who can see him? That's why you saw no one when you walked in the other day; I was talking with Robin. He's also our sorta-kinda tactician? I did lie about not finding a master tactician, but how was I mean to explain it to you that I'm relying on someone who's dead?"

 Frederick blinks wide-eyed at the load of information. Chrom winces inwardly. It sounds ridiculous out loud. He's silent as he processes everything, making Chrom nervous.

 "A… ghost." 

 "Yep. A ghost."

 "And how does this come to you losing sleep?"

 Chrom nearly stumbles at the sheer suddenness. "Um, he, uh, went missing? I haven't seen him in days and normally he and I work on tactics together. It's been since a day after we left the ruins at the Frontier."

 "A ghost is making you lose sleep?"

 "Yes? How are you taking this so well?"

 Frederick raises an eyebrow. "It explains a lot. Lady Lissa was convinced you've lost it when she heard you speaking to yourself the other day. It explains the other night, and when you fought with Gangrel. Additionally, I can see how much this distresses you."

 Deflating, Chrom murmurs, "So, there it is. I've been worried about Robin this whole week. He had been freaked out by the Mark of Grima we saw at the ruins. The symbol was on the back of his hand and… he hadn't taken the news well."

 "A Grimleal ghost was following you around?" Frederick's lip curls.

 "He didn't know," Chrom adds in quickly, "If he was apart of it, he didn't know. He was an amnesiac. He didn't even know his name when I came across him."

 It doesn't take a smart person to tell Frederick is suspicious. "An amnesiac ghost. You had an amnesiac ghost do our tactical plans?"

 "Yes? Gods, Frederick, but he's missing. We have to find him."

 "What would we tell everyone? 'Lord Chrom wills us to go on a mission for a ghost?' I doubt everyone's going to accept it as well as I."

 "I… know. I just…" Chrom's eyes drop in resignation, "It is selfish, but only I was there for him. I can't just… abandon him. He… he relied on me. He's my best friend, I dare say, I can't just leave him."

 Theres a moment of silence. He can see the gears turning Frederick's head as he goes over the situation. Frederick sighs. "We'll see what we can do. Until then, I may do tactics with you to lift you of such a burden."

 Chrom smiles, "Thank you. I'm sorry I didn't confine in you earlier."

 He nods. "Me too."