Chapter Text
She was so damned close to freedom. All she had to do was run away, leaving the village to burn, and she’d be free of it all. But then where would she go? She had little coin, and she hadn’t eaten in days. She could work as a sellsword, true, but who would trust a Plegian? That would be an incredibly short path to a dagger in the back. No, better to ingratiate herself to someone powerful, and quickly.
Someone like the foolish prince of Ylisse, parading around with his Brand in full view, only escorted by a single knight and a frail woman who looked scarcely able to hurt a fly. A lone knight and a fragile healer? Was the prince trying to be assassinated?
Damn it all.
On one hand, freedom. She’d never have to think about Validar or Grima or that accursed skull castle ever again.
On the other hand, there was a foolish royal walking directly towards a bunch of Plegian raiders, and if he died at their hands there’d be no safety for Plegians anywhere in Ylisse.
Damn it all!
“You there, nobleman!” She cried out. “Stop! Brigands are heading to the village!”
The knight snapped towards her, raising his lance. “Hold there, Plegian! Not one step forward!”
“Easy, Frederick.” The prince put a hand on the raised lance, gently lowering it. “What’s this about brigands?”
“The nearby village is being ransacked!” She pointed to a distant plume of smoke. “That is no campfire, I assure you!”
The prince swore under his breath. “Come, Frederick! We’ve got to help them!”
“And her, milord?”
“Unless she’s on fire too, she can wait!”
She stood there, baffled, as the noble ran towards his doom.
She reached the edge of the town and saw the chaos unfolding. The brigands had set fire to houses, knocked over market stalls, and slaughtered people in the street. The air burned with the scent of ash and iron. One of the brigands, a horrid pigsty of a man, spotted her. She charged without a word, trying to run him through. Surprisingly quick for a man his size, he sidestepped her blow and swung his axe at her gut. She parried his blade and swiftly disposed of him, slashing open his throat.
Where did that fool prince go? She raced through the burning village, searching, cutting down the occasional bandit. If these were really the best Validar could muster, she had little to worry—
A spike of pain bit into her and she stumbled, clutching at her side. She hadn’t seen the archer, hiding in an alley, and his second arrow nearly ended her, embedding itself in the wall near her head. She charged the archer, moving erratically and throwing debris at him to keep him on the defensive. A swift chop of her sword and he was gone. She couldn’t quite feel the arrow in her side, but her clothes were darkening rapidly with her blood, and blood came up with a cough. She braced herself, then yanked out the arrow, biting back a scream. Cursing her lack of healing magic, she cast a fire spell, cauterizing the wound.
There. Now she wasn’t bleeding to death. As much, anyway.
She tried to stand and the world spun beneath her. She tried again, bracing against the wall. Better, but she suspected the only thing keeping her awake was adrenaline. She stumbled forwards in a haze, sword loose in her grip, still coughing up blood. Oh, fantastic, she’d been shot in the lung. Best to find that fool prince quickly, and hope his dainty little healer felt pity.
Miracle of miracles, there he was. The prince and his knight, right in the middle of the town square.
Surrounded by bandits.
Gods damn him. She was going to have to work for this, wasn’t she?
She pulled out the beaten lightning tome from her pocket, sheathing her sword. Aiming at a mage, she flung a spell, blasting him off his feet. Before his unwashed friends could react, she shot another, leaving him a smoldering corpse.
“Come on, you blundering half-wit!” She shouted at the prince, throwing another spell. “If you’re idiotic enough to charge into a bunch of brigands, at least have the decency to kill a few!”
His knight, the only sensible one of the lot, had already leapt into action, and he quickly followed suit. Between the three of them, the remaining bandits were dispatched delightfully efficiently.
“There. Done.” She collapsed against a wall, clutching her side. “Damn you,” she hissed. “What fool of a noble leaves his guard behind, charging into a town being ravaged by bandits? Next time, leave me out of your death wish.”
He said something in response, words getting jumbled in the fog. She tried to look up at him, but her head felt so heavy, and she was so tired. Maybe she’d rest her eyes, just for a moment…
She jolted awake. Her side exploded with pain, and she hissed out a curse.
“Woah there! Easy, easy!” The healer from before, a youthful girl with messy pigtails, sat nearby. They were in a small clearing in a forest, sitting by a fire, the only other light that of the stars. “You got hit with a firebolt. I patched you up after the battle, but the wound was pretty nasty. You need to be careful, or you’ll open it back up before we’ve had a chance to heal it properly.”
“Thank you.” She clutched her side, feeling the bandages under her bloodstained camisole. “Where’s my coat gone? Ylisse is chillier than I would like.”
“Frederick is washing it while my brother hunts some food for us,” the healer replied. “You’re lucky the fire didn’t burn it too badly. It’s odd that it pierced so deeply, though.”
“It wasn’t a firebolt, Princess Lissa. I was struck by an arrow, and cauterized the wound.” She shifted slightly, sending a spike of pain into her side. “Ah, but I have you at a disadvantage. You may call me Robin, my lady.”
The healer blinked in surprise. “You know who I am?”
Robin laughed, wincing as another spike of pain shot through her. “An educated guess. The man with the blue hair and the Brand on his shoulder is Prince Chrom, or so I assume. I know not of any other foolhardy Brand-bearing nobles. If you are truly his sister, then you must be either Exalt Emmeryn, Princess Lissa, or a bastard I have not heard of. You cannot be the Exalt, as you are younger than he is and you do not have the Brand upon your forehead, so you must be either Princess Lissa or the mystery bastard, and you do not strike me as a bastard.”
“Truly, a remarkable feat of logic,” Sir Frederick said flatly, emerging from the darkness. “By your speech and the finery of your cloak, you are a member of the nobility? Or, perhaps, a well-educated thief.”
“I was a noble, yes, and one of some import,” Robin said. “But Grima has her fangs buried deeply in Plegia, and I found myself on the wrong end of a sacrificial dagger. I fled, and was chased across the desert by my father’s men. I do hope the fool prince of yours returns quickly, as I have neither eaten nor slept in days, and I find myself hungry enough to consume a bear.”
It was true enough, Robin supposed. She was, technically, Archduke Validar’s adopted daughter, though she wasn’t due to be sacrificed in the usual manner. No, the foul man had created her directly from Grima’s remains, hoping her to be a vessel for the dark god. He hadn’t even bothered to give her a name; Robin was something she’d chosen for herself. He addressed her as ‘Vessel,’ when he bothered to speak to her at all, and kept her hexed up to the gills whenever they left the Dragon’s Table, taking away what little freedoms she had. Her only joys thus far in her life were her books, as Validar needed her to be knowledgeable enough to be useful even if Grima didn’t kick her out of her own body.
All that was over, now, and she’d sooner die than be a bird in a cage once more.
“I had finally managed to evade them by fleeing into your charming little country when Gangrel’s thrice-damned bandits crossed the border right behind me,” Robin continued. “I am rather tired of running, I must admit.”
“Don’t worry, Robin! You’re safe with us!” Lissa said cheerfully.
“That’s right,” said Chrom, emerging from the forest and dragging his kill behind him. “You’re under our care now, and we’ll have the best healers have a look at you when we get back to Ylisstol.”
“Thank you,” Robin said. That would make asking for asylum much easier. They might even give her a reward for fighting off the bandits and aiding the prince. Or they might clap her in chains and claim she orchestrated the whole thing.
Bear, Robin decided, was delicious. Perhaps it was just the hunger talking, but that night’s meal was the best one she’d had yet, and Frederick had managed to preserve the remainder of the meat into jerky, which she enjoyed all the way to Ylisstol, where they did not, in fact, throw her in the dungeons. Yet. Robin was sure they’d find some reason or other, but by that point she should have recovered enough to break out. Perhaps she’d head to Valm next? The Grimleal had spies everywhere, but even they were slowed by sheer distance. Maybe she’d even be able to sneak through the Dragon’s Gate, hide away in some outrealm. For now, though, they’d given her a room in the castle barracks and told her to stay put while she recovered.
Naturally, she went exploring. She would not be caged again. Every morning, before sunrise, she snuck out and went for a jog, mapping out the nooks and crannies of the castle grounds, and returned before breakfast to use the training grounds. There was another woman who trained almost as early as she did, a cavalier named Sully. They rarely spoke to each other beyond what was required for the occasional sparring session, but Robin had discovered that Sully worked directly for the prince, and had been waylaid on an errand on the day of the bandit attack.
Robin respected Sully. She was a hard worker, and didn’t treat Robin like some fragile noble daughter seeking refuge in a foreign country. When Robin was declared fully recovered by the healers, it was Sully who recommended she join the prince’s personal military unit, known as the Shepherds.
Chrom wholeheartedly agreed. Frederick, his lieutenant, had his doubts. He questioned her loyalty, which was fair, and questioned her ability, which Robin would not stand for.
“I had not thought you even wanted to join the Shepherds, Robin,” Frederick had said. “But I doubt we would have use of someone of such wavering loyalty and so lacking in skill.”
“Sir Frederick, would you be so kind as to meet me on the training field at noon?” Robin had said curtly. “I’ve a sudden urge to demonstrate exactly how lacking in skill I am.”
And so she stood, holding a wooden training sword in one hand, the other resting on the Thunder tome at her hip. It was a training weapon, too; it would stun anyone unfortunate enough to be struck, but wouldn’t cause lasting harm. Unlike most mages, she didn’t need a tome, but she kept that ability hidden. It was an ace up her sleeve, and not one she cared to play over a petty squabble.
At exactly midday, Sir Frederick strode into the training grounds. He hadn’t forgone his usual blue armor, and picked up a training lance. Chrom, Lissa, and another noble she didn’t yet know followed after him, sitting in the shade while they set up a picnic.
“I see we have an audience,” Robin said. “Do you wish to be humiliated so badly, sir knight?”
He snorted indignantly, somehow making it sound almost elegant. “I am afraid I shall not be the one humiliated today, miss Cuckoo. I see you have abandoned that dreadful coat; do you fear you will dirty it when you end up on the ground?”
Accusing her of sneaking into his nest, was he? She smiled, all teeth. “Hah! There is a minor chance I will have to work up a sweat today, and I fear if you Ylisseans try to wash such finery you would wear a hole in it.” She held her sword at the ready. “But enough banter, sir knight. I am ready when you are.”
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Chrom munched on a sandwich as he, Lissa, and Maribelle watched the duel. Frederick had goaded Robin into this, but if he was honest Chrom also wanted to know what this mystery Plegian was capable of. She’d been fierce from the moment he’d met her, and she’d dove into a horde of bandits to make sure he was alright, blasting them away with her spells. If she could do that much while sleep-deprived, starving, and, according to the healers, bleeding into her lung, what else was she capable of?
Frederick and Robin circled one another, testing each other’s defenses with the occasional poke of the spear or zap from a spell. Neither landed a hit, and an uneasy stalemate formed before Frederick decided to go on the offensive. Chrom knew firsthand how unpleasant it was to be on the receiving end of Frederick’s lance, but Robin was managing to hold her own, deftly parrying his strikes.
It was fascinating, watching the way she fought, the way her movements flowed from parry to strike. A few glistening beads of sweat had formed on her warm, bronze skin.
Lissa giggled. “Chrom, you’re staring.”
“It’sh a good fight,” he said through a mouthful of food. He swallowed, then continued “I haven’t seen anyone able to keep up with Frederick in a while.”
“I am sure that is the only reason,” Maribelle said, shooting him a look.
He ignored her. It was truly impressive that Robin had been able to hold her own against Frederick for this long, especially considering she was a full head shorter and not wearing any sort of armor. She used her size to her advantage, however, and slipped under Frederick’s guard, but he was just a hair faster and struck her with the butt of his lance, a wet crack sounding out from the training grounds as blood flew from Robin’s now broken nose. The sheer force of the blow sent her flying backwards, but she rolled when she fell and shot to her feet, a wicked, bloodstained grin on her face. She leapt at the knight with a sudden and violent ferocity, their earlier positions reversing. Now it was Frederick who was on the retreat, a veritable onslaught of blows echoing off his armor. Her training sword splintered, then shattered in her hands.
It didn’t even slow her down.
In one fluid motion, she tossed it aside and pulled a bolt of magic from her spellbook, drawing it into a sword. The air filled with the scent of ozone and the crackle of thunder as the two warriors redoubled their efforts, arcs of electricity scorching the ground into patchy glass. By the time they began to tire, the picnic had long been eaten and the sun had sunk far lower than its noontime high. A crowd had gathered, eager to see the outcome of this duel, and they cheered every time a seemingly decisive blow was landed, only for the fighting to continue.
Robin was absolutely drenched in sweat, face flushed and chest heaving with effort, and her corded muscles were beaten and bruised. Frederick, for his part, was about as worn out as he ever looked, his stern expression a bit more forced than usual. The two stared each other down, then came to an unspoken understanding, lowering their weapons.
“I am fine with calling this a draw, Miss Robin,” Frederick said, carefully controlling his voice. The man must be exhausted; he usually didn’t have to put so much effort into it.
“As am I, sir knight,” Robin said, dismissing her lightning blade. “I must say, you would make a fine Grimleal.”
Frederick stiffened. “I beg your pardon?”
“Relax, sir knight. It was a compliment.” Robin snatched a waterskin and drank greedily, a droplet lazily tracing its way down her jaw as Chrom couldn’t help but watch. “The Grimleal value strength above all, and you are a very strong fighter, and a dedicated and disciplined man besides. Ylisse should be grateful they have you.”
Robin winced as she forced her nose back in its correct position. Maribelle hurried over, grabbing a healing staff and wiping away the blood. Robin’s camisole was damp with sweat, and Chrom was suddenly very aware of how tightly it clung to her body. Some very un-princely thoughts ran through his mind, and he excused himself. He was going to go have a nice glass of water, or perhaps some stale bread. Anything to not think about the line of her jaw, or the curves of her body, or how fierce she looked while she fought, or the way her shock-white hair flowed elegantly in the wind–
Oh no. This wasn’t good. This wasn’t good at all.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Robin was fairly certain she’d angered the prince. Given that she now was in his employ, this was… less than ideal. Ever since she’d fought Frederick, he’d been avoiding her, giving her only curt responses. It was bizarre; at first, Frederick had been guarded around her, speaking only when necessary, and Chrom had been far friendlier than one would expect from a royal, but now she had Frederick’s respect and Chrom acted like he’d catch fire if he stood near her for too long.
Oh well. He’d probably get over whatever was bothering him by the time he returned from Regna Ferox, anyway. Hopefully things would not escalate beyond reason while he was asking for their aid with Ylisse’s bandit problem.
Things had escalated beyond reason.
The heiress of Themis was trying to get her to wear a dress, for gods’ sake. A dress. She didn’t even own one! She definitely wasn’t going to buy one, either. That cost gold, gold which would be better spent on practical things, like weapons, or armor, or spellbooks. She’d told Maribelle this, of course, and the heiress had scoffed and dragged her to a dressmaker’s shop.
“For a noble, dresses are our armor,” Maribelle said as the seamstress took Robin’s measurements. “And as you are now employed directly under the prince, you have been granted the rank of knight, requiring you to attend certain functions in his stead.”
A slight bit of panic shot through Robin. She’d only ever attended functions as Grima’s vessel, and all a vessel had to do was stand there ominously while Validar made pretentious speeches about darkness and whatnot. For a fair amount of them, she was hexed so strongly that she wasn’t even sure she counted as conscious. “Are you sure I have to go?”
“You were a noble back in Plegia, were you not? Surely you attended parties there, wearing the latest fashion, politicking with other nobles about this and that.”
“It is one thing for a noble to attend parties, Lady Maribelle,” Robin said stiffly, “and it is another thing entirely for a potential sacrifice to Grima to attend. You must understand that I was not expected to wear a dress.”
“Would you prefer to wear a suit, instead?” Maribelle asked. “There must be some form of pretty clothing you would like.”
“I do like dresses,” Robin admitted. She curled her lips into a sneer and imitated Validar, saying “but dresses are for Ylissean whores, and you are neither Ylissean nor a whore, so you shall not have one.”
“If I ever meet the one who said that to you, dear, I shall introduce him to the end of a rapier,” Maribelle said. “Everyone deserves pretty things.”
Robin stifled a laugh. Maribelle? Fighting Validar? There was no way that would end well.
“I mean it,” Maribelle said, misreading Robin. “Everyone, including you, deserves pretty things. If I hear another word of protest, I am buying another dress for you, or perhaps something to replace that dreadful coat of yours.”
“The coat is not dreadful,” Robin protested. “It protects from the sun and keeps out the cold. It has been a faithful companion for a good part of my life, and if it keeps nosy Ylisseans away from me, all the better.”
“Oh, do continue,” Maribelle said. “I have plenty of coin for dresses. Would you like the next one in blue, or yellow?”
Robin stopped talking.
“That is what I thought. Now, seeing as we have established that you do like pretty things, are there any clothes that you would like? You will be wearing them, after all, so you may as well enjoy them.”
“Gloves,” Robin said. “I prefer to keep my hands covered.”
Maribelle smiled. “Oh, I know just the thing. Now, as for colors, I would advise blue or yellow, as you are a Shepherd, and those happen to be the royal colors. Showing support fit for your station will go a long way.”
“Blue. I do not imagine yellow would match well with white hair, but white gloves could match both that and a blue dress.”
“Are you writing this down?” Maribelle said to the seamstress, who nodded. “Good. Send me the bill, and make sure to run the design past sir Robin and I before you finish it.”
“Save fabric where you can,” Robin added. “I am afraid I am rather low on coin.”
“Sir Robin, with all due respect, are you daft?” Maribelle looked at her like she’d just suggested bathing in a swamp. “What matter is it that you are low on coin? I am the one paying for this.”
“I am aware, and I thank you for your generosity, milady,” Robin said. “I will pay you back as soon as I am able.”
“Sir Robin, this is a gift,” Maribelle said, like Robin was a child. “You do know the meaning of the word, yes? We are comrades-in-arms, now, and I wish to be friendly.”
Robin frowned. In her experience, a gift given freely was a gift wrapped in poison.
Maribelle sighed deeply. “Think of it as a weapon, if you wish. If nothing else, it will be that, and you would not be miserly with a weapon, would you?”
“...No,” Robin said, as much to end the conversation as anything else. “Thank you, milady. I shall keep this weapon sharp.”