Chapter Text
Robin pants in exertion as she channels another burst of magic through the levin sword embedded in Grima’s chest. It causes the dragon to scream as the electricity buzzes through its avatar’s veins and lights up its every nerve. A mighty dragon such as itself is still only mortal, regardless of how many worshipers and much power they gain. It’s why it’s so uncommon for the remaining draconoids to interact in person with the world—and even rarer for them to take an avatar form like this. The Fell Dragon must have been extremely certain in its victory to have allowed them to get so close to begin with. This will end up being its fatal mistake.
Grima has sustained a massive amount of damage from the strike force, particularly from Kjelle’s final, wrathful, luna-charged strike before going down to another of Grima’s dark spells. It’s been difficult to get this far and it has not been without sacrifice. Kjelle is not the first to fall in this battle, but Robin hopes that she will be the last.
Draconic scales as extremely thick and resistant to all forms of damage. But when someone whose magic is very similar? If you’re able to get through a crack in their armor and start pouring your magic into them, it’s a very potent, painful form of magic poisoning. Grima had already been drained from the amount of magic it had been pouring into not only its fight with them but also the massive destruction spells it was charging at the same time. So Robin finds very little resistance as she pours the remains of her magic reserves into the dragon’s system.
“I didn’t take you as the suicidal type,” Grima growls, a sharp gleam in its eyes promising vengeance if Robin doesn’t end it here, once and for all. “Our lives are intertwined, Grandmaster of Ylisse. In killing me you have sealed your own fate. We are one in the same! Killing me is the same as killing yourself!”
Panting, exhausted, and nearly entirely spent, Robin simply laughs softly. “I wouldn’t say I’m suicidal,” she says. “I just want you to die more than I want to live. You will never hurt anyone else ever again, even if it’s the last thing I do.”
One last burst of thunder uses up the last of her reserves and turns the once mighty beast into merely a burst of ash and smoke in the wind. The only thing left is its dragonstone, dull and lifeless in Robin’s hand. It’s finally gone, for good. Never will Grima return to terrorize the people ever again. This wasn’t just sealing, it was total destruction and Robin should have been proud of herself or satisfied with her actions. And yet, the moment is not one of triumph and celebration. It’s one of desperate, fragile hope.
A hope that shatters into million pieces when Robin wavers, drops her levin sword, hands losing their grip, and falls to her knees, hands over her ears. Everything is suddenly much too loud. The world is spinning around her and she feels weightless to the point that she might have completely fallen to the ground if Chrom hadn’t caught her.
Her best friend and soul brother holds her close. Chrom is trying to say something but Robin can’t quite make it out. Everything sounds like she’s trying to hear through water. Her vision is going blurry by the time the remaining members of the strike force gather around them. Gaius’s bright orange hair stands out alongside his daughter’s as he presses something into her hand. Tiki’s red tunic and Lissa’s yellow dress, and a couple other brightly colored articles of clothing stand out too. Cherche hums a familiar melody of a lullaby. Robin’s heart aches that she can’t tell who more of them are. Her eyesight continues to deteriorate.
Waves of stave healing magic wash over me as the healers try to save her, to no avail beyond healing some minor cuts, bruises, and abrasions. Physical damage is not what spells her doom. This damage is purely spiritual. And there is no known way to heal this kind of spiritual damage. Robin would know given how long she’d spent searching for a way, any way to spare all of them this pain. But there was nothing to be found.
Someone wipes her sweaty brow with a soft handkerchief—Frederick she decides based on the shade of blue she can barely make out. It’s done so carefully, like he does with Chrom and Lissa upon occasion. It figures that Frederick the Wary would only publicly warm up to her on her deathbed. She smiles a little at the thought. He’d backed off over the years, but had never done anything like this out in the open. She smiles a little. At least they’re all okay enough to afford fussing over her.
Her tongue is numb, but Robin has one last thing to say. “I’m sorry,” she says, gasping each word out between gulps of air as she desperately tries to fill her lungs full of air they fail to keep. “Thank… you, love… you, and please… be happy.”
Chrom pulls her into a hug that she returns as best as her translucent arms can manage. She tries not to think about the tears that should be wetting the shoulder of her thoroughly ruined Grandmaster cloak or the fact that she can’t smell the stink she usually teases him about after battles. Robin can feel herself slowly start dispersing into the wind. The world feels faded and distant, and then everything is gone.
The memory fades and Robin is alone in the dark again.
She doesn’t know how long she’s been here. The cold has chilled her to her very bones. There is nothing to be found, no matter how far she runs. And it’s so void of light that she can’t even see her hands in front of her face. It’s also possible that Robin doesn’t have hands anymore, or any physical form at all. After all, no one knows what happens to people who kill ancient, time-traveling dragons when they are technically also kind of that same dragon.
Days before she had thrust her levin sword into Grima, dealing the final blow instead of Chrom, she had accepted her fate. Despite her assurances that she would let him deal the final blow, that was never truly an option. Robin could never have lived with herself knowing that Grima would return at some point in the future to only cause more chaos, destruction, and death. This might have been the world’s only chance to be rid of Plegia’s evil god forever. And she would not waste that chance out of a selfish desire to live.
Chrom would never have understood. Long-term planning, or planning ahead at all, was never his strong suit—that’s what he had her for after all. He would have done anything to keep her safe, to not lose another sister to a tragic sacrifice. But what was her life weighed against the thousands who would die at the fell dragon’s hand in the future? Robin hated to have done this to him. Giving him a sense of security and then ripping it all away was cruel and monstrous. She really was an awful sister. But this was bigger than her, bigger than him.
Fate may have favored them, but fate’s favorites rarely have happy endings.
And she’s far from the only one with a tragic ending. Far too many of the shepherds were lost to the wars. At least Chrom and his queen, Olivia, had both made it out alive. And, well, most of the future children. It’s a small comfort, but a real one.
Now they are all lost to her. All Robin has now is herself, in some sense, and the dark, cold, and empty void. She treasures each of the goodbyes they’d given her as she faded. Of all those final gifts, Cherche’s has proven to be the most useful. The lullaby was a simple tune, easy to remember, and kept her company in the deafening quiet of the darkness. Without it Robin is sure she would have lost her mind. Even with it, she wonders if she still is. It certainly feels like it.
Then she hears something. It starts so quietly that she thinks she’s imagining it. But as it gets louder, Robin realizes it’s in a strange language she’s never heard before. And she’s heard everything from United Valmese, to Chon’sinese, to Feroxian, to Brigidan. It sounds ancient—maybe a form of ancient Archanean?
It gets louder and louder until it sounds like they’re right next to her, screaming in her ears and she winces in pain and covers them. Her hands actually feel something this time, but not her normal ears. No, these are pointed. Like Nowi’s. Like Tiki’s. Like her future self’s. Her heart skips a beat at the thought before there’s a jerk at her navel as the chanting reaches screeching level and then suddenly everything goes strange.
There’s cold, smooth stone beneath her as she comes back to herself. She blinks a couple times before opening her eyes which easily adjust to the blue-tinted, low light and bring the room into focus. A large, elaborate magic circle surrounds her with intricate runes all in chalk and blood. Robin begins breathing through her mouth as her sense of smell comes back online and protests the smell of the blood and the burnt remains of the four human corpses evenly spaced around the outside of the circle.
Her stomach roils in reaction but she swallows down her nausea best she can. Robin doesn’t want to know what throwing up would do to the magic circle. It is a bodily fluid like blood, after all. Instead she avoids looking at the bodies and tries to take in the rest of her surroundings.
The odd blue light comes from lines etched into the wall of dark, smooth stone that make up the walls, floor, and ceiling of the room. There are two doors, one door on the far side of the room and another not far leading to what appears to be a small room within the room. Neither doors have a discernible handle or knob. And the smaller room has what looks to be a large window facing towards her, but Robin can’t see through it like a normal window. It’s practically part of the wall.
A shiver runs through her and she draws her coat further around herself for warmth. Wait—her coat? Robin immediately checks herself over. Her familiar tan hands pat down her white hair, purple coat, and brown pants. The pockets of her coat are empty of weapons and she’s about to investigate the one item she found when the door to the smaller room opens.
The palest person Robin has seen in her entire life steps into the wider room. And she’s met Maribelle. Even his hair and eyes are stark white. But despite the fact that he has no pupils to indicate where he’s looking, she can feel the weight of his scrutiny.
“That’s not how its supposed to look,” is all he says.
Robin’s about to take offense because she is not a thing, but then another, extremely pale person steps out of the room. This one’s eyes are a vivid orange that reminds her of Gaius. With the addition of pupils, she can tell that he is practically dissecting her with his gaze.
“No,” this one says blithely. “It’s not.”
“Something must have gone wrong with the summoning spell. It is still experimental. We’ll just have to dispose of the beast and try again,” the first man says.
A shiver runs down Robin’s spine at how clinically and coldly he speaks of killing her, “disposing” of her. She looks around the room, hoping she’d missed something that would help her escape to no avail.
“No,” a woman says as she steps out into the wider space. She’s pale but has bright orange hair and dark gray, almost black eyes. “I studied my ancestor’s records thoroughly. The summoning spell used the correct runes to summon the subject Gri-Mah specifically.”
“The calculations were perfect as well,” the man with orange eyes agreed. “I checked them a dozen times myself. This is it. Perhaps it took a weaker manakete form to retain what sanity it may have had left? Most of the serpentus draconia megafauna category did so, after all.”
Both of the others made noises of dissatisfaction.
Robin is reeling at the new information. They think she’s like Tiki? But for Grima? And subject Gri-Mah? What are they talking about? What is going on? She doesn’t like this at all. She feels like a magic beetle under Miriel’s enchanted microscope and it’s not a good feeling.
Her magic reserves are dangerously low, so even if she had a weapon she’s not even sure she could use it. And as she tunes out the others’ bickering and studies the runes in the magic circle, grateful for their universal nature and use, she finds that even leaving the circle won’t be so easy. There are aspects for containment, obedience, and state stasis. It’s not going to be easy, or even possible, to escape. Still, she has to try.
The three are still deep in discussion so she takes a moment to study them. They appear unarmed, but two of them radiate the aura of dark magic and the third of anima. Their robes are black and each of them has an odd, black, beaked mask hanging at their hip. The woman is clearly deferred to in most matters by the two men. By the sound of things, she has a better idea of what they’re doing. But the man with no pupils seems to be higher in the hierarchy overall. Eventually they seem to come to a consensus and all put their masks on and turn towards her.
The less important man steps forward and speaks in a distorted voice. “Inform us of your location from before the summoning.”
Robin doesn’t feel like answering. So she doesn’t. Instead she watches him and the others with careful eyes.
One of the others, the female, huffs before stepping forward and speaking herself, “Speak, beast.”
“I’m not a beast,” Robin replies automatically, her hands flying to her mouth once she realizes. She had not chosen to speak. This must be what the obedience component is for. She is magically bound to obey their orders. That… that is very dangerous. And very illegal in most places.
All three of the strange people make mildly amused sounds of disagreement and Robin scowls. She did not attempt to sacrifice herself to rid the world of an evil monster for this kind of disrespect.
“What was your location before the summoning?” another asked.
Robin is quickly losing track of who is who as they weave around each other. Their masks are indistinguishable from each other and rather unnerving. Both of which were probably the point of the masks in the first place.
After a moment of fighting the compulsion magic, Robin finds it futile and decides to try malicious compliance. “Origin Peak,” she says simply.
Unfortunately, they do not seem to need further clarification on the location.
“What is your condition?”
“Unideal,” Robin says, ignoring the expectant silence for a more detailed answer.
They aren’t impressed. One of them mutters a word beneath their breath and taps the edge of the magic circle with their foot. Immediately, Robin gasps as pain floods her senses. Her hands tighten into fists as she falls fully to the floor. As the pain fades, Robin reailzes one of her hands is holding something—probably whatever it was Gaius handed her. It’s perfectly spherical and after a moment she realizes what it is without even looking at it. It’s Grima’s dragonstone. But why would Gaius hand her that?
Her line of thought is derailed as she hears the shuffling movement of her captor’s robes again and pushes herself onto her hands and knees so she can keep her eyes on them.
“Didn’t like that, did you?” one of them cooed mockingly. “Cooperate and we won’t have reason to do it again.” Robin nods, dumbly. “Good girl,” they coo again, and Robin feels disgusted at the pet name. A shiver runs down her spine. These people don’t even recognize her as human, do they?
“Now let’s try that again, what is your condition?” another asks.
“I was physically uninjured, but now likely sustain nerve damage,” she tells them through gritted teeth. “My magic stores are nearly empty and my spiritual damage was extensive but I would need to re-evaluate it for a more exact answer.”
Thankfully, this answer satisfies them enough that there is not a repeat performance. One of them even pulls a notepad from their pocket and writes something on it with a strange writing instrument Robin has never seen before. Despite the frustration of their treatment of her, Robin is still shamefully grateful. She’s still panting from the effects of whatever they did. Whatever this is is so much better than that excruciating pain.
“Enough questions,” another speaks. “Move on to the tests.”
The other two nod.
“Display your breath weapon,” one of them orders her.
Robin blinks at him, confused. “How do I do that?” she asks nervously.
“Loss of basic functions,” the one with the notepad mutters as it writes. “Perhaps we should run some more hands on tests to investigate?” they suggest.
One of them disappears into the hidden room and brings out a monstrosity of a chain. It has four manacles and an additional clasp that looks sized to wrap around the neck. Each of the latches is inscribed with runes. Robin does not like the look of that and stumbles to her feet and backtracks as far from them as the circle will let her.
“Now, now,” one of them chides her as they tap their foot, making her flinch. “Are you sure you want to do that, Project Gri-Mah?”
At this point she’s so high on fear that the pain doesn’t register as well when she ignores them and they activate the circle again. This is not happening. Not if Robin can help it. Her magic stores are only nearly empty and have recovered a bit since her summoning. She pushes down the panic and tunes out their laughter as the chains get closer. They’re taking their sweet time. They’re not taking her seriously at all. And why should they? She’s completely at their mercy.
This isn’t happening.
Robin reaches for something, anything. Her magic slips through her control like water, unable to get any sort of grip on it. It’s too low and she doesn’t have a tome anyway.
This isn’t happening.
Robin reaches deeper, nothing. She pulls her hands to her chest as the chains get closer. The one approaching gets a glimpse of what she’s holding. They frown and pause before speeding up.
This isn’t happening.
Robin channels magic through the dragonstone and reaches, reaches, reaches, finally finding something when they’re already within the inner circle of the magic circle. She grabs it, the energy around her and something from further away. The blue lines of the wall blink to indigo and grow brighter and more intense. They make a lunge for her and she pulls. There’s a loud BOOM! The world goes white.
Then there’s nothing, not even darkness.