Chapter Text
At the age of 10, Chrom is kidnapped.
Being the Prince of Ylisse, he has had a certain target on his back since his birth. That his father started a war with their neighboring country only a few years later did not help.
“They’re going to parade your father’s head around the capital, boy,” the dastard who dragged him away taunts. “With you gone, all Ylisse will have is your dolt of a sister and that bastard child.”
“Don’t you talk about them like that!” Chrom tries to shout, but the binding around his mouth keeps his words muffled.
“Shut up, Eliot,” snaps the woman driving the getaway carriage. “Nobody cares about how much you hate Ylisse. We all hate Ylisse. It’s the first thing on the recruitment flyer: ‘hey, do you hate Ylisse?’”
“Yeah, yeah,” Eliot mutters. “But that’s not what you’re doing this for, right, Allana? They tell me to grab the kid; I grab the kid. I don’t care about what happens to the kid. But you’ve got plans; I know you do. This isn’t the way to the river to drown him. You’re taking him back to Plegia to stir up some shit!”
“You know it! I’ll teach them to promote an idiot and then kick me out to boot,” Allana says. “You know what that mark on his shoulder means? This kid’s got fucking dragon blood! All I have to do is one little ritual and the power of Naga’s blessing can be mine…”
“A ritual, huh… Isn’t that what you got kicked out for doing?” Eliot asks.
“That prisoner was going to be killed anyway! He didn’t need his teeth!” Allana insists. “My parents were the greatest sorcerers in the Plegian army… When they died, they left everything to me. Our library is home to knowledge that the rest of the world has forgotten entirely. If only the commanders would listen to me, the war would be over by now.”
“I mean, we’re barely adults. You know how it is,” Eliot says. “It’s one thing if the higher ups want to knock out somebody’s teeth for fun, but we don’t get to do that stuff.”
“It wasn’t for fun,” Allana says. “If they’d let me do the ritual, I could have created Terrors from those teeth.”
“Yeah, but that’s the part they didn’t want you to do most,” Eliot says. “They don’t know how to control Terrors.”
“Well, I do,” Allana says. “I’m the heir to all my family’s knowledge and power… I could save our whole country if everybody would just stop getting in my way! But once I have draconic magic flowing through my veins, they won’t be able to hold me back anymore… I’ll make Ylisse beg for mercy, and then I’ll have everyone who doubted me begging to lick my boots.”
“You know, you’re a little nuts. That’s the other reason the higher ups don’t like you,” Eliot says. “I knew you’d still help us, though. That potion of yours was genius. The Ylisseans won’t even know their little prince has been replaced with gutter trash until it’s too late.”
Chrom squirms against his restraints. He thinks his captors are Plegian soldiers, even if they’re dressed up like Ylissean ones. They don’t seem like very honorable soldiers, though. His father says that all Plegians are dishonorable, but he also says that fighting to defend one’s country is honorable, so he kind of sends a mixed message sometimes. Regardless, Chrom can tell that these two aren’t exactly following the rules anymore.
“Hey!” Allana exclaims. “Cut that out, kid! You’re going to hurt yourself… You’ll screw up the ritual!”
“Whatever, I’ll just knock him out,” Eliot says, and with a heavy blow from the hilt of his sword, Chrom loses consciousness.
He is lying unbound on a bed when he comes to. On the table beside him is a plate with bread and a glass of water. That woman probably doesn’t want anything funny to happen to him from not eating…
Of course, this makes him not want to eat at all.
The guy who knocked him out is across the room, sitting at a desk. Chrom supposes he’s meant to keep an eye on Chrom.
Eliot is his name… More like idiot! He’s asleep in his chair! What kind of guard falls asleep on the job?
Chrom creeps closer to the Plegian soldier. The door is right behind him, and he’s fast asleep… Can Chrom just leave? Can it really be that easy?
But he doesn’t know what he faces outside this room. And they were talking about taking him to Plegia, and how everyone hates Ylisse so much. Even if he gets out of here, how is he going to get home?
He spots the sword that Eliot is still wearing. His mouth goes dry. If he has a weapon, he’s sure he can at least get outside. His captors have obviously underestimated him. He may be a kid, but he’s 10, not 2! He’s already been training with swords for years… His mother, when she was still alive, protested. She wanted him to wait until he was older, to start his education with history and philosophy like his older sister. But his father insisted that the Falchion had already chosen him, and that therefore he must learn swordplay at once.
Gods… he never thought he would need that training the way he does right now.
He gathers his nerves and draws the sword. It is almost silent as it slides from the leather scabbard, and Eliot the idiot doesn’t even stir. No sword has ever felt so heavy in Chrom’s hands. No enemy has ever been so close.
He glances at the door, then back to the soldier. He could definitely run, but dread claws at his stomach. If he runs out right now, what happens if Eliot wakes up? What if he comes after him, and grabs some other weapon, and sneaks up behind him, and this time his blow kills Chrom instead of just knocking him unconscious?
But if Chrom doesn’t want that to happen… If he wants to really, really make sure this guy can’t capture him again… There’s one thing he can do.
He was told this would happen someday, that someday he would be a leader strong enough to hold human lives in his hands. His father said that he would know right from wrong, that he would know when the time came who should be killed and who should be spared.
The time has come, but there is no sense of right or wrong ringing through him… The soldier is asleep. The soldier wanted to throw him in a river. The soldier is stupid. The soldier is dangerous. What does any of that mean?
Chrom just wants to go home. He wants to live to go home.
He points the sword toward Eliot. A sleeping enemy really is too easy. Even with his eyes clenched shut, Chrom strikes true. The sound and scent alone are enough to make him sick, but he forces his eyes open. He has seen blood, and he has seen corpses, but this is the first time he has seen them in concert. It is horrible… but not nearly as horrible as the thought that this is what will happen to him if he doesn’t escape. He will not let Allana get the precious blood she wants. Not now, not ever.
He opens the door carefully, making sure that nobody is coming down the corridor. The place reminds him a bit of some of the noble manors in Ylisse, except that those were always filled with chattering and the scent of tea, while this place is silent and reeks of incense. He tries to step quietly, but even against carpet, the thumping of his feet seems alarmingly loud. When he gets to the stairs, he notices hard stone and knows it will be even worse. He can see the manor’s front door just ahead of him and almost decides to dash for it, but his eyes are drawn to flickering candlelight in the corridor to the right.
Whispering something that Chrom cannot hear, Allana steps through. Chrom looks around wildly, but there is no place for him to hide. She’ll notice him any second, and she obviously does magic, so he’ll be doomed. His only chance is to take her by surprise…
It’s a long stretch to cover if he runs, so he takes a leap about halfway down the staircase. This draws her attention, but fortunately for him, she stumbles backwards instead of immediately setting him on fire or blasting him with wind.
“You!” she cries. “Like father, like son, I guess! You like cutting us down, do you?”
“My father’s got nothing to do with anything!” Chrom shouts.
Even if everyone in Plegia hates his father, that’s not his fault. What’s he supposed to do, let them take it out on him? He can’t understand his father’s love of battle now that his life is on the line. This isn’t fun. He doesn’t feel powerful. This whole thing seems like a bad misunderstanding, but it’s one that words can’t get him out of. If he wants to get out of here, he has to fight it out. He can’t turn his back to this woman.
He staggers forward, and Allana retreats further down the hallway. He keeps his eyes locked on her hands. She’s some kind of sorcerer, so he’s got to be careful. If she reaches for a tome, he’ll rush in and cut her arm off.
“Yes, that’s right, come closer,” Allana hisses. “Step right in here… You can pay back the blood you stole to my array!”
Chrom freezes as he realizes he’s just stepped into a room designed for a ritual… A ritual with him as the sacrifice, no doubt. Panicked, he swings his sword at a cluster of candles, knocking them over. Their flames go out… and then so do the flames of the next candles down the line… and the next ones…
“W-Wait!” Allana shouts. “Those can’t go out! You’ll kill us both—”
Chrom swings his sword blindly in the growing darkness, and Allana shrieks as she drops to her knees.
“The— The array!” she gasps. “No…”
Only one cluster of candles still burns, but the room is somehow growing brighter. Chrom looks below him as lines of bright light spread in a pattern across the floor.
“Wh-What’s going on? It was supposed to need dragon blood—” Allana gasps.
She reaches out, letting out a scream as dark energy suddenly gathers at her fingertips. Startled, Chrom doesn’t think before he moves, slicing diagonally with his sword before she can attack. His eyes widen when he realizes what he’s done. Sure, he had planned to do it if she attacked him… Sure, it’s just like with Eliot, and it’s better if she can’t follow him… But is he really going to kill again? Even this much blood is making him ill.
Yes, between the blood and the bright lights and Allana’s screams, Chrom is definitely starting to get dizzy. Is that why Allana seems to flicker before him?
“You… monster…” she gasps. “How can a child… end a line as old as Khadein…? Mother, Father, forgive me… I only wanted...”
The light grows so bright that Chrom has to close his eyes. And when it dims and he opens them, Allana is gone. The glowing lines fade away until only the light of the few remaining candles is left in the room. The flames flare up, as if waving at him, then put themselves out.
Chrom’s arms begin to burn. He drops his sword to clutch at them. His eyes have yet to adjust to the darkness, but he’s sure his skin must be falling away. It hurts enough to be falling away. Did that sorcerer curse him in her final moments?
But he cannot have survived his captors’ plot just to fall like this. He will get home even if he burns all the way. He grits his teeth and tries to pick up his sword again…
But just as he reaches for it, a wave of deep purple energy comes bursting from his hand. The burning sensation in that arm dulls to mere tingles. Tentatively, he waves his other hand. Another wave of purple comes out.
“Is this… magic?” he whispers aloud.
No one answers him. Eliot is dead. Allana is probably dead. He doesn’t think anyone else lives here, or else surely they would have come when Allana screamed. Chrom is alone…
He’s alone, and he can do magic. Dark magic. He waves his hand again and nothing happens, but then he focuses on feeling his arms tingle, and the magic comes to him again.
It’s weird… It’s wrong… He’s never had any talent for magic, not like his sisters. And his father says that dark magic is solely a tool for evil.
You monster, Allana said.
Maybe he is one. Maybe it’s that easy to become evil. Maybe when you can’t tell if something’s right or wrong, it means it’s wrong, and if you do it anyway then the blood just overwhelms you and makes you evil.
Chrom shudders. He wants to go home… But will his father even want to see him anymore? Will Emmeryn be scared of him? Will Lissa cry?
If it were just the blood on him, he could wash it off. Maybe he could even forget about it, someday. But this magic… He has a feeling he’ll never be able to get rid of it. It’s not entirely a bad thing for him at the moment… Having another weapon at his disposal is really good; his tutors always told him that he should practice other weapons so he’d always be prepared to use anything nearby if a fight were to suddenly break out. It’s just that if he can’t put down this evil magic, if he has to be evil for the rest of his life, then what is he going to do when he gets back home? There’s never been an evil prince of Ylisse. Or Archanea or Altea, either. His whole bloodline is full of heroes…
He glances at his shoulder. The Brand of the Exalt is so… large and obvious. His father always likes it when he shows it off, so Chrom has come to favor shirts without sleeves… but now that he’s in Plegia, it’s dangerous. He can’t just go outside looking like an enemy prince. He’ll definitely get attacked again, and he barely survived Allana, who was unarmed!
Shuddering, he leaves the ritual room and gets back to the stairs. There has to be some clothing around here that he can… well, steal, but if he’s already evil, he might as well steal, too. He figures that if you’re going to kill people so you can live, you’d really better commit to living afterwards. He’ll have to look for some food and supplies, too. And he can wait until morning to leave, that way maybe people will be afraid to openly attack him in the light of day.
Yes, this is how he’s going to make sure he lives… And if his family doesn’t want him back, then he’ll just have to go somewhere else.
But he’ll think about that part later.
He’s had breakfast, his pockets are stuffed full of dried meat, his arms are covered, and he’s ready to get out of this awful place.
He opens the front door warily. It looks like a typical noble estate with a lot of open land… There’s no telling how far he’ll have to walk to get off of it, unless he can steal a horse, too… Though on second thought, he’s not a very good rider yet, so he’d better not. If some stupid horse kicks his face in, he’ll have a big problem on his hands. So walking it is. There’s a trail, albeit an overgrown one, that he can follow, and that’s got to lead somewhere…
He just hopes it leads somewhere safe.
He sets off. It’s hot, but no hotter than the summers in Ylisse. He’s heard bad things about the scorching sands of Plegia’s deserts, so he’s relieved that his captors took him somewhere greener… Really green, actually. It looks like nobody’s taken care of any of the plants for a while. There were no servants inside, either, so he assumes that the place has been abandoned for a while… And for good cause! Who would want to work for someone performing dark rituals, and right on the ground floor too?
His arms tingle again when he starts to think about that ritual, so he tries very hard to keep his mind off of it. The sky is very blue… It’s all the more beautiful now that he knows how close he was to never seeing it again. The fresh air is nice; there’s a light breeze that keeps his face cool. And maybe it can blow away the smell of blood that’s stuck in his nose, too…
He shudders. All he ate that morning was bread, but it sits like iron in his stomach. Maybe there was something wrong with it. Maybe there’s something wrong with everything in that manor. He’s almost afraid to try the stuff he stole, but he figures he won’t have any appetite for a while yet, anyway. He tries imagining the tastiest cake he’s ever had at home, and even that doesn’t make the sick feeling go away. When he was very little, his mother used to say that if he was too ill for dessert, there must really be something wrong with him. He supposes it still applies.
The path splits in two ahead, and Chrom unfortunately has no way of knowing which way would be better. Based on where the sun is in the sky, the left path looks like it should lead him east. Ylisse is east of Plegia, and that’s all he has to go on. When he gets home, he swears he’s going to read every geography book in the castle. If he ever gets lost again, it would be better if he could figure out where he is. He doesn’t even recognize most of the plants around him, though he does try to memorize their appearances now. There’s nothing else to look at, anyway, as he walks for hours and hours until the sun reaches its highest position in the sky.
He’s thinking about finding a place to take a break when he spots a small church building on the horizon. He’s immediately filled with relief, and he breaks into a run. The people of the faith are the healers of this world. The advisors. The saviors.
And then he stops. In Plegia they do not worship Naga… They worship a violent god. An evil god. His father brought war to their borders in the hopes of stopping their cruel practices…
Maybe Chrom should run the other way instead.
But his arms tingle, and he can’t help but think again on what he has done. Maybe a place dedicated to a violent, evil god is exactly the place a violent, evil boy can find a minute of rest.
What else is he supposed to do, anyway? He can’t backtrack now. East is the way home. And he has to rest somewhere.
It isn’t very long before he loses the chance to change his mind. As he comes close to the walls of the church, he spots an elderly woman, and she spots him in kind.
“Gracious, child, where did you come from?” she asks.
“Er…” Chrom panics. He forgot to make up an excuse for what he’s doing. “I, er, got separated from my family?”
That’s the truth, too, but it sounds so much less scary than what actually happened… He wishes it was as simple as him getting lost in a busy market square.
“Unfortunate,” the woman murmurs. “And so close to the border, too. Will they stay to look for you?”
“Huh?”
“I can hear your accent.” The woman shakes her head. “Is your family not trying to sneak back into Ylisse? They’re fools if they are not.”
“Oh, er, right…” Chrom nods vigorously. “Yeah, that’s it. We’re all trying to get back to Ylisse. But then, er, we were attacked, and… I got captured, but then I escaped. You won’t tell anybody, right?”
He takes a step back, ready to spring into action if he has to. Sleeping soldiers, old women, he doesn’t care anymore. Chivalry doesn’t matter when you’re evil.
“Calm down. I have no desire to aid those military curs.” The woman scowls. “Once, we were a proud country of faithful people. Now, our greedy self-appointed leaders tell us to forfeit all our possessions and even our lives to the crown as if we are supposed to worship kings and queens. Grima ought to strike them where they stand for such blasphemy.”
“Y-Yeah?” Chrom smiles slightly. “Do you think Grima… That is, er… Would Grima be mad if someone else killed a Plegian soldier?”
“The Ylissean army, you mean?”
“Them, or, er, maybe an Ylissean who’s not in the army yet,” Chrom says. “Just an Ylissean, it doesn’t matter… would he want to strike them down, too?”
“Child…” The woman stares into his eyes. It makes him nervous. “Child, how did you get away from the people who captured you?”
Chrom shivers. She can’t see what he did, can she? He washed all the blood off.
“I just want to know,” he says without answering the question. “I don’t know that much about Grima. What does he think about killing people?”
Naga thinks it’s awful. She thinks that humans should rule the world hand-in-hand and take care of each other. And it’s a good thought, but… Chrom can’t help that his kidnappers weren’t very interested in getting along with him.
“Ask around and you’ll get different answers,” the woman says. “But I have been Grima’s faithful priestess since I was your age, and I’ll tell you what is clear from his words. All lives are equal in his eyes. When humans slaughter each other for our own selfish gain, Grima burns with rage. He is not a passive god. He does not sit back and watch from afar as humans prance around doing whatever they will. Were he not now sealed away, he would fight and put an end to those treacherous insects blighting this world. He does not shy away from his destructive power. He abhors injustice. He does not abhor justice.”
“Oh…”
Chrom closes his eyes. That’s just another way of saying that you should know right and wrong when you do it. If only it were so easy to tell.
“Don’t get upset, now,” the woman says. “Grima has blessed you with the strength to survive and the luck to find an ally… Ah, but you are not Grimleal…”
“Can I stay here anyway?” he asks. “Not for very long—I need to get home—but I…”
“Of course you are welcome here,” the woman says. “Indeed, I insist upon it. What is your name, child? I am known as Mitra.”
“What, me? Er…” Chrom grits his teeth. He can’t introduce himself as Prince Chrom of Ylisse, or else covering his Brand was completely useless. “My name’s… Frederick.”
He hopes Frederick won’t be mad at him… But he’d rather get yelled at than never see the squire again. He’ll never tell Frederick to stop worrying about him anymore, that’s for sure.
“Alright… Frederick,” Mitra says. “Let’s go inside, then. My husband is praying, but he can spare the time to look you over. Harming a child, honestly! These soldiers get sicker in the head every year!”
“They—” Chrom hesitates. He doesn’t want to explain what happened. Not at all. “They hit me over the head, I guess. But I’m fine, really. If I can just have a vulnerary and some water, I can be on my way.”
“Nonsense,” Mitra says. “I know boys your age hate being fussed over, but you have suffered a great shock, and will be much benefitted by resting here. You’ll never make it across the border like this. If the Plegian army doesn’t catch you, some Ylissean brigand will. Better you stay with us until it is safer.”
“Ylissean brigands…?” Chrom echoes. “But why would… an Ylissean…?”
“Oh, child… Thank the gods that you stopped here,” Mitra says. “Plegian soldiers are not the only ones who separate children from their families… No, in fact, your situation is uncommon. You are far more likely to be attacked by some rogue or another. Around here, it is ruffians from across the border who terrorize the unwary. As long as we are at war, the Ylissean exalt will not punish them.”
Chrom frowns. His father shouldn’t be allowing something like that to happen. Of course, he’s very busy leading the army, so he probably hasn’t had time to do anything. Chrom will have to talk to the ministers when he gets back home. Maybe they can fix the problem.
“I… I guess, I…” Chrom sighs. “I didn’t come all this way just to… to… to die to a brigand…”
Maybe he would be able to fight brigands off, too. With his stolen sword and his new dark power…
Or maybe he’d be stabbed to death and his father would never even see the report.
“Smart child.”
Mitra pats him on the shoulder as she ushers him through the door. The interior is unlike any church he’s ever seen. Everything is unfamiliar to him; the symbols and scents offer him no sense of comfort, no semblance of coming home…
But it does not feel awful. It feels like a church should, like a sanctuary. Chrom knows he isn’t what this place is supposed to protect, but after what he’s been through, he will take its protection anyway.
’Grima… Can you actually hear me if I speak to you?’ he thinks hesitantly.
Nervously, his heart pounds. He bears the Brand of the Exalt. He knows the legends of his ancestor’s defeat of the fell dragon… But right now, it seems so unimportant. Naga didn’t grant him any useful power. All his exalted blood did was make Allana want to take it. Naga and her ideals didn’t help him. He had to save himself.
’I know I’m descended from your enemy…’ he thinks. ’But don’t be mad at me for it… If you hate injustice, you should know what they did to me was wrong… Please tell me that what I did to them was right.’
“Kasimir!” Mitra calls. “Kasimir, we have a visitor!”
A man as elderly as Mitra is kneeling in front of an altar. He hums without moving.
“Another wounded?” he asks quietly. “Do I need to prepare rites, or…?”
“I would grab a Heal staff,” Mitra says. “It’s a boy, dear. He has the visage of our Lord betrayed.”
“Well, we all see things at some point. Though few take after him anymore, with how they encourage the kids to idolize the thrill of conquest these days.” Kasimir stands, finally turning around. “You, boy. Come sit. Have you lost any blood?”
Chrom stumbles forward until he reaches the first row of pews.
“N-No, I haven’t…” he says. He’s only stolen some. “I was hit in the head… and I guess my stomach hurts, too… But other than that I’m okay.”
He is. He’s okay. Everyone always says he’s got a healthy physique and great form. That’s why he was able to escape.
“Mitra, get him some herbal tea to ease his spirit,” Kasimir says. “I’ll check him over.”
Chrom is used to healers prodding at him over cuts and scrapes, so he doesn’t mind so much… But when Kasimir hand brushes over his right shoulder, he can’t help but shudder.
“If you’re hiding a wound—”
“I’m not,” Chrom says. “It’s, er, kind of a… birthmark. Please don’t look at it. I don’t… like it.”
And he doesn’t. Not anymore. Not with all the trouble it’s causing him. It would be better if he was born without it like Lissa…
In fact, maybe it would be better if his family didn’t have it at all. Then nobody could say anything stupid about his little sister, either.
“A birthmark, hm?” Kasimir frowns at him. “There are curses to get rid of those, you know.”
“Er…” Chrom doesn’t think his would go away that easily. “Yeah, well, my family will think I’m an imposter if I come back without it, so… Just don’t look at it, okay?”
“Grima transcends the physical, and so I shall not concern myself with the ornamentation of your mortal form, if that is your wish,” Kasimir says. “The proper mechanisms, however, are another story… Your hands, boy. Did you try to cast magic without a tome?”
“Wait, how can you tell?” Chrom gasps. He holds up his hands, but they look no different to his eyes. They hold dark power, but he’d thought no one would know.
“The energy within them has yet to settle,” Kasimir says. “You should have mentioned this first! Are you not in pain? To force magic to flow without a conduit is to destroy your own body!”
“I…” Chrom shakes his head. “I didn’t mean to… The magic just came out! It forced me, not the other way around!”
“The magic forced you?” Kasimir stands up, walking behind Chrom. “Show me your magic… Do not force it; as I said, that will destroy you. But if you are truly gifted…”
Chrom grimaces. He’s not supposed to have this power. If it’s a gift, it’s one he’d rather return.
He closes his eyes, but his arms tingle, and he’s sure the room must be lit by a purple glow.
“What’s this?” Mitra has returned just in time to bear witness.
“He’s got… the Shadowgift,” Kasimir says in awe.
“But a child is born with it only once in a generation,” Mitra says. “Sometimes not even in two or three… And they say there’s already a girl, that orphan who was taken in…”
“I know,” Kasimir says. “But you see it here as well as I do.”
“It’s a miracle,” Mitra says. “But… to an Ylissean boy?”
“Don’t look at me like that,” Kasimir says. “I don’t control who receives the gift.”
Chrom can’t take it anymore.
“I wasn’t born with it! I’m not gifted!” he exclaims. He opens his eyes, and he makes the magic dissipate. “Stop it, I know you know I’m a murderer! That’s the truth, right? I got this magic because I’m a murderer!”
He starts to stand up, but Mitra pushes him back down.
“Nonsense, child,” she says firmly. “Now drink this.”
She puts a warm cup into his hands. Tea, like Kasimir told her to get. Chrom doesn’t know what kind it is, but the strong scent makes his mouth water.
“We are proud of you,” Kasimir says. “Grima is proud of you.”
“Kasimir, he isn’t—” Mitra hisses.
“He needs our god,” Kasimir says. “All children who must kill need our god.”
Chrom takes a gulp of tea, and then another. He hasn’t thought of drinking since he set out this morning, but all of a sudden, thirst catches up to him.
“Does Grima think I’m right?” he asks. “Because… er, some gods… would maybe say I should have just run away.”
“I see…” Mitra murmurs. “Yes, this is why we hold the ceremony…”
“Grima sees all. Grima knows the truth,” Kasimir says. “There is nothing clearer in the world, boy. People who steal away the young are a threat to us all. Grima is pleased that you cleared the world of some of its blight.”
“The followers of Naga preach that it is better to sleep than to rage,” Mitra says. “Even when that means the sleep of death. We who follow Grima admire the flame of life that burns in your heart. We rejoice in your triumph, child. We will celebrate Grima in your name. It is what we do when any of the Grimleal make their first kill.”
“Really…?” The tea must be magic, like a concoction, because Chrom is starting to feel a little better. But his body is still sort of heavy. “I really think I’m too sick to eat cake, though.”
“It isn’t that sort of celebration,” Kasimir says. “There are certain ceremonies in which we bake cakes to offer Grima, but this is not one of them.”
“You should rest today, and heal,” Mitra says. “The ceremony is better performed at sunrise, besides.”
Chrom swallows thickly. There’s no tea left in his cup.
“Yeah…” he says.
Naga never said anything about not worshipping other gods. At least, nobody’s ever said anything to him about it. But it was probably supposed to be implied that you shouldn’t worship the god your bloodline is sworn to defeat should he ever return.
But this Grimleal couple is being so nice to him. Even though he’s Ylissean, and his people are at war with their people, and nobody’s doing anything about the brigands, they’re still helping him. If it were any other god they worshiped, etiquette would demand that Chrom pay his respects, too.
Why should it be any different just because it’s the fell dragon?
“So what exactly am I supposed to do in this ceremony?” he asks. “I want to do it properly…”
“Typically, one would make a sacrifice to our Lord, but…” Mitra glances at her husband. “In your case, child, it isn’t strictly necessary…”
She’s probably afraid he’ll screw it up because he doesn’t know what he’s doing. But he can learn! And then when he gets back home he can tell his tutors that he’s become really cultured. He’ll just leave out the part about the fell dragon being involved.
“What kind of things do you usually offer Grima?” he asks.
“As I mentioned, some ceremonies require specific cakes. Other times, we will give a drop or two of our own blood,” Kasimir explains. “Though that is more fitting when one is making a request for aid. For showing gratitude, we offer up our gains. This is to assure Grima that we have not acted out of greed.”
“I don’t have much of anything…” Chrom says. “Oh, except…”
Feeling around in his pocket, he pulls out some of the dried meat he’s glad he doesn’t have to eat now.
“I took this from the people who captured me…” he says. “Would that work?”
“A trophy of your victory would be very appropriate, yes.” Kasimir smiles. “If it is indeed your wish to honor him.”
Chrom looks at the chunk of meat in his hand. To him, it does not seem like much of a trophy or an honor. Honestly, he kind of just wants to get rid of the stuff.
“It’s only fair,” he says.
Especially if there’s any chance that Grima really did help him.
In the light of dawn, they have a celebration that is definitely in no way a party. It’s quiet and solemn, and Chrom did murder two people so that’s just right. He would feel horrible if they were dancing and playing games like something inside him hadn’t been altered… Literally altered, his hands now holding power that he was never meant to know. But figuratively altered, too. He isn’t as good with words as Emmeryn and he doesn’t know how to explain why he wants to cry so bad even though he’s not the one who died, but he thinks, maybe, that a piece of him did anyway, because he doesn’t feel like he can ever goof around like he used to again, even when he gets back home.
“The fire is now set,” Kasimir says. “Feed it your offering. Let the flames devour it as Grima devours the wicked.”
Chrom throws the stolen food into the fire. It creates an awful smell as it smokes and turns to ash. But as Chrom watches it burn, something comes over him. A sense of relief so powerful it takes his breath away. He goes from wanting to cry to crying, even though he doesn’t understand why it actually feels good.
“Our Lord accepts it,” Mitra says, her own voice choked. “Congratulations, child. Your spirit burns brightly.”
“In recognition,” Kasimir says, “it is customary to give you something to aid you in battles to come. This talisman has been passed through my family for generations… but I have no children, and my wife and I are not long for this world. It was fate, we believe, that we met you… What say you, boy? Will you hold onto it now that my life is approaching its end?”
Chrom sobs as Kasimir holds the talisman in front of him. A stone disk lies on a silver chain. Etched into it is the image of a feather, simple and elegant.
“Yes…” Chrom says. “I’ll take care of it. I promise.”
He’s used to the idea of carrying on a legacy… His Brand, obviously, as well as the Falchion someday, are no light burdens. But somehow, this talisman is even heavier. A whole line is going to end; he is not even these people’s son. As a member of House Ylisse, history itself will keep record of his family. Kasimir and Mitra might have only him to keep their memories alive.
“You have started on a road you cannot stop traveling,” Kasimir says, placing the talisman around Chrom’s neck. “You can only see it to its end. You will meet many enemies on your journey. May you never be blindsided by them.”
Chrom nods. He is a prince. He knows that there are more people out there who want to hurt him and his family… He just didn’t realize before how real the threat is, how some can and will act on those desires…
There might be something wrong with him now. He likes Kasimir and Mitra even though they’re Grimleal. He feels good participating in this Grimleal ritual. He might be evil… His father would definitely be furious if he saw him right now. But isn’t it a good thing, if it keeps another situation like this from happening to him? Or worse, to his sisters… He’ll be prepared. His first kill was a shock to his weak system, but Kasimir and Mitra are right; this is only the beginning.
He’ll grow stronger from this. He swears it, and it only occurs to him later that the ceremony had not quite concluded, and he was still supposed to be before Grima.
Would it be an offense against Naga if he hopes that Grima approves of his vow?
It’s not safe for Chrom to go home yet. It’s not even safe for him to go into town. Or so Kasimir and Mitra tell him.
He believes them, but even if he didn’t, he’s not sure he would want to leave right now. Kasimir is teaching him how to use dark magic, and Chrom is pretty confident he’ll never have a chance to learn about it at home.
He doesn’t really want to use it. It feels wrong, and the fact that he still has no talent for healing spells or regular offensive magic only proves that he’s strange and wrong for having it. But Kasimir says that he shouldn’t turn down power when it comes to him, that this magic is beautiful and his now and at the very least it could save his life someday.
So Chrom trains. It’s not like he has to use dark magic. It’s just like training with lances and axes and bows a little bit, just in case he can’t fight with a sword for some reason. He’s just being practical about the whole thing.
And Kasimir smiles at him. Kasimir says that Grima is pleased with his efforts.
Chrom knows that it shouldn’t matter whether he pleases Grima or not… He’s never actually cared that much about pleasing Naga, no matter what he hears he ought to be doing from the priests and priestesses when his family attends church. But he can’t stop thinking about how it felt to burn that dried meat, how he felt, for a moment, that he was doing something right, how he’d never felt anything like that in front of Naga, yet something about that Grimleal ceremony spoke to his heart…
He’s worried about it, too. He hasn’t forgotten everything he’s ever heard about the fell dragon’s mission to destroy the world. Chrom would never want to pray for that… He only wants to be strong so he can live! If everybody dies when Grima wakes up, then what’s the point?
“Er, Mitra…” Chrom asks hesitantly one day. “Can you talk to me… about Grima?”
He knows she’s reluctant to. She probably doesn’t trust him, knowing he’s Ylissean. He’s never met anyone from his country who has anything nice to say about the fell dragon. He wouldn’t want to talk about Grima with them, either.
But Chrom’s different. Really, really different from how he used to be.
“… What is it that you want to hear, child?” Mitra looks at him with a warmth that he’s never seen in the eyes of the Hierarch of Naga’s church.
“Well, it’s just… I’m confused,” he admits. “Doesn’t Grima hate humans and want to bring the world to an end?”
Mitra sighs.
“That is the story as some tell it,” she says. “It is also the story as some wish it. But the tale as it is written is one of such woe… Shall I tell you of our Lord’s betrayal? Perhaps you will then understand the true meaning of his ire.”
Chrom nods. He sure would like to understand.
“I am sure they do not tell you this in Ylisse, but Grima was not always locked in battle against some faction of humanity,” Mitra says. “Nor did he emerge in Plegia as we know it. The journey he and the original Grimleal made was long and arduous, but suffice it to say for now that he was always humanity’s ally, protecting us from threats that no one but a dragon many times more powerful than any of the divine dragon tribe could save us from.”
“Oh…” Chrom says. “Yeah, nobody ever said where Grima came from…”
That’s weird. He never thought about asking anybody before. Although he probably would have just gotten a lecture about where evil comes from if he had tried to ask.
“It was only after he had already saved us that they raised arms against our Lord,” Mitra continues. “You see, after he eliminated their greatest threats, the power-hungry looked around and realized that Grima was the only one left standing in their way.”
“But that’s—” Chrom shakes his head. “That’s—”
“Betrayal of the highest order,” Mitra says. “And by his own allies. He knew the names and faces of the very leaders who started calling for his destruction. His despair was immense. Dragons feel emotions with an intensity humans could not bear. Think of your greatest heartache, child, and know that Grima feels everything with a thousand times the strength. Now, dare you insult his anger?”
Chrom grimaces. He’s gotten in a lot of trouble for acting on his anger before, but he really can’t help it when he does. If one of his friends betrayed him, he’d strangle them at least, so he can’t say anything against Grima getting mad.
“But I still don’t think destroying the world’s the right thing to do,” he says. “And it doesn’t make any sense. Why would you all want to help him kill everyone? I… I feel bad for Grima. But I don’t know if I want him to wake up…”
“Grima doesn’t want your pity,” Mitra says. “Grima wants you to be virtuous. He wants to put an end to the cruelty that runs unchecked through our world. He will put an end to life as we know it when he returns… And it will be a better life left for all who remain. We Grimleal dream of it. Others may say that we are only inviting in hopelessness, that we seek a barren world. But we believe in our Lord. We have from the beginning. We will stand with him, always. That is the meaning of our loyalty.”
“A thousand years is a long time to be loyal,” Chrom murmurs. “It sounds admirable to me… If Grima really just wants to make the world better… That would make him like a hero. I… I don’t know what I’m supposed to think.”
If Grima was actually betrayed… Does Naga know about that? Is she okay with what those people did, or… Did she want them to do it?
Naga loved humanity and wanted to protect them from her fellow dragons that were hurting them. Maybe she thought Grima was like those dragons. Or maybe the people who betrayed Grima lied to her. It was a thousand years ago; Chrom can’t possibly know what actually happened.
“What does your heart tell you, child?” Mitra asks.
Chrom hesitates. He wants to say he doesn’t know. He’s afraid he might actually know. He doesn’t want his own father to be wrong, but he can’t help that it seems to him like the Grimleal are right.
“You’re the nicest lady I’ve ever met, Mitra…” he sighs.
He’s been there just over three months when Kasimir tells him that the time is right for him to go home.
“There’s a merchant set to meet up with her sister in Ylisse,” Kasimir explains. “She will meet us here at dawn tomorrow and the two of you will set off.”
“So soon?” Chrom asks. “Er, no, I mean… That’s good. I just… didn’t expect…”
He’s gotten so used to living with Kasimir and Mitra that leaving them feels a lot like leaving home… which is ridiculous, because he’s going home. He misses his family every day, and he worries about them thinking he’s dead, and it’s not the going back part that upsets him at all. He wishes Kasimir and Mitra could go with him, that’s all.
But they’re Grimleal. Even though they’ve done so much for him, Chrom still doesn’t think they’d be welcomed at the castle.
“I know it’s sudden,” Kasimir says. “Boy… there is a reason for it. Ah…”
He trades a glance with his wife. She nods her encouragement, but neither of them look very happy.
“There’s something you ought to know,” Kasimir continues. “Certain… news... has just broken. The Exalt of Ylisse… has died on the battlefield.”
“What?”
Chrom gasps for breath. He must have misheard… He must have…
“Th-The Exalt?” he asks to clarify the impossible. “How… How can you be sure? Th-There are always rumors about him dying!”
“The Ylissean army confirmed it,” Kasimir says. “That, and the Plegian army… displayed the body.”
“Paraded around the capital…” Chrom mutters miserably, recalling the taunts of one of his captors.
“No, no!” Kasimir says quickly. “They simply had to show the Brand, or people on both sides would have doubted.”
Chrom gets it. But he also gets that it’s probably the best day of everyone in Plegia’s lives. The Exalt that’s been killing them all is gone. But for Chrom…
That’s his father that’s gone.
“Oh, dear child…” Mitra whispers. “This is not what we wished for you… To lose… well... ”
Chrom buries his face in his hands. His father wouldn’t want him to cry for him… It always made him uncomfortable to see his children cry. But Chrom doesn’t care. This is all his father’s fault, anyway. He was always going off to fight; of course Chrom and his sisters were going to cry. And now he’s gone forever. He’ll never even know what Chrom has gone through.
Chrom will never know if his father would hate him now.
“I… I guess…” Chrom sniffs. “You already figured out my name’s not Frederick…”
“Our Lord despises deceit, but I am sure even he would tell you to work on your skills,” Kasimir says gently, placing a hand on top of Chrom’s head. “Grima grant you strength, boy. I do not envy you.”
“Will he?” Chrom asks. “Grima, I mean… Will he grant me strength even though I’ve got Exalted blood?”
“All lives are equal in his eyes,” Mitra says. “He will if you are faithful.”
Chrom nods, tears still trickling from the corners of his eyes.
“The truth is,” he says. “I think he’s right. About fighting, and justice…”
He puts his hands down, turning his gaze to the people he would dare say he’s come to love.
“And if people like you pray to him, I just know he can’t be completely evil,” he says. “I believe in him; I believe he wants a better world… and I want that more than anything, too!”
People shouldn’t get kidnapped! Brigands shouldn’t run wild! People shouldn’t betray other people’s gods and then make up bad things about them! Nobody should be able to hurt people for no good reason! That is what he knows in his heart.
“I don’t care what Naga told my ancestors to do. I don’t want to fight Grima. I want to help him,” he confesses. “Am I allowed to be Grimleal like you? Even though I’m going away, back to Ylisse…”
Back where everyone hates the fell dragon. Back where his blood tells the world he’s the fell dragon’s enemy, even though nobody ever asked him if he wanted to be.
“If you swear to fight Grima’s fight at his side, come whatever may, then you are Grimleal,” Mitra says. “Though for you, it does mean opposing your family. If your will is not strong—”
“It is strong!” Chrom insists, brushing the tears from his eyes. “There are some things you just have to do… you know?”
He will inherit the Falchion, the blade that accompanied his father to his death. He knows his path will be bloody whether he likes it or not. He needs Grima, a god who can bless his unclean hands with enough strength to build a peaceful world at the end of it all.
He needs a god who can make him feel right.
“Yes… You show every sign of a true believer,” Kasimir says. “Mitra and I have led congregations in our lives. Few resonate as strongly with our Lord as you do. Fate constantly crosses the lives of the Exalted line and the Grimleal, but never has the distinction so blurred… Pity that I shall not live long enough to see your adulthood, boy.”
Chrom touches the talisman around his neck. Maybe, in some way, Kasimir and Mitra are like his spiritual parents…
All the more tragic, then, that the world is taking them away from him too.
The traveling merchant’s name is Anna. She grins and tells him that it should be easy for him to remember her family, if he’d like to return the favor later. Apparently her sister’s name is also Anna, and they have a lot of other sisters who are all merchants named Anna.
She acts friendly enough, but there’s a gleam in her eye that makes Chrom think he’d better not cross her. Not that he would, anyway. He is grateful that she’s bringing him home. He does have to pretend to be her assistant and help her sell her wares, but that’s not too bad. Finally those lessons his tutors have been giving him on economics are coming in handy.
“Be sure to keep yourself covered, child,” Mitra reminds him as she wraps a cloak around him. There are no Grimleal symbols on it, and Chrom knows he could never wear it into Ylisse if there were, but it’s still a little disappointing when he’s seen what she and Kasimir wear into town. This cloak is a very uninteresting dull brown, and that’s the point.
“May Grima guide your hands,” Kasimir says.
“Thank you…” Chrom says. “Both of you… for everything…”
He smiles even though he’s sad. They’ve already seen him cry a lot. He doesn’t want them to think he’s too weak to be okay.
“And er, when I get home, I’ll make sure and tell Emm—that’s my sister, Emmeryn… She’ll be the Exalt now I guess… And she’s a really good person; I promise—I’ll tell her about the brigands around here. She’s against violence; she’ll punish them if they don’t stop.”
“We look forward to that end,” Kasimir says.
“Do justice in Grima’s name,” Mitra says.
Chrom vows that he will… Even if he cannot speak the name of his god to his people, his spirit will be the burning flame that offers his deeds for Grima’s acceptance.
Anna trades him off to her sister Anna, who just so happens to be heading to Ylisstol to seek some new business licenses. Chrom has a bad feeling he’s an important element of this plan…
But once he sees the streets of his home, he decides he doesn’t care.
The castle, his castle, has never looked so beautiful to him. He has taken it for granted all his life, but now it is as though he is seeing it for the first time. The months he was gone might have been a lifetime, he is not the same boy who was kidnapped from his bed, but he is and always will be Chrom of the House of Ylisse, and this place is his.
He will take care of it from now on.
The fear that he will not be welcomed back, a fear he has been ignoring the whole time, bubbles up for only an instant before he catches sight of his sister and it dies on the spot.
“Oh, Chrom…”
Tears stream down Emmeryn’s face as she runs to him.
“You came back?”
Lissa’s voice is louder, as is her wailing as she throws her arms around him.
“Lissa, Emm, I…” Chrom holds onto his sisters as tightly as they hold onto him. “I’m sorry it took me so long.”
’Grima… I will stand with you…’ he thinks, and it feels far more daring of him here in Ylisstol. But he is the daring sort. ’So guide my hands, that I may never be taken from my family again.’