Chapter Text
The sun casts a red glow on the horizon of Port Ferox just before it decides to make its appearance. The Shepherds are up early, much to Robin’s displeasure. The trip here from the Carrion Isles did quite the number on her. She had spent most of the trip contemplating everything she had recently learned about herself.
The knowledge surrounding Lucina, the other children, Validar, the hierophant, and Robin’s origins all came crashing down on her relentlessly without a chance to breathe. A lot has happened since she was spoken to by Validar, her… father, as much as she loathed to say it. The stress shows clearly on her face through the dark circles and creases under her eyes. Robin and Chrom seemed to have silently agreed to not speak of what they witnessed during the summit, nor the apparitions of Validar afterwards. For it to be revealed that the great Ylissean tactician is tethered by blood to their long-standing enemy, chaos, suspicion, and fear would spread across not only the Shepherds, but all of Ylisse. The weight of that knowledge is simply something the two of them will have to bear on their shoulders, adding to the extreme weight that already bends and tests the frame of Robin’s mind.
The inescapable feeling of fraudulence gnaws on her spirit like a starving dog, unsure if she’s truly fit to be leading so many people. The country puts their faith in Chrom, and Chrom his faith in her. So many lives are cradled in her hands, and each deop of blood spilled under her direction stains her palms a sickening shade of red. Though she knows the inevitability of tragedy in a time of war, knowledge does not shield her conscious mind of shame and guilt.
The tactician continues to lose sleep each night to terrors and cold sweats, not mentioning a word of it to her friends or colleagues, never daring to weaken the morale of those around her. Instead, she brushes and ties her hair, polishes her teeth with linen and sage, then dresses herself for another journey. There is some work to be done before the Shepherds set sail. The first task at hand is passing rations for breakfast so that everyone will have the energy needed for the day. It’s best to eat now than otherwise having to compromise space on their ships that can hold things of greater value.
With a small journal tucked securely under her arm, Robin makes her way out of her tent. Her feet drag sluggishly along the ground beneath her, carving shallow tracks into the damp soil beneath her boots. Her groggy haze is still making its exit from her body, but even after she's taken the time to wake up, her dark circles and drooping eyes will speak to her sleep debt. Fatigue cannot stop her. Work has to be done.
She makes her way to one of the designated tents where rations are being prepared. Light helpings of sourdough and jerky are coupled together, ready to be handed off to soldiers as they form a line. The tactician, eager to keep her mind busy with tedious work so as to distract her from spiraling once again, offers her help.
All is well for the first half hour or so. The sun has begun shining its brilliant light upon the land, casting long, stretched shadows to the west. Robin greets her comrades with a smile and the occasional nod as she hands them their meals. The whole event begins to feel mechanical until a set of ghostly, pale hands reaches for a serving, lingering for just a moment too long that it catches Robin’s attention before she has the chance to offer her half-hearted greeting.
She takes a moment to consider the person in front of her, her expression changing from a relaxed and practiced smile to something like surprise as she is met with the brightest smile she’s seen all morning, stretched over their face in a way that makes her own cheeks ache.
“You’re a Plegian too, right?” the man suddenly asks.
The question strikes like a sucker-punch to her gut, twisting Robin in a way that makes her nauseous. There’s a slight fear that writes itself onto her face despite her best efforts to conceal it, believing she’s already been found out. She hardly has any time to process or come up with a reply before the soldier is walking to her side, eyes locked on to her robes.
“While it’s well worn, the craftsmanship on your coat is impressive! I bet that cost you a pretty piece of gold, huh?”
Robin stares at him anxiously as he observes her, her language finally coming back to her. “Ylisse is my home." She declares matter-of-factly. "I’m afraid these clothes are simply ones I came across by chance and found to be quite comfortable…”
The general looks the man up and down before she’s nudged by her colleague, bringing her attention back to the line of hungry soldiers. Reminded that she has a task at hand, she tries putting the interaction behind her, but the man continues circling her.
“No, I don’t believe that for a second,” he insists as Robin returns to handing out rations to the others.
She does her best to pull the reigns on her attention battle, though she’s acutely aware of how on edge she feels “Listen, I’m a little busy at the moment, and frankly it’s too early for me to be having this conversation,” the tactician begins, not bothering to look away from her task this time, refusing to make eye contact again with the bothersome person she’s speaking to.
He giggles, quickly moving to bring himself into the peripherals of Robin’s vision. “You have tan skin with some pretty distinct undertones, silvery white hair, and your nose bridge is quite characteristic of Plegians,” the soldier says, gesturing to his own nose bridge as he speaks. “All of that on top of some traditional Plegian patterns embroidered into your clothes. If you’re so keen on lying about your origins, wouldn’t it make sense to at least dress the part?”
Robin furrows her brow in frustration and breaks, turning her head, needing to revaluate who this person is that’s so insistent on pestering her. She’s met with a delighted smile, hands folded behind his back as he rocks back and forth on his feet from his heels to his toes. As she fights off the last of her sleepy haze, it finally registers who she is talking to. “Ah. That’s right. You’re that Plegian mage we encountered back on the isle.” Her hands continue through the motions of her task, though her attention is now clearly on this ever-so-curious man. He seems rather cheery considering how early it is.
“Yes ma'am! I don’t know if I ever gave you my name. I’m Henry.” Robin gives him a politely neutral look, one she’s learned to hold in place of a displeased expression when exchanging niceties with people she doesn’t care to speak with. “I’m Robin, the Shepherds' tactician. It’s a pleasure to formally meet you, Henry.”
There’s a moment of silence and Robin allows herself a sigh of relief, turning her head back to her task. She assumes that might be the end of it. That the mage might now make his exit with her back turned. That’s until she notices those same ghoulish hands from earlier beside her once again, only this time they are also handing out rations to the soldiers in line. Robin pauses only a moment as if bewildered, slowly blinking as she quells her minor frustrations with the uninvited guest.
“I’ve heard stories of Ylisse’s tactician. You’ve got quite some talent! None of the rumors ever mentioned that you were a Plegian, though,” Henry continues, talking a little too loudly for Robin’s comfort. While she’d rather not be having this conversation at all, she’d much less appreciate it being overheard by too many people.
“Lower your voice, please. I’ve already mentioned once that I hail from Ylisse,” she speaks with a soft yet assured tone.
“Sure, sure, but then how do you explain your robes?” He asks in a softer tone as well, having taken the hint.
“I've already mentioned, if you bothered listening. It’s rather impolite to make me repeat myself. I acquired these clothes unconventionally and decided to keep them. No money out of my pocket was spent on these, and the creative liberties taken on it were not mine.”
“And your nose?”
“What of my nose?" She asks defensively, tone now clearly frustrated to match how she feels. "Must all people with protruding bridges be Plegian?”
“Hm.. I guess not, but it certainly doesn't help your case.”
Robin straightens out her posture with a huff, lifting her head and looking up at nothing in particular as she silences every venomous thought in her head. She’s mentally exhausted and her fuse is much shorter than usual. She must be mindful of her manners, especially when making a first impression like this.
“Ah, my apologies,” the snow-haired mage adds, giggling quietly after. “I mean no disrespect! I’m just a bit excited to have found someone like me, is all!”
She can hardly hold back from rolling her eyes. “If you’re looking for kinship with other Plegians, there is a woman by the name of Tharja who defected from the Plegian army back when Gangrel still reigned. She’s a dark mage like yourself. You may find better company with her.”
Tharja. Yet another thorn in Robin’s side. While not threatened by her despite her rather malicious tendencies, Robin finds herself distressed by having her constantly intruding. There may be a small comfort in knowing that anyone to betray Robin may find themselves in Tharja’s crosshairs, but she can't decide if its worth the cost of being watched in her sleep or having some of her belongings stolen. Trivial, worthless things, but still belongings that raise concern such as half-eaten fruits or dirty handkerchiefs. Once, she even found her hairbrush had been entirely plucked cleaned of loose hairs. A chill runs up Robin’s spine.
Tharja is a concern for another day. For now, it’s a matter of getting Henry off of her case. Something about Plegians and troublesome persistence. Must be something in the water.
Henry seems to ponder something for a second before speaking. “Maybe I could, but what’s just another soldier compared to the grandmaster? You’re the prince’s right-hand-woman!”
“You should speak more kindly of your peers.”
“Yes’sm! I’m sure Tharja is lovely company and perhaps we could study our craft together.”
The instant correction is unexpected. Robin fights a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips, amused by the lack of hesitation in his response. Quite eager to please, it seems. That’s good. If it continues, he might prove himself to be a dependable member of the Shepherds.
The two continue handing out rations alongside a few others in silence for a few moments, a short break for Robin to gather her bearings. She’ll admit, his help has moved the line significantly faster. It’s a simple task that anyone could do, but still appreciated. Ever curious about his tactician, Henry kills the silence once again. “If you are Ylissean, are you not wary of me?”
Robin shrugs her shoulders, giving Henry a short glance before answering. “It would be hypocritical of me to suggest you don’t belong with the Shepherds.”
“Because you’re also a defected Plegia-”
“Because,” she cuts in, voice a bit stronger and stern now. “I was an outsider with a much more suspicious story than yours, but Chrom still extended his grace to me.” She intends to leave her reply at that, but she can already feel further probing questions bubbling up in the dark mage beside her.
“What was your story? I would’ve assumed a Plegian appearing amidst an ambush is a top contender for suspicious introductions,” he says with a smile. Interestingly, it seems that smile has not left his face. How strange, Robin thinks.
“Well,” she begins, preparing herself with a deep breath. “I woke up in the middle of a field with no memory of who I was or where I came from. I only knew Chrom’s name despite it being the first time we met, to either of our recollections. No knowledge that he was the prince at the time, mind you, only that Chrom was his name.”
The hearty laugh that fills her left ear takes Robin off guard. “Wow! That sure is pretty suspicious, especially looking the way you do.”
“Chrom made no note of my appearance at the time.”
“Maybe not to your face. It’s pretty obvious to me, but maybe that’s just because I grew up there. So he just picked you up and took you back to Ylisse?”
“Not exactly. He intended to question me when we arrived at a nearby village, but that village was under attack by Plegian brigands at the time we arrived. I fought alongside him to protect the people there and that seemed to be enough to win the trust of him as well as Emmeryn's.”
“Oh ho! The Emmeryn? Must’ve done some real heavy lifting in that battle then!”
“You say that as if she was known for being unreasonably reserved with people.”
“Not at all, but it’s gotta mean something that you impressed not one, but two members of the royal family, right?”
Robin's pride overtakes her compulsory humble attitude for a brief moment, eyes shifting to the side as she purses her lips in thought. “... Three. Lissa approved of me as well, though I’m not sure how much influence she had in my acceptance into Ylisse and the Shepherds.”
“Even more impressive! I was afraid the stories about you were blown waaaay out of proportion, but it sounds like you just might live up to all of them! Nya ha ha!”
What a peculiar way of laughing, Robin thinks. There’s nothing wrong with it, but it’s unusual, and somehow fitting for the strange man.
“Flattery won’t get you more rations, soldier,” she says with a playful smirk, raising a brow at him. Maybe not more rations, but it is an easy way to get her to warm up and set her aggravation aside.
“No flattery here. I’m frighteningly honest. If I thought you were a load of shit, I’d tell you.”
The choice of language and blunt delivery is yet another thing that takes Robin off guard. It's not just the fact that he said it, the two of them are adults after all, but just that he would use it so casually in conversation with his superior. Robin can’t help but let herself chuckle a little, lifting a hand to cover her mouth with her fingers. Henry seems to smile in a more genuine way somehow in response to Robin, perhaps proud of himself for making her laugh.
The line for rations quickly slows. There’s no longer a need for so many hands and so Robin excuses herself, figuring she could be of more use somewhere else as the army prepares for their travels. Henry and her part ways, the mage apparently satisfied with the information he’s gathered about Robin in their conversation. There’s a small sense of relief that falls on Robin to have him out of her hair, but not without him having planted a few seeds of thought now sprouting in her mind. He had spent the whole conversation trying to get Robin to talk about herself, but nothing about him.
Did Robin particularly care to know about him? Well… No. No, but perhaps she could be more cautious of espionage. It would be smart of her to investigate him a little and figure if it’s within reason to be suspicious of him. If nothing comes of it, then really there’s no harm in just learning a little more about him.
For now, her mind is back on completing tasks. She should have her weapons and maybe a few others brought to their respective weaponsmiths for maintenance. Her sword could use a sharpening.