Archive of Our Own

Within the Shepherds' camp was the Tacticians’ Tent. At the start of their campaign, it had mostly been referred to as Robin’s Tent as the tactician often spent his day there when he wasn’t out checking stocks or patrolling the camp. But with the addition of Mark and Soren, of Elibean and Tellian legends (histories now that they were actually true) respectively, they made Robin’s Tent into their work tent and it felt wrong to keep calling it just Robin’s tent.

According to the literature Robin had to read through, Mark was supposedly a tactician of superb mind that nearly ruined Elibe. Due to his great tactical ability, he changed the course of history which then led the great nations of Bern and Etruria to go into war out of their desire for his skilled mind. Then there was Soren who’s tactical genius was unmatched throughout Tellius however worked exclusively for the Radiant Hero, Ike.

When they’d appeared and by Robin’s most fortunate stars, they were alone without much company—Mark had been quick to suggest negotiations while Soren had only been difficult until he saw Ike alongside the Shepherds. Robin was unsure how an all-out battle with these two great tacticians would turn out, especially if they had their respective armies fully equipped and battle ready.

However as the three tacticians began working together, with Soren only doing so because Ike had asked him to (after Robin bribed the Radiant Hero with more servings of spiced boar), Robin realized how the historians had greatly embellished or perhaps left out their personalities. Mark sounded like a refined but mysterious noble man while Soren was characterized to be this stoic but extremely loyal and dedicated man. Robin pictured their hair and robes billowing in the wind, giving them the flair and aura befit of their renown. The truth couldn’t have been even farther.

Mark was anything but refined or noble, even less mysterious than the next person. He was loud, excitable and did whatever he pleased. Should he feel the need to wander ahead of camp, he would and many times he’d come running back from his sudden adventures with Risen in hot pursuit. Mark didn’t listen to anyone and would wave his hand whenever he was reprimanded while saying his signature line, “but did you die?”. If he hadn’t been showing those great results in battle, Robin would’ve strangled him—he cared not if historians would name him as the murderer of the Superb Mark.

Then there was Soren, who was almost the complete opposite of Mark. He was quiet and cold, far from stoic. He gave anyone who came within three feet of him a glare so cold and hard it once even made Lon’qu cower (though Lon’qu insists it was only because he mistook Soren’s delicate features as those of a woman’s). Soren did everything with purpose and meticulous care. He was up even before Frederick and had already recounted inventory by the time the great knight had awoken. Robin came to like Soren, though the other didn’t seem to share the sentiment, which was a pity but recently they had somehow bonded over their mutual annoyance and irritation towards Mark.

When they were hunched over maps and talking about tactics or in war meetings with Chrom and the others, they were as fluid as water even if Mark was throwing his random comments here and there. They worked well together but on normal days, slow days that didn’t have them planning their next big attack, they were as fluid as rocks. During days like these, Robin often took a page from Soren’s book and kept to himself but as always, Soren was more adept in the art of ignoring Mark’s overall existence.

Robin was bent over his desk, his brain pouring over an overused map in an attempt to map out their next route. They had kept camp for four days now and while that wasn’t unusual, they were running low on rations and weapons especially when it seemed like they were gaining more able bodied people into their company.

His brows were furrowed, mouth in a frown as he thought of the fastest and safest way to head to the next village. They had sent Sumia and Cordelia to scout the possible routes ahead but both knights returned with news of Risen sightings for each route. Ideally, they were equipped to deal with Risen and Robin didn’t worry about anyone’s capability to engage in a skirmish right now, instead he worried over their supplies if they could last the trip or the battle.

It was in the middle of this that Chrom had entered the tent, bringing with him a plate of dried fruit and meat. Mark was the first to notice and greeted the prince with a loud and cheerful heavily accented, “g’morning, Princeton!”

Robin jerked from his map at the sudden loud interruption from Mark and saw Chrom awkwardly return the superb tactician’s greeting. Deciding to rescue his friend from Mark’s clutches, Robin cleared his throat to gain their attention. “Chrom, did something happen?”

Chrom turned to him with an easy smile and shook his head, “nothing of import. But Frederick has informed me you’ve forgotten breakfast yet again.”

“I…did?” Robin blinked, frowning as he let the information process. He tried to recall his last meal but couldn’t actually remember and suddenly felt both guilt and embarrassment to be called out again by Chrom, and in front of Mark of all people. He wasn’t ever going to live this down, he knew it.

“Yes, but I’ve come to solve that problem,” Chrom carefully laid the plate of food on Robin’s desk and reached out to run his hand over Robin’s head, much like how he does with Lissa, Ricken and the horses…or some of the small animals they managed to come across.

“I’m sorry to lay all this on you, Robin,” Chrom said as he took back his hand and for a moment, Robin felt a surge of panic to comfort and tell Chrom that it was the least he could do. But before he could even say anything, Chrom had already beaten him to it. “I know it’s a lot of work, but I know you can do it. I trust your capabilities more than anything.”

“O-Oh…th-thank you, Ch-Chrom!” Robin cleared his throat, feeling only embarrassment when his voice rose and stumbled over Chrom’s name. Thank the gods for his natural obliviousness, though. It has, many a times, saved him from unforgettable embarrassment.

“If you need anything, please don’t hesitate to call for me. And don’t forget to eat lunch, I should come to collect you later to be sure,” Chrom teased before excusing himself and bidding the other two tacticians a short leave.

Yet even with Chrom out of the tent and out of sight, he wasn’t far from Robin’s mind and his insides were still doing flips and stutters. Though he tried not to show how he was truly feeling inside, Mark began to snicker and Robin knew he was a lost cause.

“Aw, that was so sweet!” Mark cooed teasingly, clasping his hands together on the side. “Don’t you think so too, Sorey?”

The only response Mark got from Soren was a small noise between a grunt and a hiss, which sounded more appropriate on a wyvern than on any human. But Mark was undeterred and continued on with his usual teasing and cooing that didn’t even border inappropriate or rude as it already crossed the line.

“But hot damn,” he said with a little groan of lewd satisfaction that even got Soren raising a brow from beneath his thick book. “I can’t blame you, Robby. All that strength and muscle—damn, I’d tap me some princely ass—”

“Oh gods…” Robin groaned, a hand coming to his forehead as he felt the beginnings of a Mark-induced migraine coming full force.

“—but,” Mark sighed dramatically and swooned, “Lord Hector’s got all that and more—you can have Prince Fine Ass over there. I’ll keep my Lord Hunk-tor and Sorey keeps his Radiant Hero in ripped clothing.”

As soon as the inappropriate comment about Ike left his mouth, Soren had slammed his thick tome on the wooden table and was on his feet in seconds, glaring thunderstorms at the tactician grinning lewdly across him in the tent.

“I don’t care, I will end you now!” Soren hissed as he threw his arm forward, aiming a non-verbal Elwind towards Mark. Yet despite the small and cramped space, Mark was able to successfully dodge the near point-blank attack with a joyful laugh.

“Okay!” Robin exclaimed as the tent rocked and papers flew all over the place. He quickly came in between both his fellow tacticians and spread his arms outwards in an attempt to stop them, “if you guys want to duke it out, step outside and let’s not break or mess up this tent any further or else we’ll have more things to spend for!” Then he turned to a grinning Mark and glared, “and you! Please, I am saying please, please shut up.”

“Aw, c’mon, you started this whole mess, Robby,” Mark frowned but his tone didn’t sound any apologetic. “Getting special attention from Princeton of all people, you lucky baby.”

Robin wanted to smack him, let Soren have his way with Mark and bring forth quiet and peaceful days ahead. But the sensible side of him, which had strangely started to sound like Chrom lately, told him to keep Mark alive. And so, he stays alive. For now, he added to himself.

“We drop this topic, now.” Robin said with finality in his tone. “Let’s just get back to work and forget whatever happened just now.”

Soren grunted but kept his glare on Mark until the latter finally conceded with a heavy sigh and returned to his seat. Soren followed suit shortly after, sitting down and returning to his tome. Robin let out a sigh of relief before making his way back to his desk to pour over the maps again. Hopefully, Mark would keep his mouth shut for the rest of the morning—he begged Naga and all the gods for assistance.

All was quiet save for the faint sounds of people outside their tent and the sound of turning pages and scribbles until Robin spoke, which he would realize later he shouldn’t have if only to maintain this rare found peace in the Tactician’s Tent.

“Hey, Soren,” he began absently and reached for his notebook and quill, “how was the supply check this morning?”

Soren cleared his throat, setting his tome down before addressing the query. From the corner of his eye, Robin saw Mark snicker but both he and Soren chose to ignore him. “We still have enough rations and weapons to get us by, though I doubt it would last for long. I recommend we restock our supplies at the soonest, but even if we’d be cutting costs and only buying weapons that we would surely need, we wouldn’t be left with much gold.”

Robin clicked his tongue but Soren continued, “we can limit our rations and opt to hunt for our meals for the next couple of months if this keeps up.”

“But so as long as the Risen are on the loose, we’ll have little luck finding enough game,” Mark sighed heavily, this time not in that usual annoying tone he used every day. This time, it was the tone he used during meetings or when things got serious. “We’re not assured of the roads ahead, if they are filled with Risen or not. And it may come to a point where we’d be forced to engage an attack on Risen. There’s too much risk but,” he paused and smiled, “St. Elimine smiles upon those who are in need. We might just get lucky.”

Soren shook his head, “it’s foolish to rely on gods and deities. But yes, I have to agree, we don’t have enough funds. We need to find a way to earn even a little. Mercenary jobs are easy money; it often only requires basic bandit clean-up.”

“Ah, but don’t forget who’s face leads this army, Sorey—it’s the Prince of Ylisse. We’d be lucky if we were offered anything of true monetary value. And no nobleman would willingly employ the prince’s aid in exchange for gold—let alone a prince who would exchange his services with a nobleman for gold. It would pose a threat to the politics within Ylisse in the future—and I’m not too fond of the legalities of court.”

“He’s a prince,” Soren said with some venom as he uttered the royal title, “can’t he easily have the royal treasury unlocked for our use? We are doing this for the good of the kingdom.”

“Ylisse is a…peaceful and bountiful country but most of its gold is placed on the rehabilitation efforts and care for their people. Chrom’s sister is a symbol of peace, I have great doubt she’d be willing to sponsor a war effort. It would be a long talk between Chrom and Emmeryn, in the least.” Robin shook his head after some thought, “no, I can’t recommend it. It is a sore subject.”

“We’re left with little options, then,” Soren sighed wearily. “Do we have anything of value to sell? Gems? Heirlooms of no great import?”

“What we need is Anna,” Mark was immediately interrupted by a rather violent hiss from Soren, but the Elibean’s reaction had been a giggle. “She’s not all that bad, Sorey.”

“I beg to differ,” Soren hissed and perhaps it was Robin’s imagination that Soren’s pupils were turning to slits. “We don’t need Anna, there are other options.”

“Anna can sell a useless old boot for 500G, that’s enough to buy us a good sword. It would be unwise to cross her out as an option.” Mark shook a finger at Soren and smirked, “besides, we have a good bargaining chip for her to stay.”

“We can have her as our most desperate option,” Soren coughed and waved a dismissing hand in regards to the topic of Anna. Though Robin was curious as to who this mysterious Anna was, he’d rather not have his two companions arguing again. “We still have several other options. Again, gems? Heirlooms?”

“I’m afraid we’ve none of that which its owners wish to part with,” Robin sighed, thinking of Maribelle for some reason. “We can sell old materials.”

“That’s counterproductive unless we get shop or forge points,” Soren muttered and when Robin gestured for him to elaborate, the mage shook his head. “It’s not important.”

“Oh!” Mark grinned widely and suddenly Robin had that familiar bad feeling run down his spine. “We can have Lord Hector run wild in an arena!”

Robin groaned, once again caught in an internal battle on whether to throttle Mark or not, “we are talking about a serious problem here!”

“No, I’m completely serious!” Mark insisted, though he sounded anything but. “Elibe loves arenas! There was practically one in every town, heck, there were arenas in the middle of a forest! It’s the quickest way to earn money and we won’t even have to waste any of our weapons, the arena provides them!”

“For once, he is making sense,” Soren admitted grudgingly with a nod and a small frown. “Tellius has its share of arenas, though as a mercenary company we rarely find a use for its facilities. But there is potential in it, especially with the lack of the luxury of time in our hands. It would also improve one’s experience in battle, should they choose to participate.”

“Exactly!” Mark nodded cheerfully, “arenas are never a bad thing unless you abuse it!”

“I-I can’t just sent the Prince of Ylisse to an arena!”

“Oh pish,” Mark rolled his eyes. “Despite his position and house, Milord Hector frequents the ring!” Then a lazy smile appeared on his lips as he continued, “and if I may, he is quite a monster in the—”

“We could always send other people to the arena, Chrom need not necessarily participate himself,” Soren interrupted, ignoring the childish taunting from Mark for doing so. Then with a great sigh, “though if what Mark speaks of is the truth, we might not even need anyone but Hector.”

Robin frowned as he sorted his thoughts and weighed the outcomes against any losses they could sustain should they actually go through with the arena. He could practically hear Frederick scolding him for even having the slightest inclination towards it. It wasn’t ideal or even safe to send their fighters to an arena, not knowing whether they can come out alive or not—he’d seen some of the fights displayed at the arena at Regna Ferox, it was deadly and he wanted to get out of this war with everyone able and alive if not for his sake, then their own sakes and Chrom’s.

But try as he might to come up with other options to earn money, the bounty they would earn from one round in the arena was several times more than what they could earn from Gaius’ sweets or Sumia’s stalls. As painful as it was to say and admit, Robin knew they had no other choice.

Letting out a pained noise, Robin nodded slowly as if the act itself caused him physical pain.

“Fine, we’ll do it.”

Mark let out a loud whoop of excitement and jumped off from his seat, knocking off an ink bottle and some papers to the ground. Robin let out another groan, hoping none of those papers were anything important and offered a silent prayer to Naga to strike Mark down at the soonest. As soon as he finished reciting his prayers in his head, one of Soren’s large books flew past him to hit Mark square on the head, sending the Elibean tactician falling backwards on his arse.

“Gods bless you,” Robin told the mage, who made that wyvern-like sound in response.

“I’ve had enough of the blessings of gods,” Soren sniffed indignantly and gave Mark one more glare before stomping out of the tent.

They left camp the following morning, taking three days to reach the village and engaging in one Risen skirmish along the way. The skirmish was somewhat fruitful, in that they were able to salvage a few durable weapons to add to their humble stock.

During this time, Mark was practically bouncing on his horse, too excited for the arena that he was sure was present at the next town. Once he’d told Hector about the arena, the nobleman let out a deep laugh and both Elibean men began to recount detailed stories of the many wins Hector has had in the ring and out. Where Mark was loud and boisterous, Soren was quiet and seething. He rode close to Ike, hood over his head to protect him from the heat with his companion trying to lighten the situation however Soren would have none of it and settled for glaring at Mark’s back for most of the trip.

Robin rode beside Chrom while Frederick rode further back and Lissa was riding with Maribelle that day so it was relatively quiet between the both of them. While Robin wasn’t usually one to be so quiet, especially since he enjoyed talking with Chrom, a lot was weighing on his mind. It wasn’t only the arena that was waiting for them at the town, but he also worried about their rapidly dwindling rations and the already damaged weapons they were forced to use. Should they be forced to trade blows with a group of bandits or Risen, then Robin was sure that only Chrom and Ike would be able to fight using the Falchion and Ragnell (thank Naga for blessed weapons indeed—at least he was assured of Chrom’s great fighting chance).

“Is everything all right, Robin?” Chrom asked, interrupting him from his grim thoughts.

“Oh, uh…no, um…it’s being handled,” Robin admitted with a defeated sigh.

“Is this about the arena?” Robin groaned internally, he had hoped that Chrom wouldn’t find out but with how much noise Mark was making, it would have been a miracle granted by Naga herself.

“I apologize, Chrom,” Robin frowned and held tight to the reigns. “We’ve tried to balance out our funds and extend them but...it seems we’ve reached the limit. Mark and Soren both gave sound advice in regards to the arena—though I have my doubts, it is the fastest way to earn enough funds to last us this campaign.”

“No, I should apologize—as the leader of this company, I should’ve known to advise everyone to practice some frugality,” Chrom mirrored his tactician’s frown. “I shall be sure to remind them later, but should this happen again, I would like for you to tell me, too.”

Robin hung his head low in shame, “ah, yes. Of course, I apologize again, Chrom.”

“No, please don’t blame yourself, Robin,” Chrom quickly added and nearly fell off his horse when he waved his hands. He quickly grabbed the reigns to gain back his balance and let out a relieved sigh. Inhaling deeply, he tried again, “I mean…I’ve been putting all of these responsibilities on you. Some of which, should be my responsibility as the leader of our camp.”

“Oh, but…it’s fine, Chrom. I don’t mind, it’s the least I could do. You charge into battle, rallying everyone behind you and raising their morale. Accounting should be the least of your worries, and Soren seems to be far more capable than Frederick and I ever could,” Robin let out a small grunt. “Then again, he has handled a far larger army in his day, I suppose.”

Chrom nodded in agreement, having read all about Tellian lore in his youth as part of his royal studies. “Experienced he may be, but when I charge into battle, as you so aptly put,” he teased lightly, “I feel much safer with your orders.”

Hoping to pass of his flush from Chrom’s words as a flush from the heat, Robin tried to act natural about it but what came out was a near breathless, “thank you, Chrom.” Coughing, he then added, “that…uh, that means a lot to me, I guess.”

Chrom grinned, before turning back his attention to the stretch of land before them.

“So, how many rounds in the arena are we talking about?”

Robin nearly fell off his horse at implication of his friend’s statement, “Chrom, no.”

“What?” The prince turned to him, an easy smile on his face. “I must set an example for this army.”

“No,” Robin shook his head, “you must be alive for this army. We’re sending in Hector, as you may have heard,” he couldn’t help but roll his eyes and Chrom chuckled, “he’s quite…experienced with the ring. And it was Mark’s original idea.”

“You need not worry for me too much, Robin. I’ve bested Basilio’s best not too long ago!”

“Frederick wouldn’t approve of it.”

“That’s never stopped any of us before,” Chrom laughed, throwing his head back as he did.

Robin groaned, “please, Chrom. Just don’t do it.”

Chrom turned to him, no longer laughing but instead, he wore that sincere smile Robin found him most charming with. “Allow me to do it, Robin. I want to, if it means to lessen the circles beneath your eyes and adds even an hour to your sleep.”

Oh gods, he knew he’d lost the argument the moment Chrom smiled at him like that.

“Fine…but be careful and-and forfeit the match if gets too intense!”

Chrom laughed. Robin groaned.

Once they arrived at the town, all the hope Robin had of the place not having an arena was gone. To Mark’s uncanny luck, not only was there a large arena located at the square but the town was also holding a three day festival which brought several travelers to the area and contenders to the arena.

Mark was quick to locate the arena, dragging with him Hector and all who were interested to partake in the rounds. Lissa had wanted to come along to cheer but Maribelle was insistent in not going and dragging Lissa, and by extension both Sumia and Ricken, to the markets far away from the smell of sweat and blood. Not one for blood and fighting, Virion made a smooth exit towards one of the cafes while Cordelia joined Lissa and the others as their guard, and Frederick accompanied Chrom and the rest to the arena.

The arena was filled with people and it became hard to maneuver around, let alone find a way to get close to the arena master—and Robin was sure it was a sign from Naga that they turn back, no matter how absurd the amount of gold they could earn from a few rounds. But Mark had put his foot down with a small huff when he’d been pushed back for the third time in his attempt to get to the registration booth.

He turned to Hector, his voice sweet and dangerous, “milord, if you would be so kind as to help me?”

Hector grinned, as if they shared some inside joke, and then with one arm hoisted Mark to his shoulder. The tactician sat on the armored shoulder as if he belonged there, grin wide as he threw forward an arm and exclaimed something in Elibean. Then Hector laughed before charging into the crowd of people as if he were swatting flies.

“I…uh…never expected the Leader of the Lycian League to be so…” Chrom coughed, trying to find his words, “uh…sturdy.”

“That’s an understatement,” Robin shook his head, palm moist from the tension and anxiety. He turned to Chrom and regarded him pleadingly, “Chrom, that is no man. That is a biological rock with the face of a man and a madman on his shoulder. Please reconsider, Hector is more than enough to break this entire fortress.”

Chrom laughed and swung an arm around Robin’s shoulders, “we talked about this, Robin! Besides, the more people who fight, the more we earn, right? It’s a win-win situation.”

Beside them, Frederick let out a loud cough, “please do be careful, milord. Keep your wits about you and self-preservation.”

Before Chrom could offer a reply, Vaike had come close with a crazed grin that, in Robin’s humble opinion, seemed to remind him of Mark. “Let’s see who gets the most wins today, Chrom!”

“You’re on!” Chrom grinned, accepting the bullheaded challenge head on.

“Count us in!” Sully laughed, pushing forward a nervous looking Stahl and Robin pitied the poor man. “We’ll show these people what the Shepherds can do!”

Robin inhaled deeply in an attempt to calm himself while Frederick was trying to calm down their bullheaded friends. He could always tell Mark not to sign anyone else up but that would actually require the possibility of getting maimed in the middle of all those people—he was no Hector. He turned to Soren, who’d been quiet this whole time that he’d almost forgotten the mage’s presence if not for the strange aura he carried himself in.

As he thought of what to say the mage, not really sure what to say to be honest but he needed a distraction, it was only then he noticed someone missing, “wait, where’s Ike?”

“I told him to stay at the market place and eat,” Soren answered curtly.

“And he agreed?” Robin blinked in surprise, when they weren’t in their tent, it was rare to find Ike not anywhere near Soren.

“You underestimate Ike’s love for spiced meat,” Soren let out a sigh, as if he’d been trying to deal with that complicated love affair for years. Robin didn’t question it and thought perhaps it wasn’t that Ike wasn’t ever apart from Soren but the other way around, with the mage never parting from Ike. If it were so, it was a little comforting to Robin that Soren chose to be here, when he would rather be with Ike.

“I refuse to leave the responsibility of the funds in Mark or your sweaty palms,” Soren added after a moment, looking coldly at Robin’s palms. The taller of the two felt embarrassed however agreed that the funds were far safer in Soren’s hands than Mark’s—having greatly regretted the last time they left Mark with the funds, it had been most disastrous.

“I’m nervous, okay?” Robin groaned, wiping his hands on his pants and looked around. “Gods, where are those two?”

“Crushing competition, hopefully,” Soren muttered but was left unheard by anyone.

Soon, Hector returned with Mark still perched on his shoulder. In one quick motion, Mark slid off Hector’s shoulder and managed to be cradled in the larger man’s arms with his own arms wrapped loosely around Hector’s neck and his legs dangling in the air. Robin felt his brow twitch at the unnecessary display of borderline raunchy playfulness and fought against the urge to claw his eyes out.

“Blessed be by St. Elimine, you haven’t lost your touch, milord. You’re so strong and—” Mark inhaled sharply, losing his words as he locked heated eyes with Hector before he was suddenly pushed up by the great lord to engage in a passionate and wet kiss.

“Oh gods!” Robin exclaimed in horror as he turned his eyes away. This was certainly not the time or place to be caught up in their passions! More and more, it was difficult to picture the great tactician of Elibe that historians wrote about.

“Gods, I could kiss you all day,” Robin heard Hector say to Mark and the poor tactician was close to gagging and hurling out his breakfast. Then he noticed that Soren was already hunched over himself, gagging and shaking from the indecent exposure of Mark.

Thankfully Chrom and the others were too busy with themselves to even notice, but Lon’qu seemed to have taken several steps away when Robin looked. Hopefully the swordsman hadn’t been scarred of men, too.

“Hey! I got the tickets, everyone!” Mark announced cheerfully, waving a bunch of thick papers with the arena’s symbol and their names on it. “I registered every one of you!”

“What?!” Robin and Frederick exclaimed, with the former quickly turning pale.

“Oh calm down, Robby,” Mark snickered at Robin and gave the other tactician a slap on the shoulder. “I didn’t mean you, I wouldn’t send you in there—you’re squishy. But Sebastian over here, he comes after Mr. Princeton, followed by Cain and Abel.”

Hearing his nickname, Stahl swooned in fear but was thankfully caught by Frederick. Both knights had only accompanied them while the rest had chosen to participate. It was Frederick’s intention to stop the fight from the sidelines should it become too intense for Chrom or any of their comrades.

Unaffected by their distress, Mark shoved all the tickets to Frederick, “the line-up is all there! Now, we three squish toys are going to be standing by the ring cheering you on! Yay!” He turned to Hector and threw his arms up, “don’t forget—you’re up first, milord! Show these men the might of Ostia!”

Hector grinned widely and grabbed Mark’s lanky frame into his large arms, the tactician letting out an excited squeal only to be cut off by another passionate kiss. This time, Chrom and the others were not shielded by the pair’s indecency. While Sully let out a hoot of laughter and slapped Stahl on the back, clearly amused at the display, Vaike and Lon’qu had gone pale and stiff at the pair.

Beside Robin, Chrom coughed loudly as he averted his gaze from Hector and Mark. He leaned closer to Robin, “do they always do this?”

“I…believe so…this is the second time I’ve seen them…engaged with one another in the last five minutes.” Robin responded, trying not to sound awkward as his cheeks flushed. It was one thing to see it for himself and another for him to see it with Chrom standing not further than half a foot away from him.

Thankfully it was over as soon as it started and Hector set back his tactician on the ground. Mark grinned at everyone else, clapping his hands, “good luck, you guys!”

Realizing that they would have to part now, Robin turned to Chrom, his eyes blown up in panic and worry. He was about to say something but the urgency left him stuttering and even more panicked. When Chrom saw how distressed he was, he laid a hand on Robin’s shoulder and gave him a gentle look.

“It’ll fine, Robin.”

“But—”

“Don’t you trust me?” Chrom asked with a teasing tone as he shifted closer and Robin (as well as Mark and Soren) knew that he’d lost once again.

Inhaling deeply, “I do. I do trust you but…please be careful.”

“I promise.”

Ever the joy killer, Mark snickered and shoved both his fellow tacticians towards the arena entrance before either of them could protest. In a desperate attempt, Robin peered over Mark’s messy hair to look at Chrom and saw that sincere smile for the briefest of moments before he was caught in the throes of moving people. Gods, Robin hoped it wouldn’t be the last time he’d see that perfect smile.

“I got us the best seats in the house!” Mark exclaimed, seemingly unaffected by the push and pull of bodies.

“I’m going to be sick,” Soren groaned and in a move that surprised both himself and Robin, the mage held on tightly to Robin’s sleeve. Too surprised at his first physical contact with Soren, Robin found some strength in himself to keep the mage from getting dragged away by the crowd.

“Just think about all the money we’re gonna be making!” Mark said much like a petty dealer but at that moment, Robin didn’t even have a good retort for the tactician. He just hoped wherever Mark’s reserved seats were, they were close because he wasn’t too fond of getting pressed in between sweaty strangers.

After a few more minutes, they finally found their seats and Robin had to hand it to Mark—they had an unrestricted view of the stage as the only thing that separated them was the stone railing that rose up to Mark and Robin’s waist (though it was a little higher on Soren as he was significantly shorter than the other two). Around their area was enough space to breathe and move around without hitting other spectators, but even so, the entire arena was echoing the choruses of yells and crude language.

Robin had an unsettling stomach, far too worried for his friends—but, and he admits with little guilt, mostly Chrom. He wasn’t sure how he would explain to the Ylissean people if their beloved prince fell not in battle but in a crude festival arena in some unnamed village—Robin wasn’t even entirely sure if he could live with himself should the worst ever happen.

“KICK THEIR ARSE, MILORD!” Mark exclaimed, nearly jumping over the railing as he waived his arms over his head when Hector entered the stage. While both Robin and Soren were startled by the sudden feral outburst from their seemingly possessed companion that they had taken an unconscious step away from Mark when he began to yell very crude language.

By some miracle or inhuman connection, Hector seemed to have heard Mark’s crude catcalls and easily found the three severely out of place tacticians. He raised a great axe over his head with a grin that matched Mark’s feral one and let out a roar that had Mark jumping even higher and yelling even louder. Robin shook his head, not even trying to make sense of whatever was happening to him right now.

Beside him, Robin felt more than heard Soren’s heavy sigh. When he turned to look at the mage, he’d realized they were both pressed close and as far as they possibly could from Mark. Remembering that Soren wasn’t too fond of sharing his personal space, Robin took a step away but it didn’t erase nor ease the dark look on the mage’s delicate features.

“I have high doubts about the validity of the written Elibean history,” Soren hissed and Robin couldn’t agree more.

The arena master finally announced Hector’s opponent, a swordsman with his long hair tied to a messy bun atop his head, emphasizing the nasty scar across his face. He glared up at Hector but the lord was unaffected and not one to back away from a challenge, stared down at his opponent.

When the arena master finished reciting the rules of the match and announced the start of the fight, the crowd went wild as the swordsman made a quick dash towards Hector. He held his impressive sword with both his hands and when he was close enough, attempted to plunge through Hector’s armor with a powerful thrust but upon making contact, the sword had just bounced back with a loud clank. It was then that Hector let out a growl and made his attack—lifting his axe over his head and quickly swinging it down to his opponent.

As soon as metal met metal, the crowd went wild. The swordsman had been quick enough to use his sword to block Hector’s lethal blow but from the sheer force behind the lord’s attack, the sword broke and knocked its owner several paces away on his arse. Hector let out a loud yell of victory and Mark went absolutely rabid.

“THAT’S THE BEAST OF OSTIA!!!” The tactician yelled, followed by a string of incoherent Elibean which Robin had the faintest suspicion were far more crude and lewd than whatever their fellow spectators were yelling.

“Is he…drooling?” Soren scoffed and Robin had to do a double take to clarify that yes, indeed, that was drool making its way down Mark’s jaw. Not wanting to give himself any more reason for trauma, Robin looked away and focused all his attention on Hector. He had no choice but to be here, so he might as well take notes on everyone’s fighting capabilities.

Hector managed to reach the maximum limit of eight rounds, with his last three opponents forfeiting the match by running away as soon as Hector raised his axe. As the starting participant and claiming the first straight eight victories that day, he made the crowd wild with greater expectations for the next contestants. He exited the stage after the announcement of his win, giving the crowd a matching cocky wave and grin as he did. Mark, and several others, swooned.

Robin was amazed at how short those eight rounds seemed with barely a dent on Hector’s rather impressive armor, he’d never really taken much notice with how Hector fought in battle and had only ever seen him during training and read about his unconventional style from the history books. But seeing it in person was truly a spectacle and clearly a great nightmare if one were to be the target of his axe.

Two rounds later, with the crowd left unappeased by the lack of the skill and showmanship Hector had previously displayed, the arena master announced the next participant to enter the arena: Chrom. Hearing his name and seeing him enter the stage, Robin nearly toppled over his weakened knees if he hadn’t managed to grab hold onto the railings in time. He didn’t even care about the mocking sounds that came from his fellow tacticians—that was Chrom in there facing—

“Oh gods!” Robin gasped, turning pale. “Th-That’s Chrom’s opponent?! He’s larger than Hector! Gods! He should just forfeit now!”

“Oh calm down, princess,” Mark rolled his eyes and slapped Robin’s shoulder. “Princeton told you to trust him, so trust him! I mean, you saw how Lord Hector was! I’m sure Princeton can do…60% of what milord can do!”

“Oh gods, I can’t look!”

“But you have to cheer for him!” Mark insisted and hoisted Robin up on the railing, so that he could get a better view of the stage. “Look! It’s about to begin!”

Chrom stood in the middle of the stage, sword in hand as he looked up at his large opponent. Robin never realized Chrom could look so small. To the tactician, Chrom was always larger than life, muscled and toned from his training. He was strong, a skilled fighter with a good head on his shoulders that knew how to adapt in battle. Oh gods, Robin loved that pretty head on his wide shoulders—preferably connected and not slashed apart in a bloody heap.

“Stop squeaking, it’ll be fine!”

Robin paid Mark no mind and nearly fainted when the arena master announced the start of the round. The berserker charged at Chrom and their weapons clashed loudly in a sudden battle for strength. Chrom was being pushed back by his stronger opponent, who managed to keep his attacks swift and hard. The prince was forced to hold his sword out to shield and block while his opponent wildly hacked at him.

Holding his breath, Robin watched in rapt attention, hoping that Chrom’s sword wouldn’t snap as easily as the sword from Hector’s first opponent. One particular hit from the berserker’s axe had Chrom lose hold on his footing but managed to evade the next attack that left his opponent open and vulnerable for a short moment. But that was all Chrom needed to make a quick critical blow to the berserker’s torso and the burly man fell on his stomach with a pained cry in defeat.

“Oh my gods!” Robin gasped out as the crowd erupted in loud cheers. The tactician managed to crawl back up to his feet and inhaled deeply, remembering to breath. “He won! Oh my gods, Chrom won!”

He grabbed Mark’s arms and jumped more from relief than excitement, but Mark joined him nonetheless while Soren was surely quietly judging them.

“Go up there and claim your man, Robby!” Mark laughed, squeezing the other’s hand.

Robin turned his gaze back to Chrom and watched him break into a grin when the arena master announced his victory. Then he offered a helping hand to his opponent, who huffed and spat on the ground before taking Chrom’s offered hand and returned the prince’s grin.

Though it was a short lived relief as the arena master announced Chrom’s next opponent and Robin lost hold of Mark’s hands and nearly fell off the railing as his knees turned weak again. Another litany of prayers crossing his mind as he watched yet another burly opponent entered the stage to face Chrom.

It was a lengthy round, with Chrom mostly dodging attacks from his long limbed opponent. He’d been knocked back during an attempted attack, much to Robin’s great distress, but Chrom managed to keep fighting until he found an opening and swiped his sword behind his opponent’s ankles, knocking him back and quickly thrust his sword to stop mere inches away from the burly man’s throat.

When the arena master announced the round going to Chrom, Robin let out the breath he’d been holding. He was about to go back to his usual cheer for Chrom when he realized with great dread that there were still several rounds to go unless Chrom fell in a match—and the thought of Chrom actually losing had Robin slump lower to the floor that he had to be pulled up again by Mark.

“Oh gods, there’s six more rounds to go,” Robin cursed as he held onto Mark, for once not minding the close proximity to the other tactician. “Gods…I’m going to kill you, Mark. I swear upon Naga’s name, if anything happens to Chrom, I will kill you.”

Mark laughed, not taking the threat seriously, “sure you will, Robby. Now, follow me: breathe in, breathe out! Let’s try breathing through Chrom’s next round so we can properly cheer for him, got it? No more melting, okay? And…breathe in! Breathe out!”

The next opponent walked in the arena, covered from head-to-toe in thick armor and he held an imposing lance on one hand. Robin wheezed in and wheezed out. Six more rounds.

It was to Robin’s great misfortunate that Chrom’s rounds were far longer than any of Hector’s, much to crowd’s growing pleasure and excitement. Though it shouldn’t have been a surprise to the tactician, his friend wasn’t a human tank like Hector and while Chrom was a good fighter in his own right, he also had the misfortune of being paired with large and burly opponents. Despite the unfortunate mismatch, he managed to keep winning until his eighth round.

During Chrom’s last round, his opponent’s lance landed on his torso. Though it didn’t break skin as it was the dull end, Chrom had fallen to his knees from the blow that elicited a sharp cry from Robin. Using his sword to help him stand, Chrom was knocked back again but this time, he managed to block the blow with his sword and kept himself upright. As his opponent charged at him, Chrom blindly swung his sword with all his might. The hilt managed to hit his opponent’s jaw, forcing the larger man back as a yell from biting his tongue erupted from him. Chrom kicked away his weapon and kept his sword pointed at the man, breathing heavily as he tried to ignore the pain on his side.

The crowd erupted in loud cheer as it was announced that Chrom had completed the limited number of eight rounds. Only then did he lower his guard and let his sword drop, putting a hand over his injury and still managing to grin at the arena master as he was being congratulated.

“Oh gods,” Robin sobbed, his body shaking from sheer relief of seeing Chrom alive and at the end of his arena fighting career (he would never allow Chrom to ever participate in an arena battle ever again). “He’s alive. Thank Naga, he’s alive.”

“See, he didn’t die!” Mark laughed and Soren rolled his eyes. After the fifth round, they had to carry Robin over their shoulders as he no longer had enough strength to keep himself upright by himself. “Did you see those muscles, man?” Mark let out a pleased sound, “I’d totally be drooling right now if milord was left in Elibe!”

“Paws off,” Robin frowned before even realizing it and turned his gaze back to Chrom, who’d met his eyes across the arena. Just when he felt his strength slowly returning, Chrom grinned at him brightly and like Hector before him, raised his sword in the air as a sign of victory. If it didn’t feel like Chrom was dedicated his victory to him, then the three tacticians probably wouldn’t have fallen when Robin dragged them down with him due another round of lost strength.

Soren let out his usual strange noise as he pushed Robin’s arm off and stood up, dusting his robes. Mark followed suit after him, chuckling at Robin who was trying to emulate them but was failing. He extended a hand to the struggling tactician and without a moment’s hesitation; Robin took his hand and was pulled up.

“I’m happily content with Lord Hector, you can keep Princeton for yourself,” Mark grinned and Robin flushed, only then realizing how much of a fool he’d been acting these past eight rounds. “Besides, milord carried me on his shoulders through a desert.” Breaking off with a hum, Mark’s eyes adapted a dazed look and he sighed dreamily, “it doesn’t get more serious than that!”

Soren sighed tiredly as he closed his notebook after making some quick scribbles, “if this keeps up, by noon, we’d have more than enough money to keep us content for the next month in the least.”

“Who says a month?” Mark grinned at the mage and winked, “by the time we’re done here, we’d have enough to last us six months at least!”

“Six months?” Robin frowned. Wait, that couldn’t be right, not even if they would live a great life of frugality. Six months was too long of a stretch unless— “wait, just how much did you bet anyway?”

“You did follow our agreed amount from yesterday’s meeting, didn’t you?” Soren glared at Mark, his body rigid as a part of him and Robin already expected the worst.

“Oh, pish!” Mark laughed, as if committing to their agreement was a silly notion. “Why would I even do that? We won’t get maximum profit—I bet all of our money, of course!”

“What?!” Both Robin and Soren exclaimed, the former letting go of Mark’s hand as if it was made of heated iron while Soren grabbed Mark by the collar and shook him with strength neither Mark nor Robin were aware Soren was able of, “you idiot! Why the hell did you do that?!”

“Sorey, by afternoon, we’ll have more than five times the amount of money we had an hour ago!” Mark shrugged, an optimistic grin plastered on his face. “Calm down, guys! I know how to count money!”

Robin had to physically pry the mage from Mark with both his arms to stop Soren from committing murder right then there, despite his Chrom-sounding conscience telling him to just let Soren do whatever he wanted to Mark.

Robin had to stand between Mark and Soren to keep the both of them from getting into a fist fight. Thankfully it was difficult for Soren to whip out his Elwind tome and cast an attack on Mark with their limited space. Physically speaking, Robin was stronger than the two other tacticians, with Mark only ever good at dodging attacks and Soren was like a loose magical canon that could fire endless Elwinds, so it was relatively easy to physically keep them apart.

It was in this arrangement that Chrom and Hector had found them. Mark launched himself at Hector as soon as the tactician noticed him and resumed their passionate display of their affections. It was enough to repel Soren from them, hissing and grunting. Robin chuckled at the strange sound he now attributed to Soren before deeming it safe enough to stop his physical guard and pulled Chrom, who stood face flushed and awkward beside a very passionate Hector and Mark, towards him.

“How’s your injury?” Robin asked worriedly, looking down to Chrom’s covered torso and wanting to lift up his friend’s armor to inspect the injury himself.

“The arena has a healer and I already got it checked,” Chrom explained, scratching his cheek sheepishly. “It’s just a bruise but…I’m sorry for worrying you, I guess I should’ve paid closer attention.”

“No, it’s…” Robin inhaled deeply and tried again, this time completely honest in his words. “Chrom, I was so worried.”

It must have been something in the tone of his voice because Chrom looked startled and after a brief pause of contemplation, he pulled Robin into a warm embrace. “I’m so sorry, I truly am.”

“It’s fine…I’m just glad you’re back,” Robin smiled, enjoying the warmth from Chrom’s body pressed against his. Moments later, Robin had abruptly pulled away in panic, “oh gods, there’s still Frederick and the others. Oh gods, oh gods…”

“It’ll be fine,” Chrom said, laying his hand on Robin’s hair and ruffling it. “They know when to call it quits, and if they’re being stubborn, it’s easy to hear your voice from way over there.”

Robin flushed, “r-really? You’re not pulling my leg, are you?”

“Oh, your gasps for Naga’s divine intervention were humorously distracting,” Chrom chuckled, the humor sparkling in his eyes and Robin was caught between staring and slapping himself for behaving like such a fool. “It’s like in a normal battle, though. You keep yelling out commands, the only difference was that you were calling Naga.”

“I…I’m sorry for that…troublesome display,” Robin gritted out, hoping that the other Shepherds hadn’t witnessed it. He certainly didn’t want it spreading all over camp and worse of all, to Lissa. She was a notorious gossip and her latest target for her pranks seemed to be him.

“I honestly don’t mind it though,” when Robin looked at Chrom, he noticed that he too was sporting flushed cheeks. “Y-you…uh, sounded like my conscience or something.”

“O-Oh,” Robin blinked, suddenly feeling embarrassed because his conscience had also adapted Chrom’s voice (did they perhaps trade consciousness somehow?).

Their little moment was broken by the announcement of Frederick’s fight and they both watched as Frederick entered the arena, a stern look on his face as he eyed his opponent. Then the great knight smiled.

“Frederick only smiles when he swings his axe, aye?” Robin chuckled, remembering what Chrom had told him several months earlier when they’d just met.

“This will be interesting, he’s always reserved even in our battles.” Chrom hummed, absently placing his arm around Robin’s shoulder and causing the tactician to turn even redder.

“Yune is definitely toying with me…again,” Soren mumbled to himself as he looked away from his overly affectionate comrades.

After several more hours of watching rounds come and go, blows traded and evaded, they finally came to an end with Lon’qu’s quick eight rounds victory. The skill he presented in his fights quickly reminded Robin that he was Basilio’s strongest and so used to arena fighting that the tactician felt a little relief and got a boost of confidence that Lon’qu would be victorious.

Frederick had joined them shortly after he finished all his eight rounds, looking far too pleased than his usual self and Robin made a mental note to fit Frederick’s going into an axe-crazy rampage in his tactics from now on as it seemed to have a great positive effect on the knight.

They were just about to leave, having agreed to meet Vaike and others outside the arena where it was less crowded and noisy when the arena master announced the next participant’s name that had everyone freezing on their tracks.

“Now our next contestant is a young mercenary who goes by the name Ike!”

Robin heard the sound of Soren’s neck snapping from quickly turning his head to look at the stage—and there, indeed was Ike standing in his usual cool composure. The book Soren had held onto for the entire day fell from his arms as he turned pale at the sight of Ike in the ring. The mage would have fallen off the railing in his mad scramble to get to Ike had Chrom not grabbed Soren by the robes and held him back.

“Let me—” Soren inhaled deeply before turning his most heated glare at Mark, his pupils turning to slits. “You! Why the hell is Ike there?!”

Mark jumped, this being the first time he’d ever seen Soren so distressed and aggressive despite all the fights they’d had between each other. The taller tactician quickly shook his head, raising his palms up in immediate surrender, “I-I swear, Sorey! I have no idea! I didn’t know he was coming! I swear, I didn’t do this!”

Had it been another time, Robin would’ve been surprised at Mark’s uncharacteristic jumpiness but he didn’t have the luxury of mulling over that now, not when Soren was thrashing in Chrom’s arms. It was then that it clicked—Soren didn’t make friends and only ever followed Ike. Unlike Mark who naturally had people gravitating towards him, Soren scared people away and in doing so, only ever had Ike.

Squeezing the delicate mage’s shoulders, Robin lightly shook him as he tried to get through to him, “Soren, calm down! Ike’s a great fighter, he’ll be fine! Everyone’s done great and Ike will—”

“No! I-Ike—” Soren gasped, stopping himself when Ike turned to look at them and their eyes locked.

The Radiant Hero wore a grin and gave a small salute. Then instantly, Soren stopped his thrashing and inhaled sharply, a worried frown etched on his face as he didn’t tear his eyes off Ike. Robin and Chrom shared a look before the prince carefully settled Soren down, but the mage made no attempt to let his attention wander from Ike.

“Soren?”

Soren understood, without words, the reasons behind Ike’s actions but it didn’t mean he was going to suddenly approve of it. Though he trusted Ike to have more than enough skill to win, enough strength to not leave him—

“Gods and goddesses aren’t kind, Robin,” Soren whispered through gritted teeth and Robin warily watched him take a step forward, ready to pull the mage back should he attempt to make another jump. But Soren didn’t, instead he placed his hands on the railings and silently watched with squinted eyes as the arena master announced the start of the battle.

It was no surprise that Ike, too, had managed to win round after round. But even to Soren, who knew all of Ike’s fighting capabilities like the back of his hand, each round felt like it dealt a great 10 year blow to his lifespan (not that Soren minded having a shortened lifespan). It kept him on the edge and every time Ike was pushed back, whether Soren knew it was to fool his opponent or Ike actually being overpowered, the mage’s fingers twitched and his robes billowed, an Elwind tome pressed to his chest.

During Ike’s last round, he was being pushed back by a hulking berserker that seemed to enjoy toying with him with fake lunges and swings intermixed with real swings. Ike had stepped back from a faked lunge, leaving himself completely and utterly vulnerable to an attack. His opponent had just raised his axe to throw down on Ike when the berserker suddenly fell back, dropping his weapon in the process and giving Ike the opportunity to claim his last victory by knocking his opponent out with the hilt of his sword.

The crowd went wild at the twist but Ike seemed not to care as he turned to the direction of his comrades and looked at Soren, grinning sheepishly.

Soren glared at him.

Beside a cheering Hector, Mark frowned and turned to his fellow tacticians to raise his suspicions, “wait a moment—” before he could even voice out his concern, Robin had already kicked him on the shin and grinned tightly.

“All right, show’s over! Let’s all get out of here!” Robin announced to their companions, smiling up at Chrom before he turned to check at Soren, who’d turned away from Ike and followed Frederick towards the exit. Once Soren passed by them, Chrom and Robin followed after.

As soon as they met up with the rest of their companions outside the arena, Soren made a hasty dash towards Ike. Everyone had expected the typically irritant mage to launch a tirade of verbal attacks on Ike but instead, Soren stopped before Ike and took the other’s hand, holding it tight as he remained silent.

“What?” Mark blew up his cheeks and frowned, “he does something completely stupid and he gets his hand held? Really? I mess up paperwork and he casts an Excalibur at me! Robby, I demand justice!”

Robin snickered at Mark, “let’s not forget who got weak-kneed when Soren over there started his hissing fit.”

“W-well, you would get weak-kneed, too,” Mark huffed then leaned closer to Robin to whisper, “did you see his eyes? He was possessed!”

Robin pulled away with a scoff and a raised brow, “Soren was worried. You, on the other hand, were possessed the moment Hector came onto the stage.”

“Well, what can I say?” Mark broke to his usual shit-eating grin and gave a sideways glace to Hector, which the great lord met with wink. “Hector’s quite the hunky beast, isn’t he? You should see him in bed, he’s fantastic.”

Robin groaned, just when he thought he was getting somewhere sane with Mark, the Elibean tactician ruined all that buildup they gained to get there. Letting out a huff of breath, Robin supposed that he should get used to it—Mark was Mark, he was everything at face value while there was Soren, who was a complicated maze of puzzles.

“Whatever, Mark,” Robin told the infamous tactician before joining Chrom and the others to give his congratulations to the rest of their companions. They were definitely eating good food tonight.