Chapter Text
It’s evening. The sun, nearly set, leaves the land with an unyielding stretch of shadow. The stratum of clouds thin with a silver glow.
The chill of night frosts over his skin and Robin gasps, chest scorching. The ground beneath him feels more like gravel than soft soil; his limbs ache with the sour aftertaste of adrenaline. His parched throat threatens to collapse as he swallows a mouthful of dry spit.
All is still save for the occasional birdcall over the canopy of the forest. He limps onwards, pace unsteady and a distasteful metallic tang in his mouth, until the darkness cast over his vision is broken only by faint moonlight. A sheen of sweat forms over his clammy hands and he wills himself forward, a step at a time.
A fresh breeze sifts over the woods. He lifts his head, too tired to be startled, and notices the dense landscape of trees abruptly ending into the tapered mouth of a cliff. Beyond, specks of firelight dot the vague outline of a castle.
He tastes the air with a flit of his tongue. Then, lowering himself to the ground, he grips the edge of the cliff with roughened talons, and jumps.
A gale surges past him in a gust of displaced air. Clawed wings rupture from his back and he glides soundlessly over the sleeping city, feathers shivering as he nimbly rides a draft over the castle walls.
As he does so, Chrom awakes from his shallow slumber, grimacing at the sticky sensation of summer heat clinging to the back of his beck. Sitting up in mild annoyance, he wipes himself off with his palm and makes his way to the balcony.
The telltale click of nail on ceramic goes unheard as he pushes the window open. The curtains billow inwards in the wind and he steps out, barefoot. If he listened, he could have perhaps heard the quiet scraping of scales off the rim of his roof.
He leans on the railing, his shoulders overhanging the rest of the capital. The skies are dark as if doused with ink, stars littering the leaden expanse hidden by the swathe of clouds tumbling with the wind.
A little closer. A little more. The air waits with baited breath around them. A sudden movement— Chrom barely has the time to react as a talon slams into his chest, crashing him to the ground and knocking the wind out of his lungs. He thrashes in frantic response before instinctively twisting away, throwing off his assailant with his heart roaring in his ears.
Robin wastes no time in recovery, a swift sweep of his tail bringing Chrom to his knees as he lunges at him, fangs bared. Sucking in a sharp breath, Chrom dodges, skidding deftly to the side as Robin tries at him again. A thin gash lays between them where his tail had lashed into the floor.
His agility leaves Chrom with no time for thought. He plunges at him, wings flaring and bathed in silver starlight, right as Chrom narrowly evades a brutal slash across his neck. He’s cornered me, he realises too late, veering from a powerful blow to the head and sinking into the wall as Robin pins him down with inhuman strength.
Chrom strains against his bounds to no avail. It’s at that moment he gets his first decent look at him. His eyes are blood red, hair white as snow, black, mottled feathers spread beneath his jawbone and into two sleek black wings bristling in hostility. He’s stunned for a second and the illusion breaks as Robin closes the distance without delay, fangs sharp in the stinted light.
He can feel the hot lick of Robin’s tongue on his neck, the acute pressure digging into his veins. Just as he breaks skin and a smattering of blood drenches his mouth, his grip loosens and Chrom closes his fingers around familiar metal. Falchion slides out of its sheathe with a pleasant shriek.
Robin immediately lurches back, stung. He hisses as at the iron and staggers back, edging away and rumbling dangerously between his teeth. Chrom approaches him, emboldened. Falchion glitters brightly his hand and he raises his arm, the cold touch of the blade kissing Robin’s chin.
Neither of them move. They stay like this for a fleeting stutter in time, a small trickle of red dribbling down Chrom’s neck and Robin licking the last smear of blood off the corner of his lip. A soft gale washes into the room.
Warily, he lowers his blade, but not enough so that Robin could make any sudden advances. He’s young, Chrom thinks. There’s barely any meat beneath the torn robes he’s wearing, save the staunch ripple of muscle down the lower half of his body. Two horns wreath his head above his defiant stare.
“Who are you? What are you?”
He blinks in response.
“...Do you have a name?”
To this, he purses his lips in contemplation. After what seemed to Chrom like an eternity, he opens his mouth with sluggish reluctance.
“…Robin.”
“Why did you come here?”
No reply. He does, however, flit his gaze to the wound on Chrom’s neck. Chrom winces as he sees Robin’s larynx bob. Twice.
Chrom pauses. “If I put this down, will you promise not to attack me?”
No, Robin wants to say, reconsiders at the scratch of Falchion on the floor, and silently nods.
Chrom visibly relaxes. He loosens his hold on Falchion and carefully lays it on the ground next to him, all while keeping his gaze on Robin.
“I suppose you’ll be staying for the night, then.”
He gives him a look, as if saying you can’t keep me here.
As if on cue, several knocks echo from the door to Chrom’s room. Chrom grins smugly and turns to the noise.
“Milord, are you okay?”
“Yes, Frederick, I’m fine. What is it?”
“An intruder was spotted on the castle roof. We’ve already dispatched more guards, but nothing has been found yet.” He could almost imagine him frowning. “I heard a commotion from your room. What happened?”
“Nothing much. You could say I got caught up in swordplay.”
Robin raises a brow questioningly.
“…Sleep well, milord.”
Footsteps fade away into the corridor.
He stares at Chrom, tail swishing behind his back. Tensing as Chrom drops his sword onto the floor, he bristles defensively and and retreats to the far end of the room.
“Well then, make yourself at home.”
Robin doesn't bother to disguise his incredulity as Chrom pads to his bed and fluffs out the blankets. He watches him slide into the blankets and within minutes, Chrom’s already snoring.
He sits solemnly for the next few minutes and debates whether to try eating him again.
Is he an idiot? Must be. There’s no way anyone could have slept after that. But getting up and attacking him again leaves an unpleasant taste in his mouth, so he licks at one of his wounds and curls up gingerly on the carpets.
The woollen bristles are surprisingly comfortable. He’d decided to keep a close eye on his supposed late midnight snack. Though the aching in his body is returning in full might, his last burst of energy leaving him completely drained…
Robin snaps awake in the heat of afternoon.
He has no idea where he is. The events of yesterday come together vaguely in his head and he bolts upright in alarm, only to realise that there’s nobody around. The room is doused in sunlight. It’s warm and fills him with a fuzzy haze.
The horror of falling asleep is creeping up on him. He cautiously sweeps the room for any hidden entities, prickling at the slightest noise outside. The space is clean enough, several claw marks streaking across the wallpaper and floorboards as an indication of the night before. Nothing that can’t be passed off as a night of impulse training… what kind of soldier was he anyways? One that can get away with breaking his furniture at night?
He eyes the rich brocade on the curtains. Not soldier. Lord. Prince.
He paces for a while, irritated. Nearing the door, he teases open a slight gap to catch a glimpse of a heavily armoured guard. He scowls and shuts it. The windows, maybe.
He peeks out from the balcony. Right. The castle watch.
Sighing in defeat, he resorts to rifling through the papers and books on the shelves. He’s not very familiar with the language and struggles through it at snail’s pace, though he does learn where he is and whose room he’s temporarily imprisoned in. Prince Chrom, next in line for the throne, is apparently a slob at keeping tabs on the important documents his sister sends him.
The bookcase holds a wealth of books which all seem untouched. Robin picks one up on random and reads. It’s a long and dreary compilation of the history of Ylisse. There’s little to do in his makeshift enclosure, so he settles in a chair— despairs in the fact that his tail doesn’t fit in— and concedes to the rug toasted cosily by sunlight.
The door handle clicks open. Startled, he slaps the book shut, finds that the sun has already set and the lanterns lit, and holds back the primary instinct to hiss.
Chrom emerges from the doorframe, sheepishly holding a platter of silverware. His hair is mussed from his daily activities, Falchion hanging from his hip. Robin glares at him from the floor.
“I brought food.”
He sets down the platter in front of Robin and upon seeing his defensive curl, settles down himself and uncovers the bowls he had pilfered from the kitchen. He’d gotten him a gratuitous amount of meat, as well as some fruit from the pantry. Robin sniffs at it derisively and swallows.
“It’s not poisonous. Go on.”
He stares expectantly at Chrom. Chrom sighs and stabs a slice of mutton with a fork, and as he takes his second bite Robin finally seizes the entire slab of meat by the bone, tearing it apart easily strip by strip. Chrom watches as the sauce drips loosely from Robin’s red lips, his teeth sinking deeply into the tough strands of muscle.
“There’s more if you want.”
The ends of the drumstick make a sickening crunch as Robin sucks on the marrow. His tongue swirls around the shaft of the bone, savouring the last bits of flavour and nibbling on the tendrils of meat still clinging onto the tendons. They make eye contact.
“…You can talk, you know. It’s not as if you can’t read.”
Robin consciously shifts on the book he’s hidden beneath his wing. Chrom resists the overpowering urge to smile.
“I didn’t say you couldn’t. Didn’t take you for the literary type though.”
Robin bites back a retort on the tip of his tongue.
“Where do you come from, anyways?”
He ruminates, coiling his tail slowly. “…I don’t remember.”
Amnesia, Chrom thinks. What a convenient coincidence. “Then what do you remember? At least, before coming here?”
“Hunger. A smell. A very,” he makes a point by directing his gaze at Chrom’s neck, “very delicious smell.”
Chrom decides not to investigate further.
Plopping the last mutilated chunk of bone onto the plate, Robin returns into his former crouch and flicks his tail in disinterest. Chrom picks up the platter and places it outside his quarters. By the time he’d closed the door, Robin had already retreated into his own corner, back facing the rest of the room.
He’s not asleep yet. Chrom knows that and sighs, turning down the fire in the lanterns and putting his sword back on its rack. In the darkness, he hears Robin shuffle in unease, and if he were slightly more curious, he would have seen two gleaming eyes blinking in the shadows, flashing crimson and reflecting nothing.
-
The next day, Robin is reading as Chrom wakes up, reading as he leaves his room, and will be reading when he returns. Chrom would be surprised at how quickly Robin devours content at the end of the day, but he’s however not quite there yet.
Instead he takes his lessons in a daze, his mind void of the texts his tutors are distressing over and rather filled with dragons and legends. He thinks perhaps Robin is a manakete, something he’s heard of in trials concerning human and beast trafficking. By that logic though, wouldn’t Robin be at least several thousand years old? Wouldn’t that make him as old as Naga Herself? Or did different dragons age differently in human form?
He hears that Emmeryn is returning to Ylisse shortly. Another failed attempt at peace talks, he muses, and the castle seems to share the gloom. He takes a little more from the kitchen this round. For the first time in his life, he’s looking forward to nightfall.
There’s a pile of books stacked around Robin’s den. A lot of them have feathers stuck through them like bookmarks. As Chrom enters, Robin lifts his head from his book and places it aside.
“Evening."
Robin looks less manic than their first encounter. The lack of attempt on his life for example. He’s still not very verbose, though that can be remedied later. Chrom makes small talk as Robin wolfs down an entire chicken.
As Robin finishes up, he reaches to place a brutally chewed bone back onto the plate, and in the feeble luminance Chrom catches sight of the pale slant of his wrist.
Without thinking, he grasps Robin’s arm before Robin can reflexively jerk back. Robin flinches, Chrom’s eyes widen as Robin’s sleeve shirks back to gravity.
He tips Robin’s palm towards himself. There are wounds everywhere, but most noticeably in an ugly, almost-festering ring around his wrist. “Where did you get these bruises?”
Robin struggles weakly against his grip. “I don’t know.”
Shackle bruises. “On your other wrist too?”
He purses his lips and nods.
“We should get it cleaned up.”
“Where?”
“In the baths. It’s reserved for royalty this time of night, but my sisters aren’t here now.”
After a moment of hesitation, he follows Chrom out of his room and down a short descent through a hidden route. Immediately, as Chrom pushes open the gates, he’s hit with a face full of steam.
He removes his coat by the benches. As he does so, Chrom flinches at the sight of a bloodstain seeping across Robin’s thin shirt.
“There’s more?”
“It's nothing. I heal quickly.”
“Still,” Chrom’s thankful for the steam hiding the growing blush in his eartips. “Take off your shirt.”
Thank Naga he can’t see Robin’s expression right now. Or his movements as he strips, deft and succinct. When he’s close enough to see him, he walks over with an armful of supplies gestures at a stool.
“Sit. I’ll wash you off.”
And as Robin adjusts himself clumsily over the seat, Chrom realises that he has completely undershot his estimates. His wings, normally folded in, has a wingspan covering at nearly a third of available ground. There’s nothing resembling anything remotely human from the waist down.
Stepping to avoid being slapped by his tail, he begins carefully scrubbing the pus and grime off Robin’s wrists and ankles.
“Don’t squirm.”
“I’m not.” Robin cringes as Chrom dabs at a sore spot.
“Yes you are. Turn around.”
Robin stops in a moment of silence and awkwardly pivots on the stool. Meticulously, Chrom rinses the dirt from his back, up the slender curve of his waist, to the soft tuft of new feathers between his shoulder blades. Inevitably, as he threads his fingers through Robin’s hair, he’s met with a surprised shudder throughout his body.
“What are you doing?”
“Washing your hair.” He untangles his fingers. “Should I stop?”
“…No, no. Continue.”
It’s very fluffy. He runs his hand along the ridge of his horns, massaging his scalp and combing through the knots. He’s beginning to lose himself in the snowy softness when Robin shivers involuntarily at the cooling air.
Regrettably, he still has a job to do, so he tells Robin to soak himself off before coming out so he can dress his wounds.
Later, he bandages the deeper gashes with shaking hands. There’s a painful variety of wounds, most having already closed up but some still tender to touch. He brushes past a series of small cuts and rests his fingers on a series of burn marks. Magic, most likely. He wonders what kind of captor Robin had had to warrant injuries of this calibre.
He’ll launder Robin’s old clothes later. For now, Robin’s wearing one of his shirts. It’s too big for him, but that’s fine. At least it covers enough to stop Chrom’s gaze from wandering elsewhere.
He watches him curl up on the carpet, tucking in his tail and pawing at the floor. His wings are folded protectively over his body, keeping in warmth and shielding him from sight.
Chrom swallows the words stuck in his throat.
Is he comfortable? Did he eat enough? And those wounds on his body, did they hurt? How long had he suffered until now?
He thinks. There’s no reply to his thoughts, but only the faint whistle of the wind singing lowly in the summer night.
Robin’s chest rises and falls to every shallow breath he takes. He sleeps like the dead, still except for the occasional twitching in his wrist. A bird calls in the distance and his breathing hitches.
Roused, he shifts to focus on the bed. Chrom is asleep, snoring. A vague memory passes through him and he unconsciously braces himself against the cold.
Nothing comes. Residue heat rises from the floor, a remnant of the sunny afternoon.
It’s warm, it’s warm. But only when he’s there.