TO LEAD.

NOTHING BUT CINDERS.

   It was the start of a long night for many. Passing through canyons neglected by nature certainly proved to be daunting on it’’s own - yet it seemed insufficient to fate. As their group pressed on through the treacherous terrain, Risen had fallen upon them, practically spilling from the derelict rock walls.     No lives were lost, but the event were quite nerve-wrecking, bringing the morale to a sudden slump. Though, of all people aside from Chrom himself, Tiki was aware of who had suffered the deepest blow of all.     She stood there, outside that person’s tent. Rumors and whispers of sympathetic concern had traveled throughout the army, eventually reaching Tiki’s ears; their tactician was plagued by horrid nightmares. When the Manakete first caught wind of this rumor, she grew somewhat concerned - though she respected his privacy and refused to pry. After all, it was what she would have preferred, herself.    However…recent events left and unsettling feeling churning within the pits of her stomach. She could hardly imagine the pain that Robin was enduring after such a close encounter with disaster. So, it was then that she felt the need to intervene. There was no doubt that he was downtrodden by guilt and - perhaps - a lack of confidence.     For the sake of the world which her dearest ones sought to protect so long ago - she could not allow such a curable risk to affect their mission.     Just as well, she could hardly stand by and watch such a familiar soul become illl with torment. 

     “ Hm... perhaps if we were to take this route instead... maybe we might be able to get to the nearest town faster? It would certainly save our sore feet some trouble -- or... maybe this one...? Mm..... no, that path’s a bit treacherous -- “

As idle thoughts take on the form of empty whispers, Robin’s turning a page in his journal -- eyeing at the map spread across his desk as an index finger runs along the crinkled lines of the paper. Brown orbs flick back and forth, gears whirring in his sleep deprived mind. It was unnecessary, really, for Robin to exert himself so much to the point of stressing over the smallest things. However, this was only method for Robin to cope with his lack of sleep: endless work.

Robin particularly didn’t mind it -- not in the slightest. Busying himself didn’t make him feel exerted. It’s something he’s grown so used to -- it’s like second nature to the tactician. Stressing over nothing also serves as a distraction of events that took place that same day. He knows he shouldn’t dwell on it too much, but naturally -- Robin couldn’t help but fret over the small things. Had he not sent Chrom to his rescue in the sudden ambush, little Ricken would have been at the receiving end of the killing blow one of the Risen soldiers had in store for him. 

The very memory strikes him then, and the impact of it nearly robs him of his breath. His movements come to a sudden halt, wincing as it begins to plague his mind. He nearly got somebody killed. Robin’s putting down the book -- propping his elbows upon the mahogany desk as his hands run through his hair. ‘I’ll never get anything done, at this rate... If I already can’t sleep, I can’t lose my ability to work either. Gods... ugh --’

However, Robin’s thoughts don’t linger for too long, because he hears someone call for his name. Blinking, the tactician’s turning in his seat to stare at the entrance of his tent for a moment. He’s trying to remember who that voice belonged to, and it’s when she whispers again that Robin realizes that the person before his tent was none other than Tiki. Robin breathes out with air he didn’t realize he was holding in, pushing his chair back in order to shuffle his feet quietly over to the entrance. Managing to stiffle a yawn, Robin’s pushing back the flap of his tent to greet Tiki with a smile.

❝ YOU– ❞ he wrenches out, sword in the same manner. he swings without the force to cut, and how DARE he allow himself to be caught off guard. but his eyes could pierce; they dart about at their rivaling features, which are surprisingly soft and without malice, but that’s what they ALL thought. he holds the blade at the other’s neck, and with grima’s hesitation akin to his own, he makes out: 

      “ Come to die...? What... What are you talking about? “

Robin remains completely still, the blade’s steel cold against his clammy like skin. The shock and outrage that would normally come with such a sudden course of action doesn’t, because he’s well aware of what could happen -- had he acted irrationally. Robin swallows thickly, his throat feeling constricted and tight. He exhales shakily, and attempts to reason.

“ I’VE BEEN DEAD FOR A WHILE NOW. “

      Their hand comes up to fiddle with the cloth of their coat, a nervous habit. They would not step back, the shepherds didn’t allow them into the ranks because they were meek. A fighter and a tactician who chose the shepherds and was chosen by the shepherds. Glancing downwards, the matching branding that decorated the both of them a constant reminder of their origins and their purpose. Was this man who they might be one day— someone who gave into Grima? Their hand clenched then, twisting into the fabric, surely even they had a choice in their fate. Though they had been born for this purpose, generations preceding them, encountering the fell dragon himself struck fear in them. A chill lighting along their skin just at the sound of his voice.

     “ But what good is a world in the hands of vacuous believers? You don’t need the desire to wrought the changes of mankind -- you need the power, the will -- all which I’ve carefully sown into your now racing heart, my liege. “

Despair’s chin inclines, his sneer ever-growing -- immorality seeping through the words said. These words were his prophecy -- an undeniable truth; anyone can hold a wish in their heart, but the true test was the will to carry out their so desired deed. Grima takes a step forward, approaching Salwa with an unspoken, yet implemented authority. They were his to claim -- his prize token needed in order to enrapture timelines to come in the desolate affliction of darkness. He thinks nothing of their words, because all babbles of protest wouldn’t matter in the end. Glowing crimson settle upon his fear-stricken marionette, and a clammy hand outstretches itself -- snatching to grasp at their chin with that of a god’s wrath. He examines -- observes the sharp outline of their jaw with idle interest. The fell dragon hums, watching how they tremble in their presence. Ruin’s tongue speaks once again.