[ like a script playing out, day speaks what's been already written. the younger robin's voice overlaps with his as the words ring out in unison, sounding far too loud in the darkened, candlelit room.
(there's no light outside the window. it's late. everyone else must have already retired to their quarters.)
the man in the bed makes a wounded noise, the ragged ends of it turning into a growl that sounds like it could be a sob. "damn them... damn those monsters! spineless cowards! why...? emm would have never hurt anyone! everything she did, she did because she thought people deserved peace, no matter who they were... and look what it's gotten her!"
"chrom..." you don't know what to say to the man in front of you. you don't know what you can say. he wears anger, righteous and grieving, like a shroud, working up and stoking his own fury because the only possible alternative is despair.
"they'll pay for this. they made it clear the only thing they'll be happy with is escalation when they killed the one person in ylisse who wanted to negotiate. if gangrel thinks i won't be willing to march on their capital—"
this. this, you have plans for. routes of invasion drafted up in sleepless nights and just in cases as border tensions had continued to build; plans to weather siege; plans to try to protect or secure the people from towns that would undoubtedly be caught up in skirmishes along the border; plans for an incisive strike to the heart of another nation—
and yet
you don't raise your voice, but the feeling of it is present anyway. you don't know how to drag him back from this precipice, but— "chrom. listen to me. look at me. do you hear yourself? are you listening to yourself? did you hear a single word i've said earlier? if you intend to march on plegia, then know that we'll follow you, but you're not doing so with those injuries."
robin leans forward, honey-colored eyes shining bright in the candlelight, hands taking one of chrom's into his own.
"i had to send lissa to bed earlier because she and maribelle both wore themselves out taking care of you. she refused me more than once because she didn't want to leave your side. they don't think ... your injuries will ever quite heal in full. i might not have trained as deeply in it as them, but i know white magic too, and i agree with them.
"beyond that ... you just ... you told me about your father, not all that long ago. about how he was a cruel man, whose brutal war caused so much suffering for both sides. you said you didn't want to be like him. if you invade plegia now, don't you think that's exactly what gangrel wants? another bloodthirsty, warmongering exalt to feed into whatever propaganda he's been spreading, no better than the man he descended from?"
it seems, for a moment, like chrom will argue, will try to rise from bed anyway via sheer force of will. the moment passes, and suddenly he seems much smaller in defeat, swallowing before he speaks again. his eyes are anguished, lost.
(they're both young. younger than day by several years, if one were to estimate.)
"... i'm not emm either. i can't ... i'm not even half the person she was, robin." ]
no subject
(there's no light outside the window. it's late. everyone else must have already retired to their quarters.)
the man in the bed makes a wounded noise, the ragged ends of it turning into a growl that sounds like it could be a sob. "damn them... damn those monsters! spineless cowards! why...? emm would have never hurt anyone! everything she did, she did because she thought people deserved peace, no matter who they were... and look what it's gotten her!"
"chrom..." you don't know what to say to the man in front of you. you don't know what you can say. he wears anger, righteous and grieving, like a shroud, working up and stoking his own fury because the only possible alternative is despair.
"they'll pay for this. they made it clear the only thing they'll be happy with is escalation when they killed the one person in ylisse who wanted to negotiate. if gangrel thinks i won't be willing to march on their capital—"
this. this, you have plans for. routes of invasion drafted up in sleepless nights and just in cases as border tensions had continued to build; plans to weather siege; plans to try to protect or secure the people from towns that would undoubtedly be caught up in skirmishes along the border; plans for an incisive strike to the heart of another nation—
and yet
you don't raise your voice, but the feeling of it is present anyway. you don't know how to drag him back from this precipice, but— "chrom. listen to me. look at me. do you hear yourself? are you listening to yourself? did you hear a single word i've said earlier? if you intend to march on plegia, then know that we'll follow you, but you're not doing so with those injuries."
robin leans forward, honey-colored eyes shining bright in the candlelight, hands taking one of chrom's into his own.
"i had to send lissa to bed earlier because she and maribelle both wore themselves out taking care of you. she refused me more than once because she didn't want to leave your side. they don't think ... your injuries will ever quite heal in full. i might not have trained as deeply in it as them, but i know white magic too, and i agree with them.
"beyond that ... you just ... you told me about your father, not all that long ago. about how he was a cruel man, whose brutal war caused so much suffering for both sides. you said you didn't want to be like him. if you invade plegia now, don't you think that's exactly what gangrel wants? another bloodthirsty, warmongering exalt to feed into whatever propaganda he's been spreading, no better than the man he descended from?"
it seems, for a moment, like chrom will argue, will try to rise from bed anyway via sheer force of will. the moment passes, and suddenly he seems much smaller in defeat, swallowing before he speaks again. his eyes are anguished, lost.
(they're both young. younger than day by several years, if one were to estimate.)
"... i'm not emm either. i can't ... i'm not even half the person she was, robin." ]