[ of course it's not where the memory ends. the battle continues, of course.
in the moments before charging in to close the distance made in the wake of those two spells, chrom regroups with you and places a hand on your shoulder even as he keeps his eyes fixed on your father. "this is it. our final battle." his expression is resolute, but his grip briefly firms before letting go. "you're one of us, robin, and no "destiny" can change that. now let's kill this dastard and be done with it!"
the man you're confronting only laughs. it's an ugly thing. "why do you resist? fools! struggle all you want," he says, with the air of a man who knows he's already won. your grip firms on the hilt of the sword you carry. "you cannot unwrite what is already written."
a momentary respite that isn't. as if something gives way, all three of you again throw yourself into conflict. spell and blade are brought to bear again; your sword bats away a bolt of miasma aimed for chrom, the divine blade of falchion gleams as it forces validar to abandon another spell intended for you. back and forth this exchange goes,
until finally, with a decisive blow, the sorcerer falls. but something's wrong. heavy magic still roils about the body.
chrom makes a mistake, too exultant in victory. you don't look away from the sorcerer, but he does to smile in relief at you before they've confirmed the man's death. it lurches to throw out one final spell, snarling, "this isn't over. damn you both—!"
you don't think, you just act, throwing yourself forward and throwing chrom out of the way—
your vision returns. everything hurts. your body feels distant as you collapse to the floor. you feel heavy you feel alight with energy you feel something's wrong. chrom rushes to your side, skidding on bent knee, panting with exertion. your body hears, somewhat distantly:
"are you all right?" concern is naked on his face before being replaced by an attempt at a reassuring smile. "that's the end of him."
distantly, your gaze slides over to the man, noting that validar does truly seem to be dead this time. it feels like a veil has been pulled over all your senses. "...anks to you we carried the day," chrom is saying. you try to keep your eyes on him, but every thought and movement feels heavy and sluggish, as if you have to fight for each one you make. your body's gaze lolls to the floor, your feet, and— "it's because you've been with me this whole time. we can rest easy now..."
—your(?) racing pulse echoes loudly in your(?) skull as chrom continues talking, hauling you(?) to your(?) feet, supporting you(?)—
chrom's smile transforms itself back into concern (fear? terror? desperation?) as his eyes meet yours again. "what's wrong? hey, hang on—"
something's wrong. chrom staggers back, face slack. there's a bolt in his gut. it is a mortal blow. there's a hand in front of you. it sparks with the aftershocks of a recently cast spell.
whose hand is this? who does it belong to?
ah, it is—
"this is not your—"
this is—
"your fault."
numbly you stare, frozen. the world narrows itself into a single point. you cannot make your body respond. he shouldn't be able to speak with a wound like that. this must be taking everything from him to say.
and he wastes it on—
"promise me... you'll escape from this place. please... go."
you are rooted to the spot as he collapses. this is... a joke, right? a waking nightmare? a dead man's laughter resounds in your ears, your mind, your blood. you understand what happened, with a cold and unreassuring certainty. the truth is ice in your veins.
if it weren't for you— if chrom had taken literally anybody else, trusted anyone else in place of you—
(you're the plegian in ylisse. there was, is, has been pushback against you since chrom appointed you as his right hand. what do they know of you? you've a past and fate you keep running from. you wear a coat adorned in the sigils of the enemy. how can you be placed in a position of such high favor? the exalt is too kind, too blind. you can't be trusted, the whispers went.
they were right—)
the body you're in stumbles, drags, crawls itself gracelessly, desperately over to chrom. the atmosphere of this hallowed ground is suffocating, oppressive, pervasive. it curls around the notacorpse it can't be, it can't and hauls it into itself. white magic flickers fitfully at the fingertips of the hands extended towards the body. please. o radiance. holy breath. a surge of force, something stoppering your throat. please. o naga's grace— dark magic, then, in a fit of desperation as you claw at the reserves of your own soul to fuel nosferatu. blood for blood, life for life. nothing. nothing. nothing. nothing. ]
1/2
in the moments before charging in to close the distance made in the wake of those two spells, chrom regroups with you and places a hand on your shoulder even as he keeps his eyes fixed on your father. "this is it. our final battle." his expression is resolute, but his grip briefly firms before letting go. "you're one of us, robin, and no "destiny" can change that. now let's kill this dastard and be done with it!"
the man you're confronting only laughs. it's an ugly thing. "why do you resist? fools! struggle all you want," he says, with the air of a man who knows he's already won. your grip firms on the hilt of the sword you carry. "you cannot unwrite what is already written."
a momentary respite that isn't. as if something gives way, all three of you again throw yourself into conflict. spell and blade are brought to bear again; your sword bats away a bolt of miasma aimed for chrom, the divine blade of falchion gleams as it forces validar to abandon another spell intended for you. back and forth this exchange goes,
until finally, with a decisive blow, the sorcerer falls. but something's wrong. heavy magic still roils about the body.
chrom makes a mistake, too exultant in victory. you don't look away from the sorcerer, but he does to smile in relief at you before they've confirmed the man's death. it lurches to throw out one final spell, snarling, "this isn't over. damn you both—!"
you don't think, you just act, throwing yourself forward and throwing chrom out of the way—
your vision returns. everything hurts. your body feels distant as you collapse to the floor. you feel heavy you feel alight with energy you feel something's wrong. chrom rushes to your side, skidding on bent knee, panting with exertion. your body hears, somewhat distantly:
"are you all right?" concern is naked on his face before being replaced by an attempt at a reassuring smile. "that's the end of him."
distantly, your gaze slides over to the man, noting that validar does truly seem to be dead this time. it feels like a veil has been pulled over all your senses. "...anks to you we carried the day," chrom is saying. you try to keep your eyes on him, but every thought and movement feels heavy and sluggish, as if you have to fight for each one you make. your body's gaze lolls to the floor, your feet, and— "it's because you've been with me this whole time. we can rest easy now..."
—your(?) racing pulse echoes loudly in your(?) skull as chrom continues talking, hauling you(?) to your(?) feet, supporting you(?)—
something's wrong something's wrong something's wrong—
chrom's smile transforms itself back into concern (fear? terror? desperation?) as his eyes meet yours again. "what's wrong? hey, hang on—"
something's wrong. chrom staggers back, face slack. there's a bolt in his gut. it is a mortal blow. there's a hand in front of you. it sparks with the aftershocks of a recently cast spell.
whose hand is this? who does it belong to?
ah, it is—
"this is not your—"
this is—
"your fault."
numbly you stare, frozen. the world narrows itself into a single point. you cannot make your body respond. he shouldn't be able to speak with a wound like that. this must be taking everything from him to say.
and he wastes it on—
"promise me... you'll escape from this place. please... go."
you are rooted to the spot as he collapses. this is... a joke, right? a waking nightmare? a dead man's laughter resounds in your ears, your mind, your blood. you understand what happened, with a cold and unreassuring certainty. the truth is ice in your veins.
if it weren't for you— if chrom had taken literally anybody else, trusted anyone else in place of you—
(you're the plegian in ylisse. there was, is, has been pushback against you since chrom appointed you as his right hand. what do they know of you? you've a past and fate you keep running from. you wear a coat adorned in the sigils of the enemy. how can you be placed in a position of such high favor? the exalt is too kind, too blind. you can't be trusted, the whispers went.
they were right—)
the body you're in stumbles, drags, crawls itself gracelessly, desperately over to chrom. the atmosphere of this hallowed ground is suffocating, oppressive, pervasive. it curls around the notacorpse it can't be, it can't and hauls it into itself. white magic flickers fitfully at the fingertips of the hands extended towards the body. please. o radiance. holy breath. a surge of force, something stoppering your throat. please. o naga's grace— dark magic, then, in a fit of desperation as you claw at the reserves of your own soul to fuel nosferatu. blood for blood, life for life. nothing. nothing. nothing. nothing. ]