Time had not been kind to him; not when she and Chrom had found him in a field, without an identity to be had, what felt like centuries ago, and not now, when the pieces of himself that had once made him Ylisse’s trusted tactician (human) were slowly warping into little more than scales and memories that barely felt like they belonged to him anymore. And the way she leans forward in an attempt to catch a glimpse beneath the worn hood isn’t lost upon him (he can’t blame her; he sounds like the devil to himself, he can’t imagine how his voice must grate against her ears), so he lifts his chin sightly, hefty fabric draping over the right side of his face, but revealing just a bit more of his left (exposing odd scars where the Fell Dragon’s second and third sets of eyes would have been upon his own face and just the hint of his own, too red iris). He knows it won’t quell the nervous tone she speaks with (and how it kills him to hear it flow from her lips like he’s just a faceless stranger to her), but it’s all he can offer.
“It was a long time ago, forgive me, milady.” The words sound odd upon his tongue, and he wonders if it’s simply because it’s been years since he’s spoken to another on somewhat friendly terms or simply because the word ‘milady’ sounded foreign to him when it was aimed at someone he had once considered something akin to family. “She was like a sister to me, and I hope she finds herself well these days.” But the words sound like venom to him when they’re laced with Grima’s low growl, but, for the moment, the Fell Dragon has chosen to remain dormant; lingering beneath his tattered skin, watching, waiting.
Sharp fangs press into the mushy flesh of the inside of his mouth when she offers to heel him; chapped, bloodied lips pursing together into a thin line that’s something between a frown and a melancholy grin. He had almost forgotten how kind she had been (apparently war had not drained it from her like it had him), and for a moment the offer left him with a meek voice lodged between his throat and his heart (because how long had it been since someone had offered to help him rather than kill him; he can’t remember). And it stings more than it should; slices through the foggy memories he clings to like a knife splitting him from the only lifeline he has left. He had to force himself to breathe again; to not stumble over his words or chase after a past that has left him behind to rot.
“I’m grateful, and I do not doubt your skill, princess,” he smiles; still the title feels like a rock in his mouth, “But I’m afraid I can’t be healed.” He wishes he could be (but he tells himself it’s better this way; he deserves the hand fate has bolted to his being). “So please don’t waste your time or energy on me. There is so much more you could accomplish with it instead.” He reaches out a gloved hand; scales scratching against the frayed fabric like a beast trying to claw its way out of a cage, to gently ruffles her hair. He used to do it often (to reassure her, or to tease her when the time between battles had dragged on so very slowly); the familiar motion coming so naturally to him that it took a moment for his crowded brain to catch up with his arm, and he was quick to pull his hand away when he had realized what he had done.
“Forgive me, I’m afraid it’s an old habit.”
with her time spent with an army, mending wounds via staff and by hand, the princess has come across many scars. some were more visible than others, some larger, and some appearing more cruel. each mark tainting once pure skin only ever sent shivers and sympathy down her spine, and his are no exception. her brows are quick to furrow, no matter how difficult they are to see. his skin is marred, and it’s no wonder he wears his hood. suddenly, she feels terrible for even attempting to try to view his features, her pangs of guilt pushing back the unease that comes with his frighteningly faint red gaze. fingers fiddle with the cuffs of her dress, eyes being cast elsewhere as if to showcase regret for her rudeness. older and wiser she may be, but the insensitivity from youth seemed to follow her nonetheless.
lips part to speak, but she can’t help the way her body seems to freeze as this hooded figure ruffles her hair. familiarity courses through her veins as this stranger lays affection upon her, a soft gasp leaving still gaping lips. when he rests his hand atop her head, a ghost of warmth from someone important seemed to gently call to memories she isn’t sure are there. perhaps she was attributing this warmth to the long gone touch of her dear sister ( however, the love she feels isn’t from the soft hands of emmeryn, but from rough hands that were too familiar with war and it wasn’t her brother’s so then... who’s...? ).
she finds no offense in his action. no, in fact, all she feels is curiosity. she peers up at the man with a puzzled expression, heart attempting to unite with her brain. the heart remembers, but the brain doesn’t, and it’s so frustrating, yet she cannot voice it to someone she doesn’t know. ❝ i... see...❞ she says slowly, as though recovering from her stupor. blinking, she clears her throat, the smallest fond smile spreading across her features. “i understand... the army i was with became my family too... we’ve all gone our separate ways, but i hope they’re doing well... someday, maybe you’ll meet that girl again. i’m sure she’d be glad to see you.”
and truly, she would be, had lissa remembered him. had fate been kind and allowed robin a future in ylisse, after such a long absence, the princess would shed tears upon their reunion. he was a dear friend, a sibling, a member of her ever large family, and one of her dearest companions. she’d call him a fool for being gone for so long, and though his appearance would be different, she’d love him all the same.
because he was robin, no matter what happened.
“you don’t have to apologize for patting my head... but, still, kinda weird for a stranger to do that to a princess, isn’t it?” her voice carries light amusement, something even the darkest of days couldn’t diminish. however it is fleeting, her expression becoming solemn soon enough. “i’m sorry though... for not being able to help you. i don’t even have a drink that could soothe your throat...” her arms cross in thought, lips pursed and soon enough she’s nodding, a hand upon her hip as an index finger raises.
“listen, i know i talked to you first, but if you’re not feeling well, it’s okay to say that so you can go rest. maybe i’m being too pushy, and i know we live in a pretty peaceful time now, but travelling alone is dangerous when you’re sick! back when i was fighting in the war, i’d always get scolded for not taking care of my health! i was always told ‘pranks are fun, but don’t go out in the rain to go do it!’” though mimicking robin’s voice, quickly she pauses, raised hand resting upon her chin as she looks down in thought. she appears troubled once again, brows furrowing as if desperately searching through memories unknowingly stolen from her.
“... i can’t remember who said that though... i think it was... hm... maybe it was one of the supporting soldiers...”
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