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It’s hard to sleep when their dreams are tinged with blood, broken bodies, and the taste of lightning burnt flesh. Any time sleep shifts towards such things, waking up in a cold sweat isn’t far behind. Robin considers all of that as she stretches her hand across the bed sheets, fingers uselessly searching for a husband who isn’t there.
She already has an idea on where to find him, and the sheets fall from her in silvery ripples as she turns to the balcony. She is right; certain as there are stars in the night sky, Chrom is out there, a moonlit white cape thrown around his shoulders. His eyes stare up at the heavens, and even in the pale moonlight, it’s clear that they are red from crying.
“…Nightmares?” Robin asks him, and he gives a reluctant nod. She wants to press him for the details, but already knows that’s like asking a stone to bleed. Even without a war, he tries to present a strong front, and remain a steadfast leader to his people.
He tries to be like Emmeryn, even though it’s eating him inside and out, and now it bows his head and turns his hands to fists. Something crumples between his fingers, and Robin catches a hint of parchment.
“What’s that?” They’re reaching a record for questions asked and answers given tonight, as Chrom turns to her and holds his hand out. A faded and time stained map flutters in his fingers.
“Well… You can probably see that it’s a map.” Chrom offers, and his laugh sounds tired and forced. “I got it from a late night visitor. She seemed oddly worried about us.”
Chrom nods to a spot over the balcony and across a night-clad garden. From this angle she can glimpse a small break in the wall, just large enough for a swordswoman to slip through.
“Marth gave you that?”
“Said that it might help us.” Chrom presses the map into Robin’s hands, fingers almost weaved into her own. Yet he hesitates holding onto her hands, drawing away. Much as she hates to admit it, Robin is glad; the nightmare of slipping lightning into his ribs is still too fresh. “Though she was a bit cryptic about how.”
She’s ready to try. That conviction lasts into the morning, and a journey to the stables.
-o-o-o-
Chrom’s conviction flickers when the first drops of rain splatter down. It isn’t long until the droplets become a torrent. The pegasus struggles in the storm winds, wings growing heavy from the soaking rain. Robin winces into his chest when the first branch of lightning splits the sky. Her shudders seep into his skin alongside the rain as she gathers herself and guides them down to the shelter of the trees; they’re already half drowned, and don’t need to add scorched skin to their problems.
The leaves swallow them up, muffling the growl of thunder overhead. Robin guides the pegasus on a frantic path, speeding underneath branches and arrowing straight towards an old cottage all but woven into the trees.
“Hello? Our apologies for intruding,” Chrom calls out, taking shelter in the doorway. Robin scrunches up beside him, right before the pegasus pushes them both inside with an impatient snort, desperate to fit itself inside and dry off. Chrom tries to apologize for the beast, only to realize the inside of the cottage is dark as a cave; no fire blazing in the hearth against the storm, and no residents demanding who they are.
In the gloom, Chrom feels his way with his hands. He runs his fingers along the door frame as he steps inside, picking out grain in the wooden beams. He finds whorls in the wood, but also something else; deep gouges are sunk into the walls, cut in a swinging arc from a weapon.
“…Plegian bandits?” He whispers, scanning the gloom. He picks out more details now. There’s furniture upended and broken like bones, unnerving stains set into the floor. Of the prior occupants, there’s no trace; this house is another grave marker. One of many that Chrom has foolishly set down in his war against Plegia.
Just like his father. Even with a roof over his head, a chill lingers on his skin.
“Here,” Robin tells him a split second before the cottage grows a little dimmer. He gives a confused mumble, muffled by the cloth thrown over his head. In another moment, his fingers find tassels and buttons, and he recognizes Robin’s coat; it’s done a better job of shrugging off the rain than his cape has.
“Wait… Robin, you’re just as drenched as I am.” He says, stepping towards her, and growing confused as she shrinks away, matching him for each step.
“...Sorry.” There’s a choked quality to her voice, and a fear sheening over her eyes. “I just-“
“You’re troubled by something, and it keeps you awake most nights.” He gives another dry laugh. “The same thing happens to me, after all…” He trails off, wincing as the lightning crackles overhead. The chill of water on his skin and the scent of fresh-churned mud outside reminds him all too well of the Midmire. They’ve yet to find that promised place of Marth’s, and he can feel an exhausted weight sink back over him.
-o-o-o-
At first Robin can only watch as Chrom slumps against the window, clutching at her robe and uselessly trying to work comfort out of it. Yet as she watches him, her feet are rooted to the spot, unwilling to let her move close; they conspire with the hard knot working its way from her throat to her stomach.
“…You’re frustratingly right.” She finds herself saying. “There… Is something wrong? I've seen you being haunted at night, just the same as me.”
She has a guess at what troubles him, too; she’s seen it often enough during the late nights. And now with rain pattering down on the roof, and Chrom curling into her robe… There’s a strange courage fighting against the knot in her guts. That courage makes her feet finally move, one step for each word she works out.
“I have nightmares. Dreams where I see you hurt, struggling to draw breath. They leave me sobbing, hollowed out, and desperate to find you, to make sure they aren’t real.” That gets her halfway to Chrom, and she watches him lift his head, the hood of her robe falling away from him.
“I wouldn’t want you to face your nightmares alone.” His words draw Robin in, pulling her all the way to Chrom. His fingers shiver as they reach up to brush at her face, and even as the storm rages around them, this time Robin doesn’t flinch.
“So I don’t have to carry the burden by myself?” He nods, gently threading his hands through her hair. “Does that mean the same is true for you?”
Robin pulls at Chrom, sinking into the seat by the window. He kneels at the floor at her behest, almost like a knight offering the knee… And with hitching breaths, Chrom whispers some of his own nightmares.
He tells her about finding himself trapped in the Midmire, the mud turned vivid red as he wades through blood. There’s a growl in his voice when he describes seeing himself reflected in pools of rain and gore, but seeing the face of his father instead. His voice almost breaks apart when he talks about seeing Emmeryn in his nightmares, and never being able to save her.
“Or never measuring up to her.” Chrom finishes, eyes downcast and his wounds all showing clear. Even a stone is capable of bleeding and hurting.
“Chrom, you don’t need to be your sister.” Robin finds herself saying, and this time it’s her turn to run her fingers over his head, soothing him. “And you certainly aren’t destined to be like your father. Before you’re anyone’s child or sibling… You are yourself.”
As his breathing evens out, so does the storm. The clouds thin outside, and thin beams of sunlight spill in through the windows. A flash of blue and silver catches her eyes; a flurry of wings darts past the panes of glass. Chrom raises his head with a surprised noise, which Robin echoes as she watches a cloud of butterflies take flight. Their wings seem to drink in the light, and shimmer as they fly ever upwards.
As she watches them, she also feels Chrom shift and climb up beside her, wrapping an arm around her and pulling her into the warmth of the robe. Robin leans into it, and finds herself giving a quick moment of thanks to Marth.
As they watch the flock of butterflies swirl and dance, Chrom takes the parchment out of his pocket again, holding it up to the wane sunlight. Smudged as the ink is Robin can still pick out the markers, and she knows that they’re both right where they need to be.