People often underestimated the strength of a bow. This was understandable, particularly after seeing a man cut another man clean in half with six-foot length of steel. However, one should think closely about how far an arrow fired from a longbow can penetrate through an inch-thick door. Not far, true, perhaps a hand span at most. Then, one should contemplate precisely how many axe blows are required to break through the same door. Even a very strong man with a very big axe would require quite a few swings to get that far. True, an arrow would only leave a tiny hole in the door, while the axe blows would leave an enormous one. But when it comes to killing a man, it's not a matter of how much you maul his face, but how far your sword sticks in his chest.

Such were the happy thoughts of Robin, master tactician, as yet another arrow magically sprouted on his right palm.

"Forty-three!" The tactician counted. With a titanic effort, he tore the offending piece of wood out of his hand. Robin tossed it to one side, adding to the ever-increasing pile of spent shafts around him. His eyes never broke contact with those of the man shooting him.

"Not like you're the one being shot, you fucker." Robin thought as he processed the archer's look of pained terror.

The tactician reached out with his mutilated hand to ward off the incoming arrow. Unfortunately, there wasn't enough hand left to fully stop the arrow. The center of his palm exploded into red mist as the shaft blew straight through it, lodging itself in Robin's chest. Robin let out a gasp of pain. Part of it came out around the shaft.

"Forty….FOUR!" The tactician half-groaned, half-screamed. Shakily, he brought his other hand, barely better than his first, to his chest.

With shaking hands of his own, the archer drew his last arrow from his quiver. He moved like an automaton as he lifted his bow. At this point, the archer was moving more on habit than thought. His brain had locked down out of sheer horror a dozen arrows ago, unable to comprehend what was happening. Robin tensed as the archer pulled the bowstring back, about to take his final shot.

Almost literally on his last leg, the tactician spun, facing the archer with side. This limited his opponent's targets to his shoulder, arm, and ass. Unfortunately, the arrow caught him in the head. Fortunately, it went in through one cheek and popped out the other.

"Fowty…fife…" Robin gasped. "Thumia…. Nhow…"

Behind him, something exploded into action. The archer was still stupidly reaching for an arrow that wasn't there when his eyes caught on him. Numb horror transformed into open panic as a shadow suddenly fell across the man. He barely had time to scream before death descended on him.

Robin watched with grim satisfaction as the Pegasus rider struck the man. It almost made the whole ordeal worth it. Almost.

"What in the name of…? What are you doing?"

Internally, Robin groaned. "Not worth it. Not worth it at all."

"Robin." Chrom growled grimly as he approached the tactician. "I hope you can explain this to me."

The tactician held up a hand, indicating his need for time to recollect himself. With painstaking slowness, he reached for the arrow lodged in his mouth. Gingerly, he probed the skin around the hole, getting a feel of his injuries.

"Yes, I understand that could be something of an impediment to our conversation." The prince conceded, voice softening. "Still, you better have a damned good explanation for your acti-"

Robin began to scream.

A scream that was not in the slightest muffled by the arrow in his mouth.

This was because the arrow was now not in his mouth, but in his hand, torn straight from his mouth.

Chrom had to confirm this fact.

"…You're mad." The prince whispered.

"I'm dying." The tactician replied, his speech slightly garbled by the ragged holes in either cheek.

"What are you… what are you even doing?" Chrom finally managed.

"Tanking." Robin replied levelly.

"What?"

"For Sumia."

"What does that even mean?"

"It means I block arrows with my face until they run out of arrows. Then Sumia sweeps in and murders people when they're helpless."

"…I have faith in your tactical knowledge, so I won't question the efficiency of that method. Moral ramifications clearly mean nothing to you, so I won't discuss the ethics of your actions. Nevertheless, I'm going to have to ask why are you doing this."

Robin blinked. "So Sumia can gain experience, of course."

Chrom opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it. "Experience in what? Murder?"

"In battle." The tactician explained patiently. "You know, that thing we've been doing?"

"I don't think that running down unarmed men and killing them in cold-blood qualifies as battle experience." Chrom hissed.

The tactician blinked. "My lord, I was under the impression you've been doing this for years, not hours."

The crown prince of Ylisse bristled at these words.

"For all our lofty ideals and virtuous goals, make no mistake. We are murderers."

Robin spun to face his sworn lord, his expression grim.

"In the heat of battle, in some poor sleeper's bed, in front of someone's loving children, it doesn't matter."

The tactician's eyes bore into Chrom's own, challenging him.

"We are soldiers, the butchers of men. Nothing will change that fact."

Though the prince remained outwardly calm, inside, he was in turmoil. Had he made a mistake? Had he been too rash in trusting the fate of the army to this man? Had he declared a serpent to be the closest of his friends?

"They'll be safe… they'll be dead… they'll be safe… they'll be dead…"

Neither man was willing to break eye contact, but both focused on Sumia as she approached them. A vacant expression occupied her bloodstained face. She was tearing the petals off the flower in her hands with much more force than necessary. A small, broken giggle escaped her lips as she passed by the pair, ignoring both tactician and prince.

"Dead. Dead. All dead…. All dead…"

"…okay, I admit, that's kind of fucked up." Robin conceded.

"I trust you to put a stop to this." Chrom deadpanned.

"Fine. Second thing on my list of priorities. A distant second, but nevertheless second."

"Oh?" Chrom arched an eyebrow. "What's the first?"

The tactician rolled his eyes theatrically. As he turned to leave Chrom, he seemed to deflate, hunching over like a broken man.

"Healer… healer…!"