Disclaimer: I do not own Fire Emblem in any way, shape, or form, this I vow.

(I'm so sorry about the wait please don't kill me)

A/N: I'm back! I apologize profusely about the hiatus. For everyone still following the story, please enjoy this incredibly, ridiculously long chapter, a much-awaited climax to the tale!

As always, I read and appreciate every review! A special thank you to the wonderful readers that continued to offer support despite the wait – you all kept me focused and inspired! There will be one final chapter after this one - and a concluding note (to be listed as chapter 10) with a few final notes on themes. (I'm a boring lit nerd, I know.)

Thank you and enjoy!

Chapter Eight – Raging Storm

The march was quiet as the Shepherds retreated back across the Feroxi border.

Frederick had seen to it that the mourning royal siblings were given the privacy their own wagon for the journey, and Chrom sat in the dim silence, one arm around his sister's shoulders as she dozed fitfully across his lap.

You left too soon, Emm… he thought as Lissa leaked another tear in her sleep. How are we going to do this without you..?

He looked up as he felt the wagon come to a halt, frowning and resisting the urge to rub at the dark circles under his eyes. The march couldn't be over already, they had just set off…

His confusion was assuaged when a petite, cloaked figure climbed in through the back curtains. At first, he thought it was Robin; but his relief faded as the visitor's hood fell back to reveal a rosy cascade of adorned hair. The woman in question shrank back a step as she realized the prince was awake and watching her.

"S-s-sorry!" Her soft voice trembled as she clutched a shapeless parcel to her chest. Chrom recognized her then, it was the same woman that had smuggled them out of Plegia in a dancer's caravan, another loyal asset of Regna Ferox. He gave a tired exhale.

The dancer fidgeted as she felt the wagon driver start up their rolling pace once again. Steeling herself, she stepped forward to explain her intrusion.

"I… I thought you might need…" her voice failed her again as her face flushed in the darkness. Dropping her eyes to the floor, she shuffled over and deposited her armful on the bench seat: blankets a large water-skin. Chrom blinked at the offering.

"Thank you," he managed after a moment, looking up to discover that the dancer had already fled the scene. The prince gazed after her as the edge of her cloak slipped back through the curtains.

Returning his attention to the items she left, he gently arranged his sister with a cushion before slumping against the wall more comfortably. Before he had realized just how exhausted he was, sleep had already overtaken him.

Frederick saw the pink-haired dancer leave the company of his charges. He watched her leap back off the moving carriage, stumbling as she hit the ground in a way that was somehow still graceful.

On any other day, the knight would have set upon her immediately for disturbing Chrom and Lissa's solitude – but as it was, he simply sat back and watched the shy creature pull her hood up and return to her dancer's carriage. Part of him was only dissuaded because he had witnessed her intentions. The girl was a trusted ally, and a harmless-looking one at that. The rest of him was too distracted to care.

The knight was preoccupied because Robin had decided to hold his hand.

They rode on his horse alongside the caravan, a familiar situation that was only compromised when Robin reached out and claimed his grip from the reins. He was worried, at first; since their morning had been spent in relative silence and glassy eyes. She still looked so breakable to him. But as he felt her twine her fingers with his, and gently tug his arm across her body, he couldn't help the bloom of affection in his chest. After last night, the action felt… intimate.

With the loss of the Exalt still weighing upon him, Frederick couldn't quite smile – not yet. But his harsh frown softened, and he could swear his heart beat stuttered.

Robin was the distraction that managed to keep him composed as the otherwise solemn march continued. With her small hand in his, he could think of nothing else but her presence. He found himself staring at her every chance he could get. Had her eyes always been so pretty? And her chin so delicately curved? She was so striking, so lovely… How could he have ever looked upon her with disdain?

How did he not know she was beautiful?

Frederick sighed, sorely tempted to pull his passenger into a tighter embrace. Instead, he continued to steer his mare one-handed, mulling over his thoughts in silence. He dared not even think about the implications of his emotions concerning the woman in his lap. Such feelings were not… appropriate… for a knight to share with Ylisse's tactician.

And yet, he found himself secretly longing to have them returned.

"Gods, I was just so powerless…"

The Feroxi throne room was hauntingly quiet. The rest of the Shepherds looked on as their prince and his impromptu war council discussed their next move.

Frederick winced to overhear his lord's heartache. But Robin was here now, and she knew just what to say to comfort her friend. Frederick watched them talk, even catching the flicker of relief on Robin's face when Chrom absolved her of any remaining guilt.

"Together… maybe we can be something more."

Frederick couldn't help but frown at Robin's soft words to the prince. It almost sounded like… but no, the two of them were just good friends, nothing else. He felt a wash of shame for even considering the thought at such a time as this.

But he continued to listen intently as the tactician comforted her mourning friend. And when Chrom swept her up in a bone-crushing hug, Frederick found his emotions in a snarl.

"My Shepherds… my warriors…" the prince finally turned to address the group, "There is work to be done."

When the council finally seemed to have adjourned, Frederick made a beeline for the prince. He wasn't quite sure what he wanted to say, but he figured he would start with another apology for his shortcomings. However, he soon noticed that he wasn't the only person in line to speak with his liege – the pink-haired woman had beaten him there.

"I'd like to go too, if I may…" a trembling, melodic voice insisted to the prince's back.

"Hm?" Chrom turned to find the source.

The dancer pulled on her hair with nervous hands as she dropped her eyes from his face. "T-the Exalt did me a kindness once. It would honor me to have a part in her justice!" The newfound strength in her voice floundered as she continued. "Although all I can do is dance… And I'm not so skilled at that, if we're being honest…" she was practically mumbling by the end.

"Nonsense!"

Kahn Basilio marched his way into the conversation, clapping a hand on the girl's hunched shoulders with a boisterousness that made Frederick start and freeze at the ready, the way one does when fine china nearly falls from the table. To his relief, the small dancer seemed not to shatter so easily.

"Olivia here is a Feroxi treasure! You won't meet a finer dancer in all the realms!" The Kahn boasted. "She inspires soldiers to work twice as hard – you'd do well to bring her along." He winked at the prince.

The dancer turned strawberry-red and seemed to give up on any response of her own. She all but hid behind Basilio until the kahn had said his piece and gone tromping off again.

"So… your name is Olivia?"

The dancer looked up to find that she now had the young lord's undivided attention, which only made her color further.

"Y-yes, sire!"

The prince rubbed the back of his neck and stuck out his hand. "Well um… welcome aboard. I'm Chrom."

After a moment of hesitation, she reached out to shake it gingerly.

Frederick watched them like a hawk; astounded that the prince, given his poor track record with women, managed to get even two words out of such a timid girl. Around him, the rest of the Shepherds began to filter out of the room; leaving just the two targets of his scrutiny… and one other hand tugging on his sleeve.

The knight blinked, looking down to find Robin at his side.

'Let them be,' her expression seemed to say.

Sparing one last glance over his shoulder at the prince and his stuttering conversation partner, Frederick ignored his better instincts and followed his companion quietly out of the room.

Their shadows flickered on the torchlit walls as they made their way down to the fort's barracks, where the rest of the Shepherds were bedding down for the night. Frederick wondered if it would be acceptable to reach out and take her hand again while they walked. And although he yearned to do so, he refrained.

Before they reached their destination, however, Robin drifted to a stop in the middle of an empty hall, prompting him to follow suit.

"…What's wrong?" he asked gently, mindful of the troubled look on her face.

The tactician fiddled with the hem of her sleeves.

"Do you…" she paused, unsure of how to continue.

Frederick tried to catch her averted eyes. He pursed his lips, wanting very much to reach out and smooth away the anxious creases in her brow.

Robin tried again.

"Will you... stay with me, again? Tonight…?" She finally managed, her face both pleading and contrite.

Frederick felt his heart pick up pace. He had been aching to hear such an invitation. The words were addictive - he could spend another night by her side, if only he accepted. And he wanted to. Very badly.

But he sighed.

"That would be… unwise. What would our comrades think?" He frowned at the thought, envisioning the close quarters of the barracks' bunks. In the privacy of Robin's tent, their previous night together had gone unnoticed; but Frederick knew that making a habit out of it was asking for trouble. Gossip was the last thing they needed.

"I don't care what they think…" she mumbled.

He swallowed the giddy spike of hope at her statement.

"Robin…"

"Please?"

She locked eyes with him, and the knight looked genuinely torn.

"Robin, you must think of your reputation," Frederick insisted, "You are Ylisse's Grandmaster strategist. For us to be seen sharing a bedchamber…" he almost tripped over the words, distracting thoughts tugging at his resolve, "It would be… terribly indecent…"

Her eyes lowered with guilt. "I know."

"Then you understand why…?"

He let the sentence hang, arms caught half-extended in a useless gesture. He wished he could sweep back her hair, or glide his fingers over her temple – anything to ease the distress on her face.

"Yes," Robin admitted with a grimace. "I… I'm sorry. Just forget I said anything." She shook her head, turning to hurry away down the hall.

Her movement was halted, however, when Frederick snagged her wrist. She looked up to see a tangle of emotions in his dark eyes.

"There is no need to apologize," he frowned.

That only seemed to embarrass her further. Robin clenched her jaw and tried to worm her way out of his hold.

"Come now," he chided as she turned stubbornly away from him. "You know that I wish to share your company as well..."

"Do you?" she mumbled, almost to herself. Before he could object, a sour, weak laugh bubbled up from her throat, and she shook her head in shame. "Gods, I'm so selfish… I shouldn't be asking you for anything, you've done so much for me already-"

"And I would do more." He cut her off, his tone harsher than he intended. Did she not realize how little it would take to convince him to consent to her wishes?

"But you shouldn't," Robin grimaced, "It's not fair to the others."

Hang the others… he wanted to say. But that would be a sentiment ill-befitting his station.

The knight tried to dial back the intensity of his gaze as he felt Robin tug again on her captive wrist. He let the action pull him closer, herding her away from her escape.

"I care about you," he insisted in a soft voice.

His heart was thudding in his ears. Robin had ceased her wriggling at the unexpected proximity, and she froze as her back met the cool stone wall. Frederick towered over her, suddenly overwhelmed by his position. No, it wasn't fair to put her first, but he couldn't help it. Robin, his Robin, had survived so much; and still he feared he might lose her to the war. He braced an arm against the wall. The thought made him weak.

Deep down, he wanted to be selfish. He wanted to take Robin and ride off into the night, to somewhere safe – where they could forget the horrors of the past and be together. He wanted to hold her and never let go, to never again watch her stride into danger.

Life was so short, especially in wartime… Why couldn't they be selfish?

Because I am a knight, was his answering thought.

He let out a growl of frustration.

Robin looked up at the sound, and the last of his moral barriers crumbled under her gaze. No, she was not his lord or lady… but she deserved happiness. And he would grant it – duty or not.

Swallowing his reservations, Frederick steeled himself to do something very… un-knightly.

Whatever words Robin was about to say remained caught in her throat, as she felt his hand relinquish its hold to carefully lace his fingers through hers. His other palm came to rest against the side of her neck, pushing a firm thumb under her chin to keep her wary eyes locked with his.

The look on his face was calm and serious as he lifted their entwined hands, and deliberately grazed his lips across her knuckles.

"Tell me what you want." He ordered in a quiet tone.

Robin swallowed. Her skin burned where he had kissed it.

"I don't…" her words faded with her confidence.

The knight shifted his hand to rub his thumb along her cheek.

"Tell me."

He leaned further down, doing his best to shorten the distance as his calloused fingers reached along her neck and into her hair.

"I…" she hesitated again, her voice dropping to a barely audible level. "I want you to... stay. I don't want to be left alone..."

Frederick let out a silent breath, resigning himself to his decision – decency be damned.

"Then I shall."

It was hard for him to feel as guilty as he should, watching Robin try to hide her relief. He rubbed his thumb over her cheek again, unwilling to let her go. She was so beautiful, so soft…

He could imagine letting his hand drift over to angle her chin, leaning in just a few more inches…

But no, that would be pushing it too far.

Instead, he anchored his palm, and placed a reverent kiss on her forehead; allowing himself the luxury of lingering just a few moments too long.

When he pulled back, he was surprised to find that Robin had turned a very adorable shade of pink. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he latched onto the hope that she was blushing from affection, rather than embarrassment. Frederick stepped away, re-gifting the tactician her personal space. She was uncharacteristically quiet as he lead the way back through the empty halls, heading in the opposite direction of the barracks to seek out safer quarters; and he began to wonder if he had overstepped his boundaries with that last gesture.

The only thing that quelled the knight's fretting mind was the small hand that, despite everything, remained tightly curled around his.

There was whispering the next day.

Between Shepherds and Feroxi alike, hushed voices began to leak hesitant gossip. Some of it revolved around a certain great knight, who had not only gone missing the evening before, but had also skipped breakfast and morning chores for the first time on record. When Frederick was eventually sighted amongst the company, his increased gravitation to Robin continued to raise eyebrows.

Another portion of the whispering was attributed to the prince: who, despite still recovering from the tragedy, eased the tension of his brow when by the side of the soft-spoken dancer. Olivia, though little more than a mirage to most, was frequently sighted trailing shyly behind her new commander.

The most important rumors, however, arrived in the form of the Feroxi scouts.

Word had traveled in a frenzy across the realm that the once-mighty Plegian army had fallen into disarray. And when a breathless group of Feroxi soldiers brought witness news of the Mad King's forces torn by infighting, and waves of deserters chanting the martyred Exalt's name, the prince and his comrades could scarce believe it.

Orders were given at once to prepare for a final campaign into the bleeding heart of Plegia. The Khans rallied every last man in their forces. The Shepherds cleaned out their weapon reserves, readied the convoy, and stoked the fires of their resentment. The war council convened once again, with Robin spinning battle plans like spiderwebs from the head of the table.

Frederick watched her, entranced by every dance of her fingers and word off her tongue. He could see the venom in her eyes as she devised Plegia's downfall, brandishing her intellect as one would a carving knife. But for all the awe he held, witnessing her at her craft, he could only watch for so long.

It was the war-monk who found Frederick in the fort's tiny chapel, brushing the dust off of a bench so he might kneel. The armored man bowed his head to the empty altar, feeling very much like a newly knighted squire before the divines: unworthy, and lost for words.

Libra cleared his throat in the doorway.

"It gladdens me to see someone besides myself in these chambers," he spoke, earning the attention of the knight. The monk gave a wistful smile as he came to kneel at the same bench. "But something tells me you aren't here simply to offer your devotion, Sir Frederick."

"And why would you think that?"

Libra cast him a knowing glance. "Not just anyone would excuse themselves from their liege's war table looking as troubled as you do."

After a moment, the knight gave a resigned sigh. "…I have come seeking counsel."

"Well, Naga is listening," Libra replied, gesturing to the stone ceiling as if he could envision the heavens beyond it. "And so am I, should you choose to share your prayers."

The two of them sat in companionable silence for a minute or so, while words tumbled over each other in Frederick's mind, weighing what should be spoken.

"I've served the royal house of Ylisse for many years," Frederick finally said, his brow furrowed as he stared ahead into the chipped wood grain of the altar. "I pledged myself to the line of the Exalted, marked by Naga herself... and I have always held this to be… the right path."

"… And you fear to have strayed?" Libra prodded gently when the knight fell quiet.

Frederick only dipped his head lower. "As this war nears its end, I wish I could say that my only thoughts are with my departed queen… but they are not."

Libra hesitated before voicing his next words.

"Is this because of Robin?"

Frederick's eyes flashed up to meet his, daring the monk to speak gossip. But he found only the patient gaze of a confessional attendant.

"I may have only been with this company for a short time, Sir Frederick, but I am a priest. Don't think that I don't know love when I see it," Libra chided as the knight glowered and shoved himself up to sit back on the bench. "And don't be so quick to sully such a thing with shame."

"And why should I not?" Came the clipped reply.

"Because you are a just man, and she is a selfless woman - such feelings are nothing other than a blessing."

"I am a knight at war. How is it not sacrilege?" Frederick snapped, the words marred by an undercurrent of despair. "Gods above, she wears a Plegian coat! For all we know, she could hail straight from the den of our enemies!"

"Naga would not care – and neither should you," the monk responded with patience, "I've heard much about the self-sacrificing deeds of Ylisse's tactician. Surely you know by now that she is a good person."

"…Undoubtedly."

"Then have faith that you are in Naga's good graces," Libra said simply. "To devote your every thought to the stewardship of your lieges, or the mourning of your queen, is a function better left to the common servant. You are a knight pledged to the nation of Naga's chosen: destined, I'm sure, to play a greater role. The way I see it, you have been given a powerful motive to stay your course, and pursue peace.

The knight looked unconvinced, and Libra sighed.

"Tell me, Sir Frederick, do you… fear to lose her?"

The knight started at the words, his mind conjuring up unbidden imaginings of Robin meeting her end on the battlefield. Reckless fighter that she was, he had seen more than enough close calls to fuel such visions.

How it pained him now to know that she had danced so close, so often to the edge of the afterlife. After having lost his queen… he could not bear to lose another.

"… The idea haunts me every hour," he finally admitted.

"And you would face the Mad King himself to keep her from harm?"

"I plan to." The conviction in his voice was hard as flint.

Libra turned back towards the altar. "You should know, then, that many of our comrades march forth with nothing but anger in their hearts. They seek retribution for what they've suffered, it blinds them. It can't be helped, they are only human – but it is toxic nonetheless."

Frederick said nothing as he processed his words.

"This is why you haven't strayed from your path," Libra concluded. "So long as you endeavor to preserve one life, rather than end a hundred others, you walk with Naga. When the time comes to fight, I have no doubt that you will serve as Ylisse's shield rather than her throwing knives. Which, I believe, is what our Lady Emmeryn would have preferred."

Frederick sighed. He raised his eyes to the ceiling, but could see only stone and rafters. He didn't deserve such patient assurances from a man of Naga, and yet he hoped they were true. If ever there was a time and place to pray – he prayed they were true.

"Your input is much appreciated," Frederick said finally, rising from his seat.

Libra looked over his shoulder as the knight made for the door, before seeming to remember something.

"I would also appreciate-"

"Confidentiality?" The monk guessed, hiding a wry smile.

"Yes."

Libra raised a hand in oath. "You have it, of course. Though if I may say," he added in a lighter tone, "You needn't burden yourself with so much worry over Robin. I saw her myself on the battlefield – she's quite strong. I daresay she could take even you in a fight."

Frederick frowned. As if such a suggestion would keep him from the familiar gut-wrenching fear of watching Robin charge into danger. But he held back his retort.

"Good day, Brother Libra."

The monk sighed as the departing tread of armored boots left him to his solitude... and figured an extra prayer on the troubled knight's behalf couldn't hurt.

"…You want to fight me?"

Robin nodded, tossing a wooden sword in the knight's direction. Frederick caught it without taking his eyes from hers.

"It's about time I put my skills to the test," she explained, unclasping her cloak and dropping it on a nearby crate. Her elegant armor plates had suffered the same fate, and lay stacked in a neat pile as Robin stretched and rolled her shoulders.

They were barely a week into the march, but the grandmaster was already seeming more like her old self. The fire had returned to her eyes; she walked with purpose and held herself with confidence once more. And Frederick couldn't be happier to see her smiles reappear.

He had been taken by surprise, however, when she managed to coax him from tending to his horse that evening, and out to the camp's makeshift sparring pit. It had been quite some time since their last training session together – as Robin had grown quite capable, and had taken to practicing on her own. Yet here she stood, the sunset's last rays glinting through her pale hair, making a demand that the knight never would have expected from her.

"We've tested your skills many times over," Frederick reminded her with a hint of amusement. "I daresay you don't need any more instruction."

She shook her head. "That's not what I mean. With you, training is always drills, drills, drills... I think you owe me a proper sparring match by now," she quipped, raising her wooden weapon with a theatrical flourish.

Frederick quirked an eyebrow at her, and she gestured impatiently.

"Very well," he acquiesced, "But if we're to be on even footing…" he set his practice sword aside and set to work stripping off his own armor.

"You don't have t-"

Robin's protests were interrupted by the clatter of metal plates on the ground. Frederick gave her a challenging look as he proceeded to shrug out of his jacket and pull loose his necktie.

"There," he announced, crisply rolling up his sleeves and reclaiming the wooden sword. He mimicked her stance, pretending not to notice the way her eyes were skirting up and down his form.

Frederick gave a disapproving huff as he sized her up, imagining the bruises his small adversary would sustain without proper protection. How stubborn this woman could be… but if she planned to spar without her armor, then he would be damned not to follow suit. At the very least, the vulnerability would remind him to pull his punches.

The knight grimaced internally. As if he needed help achieving that mindset. He was already floundering in his resolve to raise even the most harmless of blades against Robin, but he did his best to swallow his more distracting thoughts on the matter. It was just training, after all.

"Whenever you're ready," he prodded after a moment.

Robin's expression was shielded, unreadable. She adjusted her position, and Frederick watched her eyes harden in concentration while he waited for her to make the first move.

She lunged forward.

He had expected a chaotic slash to parry, but was instead surprised to see her blade arc through a meticulous pattern. He shuffled through the footwork of his defense, his weapon intercepting hers like clockwork, distributing the momentum of her swings so smoothly, it would have appeared rehearsed to an observer. Robin's advance worked in fluid tandem, her breathing even and her calculating eyes on his – together, their movement looked for all the world to be a dance, rather than combat.

The knight couldn't shake the feeling that she was testing him, waiting for something. The patient expression on her face was a far cry from the intensity he had come to expect from her. They continued their weaving swordplay until Robin paused to lower her weapon.

"…What is it?" he asked.

She was frowning at him, almost in annoyance.

"You're not trying."

"Indeed, I am," he objected.

"You're not trying to win," she elaborated, her eyes narrowing. "Come on. After all this time, I expected Frederick the Wary would be keen to put me in my place."

"I desire no such thing," he replied, affronted. "You requested to spar, not to drill, as I recall."

She scoffed at that. "And do you spar this way with Stahl or Sully? Or even Chrom?"

Frederick hesitated, in an effort to be truthful.

"…That is a different... scenario."

"How so?"

He stared at Robin, lost for explanation. He couldn't tell her that it was because he could never see her as a subordinate, or a student, or an opponent; not anymore. He couldn't tell her that when he watched her heft her makeshift weapon, he thought of nothing but how lovely she was. He couldn't tell her that, in truth, he had already surrendered to her - and only her.

"Robin, my job is to protect you," he explained instead, "not to best you."

The tactician scowled. "Well, what if I want to do the protecting for a change?" she challenged.

Frederick opened his mouth, but his immediate thought was to refuse the idea. He couldn't imagine such a thing; to see this clever, beautiful, reckless fool become a shield... taking his place in the line of fire... He was Frederick the Wary – it was his task to be the impenetrable defender, the unbreakable wall. He was her guardian, and he would die before relinquishing that role.

At the moment, his primary concern was the growing aggravation on her face. It was his responsibility to soothe this too – she had to be assured that there was no cause for upset. As long as he drew breath, she would always be safe.

"Robin…" he reached out like he wanted to take her hand, but she ignored the gesture.

"On your guard," she commanded, readying her stance again.

Frederick sighed, halfheartedly raising his weapon.

This time, she struck like a viper. The knight parried her thrust, staggered by the unexpected power behind it. She whirled around and attacked again, trying to goad him into retaliation. He offered only a simple sweep to her right side that she disengaged with near disdain.

Robin continued her assault, her complex maneuvers growing in brutality. The frustration was evident on her face as Frederick just managed to deflect each one; and when he finally stumbled under her onslaught, she stepped back to circle him, panting.

"Robin, what… do you hope… to achieve from this…?" He demanded, his own lungs beginning to burn from the exertion. She was so much stronger than he had anticipated.

The tactician brought her sword down in another slashing arc, which he held off with a grunt.

"We're – supposed – to be – equals !" She snapped between swings, her weapon finally meeting his with a resounding crack.

The knight didn't have time to wonder at her implications as she shoved at their interlocked swords and propelled him backwards by his own weight. Robin wasted no time to snag her opportunity, powering a well-timed strike that wrenched his weapon from his hand – sending it to the ground.

Frederick could do nothing but stare down at his companion, as he felt the dull tip of her sword come to rest at his throat.

After a few frozen seconds, Robin seemed to remember who it was at the end of her blade, and her arm sagged, dropping her weapon to graze the dirt instead.

"You think… I don't worry… every battle…?" she panted, "that you won't … make it?"

Frederick felt his heart thud beneath his own belabored breathing.

"I need to be able… to protect you too…" she muttered.

The knight kept his mouth clamped shut, thoughts running wild at her words. Until now, he had hardly dared to guess at her feelings for him, and even then he doubted what he read in those deep eyes of hers. But to finally hear, by Robin's own words, that she reciprocated even a fraction of the care that he held for her…

Frederick wrangled with his still-hammering pulse. Were he a lesser man, he would claim there were butterflies wreaking havoc in his chest. Wyverns, perhaps, would be a better description.

He couldn't stay at arms distance. Not when Robin stood before him clearly in need of… something. She looked to be torn between the prospects of sulking, pacing, or punting her wooden sword across the field. A tinge of sunlight found her over the horizon, glinting off her furrowed brow and taut shoulders in a faint sheen of sweat. The longer Frederick stared at her, lungs heaving in sync with his, muscles bunched along her lithe limbs, eyes still wild from exertion… the more entranced he became.

He wanted to be closer; to feel her charged skin under the pads of his fingers. This Robin was new to him, fire-wreathed and untamed. She made his blood run molten.

The knight subtly shook himself as Robin's voice snapped him out of his reverie.

"… I'm sorry," she said, the passion in her countenance having finally cooled, "this war just has me so…" She searched for a suitable word, and huffed when she couldn't seem to find one.

"I believe I know the feeling..." Frederick replied, edging towards her. He reached down and gently pried the weapon from her hand, allowing his fingers to brush and linger against hers in a way that was nothing but deliberate.

He knew that his next course of action should be to return said weapon to the supply cart, but something about the way Robin looked at him kept the knight rooted to the spot. Her gaze flicked down from his own, dancing briefly along his unbuttoned collar and the lines of his chest. Her expression remained carefully schooled.

Frederick was disappointed when she stepped around him, breaking his trance yet again. A feeling not unlike hunger was beginning to take hold of him – demanding her proximity, desiring her attention. He barely had the composure to nod politely as the tactician thanked him for humoring her, and made a hurried excuse about wanting to hit the showers.

He gave a heavy exhale, watching her stride off with her cloak under her arm. His thoughts were restless, tangled with the polar cravings to either follow her or march as far away as possible.

An ice cold bath suddenly sounded like a rather enticing idea.

It wasn't much later that Frederick found himself again seeking out Robin's company. Were he of sound mind, he would have kicked himself for being such an addict. However, as he wandered the campsite looking for her, the appearance of his prince cut such indignity short.

"F-FREDERICK, HI. Um… hello."

The knight stopped in his tracks.

Chrom was currently struggling to hide a nearly terrified expression, looking very much like a criminal that had been caught red-handed. Given that the prince's acting skills were already cringe-worthy on a good day, Frederick was immediately suspicious.

"…Milord. Might I ask where you are headed…?" He answered slowly.

"Nowhere! I mean-" Chrom shifted his weight, resisting the urge to smack a hand to his forehead at his own botched recovery. "I-I'm going to bed. Straight to bed."

Frederick narrowed his eyes and planted himself in the prince's path.

"Milord."

Chrom swallowed.

Frederick almost felt like the same young retainer he had been ten years ago, facing down a guilty royal child. He gave his prince a hard look; assuring without words that he was still not above scruffing his cape should he try to run.

"If there is something I should be concerned with…" the knight fished for an explanation.

"No-no! Everything is fine! Robin is f- I mean- we are ALL fine! Nothing to worry about – I didn't even really see anything..."

Frederick raised an eyebrow at the nervous rambling.

"And where is Robin?" He countered smoothly.

"Women's Bathing Tent."

Chrom seemed to notice his mistake as he spoke. He took an involuntary step back as the towering knight's face slipped from a suspicious expression into something darker.

"... I-I think I'll be turning in for the night."

"That would be wise, milord."

Frederick was almost reluctant to let the prince escape after piecing the scene together, but the cold promise of danger in his tone sent Chrom speed-walking to the other side of camp. Determined to track down Robin, the knight marched off in the direction of her quarters, not quite caring about who witnessed him doing so.

"So now you decide to knock…" a grumbling voice greeted him as he rapped a knuckle as best he could outside the entrance to Robin's tent. Her face, however, fell into surprised relief when she turned around to see him step over the threshold. "Oh, Frederick, it's you."

The smile she gave him calmed his nerves a bit.

"Were you expecting someone else?"

She shook her head. "No… I just recently had a less than pleasant mishap with an unexpected visitor," she growled. "...We really need to get signs for the bathing tents, by the way."

"So that's how the issue arose," Frederick hummed, taking a seat beside her on the cot.

Robin sighed in chagrin. "He told you…?" They both knew who she was referring to.

"More or less," the knight hedged.

She simply glowered and mumbled something about stupid, slack-jawed princes.

"You should know that Lord Chrom is currently a very, very terrified man." Frederick offered, trying to catch her averted gaze.

She snorted. "Good."

That managed to charm a smile out of her companion, although beneath his calm demeanor, a tangle of emotion was still lodged in his chest. The thought of the prince – of anyone – intruding on Robin in such a state was not… pleasant. In fact, if he didn't know better, Frederick would say that it angered him. At the same time, he couldn't help but feel almost possessive, frustrated; as if he should have known to guard the door.

Hours later, he would finally recognize such stirrings as the mark of jealousy.

Such a dangerous, selfish emotion to be bridled with. The knight frowned as he stared at the ceiling of the tent where he had once again agreed to stay the night. Robin lay in the loose curve of his arm, breathing evenly in the respite of peaceful sleep, unaware of his plight. It was unfair that she should be the object of such shameful greed – and Frederick did his best to scrub any remnants of it from his mind.

He had almost managed to clear his head enough to fall asleep, when Robin's unconscious form began to tense and shift.

He smoothed her hair back with a hand, hoping that the action would placate her – but she only twitched and let out a keening whine that chilled his veins. Her eyelids creased and fluttered as her jaw tightened and her breathing picked up speed. Muffled sounds of pain continued to leak from her locked throat.

Frederick was nearly to the point of alarm when she finally breached consciousness with a gasping sob.

"Robin!" his frantic whisper was nearly lost in her continued distress.

"stop…! Please! It h-hurts… Pl-e-e-ease…" her voice shattered into more sobs.

Her words felt like weights dropping straight through his stomach, hollowing him to the point where he felt sick.

"Shhh, Robin… you're here, you're okay…" Frederick tried to keep his own voice from wavering as he rubbed nervous circles on her arms, willing her to open her eyes. "It was only a nightmare…"

Yet even so, he couldn't shake the dread that nested in his thoughts. Robin had spoken before of the horrors that plagued her sleep, but to watch her struggle out of such torment firsthand had shaken the knight like nothing else could. After all, the prospect of assuaging her nightmares was the reason he had first agreed to sleep by her side. He had promised he would protect her, that he would keep such terror at bay; and for a time, it had appeared to be working…

But it would seem that his presence was no longer enough.

Gradually, Robin calmed, and found her footing back in reality. She hesitantly turned in his hold, and he wrapped a protective arm around her back, tucking her head under his chin.

"Frederick…" she mumbled against his shirt with a shaky breath, "…it was… awful…"

"I know," he swallowed.

"It was my back this time… the ones with the bone-masks… they put me on a table…"

She shuddered in his arms, and he fought to not do the same.

"You're safe now, I am here." He rubbed more circles into her back, concentrating on keeping his touch gentle. They were silent for a minute or so.

"… I wasn't alone."

The knight paused his ministrations, leaning back to give her his attention.

"There was a little boy with white hair…" Robin winced as she recalled the dream, "He… he screamed so much…"

And just like that she was bound back up in his embrace, his hands scrunched into the fabric of her shirt.

"…We don't have to talk about it," he murmured.

Robin nodded against his collarbone.

Frederick sat patiently while together, their thudding pulses returned to normal. He hesitated to smooth a hand once more across her back – but when she did not object, he relished in the feel of her, warm and alive, under his palm. He prayed to Naga that the dreams remained just that - only dreams. Because the mere thought of Robin undergoing such horrors in the waking world… it would bring him to his knees.

But she was safe here, with him. The knight traced his fingers up the line of her shoulder blade, only stopping when the more sensible part of his mind realized that he had reached bare skin. He closed his eyes, removing his hand with no small amount of reluctance. He was acutely aware of how close they were, with her folded into his chest just so, and lacking the barrier of her cloak between them. The thought was both satisfying, yet somehow not enough.

Not wanting to push his luck, Frederick sighed and loosened his hold.

"You should try to get some sleep…" he murmured above her head, the words trailing off into her hair.

Robin didn't answer. Instead, she heaved a sigh of her own, turning to rest her cheek against him as she skimmed an idle hand along his arm. A prickling wave of warmth seeped through him in response, effectively rendering the knight silent as Robin trailed her feather-light touch over his sleeve.

It took Frederick a few moments to recognize the pattern of her movement. The fingers that had started on his forearm traveled upwards, drawing precise hatch-marks along the way. When they reached his shoulder they dipped and weaved in a familiar, mottled shape, outlining the crescent ridges that lay just underneath the thin fabric of his shirt. She was tracing scars.

Frederick couldn't help his sharp intake of breath as her hand continued its path over the planes of his chest. She followed the heaviest seams in his flesh like braille; and as much as he wished to seek out her gaze, to guess at what she was thinking, he dared not disrupt her. The darkness of the tent made every wash of sensation surreal – and for once, the knight was free to relish in the luxury. There was no danger breathing down their necks in this moment, and no wounds to heal or tears to wipe away. It was just the two of them, hidden away from the world... a sanctuary made all the more sweeter by Robin's rare gift of affection. How strange it was, that a simple touch from her could fill him with such heat and emotion. Surely, she could hear the way his heart was thundering under her cheek.

Frederick swallowed, as the line of a scar led Robin's fingertips to ghost along the exposed skin at his collar.

In the burning wake of her touch, the hunger that had taken hold of him was brought back tenfold. His shirt was much too hot – he wished he could be rid of it, and feel her smooth skin against his own. He longed to return her actions, to memorize the details of her body with his own calloused hands. And he realized that he wanted, very badly, to do away with the last of his knightly reservations and kiss her senseless – to lay claim to her heart so thoroughly that even the nightmares would not dare to touch her again.

As if sensing the direction of his thoughts, Robin finally stilled her fingers and shifted in his arms. Thinking that she wished to extract herself, he reluctantly unwound his hold; only to be corrected by a gentle tug pulling him back down to the bedroll. His spirits soared as she cocooned them both in a blanket and wriggled back into his embrace, much closer than she usually slept.

"Frederick…?" her quiet voice gave him pause, and he peered down to meet her searching eyes. His heart was still galloping like a stallion, and under her stare, it was all the more difficult for him to rein in his desires.

"Yes?"

"If we do cross blades with the Grimleal again…" her voice trailed off, betraying a tinge of fear as hazy images from her nightmares flickered across her vision. "Please… promise me you'll stay safe."

"Of course," he hummed in response. They would both be safe – he elaborated in his head. He would see to it with every ounce of his guardian merit.

Satisfied, Robin breathed a contented sigh, and snuggled more comfortably into his chest. It took her only minutes to drift back to sleep, although Frederick was another story. His hands splayed and curled against her back, wishing to anchor her to him. His thoughts were going a mile a minute, replaying the events of the evening, and exploring the very real possibility that… perhaps… Robin returned his feelings.

For he was sure, by this point, of just how entrenched he had become. Months ago, he could never have imagined that he would come to care so deeply for the nameless amnesiac that had been plucked from a field and shoved under his nose. Yet here he lay, with her enfolded in his arms like his most precious possession.

And he knew, then, that he could no longer ignore the blatant truth. Despite his own doubts at the time, it would seem the monk had been right.

Wholly and indisputably, he loved her.

The days were ticking down, and with every mile they forged back into the wastes of Plegia, the Shepherds hardened their hearts and sharpened their swords.

The desert gave way to dry brush and infertile plains, with the occasional Risen stumbling about like lost scarecrows. Each time one was sighted, the hate in Robin's eyes would deepen ever so slightly; and by her own hand she would cut them down. Frederick rode by her side, and each time he watched her smite another walking corpse from this trail of breadcrumbs, his heart would ache; for he wished above all else to spirit her away, far out of the reaches of Plegia and its horrors.

As predicted, there was little military resistance to meet the company, with the last of the loyal Plegian forces holed up with their deranged king. Feroxi scouts had all but pinned down where Gangrel would make his final stand, and like hounds on the hunt, the Shepherds and their infantry closed in.

Robin, of course, had a plan. And this time, it truly was perfect.

The maps that she presented to the war council promised annihilation, with the Shepherds poised to take center stage in the mad king's demise. She spoke of inventory and squad assignments with all the tranquil eeriness of the calm before the storm.

But when she announced that she and Chrom planned to lead the charge, her words filled Frederick with the utmost dread.

The knight had half a mind to overstep the boundaries of his station, to lay his fist on the war table and demand that the battle plans be redrawn. But he knew that his plea would go unheeded, if he dared to speak over the royals and strategists gathered there. Never before had he felt so powerless, standing guard just over the shoulder of both his liege and his love; with no more rebellion in his posture than a clenched jaw and furrowed brow.

Frederick cornered Robin after the meeting, but she was firm in the council's decision. With the battle imminent, she would not retract the preparations; although to hear the worry in the knight's voice, her face was softened into a brief, reassuring smile – just for him. Everything would be fine, she told him. This time, her strategy was adaptable, fail-safe: there were no factors left to a gamble, and no twists of fate that she herself could not handle from the front lines.

And so that night, Frederick simply prayed. He prayed looking up at the stars, and staring into the fire, and murmuring into Robin's hair while she slept soundly in his arms.

For him, the morning of the battle arrived all too quickly.

Wind ghosted across the dirt of the battlefield, hallowed like a gravesite ready to be filled.

Overhead, the sun had long since hidden behind clouds that roiled with the threat of cyclones, rather than rain. The air was heavy despite its smooth gusting, and the breeze seemed to lift every cape and ribbon of hair in a mesmerizing, ominous swell. Across the landscape, a distant, frothing monarch shrieked and cackled; although he could barely be heard.

The grandmaster and the prince held their heads high and their steps measured; readied in their position, the razor tip of an arrowhead on a drawn bow. Much further back, a particularly anxious knight gripped the shaft of his lance with too much force, fighting against every instinct that urged him to abandon his post and join them.

When the Mad King's taunting finally gave way to the thunder of the charge, Frederick felt like he was plunged underwater. The first clash of weapons echoed through the dark atmosphere.

There was a dancer by his side.

She leapt and twirled through the back lines of the Shepherds with a courage no one knew she had possessed. With every gesture and dainty step, the fair Olivia rallied those who lay in wait for their turn in the carnage. Their comrades would whoop and holler their battle-cries to see her dance beneath Ylisse's banner, and not a single person set a toe out of line in Robin's plan.

Frederick strained to keep Robin and Chrom in his sights. Every move was muffled and dreamlike, sinking through the layers of his mind as the first wave of the battle set to motion. It was his assignment to guard Olivia, and support the pegasi. It felt wrong.

He should be on the front lines, by Robin's side, and at his liege's back. To watch them fight from a perspective so far away was strange and agonizing. It almost didn't seem real – surely, they were mirages, to leave him in the dust as they did. The other Shepherds cheered them on. Those lucky enough to be sent forward during the first stage of the battle could hear Robin's own words as she issued their orders. Frederick could not.

The conflict began to pick up speed as the enemy mobilized. The back lines saw very few foes, and those that did happen to make it so far met a grisly end at the hands of charged, vengeful Shepherds. They fell upon the Plegian forces with an almost disturbing glee, tearing through the battlefield like packs of wolves let loose in a pasture. But Frederick could not find room in his mind to push the lines as they did. He raised his lance, intercepted blows, steered his horse in the path of arrows and blades - but those he guarded were all too eager to leap in and finish the job.

Ricken was the first casualty, though a minor one. Frederick's gaze zeroed in on the grandmaster's pointing arm as she instructed the young mage to retreat. The form of a pale emerald dragon covered his back as the boy jogged towards the healers as best he could, hair sticky with blood that may or may not have been his.

He was patched up in record time, Maribelle even threatening to clock him with her staff if he didn't wipe the proud look off his face. Frederick paced his horse nearby, wishing that the healer's line would move faster down the field, so that he might inch closer to the fighting – closer to Robin. He escorted Olivia towards the western flank as per his orders, eyes combing the field for any unanticipated bowmen before the Pegasus battalion was to begin their second rush.

The battle progressed. Reinforcements were called. The knight worried and paced and guarded.

Robin had explained that the perfection of her plan lay in calm-minded flexibility. She knew who to send where, when to change positions, and what opportunities to take. She knew never to leave a disadvantaged Shepherd without backup; and she knew her enemies.

She knew her enemies all too well.

Something continued to draw Frederick's eyes to the spearhead of the conflict, where Chrom and Robin wheeled about each other, striking Plegians down in a twirl of light and dark. Perhaps it was a sense, racing around his mind like the churning clouds overhead, that something was destined to go wrong.

Glancing back again, the knight could just make out a new line of shrouded mages in the enemy ranks.

Robin had accounted for every one of her comrades in her orchestration, and upon seeing the squad of magic-wielders join the Plegian forces, she should have called for the pegasi; biding her time until everyone was re-stationed, and their steady advance could continue without a hitch. That was the plan.

Instead, the tiny Robin far across the field set a hand on Chrom's arm, and raised her own sword. As Frederick watched – tense and confused, and so very out of reach – a fresh sense of waking horror dawned on him. The faces of these new adversaries were little more than smudges to him across the wind-whipped plains… yet somehow he knew they were not faces at all, but masks. Masks of bone.

Grimleal…

Prayers and promises came racing back to him. He had hoped that the mass exodus of their army would have ended the cult's affiliation with their soon-to-be-fallen king. But even this small pocket of supporters was enough to chill his blood. What drew them here, to their death, by the crumbling throne of a warlord they so clearly did not bend their knee to? Was it pride for their god? Their old country? The raw lure of bloodlust?

Was it... Robin?

He couldn't bear to think it. The idea had been chained up in his subconscious, tugging at the possibilities that lay in Robin's forgotten past. Her Plegian coat, her pale hair, the flash of dark recognition in her eyes when anyone spoke of that gods-forsaken cult… there was something to her history that was better left buried.

But it surfaced now, clawing its way up through the bloodstained dirt that Robin readied her stance in. The Grimleal mages advanced to meet her, yet the grandmaster did not call her reinforcements. The Shepherds of the back lines carried on with their last orders – none feeling the same icy, knowing fear that filled Frederick's chest.

He didn't think twice. He didn't think as he shoved a hand down in the face of his assigned ward, and hauled Olivia into the saddle behind him. And he didn't think as he broke rank and spurred his horse across the field, covering a distance that no one else could. All he could do was watch as the Grimleal met Robin's challenge, flinging spells and menacing words that he couldn't hear.

Casting off the tether and drag, time seemed to accelerate again at the same pace of his mare's thundering hooves, and his own adrenaline-spiked pulse.

There were only two left when Frederick finally made it to her side. Chrom was at her back, winded and singed by dark magic, but no more so than she. Robin had a Thoron tome clutched in her white-knuckled hand, and had practically scorched the fallen Grimleal into the ground, picking them off one by one. She turned at the sound of galloping, her vehement eyes growing wide when she found a familiar knight in pursuit, instead of another foe.

"Frederick! What are you-?!"

An underhanded attack from her left cut Robin's outburst short, and she returned her attention to her target with a snarl. Frederick kicked in his heels, intent on plowing the cultist over by lance, horse, or both.

Robin, of course, got her strike in first. The sheer force of her attack sent the mage spiraling through the air like a ragdoll.

"Amateur," she growled beneath the crackle of her tome, watching her prey tumble to a landing in a limp pile.

Frederick reared his horse out of its charge, and felt the weight of his passenger slip out of the saddle. At first, he thought the dancer had fallen; but as he whirled around to recover her, she revealed a purpose to her leap. Brandishing a slim sword that had been strapped, unused, to her hip; Olivia sprinted forward with all the speed and agility of one of her dances. She lashed out at the last adversary, her sword held in an odd, foreign theives' grip – it hardly glanced off her target's parry, but it did buy time for the prince to storm in and gut the man himself.

Robin spared the scene only a glance; satisfied, it would seem, with the work of her friend and his newfound partner. Frederick lowered his lance, the relief of finally reaching her sating him like breath to a drowned man. Not quite knowing what possessed him to do so, he swung a leg over and dismounted with a heavy thud.

He expected Robin to approach him, reprimand him, maybe try and send him back to his post – but her attention was elsewhere. To his confusion, she turned away, and began marching towards the body of the foe she had catapulted.

...He wished that his love would turn to him instead, and perhaps offer some vestige of reassurance in these precious few moments of reprieve. Perhaps he could convince her to retreat from the front – to let one of her waiting warriors take a turn in the bloodshed. But something in the cold determination of her stride held the knight in silence.

She was not finished here.

Robin ignored the armored footsteps that followed her as she knelt down to her quarry. The Grimleal mage gave the barest moan at her approach, his limbs tangled and charred in unnatural positions. In a sudden move, Robin fisted a hand in his torn robes, and yanked him up from the ground.

A peculiar utterance of pain slipped out of the man's mouth, his head lolling back from Robin's grip. Frederick halted at the sound, eyes glued her shaking hand, and the cloud of anger he could barely glimpse on her face.

"You tell me-" she hissed at the man in her grasp, "You tell me what the hell they said."

The mage only coughed up what Frederick suspected to be a laugh, head still rocking like a broken joint.

Robin jostled him roughly.

"TELL ME!"

Frederick stood frozen. The dark intensity of the scene playing out before him had him paralyzed - so many things latent in the tactician's newly violent actions and venom-drenched voice. This was not his Robin...

The husk of a body she held hacked and shivered in more delirious chuckling. Although he looked almost too far gone to manage such a feat, the mage finally spoke.

"…Y-o-o-o-u don't remember…!" he rasped out, amusement evident even in such broken syllables. A flash of pain interrupted his laughing as Robin twisted the fabric at his throat.

"What! What don't I remember?!" she snarled.

The cultist groaned as her grip tugged on his injuries. His eyes fluttered briefly before focusing again on her livid face.

"What did you do to me?"

Frederick flinched. Robin's harrowing demand struck a chord deep in the caverns of his fears. Some vital little piece to her story he had been missing... nay, that he had overlooked... Because he couldn't bear to question those nightmares of hers, or to return to those early days of suspicion, dissecting details about her. No - he didn't want to hear this. He couldn't bear it… But it clawed at him, drawing cold realization from her words inch by inch.

Ylisse's fearless amnesiac tactician, so reckless despite her brilliance… hadn't she always shirked the pain of her trials? Claimed she was conditioned to it, even? Robin in her Plegian coat, resurrected from the desert, visited by phantoms in her sleep… implications of a dark tie that had danced like a ghost along the edges of the war.

...Somewhere in her past, she knew these monsters. And she knew pain from them. And the ragged man under her fist now laughed and cracked a wide, bloodied grin – as if he knew just what that entailed.

To see the cultist eye Robin with smug, silent victory at her accusation… it was almost as if he knew every detail.

What they did to her...

Frederick screwed his eyes shut. His mind whispered such things to him and he fought against it. It couldn't be so. Robin had said… oh gods, she'd said... as a child... In her nightmares, she was a child-

To imagine it, that his love could have had such real horrors in her past, he could just about be sick.

So absorbed was the knight in his denial and despair that he did not realize Robin had dropped the subject of her interrogation back in the dirt. Her hands shook with anger as she fumbled with the peculiar wrap of cloth that she always kept bound around her left palm.

He caught the barest glimpse of vivid violet lines as Robin shoved the back of her uncovered hand in the cultist's face. And he willed himself not to crumple and bow as he gazed upon the pained fury in her tear-glazed expression.

"You did this?! You were there?" She spat, barely managing to choke out the words as she clenched the fist she held inches from her victim's nose.

A beat of silence followed Robin's levied threat, broken only by the mage's fading, gurgled breath. And in those hanging moments - wherein the man found it in his will to muster one last gleeful, knowing smile - Frederick could swear he heard the snake mutter her name amidst a garbled whisper.

There was no more to be heard from the mage, then, as a boot was planted in his temple.

Robin shoved at the body with her heel, be it unconscious or dead by this point, rolling it over in the dust. She stood there, with her back to the knight whose heart had been rent by the scene.

Frederick stared after her.

In the distance, the battle raged on, oblivious to what had just transpired. Frederick could barely remember his own lord on the other side of his horse, panting through the ache of injuries and leaning on his new partner. Before them all remained the lines of Gangrel's faithful, braced to defend as they marched down the field.

After what seemed like a small eternity, Robin finally turned to him – although with the action, he almost wished she had not. The steeled look on her face was so murderous, so cold, it chased away any ounce of soft comfort he could have gleaned. She paid him no heed; her eyes cut straight through his form as she scoured the field and sized up the remaining enemy forces. Unnatural shadows seemed to reach down her cheekbones from her vehement gaze, a subtle illusion in the dusky atmosphere.

Frederick ducked his head in a grimace. He wished fruitlessly, desperately, that he could turn back time, and find this whole battle to be nothing more than his own nightmare.

Robin marched past him, casting her shrewd look over the tired prince and the fretting dancer by his side. With forced calmness, she instructed the pair to retreat, and seek out a healer.

"Join the east flank when you are recovered…" her quiet voice simmered with restraint, although Chrom took the cool professionalism of her tone in stride with a heavy nod. Had he not tamed his own bitter fire by that point, he might have demanded to return to the front, to end the war by his own hand. But as it was, the determination in Robin's countenance and Olivia's nervous hand on his sleeve were enough to convince him otherwise.

"Be careful, Robin…" the prince told her, earning only a terse nod in response.

He glanced over at his knight, meeting Frederick's eyes with a familiar look as serious as any order. Chrom no longer needed words to request what he always had: guard the tactician. Ensure her safety.

Frederick swallowed, and took a steadying breath. He lifted his chin in acknowledgement.

As the prince and dancer retreated, Robin did not watch them go.

Instead, she faced her enemies, fingers digging into the binding of her tome and the hilt of her sword. Her calm demeanor had evaporated; her jaw now clenched against a sheer, overwhelming wrath.

Frederick, finding his voice, weak though it was, called her name.

Robin shut her eyes against the plea in his tone. The next line of the Plegian defense was almost upon them, and Frederick was fast losing hope that Robin would acquiesce to the caution he begged of her. He debated very briefly with the idea of scooping her up and taking her back despite protest – but she would never forgive him.

The Plegians' war cries became intelligible as they closed in, until Frederick could hear their very footfalls above the wind. Biting back his despair, he mounted his horse; ready to pull Robin up along with him, and at least into the relative safety of his lap.

But she ignored his offered hand, and sprinted into the fray.

The knight chased after her.

Charge. Slash. Parry.

Robin carved a path down the field, sword sparking, and eyes red under the murky sky. Frederick rode at her back, blocking, and striking, and blocking again.

Stab. Another enemy weakened.

"Thoron!" Another enemy gone.

The pace that Robin set was a steady, brutal advance towards the throne. Raining destruction, she cleared her path. Beside her, Frederick's heart thundered in his ears, his mind trapped in a hellish carousel of wordless dread and adrenaline.

Every step took them further away from their own allies, and deeper into danger; yet Robin only seemed to grow the frenzy of her attack. Her pale hair ghosted on the wind, weaving those same flickered shadows down from her bright gaze. In his struggle to intercept her retaliators, Frederick verily missed the spectacle that survivors (had there been any) would claim painted the grandmaster as a demon straight out of lore.

But the knight could see only weapons poised at the back of his beloved. He knocked them all away.

Shove. Skewer. Trample.

Repeat.

How far had they ventured into enemy territory? How long had they been separated from the rest of the Shepherds? Frederick fought through the haze of dull panic that held him permanently in thrall. Their allies had their orders, but surely they would follow. They had to be coming. Glancing around, Frederick noticed that Robin's warpath had cleaved a staggering hole in the heart of the Plegian defenses, leaving few adversaries to meet the company proper. Sooner or later, their comrades would be hastening to join them… He had to believe it.

Again and again Frederick circled the brawling grandmaster, the battlefield beginning to feel like his own personal limbo. The burning in his lance-arm was his only indicator of the time that was passing.

Robin did not tire. Like a creature of flame, she scorched and flared and channeled her combustion, heedless of the risk that she too may become ash. This, the knight saw. And though it dug at him like an arrow in his back, he attended her rampage. He spared only the focus for his one task, his endgame: to see them both through this final battle alive.

Because she had to live. In the aftermath, it didn't matter how many scars he had to kiss, how many nightmares he had to endure, or how much of her broken self he would have to gather and piece back together after this fury had burned her out. He would do it.

Anything he could overcome, so long as he did not lose her.

Sunk deep in the grim heat of battle, Frederick failed to see the rallying line of Shepherds that galloped across the cleared field with victory in their banners, as the conflict descended towards its conclusion.

But he did see the gold briars of a crown, and the sparking of a twin Levin sword - as Robin caught sight of her final target.

Gangrel's reviled cackling greeted them; and Robin, incited by the prospect of his blood finally whetting her sword, snarled and spat at the Plegians in her way. She rushed to dispatch these last few obstacles, careless and wrathful, all while the mad king jabbered on – something about falling boots.

And Frederick could tell, from the raw, dark hatred in her fiery gaze, that his love would stop at nothing – nothing – to sate her bloodlust, feed her vengeance, and reach this ultimate prize. She would pay any cost for a chance to take the head of Plegia's king for herself. Even while they still stood surrounded.

The knight swallowed the familiar surge of dread, as past words swam through his mind.

…You would face the Mad King himself, to keep her from harm…?

Yes… he would.

Tightening his fist on the reins, Frederick aimed his lance across the clearing, and prepared to charge towards the shrieking monarch at the other end.

He had to end this, before Robin ran herself into the ground at Gangrel's feet. He could make it past these last few adversaries, and sprint for the king. He would brave the shock of magic, and take the searing pain that was sure to arc under his armored plates. If that's what it took to spit this final threat on his spear, then so be it.

As another curl of wind flattened the dry grass of the plains, Frederick reared his horse and hefted his weapon.

A numbing clang sounded against his shoulder.

A grate of metal hooked under his pauldron.

A sudden tug wrenched him backwards.

For a split-second, he was slipping… falling… His steed punched the air with its hooves as Frederick grappled for purchase.

Then he hit the ground, hard.

Black static washed across his vision as the crashing thud of the impact jarred every bone in his metal-strapped body. Above the howling of the wind and the ringing of his ears, he could swear a single, agonized voice called his name. As he struggled to regain control, and push himself up from the ground, the helmet of a Plegian mercenary came into view.

The man wasted no time in planting a foot on Frederick's winded chest, and levering his massive weapon back on his own shoulder. In that instant, the knight paled as he recognized the infamous, hooked blade of the weighted sword.

Armorslayer.

His assailant brought the blade down in a heavy sweep. Frederick threw up an arm to catch the blow, grunting in pain as the swing met his gauntlet.

Again, the mercenary swung. The knight scrambled backwards, warding off blows with the shaft of his lance.

Another strike; he barely dodged.

The next swing plowed into his shoulder.

Instead of the dull throb of collision, a sharp pain accompanied the ring of metal-on-metal. Frederick glanced down to see the rim of his chestplate dented into his collarbone. Jaw clenched, he held off another slash aimed at his head.

The mercenary bellowed in frustration, swinging wildly, and landing a hearty dent in Frederick's side.

Crack. Wheeze…

The pang of cold metal dug into his ribs as Frederick struggled to draw in air.

Bang. The dent deepened.

In the distance, someone screamed.

Frederick could feel his grip on his lance slacken… With shallow breaths, he battled against the misshapen vice on his lungs.

The mercenary's harrowing blade whistled through the air yet again.

Crush.

Frederick's head fell back against the ground as the front of his chestplate caved inward.

The mercenary finally halted his assault, panting as he leaned on the handle of his weapon. Before him, the titan he had felled gasped and choked, vision blurring as his stumbling fingers tried in vain to undo the clasps of his mangled armor. Even trapped in his crippled metal plates, the great knight clung to consciousness with a strength and desperation that was ever unrivaled.

Such a stalwart warrior deserved a quick, honorable end.

Nodding to himself at the thought, the Plegian grunted and took up his sword for a final blow.

"THORON."

With a thunderclap and a blinding flash, the mercenary was hurled to the ground. In his final, dazed moments, he looked down to find his torso lacerated by magic so potent, it lodged in his chest like a blade. And then, as the demonic woman who stalked towards him so menacingly informed him: he was finished.

Robin seethed, whirling around to seek out any others that had dared to attack her knight. The wind at her back howled like hellhound baying for its mistress; and her gaze was lit with an otherworldly brightness. To bear her witness, one could almost see the red of her eyes and the mark of her hand reflected in a face that was no longer hers.

But all of it evaporated when she caught sight of the man she fought for.

Frederick lay still.

Yet with every last ounce of his strength, he kept his kept his eyes open, searching for her. Robin's cry, though steeped in rage and rough with malice, had reached him through the layers of panic and pain, and soothed his struggle. All he wanted was to see her face…

His lungs heaved against their twisted bind, but the only sounds he could manage were broken, shallow gasps. Lightheaded as he was, he couldn't feel the seeping blood that dampened his shirt beneath the metal. But he felt cold – increasingly so. And the fear that Robin may yet leave him there, in favor of completing her vengeful conquest, did nothing to assuage the sensation.

But the tactician did no such thing.

She was already at his side, dropping to her knees, when Frederick had finally gathered enough breath to call for her. Though he tried for volume, all that came out was a nearly soundless whisper.

Brought down from her rampage so abruptly, Robin could feel nothing but shock as she began to register the extent of the damage. The anger that had felt so possessing, so smothering before seemed nothing more than a passing shadow. It paled in the wake of the fear that gripped her now.

"No… no…!" Her shaking hands hovered over the gruesome, crushed metal, "Frederick!" the first hint of tears choked her voice as she leaned into his view, reaching now to hold his face.

When her presence reached him through the dark haze constricting on his senses, he was gifted a moment of anxious joy. Robin had returned to him… no longer the cruel, wrathful creature that had stormed across the plains…

His Robin…

She was so beautiful.

In a brief flurry of vigor, Frederick smiled through his renewed wheezing. He tried to tell her so many things. But his crumpled lungs gave him no voice.

"Y-you stay with me!" Robin was frantic now, clutching the sides of his face as it dawned on her. "Keep breathing, you hear me?! I don't care if it's hard, you keep breathing!"

Another wheeze, sticky with blood.

Robin painstakingly released him, and began to claw at the twisted fastenings of his armor, pausing only to yell something over her shoulder.

Frederick grimaced at the pain of her movements – he wished she would stay as she was, with a hand on his cheek and her lovely face above his. His arm twitched as he tried to gather the coordination to raise it. How badly he wanted to hold her again…

Keep fighting… his foggy mind urged him.

Breath after breath he strained. Gradually, the pain began to numb, replaced only by coldness.

Robin yelled again at something behind her, but the distant clamor was lost on the knight's ears. There was a conviction to his thoughts now, as the seeping cold brought with it the realization of the end. Yes, he was fading… and he would go in sorrow.

He couldn't bear to leave her. She had pleaded with him so…

He couldn't bear to leave so many things unsaid.

Robin…

It seemed crucial now that he have her attention. His hands tried clumsily to find her. His voice crackled in his empty throat.

More commotion sounded just beyond his perception. Unnoticed by the knight, another pair of hands replaced Robin's - tugging and tearing at the straps wedged under the metal. A strange tingling sensation started up like pinpricks in his side, ebbing over the numbness in waves; but this too, he ignored.

When Robin gathered up his seeking palm, and slipped back into the halo of his vision, her cheeks were wet with tears. Frederick yearned to wipe them away.

"Don't you dare l-leave me, Frederick the Wary…" Though her voice cracked, she leaned in close enough for the half-conscious knight to hear every word. "You promised! You have to stay with me…" She pressed her lips to the back of his hand fiercely, as if the action could anchor him there.

Robin… forgive me.

He was slipping. Even now, he could not muster a whisper of her name. Yet he wished to say so much more.

I loved you…

Darker… Colder…

Other voices drifted through the haze, faint and murky.

"I've got the left side! Where's Maribelle? We need another staff!"

Lord Chrom…

"Robin, I can't keep him going like this for much longer! He's losing blood…"

Lady Lissa…

More tugging on his armor, more prickling in his side…

Frederick gazed, unseeing, through the dark borders of his spotty vision, hoping to catch a glimpse of their faces. His lord and lady… he had often vowed he would serve them to the bitter end. At least, like this, he had done his part to see them through the war alive. If they were here, it was over. And wherever Gangrel was, dead or fleeing, mattered not. Plegia's decimated forces would no longer threaten their kingdom.

They would live. Robin would live. That was all that mattered.

Frederick rested his weary limbs. The pressure on his chest was nothing now. With nothing to see or hear, perhaps he had finally slipped under the veil.

Knowing that the people he fought to protect lived on… that was perhaps the closest he could come to a sense of peace. Together, they could keep each other safe. They would move on. The woman he loved, and the prince he served… even he could not deny the enduring strength of their friendship.

At least… she won't be alone.

Though his world was dark, Frederick could still picture her face as he last saw it.

With a bit more effort, he envisioned her smile.

Milord… take care of her.