It's become something of a nightly ritual; Robin would stumble in through the door, her mother would 'tsk' at the sight of her dirty clothes and then direct her to a stool so she could brush out the tangles in her hair.

It's a night like any other, but she can't sit still and her mother's hands—strong but thin (from wielding tomes, she thinks, instead of swords)—keep insistently pushing down on her shoulders, keeping her in place.

Robin listens to her mother's humming, eyes closed. She struggles against falling asleep; she told herself she wouldn't—and asks the question that's been on her mind for quite some time. "Mother, how come you never talk about father?"

She doesn't see it but she knows her mother's lips are tightening; it's become a habit as of late. "I told you, Robin. He's not…he's not a good influence. This is something we can discuss when you're older."

"But why is he bad? You've never told me why," Robin persists. "And I'm old enough, I think," she adds sullenly, as an afterthought.

Her mother sighs, sounding all at once very weary with the world and everything in it. "He was—is—attempting to do something that would bring about great harm to everyone. And to accomplish that, he needs you. Do you understand?"

"People would get hurt…because of me?" The notion sounds strange to her ears. Doom, befalling everyone because of an eleven-year-old? It sounded ludicrous, even. But when she glances down at the gloves she's wearing, feeling the mark itch beneath the worn leather—she suddenly finds herself believing it.

"It's not something you would do willingly, believe me." Her mother sets down the brush and turns her daughter around, reaching up and wiping away the tears that are forming. "Don't cry, love. You're safe here, with me."

Robin feels as though there's something her mother is leaving unsaid. But she doesn't push it; instead, she curls her hands into her mother's robes and cries anyway, because she's still young enough to do so.

("You're safe here, with me—

For as long as I'm here to protect you.")

"Mother? Is something wrong?"

Lucina's voice breaks her train of thought; sitting up, she realizes she's stopped brushing. "I'm sorry, I drifted off. I…remembered something. Or I think I did. I'm not too sure, it was quite…fuzzy."


"I feel as if…someone did this for me, long ago. Brushing my hair, I mean. A silly memory, really."

"It's not silly," Lucina turns her head, catching her mother's gaze. "Perhaps…you were thinking of your mother— my grandmother—doing this for you?"

Sudden tears prick Robin's eyes and without warning she embraces her daughter. She buries her face in Lucina's hair and feels a surge of something—maternal instinct, maybe—rush through her. "I'm sorry," she whispers, "So, so sorry."

Lucina says nothing; she understands. Her arms curl around her mother's waist and she furiously blinks back the tears that are welling up; she must be strong. (Stronger, in fact.)

But the little girl in her wants to cry too, for not having a mother is hard—but not remembering your own is even harder.

notes: i figured i could fiddle around with this until the end of the world or just publish it now and never look at it again. so i guess it's obvious which option i went with. (i gotta say i'm disappointed it's never mentioned as to what happened to robin/my unit's mom. some closure would've been nice, yeah? yeah.)

also headcanon dictates that robin's mom was a magic-user. sorcerer, maybe. or a mage of sorts.