Chapter Text
When Grima first brought forth her true form, she had expected a certain reaction from the humans. Her wings had blocked out the sun. Her breath had laid waste to the battlefield before her. She had expected blind fear, revulsion and worship.
She had not expected the soft look of awe and wonder on his face. She had certainly not expected the way his hand actually reached out to the sky, as if to touch her. While the rest of the worms around him shrank back and cringed in fear, he had reached out for her. No fear in him at all.
This had surprised her, to be sure. Perhaps even rattled her. Not even the Grimleal had looked upon her with such naked joy in their eyes.
She really should have taken it as a sign of things to come.
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Now, months later, the strange Summoner spent his afternoons taking walks on her back, be she taking a nap on the castle grounds or soaring through the air. He always made sure to talk with her as he did, and soon learned to read her moods by her body. Not that of her vessel, no. He was simply gods-awful at that. At reading any human’s body language, really.
Yet her enormous, serpentine form he could interpret with ease. She was honestly surprised the first time she realized she hadn’t said a word to him through her vessel in weeks, yet he had not misinterpreted her even once. It wouldn’t be a stretch to say she’d been touched as well.
He enjoyed polishing her horns and teeth as well. Not in a servile sort of way, as a Grimleal pawn might in order to win her favor. It actually took her more than two days to notice when he first started, as he made a point of only doing it as she slept. Once she revealed she knew, however, he’d simply smiled and asked her if she minded opening her mouth a little. Just so he could reach her inner jaws, make sure no bits of soldier were stuck there (there were, it’s important to note. She felt an immense sense of relief when he pulled a decaying torso out from between two of her teeth).
It became a ritual of sorts for them. Every day, after battle, he’d make a point of grooming her true form with the utmost care. It was a big job, and he left the horns to be polished only once a month, but her teeth? He made sure they shone like pearls every day.
And it baffled her to no end. He wasn’t afraid. In fact, he seemed to be downright happy to spend time on or around Grima’s true form. He looked genuinely joyful to groom the bits of herself she couldn’t reach. And he seemed to want nothing in return. When she confronted him about it, he shrugged and said it was fine, he didn’t mind at all. It infuriated her. She did not want to be indebted to a measly worm, but she also did not want him to stop. It took effort not to preen now when she caught her reflection by a lake. She sometimes even took a short dive in it, just so her scales could match her fangs and horns.
She felt good too. Food no longer tasted of rotting soldier. She could actually enjoy the taste of bear now.
And one day, after a particularly long battle that left him worn out, as he plucked some arrows from the scales by her forewing’s joint, he stopped moving. Grima turned her head curiously to see what was delaying him, and most certainly not concerned for his well-being at all. What she saw made her sigh, but the jury’s still out on whether it was exasperation or relief.
He had ceased removing the arrows because he had fallen asleep on her wing. He was snoring now, curled up in a fetal position among her feathers, looking for all the world like a tiny, vulnerable, chick in its nest. Grima let out a long hiss of breath, ruffled her feathers a little so they covered him better (and she certainly did not think it was adorable when he hugged one close to himself with a smile in his face), and lay down her massive head to sleep. Six hellish lights blinked out in the night. And she decided this may as well be his payment for the service of grooming her. After all, humans liked fluffy, feather-filled beds, didn’t they? Or something to that effect.
She dearly hoped they liked feathery beds.
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Weeks later, much remained the same. He slept nightly on her wings, curled up among her feathers. She insisted. Wordlessly, of course, simply extending her wing a little once he was done taking care of her.
As the afternoon sun shone down on Grima, warming her up pleasantly, she shifted her mouth just so, so that the Summoner could reach around her inner teeth better with that long, bizarre cleaning implement he had designed himself for the sole purpose of cleaning her swordlike fangs. A very pleasant sensation matched the sun as a stray bit of armor was dislodged from behind one of them, and with great effort, she resisted the urge to run her tongue over it. She might hit her little man if she did.
He clambered out of her mouth shortly after, his bucket and tool in hand. Grima clicked her mouth shut, absentmindedly licking her teeth as she looked down at him, now that she had the chance. Three red eyes focused on a small figure, facing them without any fear. He was drenched in sweat from the effort, his coat discarded on the grass hours earlier and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, but the smile on his face was bright and sunny enough to rival the Askr princesss’s.
And he was looking at her three left eyes, she now realized. Had been since he climbed out. That happy smile still in place. Far away, her vessel’s lips curled up in a warm smile to match it, much creeping out the ever-vigilant and always suspicious Lucina.
The Summoner kept looking at her eyes, and in some way seemed to tell that she was smiling back at him. His smile grew wider, and a slight tint of red touched his cheeks. Grima chuckled fondly, a rumble deep inside her enormous throat; an alien sensation in an apparatus so used to roars and screeches and cackles. Then again, she mused, bumping the Summoner gently with her snout and ignoring the sense of joy she felt when he stroked her scales rather lovingly, much in this world was new to her.
And she thought she rather liked it.