Dogma of the Self-Righteous (Naga/Grima, no smut)

	The Shepherds marched under the summer sun, revitalized by their pilgrimmage to Mount Prism and the knowledge that their god (though she would never call herself that) marched among them. Naga had descended from on high to help them on their quest to destroy Grima once and for all. Though Her return had spelled doom for the world in general, Naga had granted the shepherds the hope they needed to take up arms once more against the end times. Things, however, were about to take a turn for the worse or perhaps the better, depending on one's theological views. On their seventh day of marching into Plegia towards the Dragon's Table, Chrom had diverted them slightly off course to help a village under siege by marauding Grimleal fanatics gathering sacrifices for their dark goddess. The village -- more of a hamlet, really -- should have been entirely defenseless and the Grimleal should have taken it within minutes, but a battle had been raging for hours, black smoke pouring onto the horizon. Robin had been of the opinion that they had no time to waste with saving peasants -- particularly Plegian peasants, who were likely worshipers of the Fell One anyway. Chrom, backed by Naga, had dissented, and the majority of the army agreed with him.
	What greeted the fifteen sent as an expedition was carnage. Bodies of cultists piled high in haphazard stacks, while others lay where they fell, head and torso crushed by some massive force. The houses themselves were boarded shut, likely by the peasants still inside, but at the center of the town a strange sight greeted them. Waves upon waves of fanatics threw themselves at the town square and were repelled by a single man, no more than twenty and two with hair white as paper and skin to match. He would later be described as a grotesque parody of the Queen of Ylisse, a man created in her image but twisted by unimaginable cruelty just barely visible behind his pure red eyes. He broke the Grimleal with naught but waves of his hands, and wild gestures accompanied by shouts of strange words that none had heard but all knew, an ancient tongue beyond the knowledge of the living. Chrom reasoned quietly that any enemy of the Grimleal was a friend of theirs at this point, and personally ventured out to speak with the man, followed after a moment's hesitation by his wife and bodyguard.
	He had greeted them like old friends while disposing of the bodies of over twenty soldiers, making small talk so pointless that it came around as meaningful again. The twisted smile never left his face and his eyes danced over all of them like they were pieces of meat, locking on the Queen of Ylisse just a bit too frequently for anyone's comfort. Why had he opposed the Grimleal, they asked him, and he responded that they had bored him with their endless prattle of prophecies and foresight. They were weak, and weakness is a crime. And who were they to question him? He was stronger than all others, the mightiest to ever walk under the sun. With a sense of mounting dread, the Queen of Ylisse asked exactly who he was. A smile, wide and sinister spread across the man's face before he replied that of course he was Grima, the Fell One, the Wings of Death, the Apocalypse Manifest and he was here to exact his vengeance upon his twin from the here and now. Would they kindly direct him to where She was?

	The mess tent had mostly cleared out by the time that Grima arrived. Libra watched from the seat in the north-east corner, pretending to read his copy of the Book Of Naga while Grima strode across the room confidently to sit down on the far side of the small table that Naga graced with her presence. They spoke quietly, and Libra would have strained to hear if not for the relative silence of the mess tent. Grima spoke first, saying "Witch." "Yes, Fell one?" Naga spoke quietly but not as softly as she spoke with the others, a harsh gaze directed at the ancient horror across from her. "Come now, let us play a game, witch, for it has been long since we have truly spoken and you are much different from what I remember." Grima had produced a deck of cards from some...where, and was shuffling them inexpertly but quickly. A slight nod from the divine being and he quickly dealt each of them a hand before setting down the rest of the cards in the middle of the table. Libra was not much of a gambler, and his knowledge of cards was amateur at best so it was unsurprising that he did not recognize the game that they were playing, the rules seemingly random as they each won and lost rounds, prompting a hiss from Grima or a harsh chuckle. Still, the subtext was obvious, and clearly much more was riding on this game than he could personally see.
	"Why have you chosen now to help the humans, witch?" The question broke the near silence in the tent after several hands had been played out. Naga won the hand (somehow. The rules seemed arbitrary to Libra but who was he to judge the affairs of the gods?) before answering, dealing each of them another hand as she spoke. "They need my help, Grima. Without my assistance, they shall surely perish, and all light shall once more fall into dark." "Then let it come. If they are weak, they do not deserve to survive. Or perhaps you are too weak to destroy my twin on your own and rely on a mortal champion again to bind them?" "It is not my way to destroy, Grima. You must know this, no matter how different you are from the Grima of today." The bitterness in Grima's eyes took Libra a moment to see, but it poured out of the dragon when he spoke, each word biting "Funny. It was your way to destroy when you bound my kind below the earth, never again to see the light of day." "Your kind were murdering them. Hundreds of thousands died when your kin went insane, it was the only--" Her voice was patient now, like a woman explaining to a child something she has explained a hundred times.
	Grima cut her off, voice a low roar and black fire crackling in his grip, cards forgotten and chair knocked back. "And they would have butchered us! Look, Naga! How many of your spawn, of your kin still survive? Twenty? Thirty? When I was young the Divine Dragons blanketed the earth with their numbers, hundreds of thousands, and now you are nothing!" Something unseen must have passed between them, because Grima stopped his tirade, black fire fading into nothing between his fingers and returning to his chair. Instead of retrieving his cards though, Grima's head fell into his hands and Naga looked on with what could possibly be -- pity? The entire tent sat in silence for a long time, the occasional pop and crackle of the dying fire the only noise. Grima spoke once more, but low and quiet as if ashamed. "They used to pray to me for rain." "Hmm?" "When I was young, before I was fully grown the humans prayed to me for their crops. They raised their voices to me and pleaded for me to bring them water. And I did what I could. I brought them clouds when I had the strength or otherwise brought water with my magic. But eventually I failed, and you turned them on me. You claimed that I had denied them rain to watch them suffer, and that I was a wicked thing, worthy only to be reviled."
	He had picked up his cards again and had resumed their game, rounds flicking between them faster than ever. "They fear what they will never understand, Naga. They will turn on you when you fail to deliver to them whatever you peddle them now. You sought to know what corrupted me, what made me into what I am?" The alien intelligence behind his eyes was at the forefront now, sweeping the room and locking eyes with Libra and Naga individually. "Fear. Tell me, am I wrong to fear the mud men?" She chose her words carefully, picking out one word at a time before responding in full "Perhaps not. It is true that we are no longer as numerous as we were in the past, and that Humanity is largely responsible. But it is not our right to deny them their lives and to sweep them away like so much wheat before the scythe. Our time is over, Grima. They no longer need us to govern them and grant them rain." He spat out a laugh at that, a single syllable of contempt that felt hollow compared to his earlier laughter.
	"I cannot say I agree with everything they have created and done, however." "Oh? What do you despise? Are you even capable of hate?" The play stopped while Naga leaned back, wracking her divine memory for some lost tidbit. "Pants." Silence. "What?" Grima said, incredulous and with flat voice. "I find pants too constraining. Life was easier before them." She said, taking her turn. "Oh, I agree with you. Pants are truly a foul thing, created exclusively for the torment of the living. I've had to wear these for over three weeks now and it still pains me." Libra began to hyperventilate, trying to suppress his own thoughts. Gods just didn't talk about how pants were insanity, and it hurt him physically to hear his object of worship and her Adversary talk so casually about something so ridiculous. "So," Naga whispered across the table, lecherous grin on her radiant face, "Do you want to come back to my tent and see what it feels like to take them off?"
	Libra fainted.