Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chrom is having a bad day.

He rolls his shoulders, trying to dispel the crick in his back from too many hours spent hunched over his desk. Outside, an insistent deluge pounds and splatters against his office window—a dreary accompaniment to his sullen mood. 

Given that the halidom is now at peace, Chrom has had more bad days than he’d hoped for since he was forced to step into the role of active ruler three months earlier. As it turns out, he was infinitely more prepared to lead a country through a war than to rule over its people, and the learning curve has been both steep and disheartening. He could curse his younger self for how heedless he was of lessons on politics and court proceedings. Perhaps if he paid more attention back then, he wouldn’t feel quite so out of his depth now. He doesn’t like feeling incompetent. He likes it even less when he can tell that everyone around him thinks he is too.

Though the prickle of inadequacy is quickly becoming commonplace, some days are still worse than others, and this one is turning out particularly miserable. 

That morning, just as the dawn smudged color into the sky, Chrom hauled himself out of bed to go for a run. He knew he'd been neglecting his training since returning to the palace, and since physical exertion is his preferred form of stress relief, he hoped that it would put him in a better mood for the day ahead. And perhaps it would have…if not for his failure to account for the dogged spring rain. Chrom slogged back to the palace, drenched to the skin, only to be told that his meeting with the merchants from Pyrathi had been rescheduled to this morning, and hadn’t he seen the missive about it left on his desk the night before? He was left with little choice but to endure the meeting in his dripping clothing, but even that wasn't enough to make up for all the lost time.

Now, he sits downcast at his desk, engaged in a battle against an ever growing tower of paperwork—one which he is starting to think may make for a more fearsome enemy than the better part of the Plegian army. He's fighting to take apart a particularly tedious trade proposal when a knock sounds on the door. Despondently, he wonders if it isn't one of the royal aides coming to inform him that he’s late to yet another meeting.

“Enter,” he says, not bothering to conceal the exhaustion in his voice. He perks up minutely when he sees the imposing figure of his retainer striding into the room.

“Hello, Frederick,” Chrom greets him with a relieved smile, “it’s good to see you. I could use a friendly face with how my day has gone.” 

Despite his wishful thinking, Frederick’s countenance, which is austere at baseline, pinches up further in response to his words.

“Unfortunately, it is not a pleasant matter which brings me here, milord,” Frederick tells him apologetically. Chrom deflates again. 

“No, of course it couldn’t be,” he says with a resigned sigh, then sets aside his quill and folds his arms to brace himself for the worst. “Well, let’s hear it then.” 

Frederick comes to stand before him, hands clasped neatly and eyebrows furrowed. “I have just overheard discussion pertaining to the Ylissean Noble League’s council meeting tomorrow—specifically in regards to plans for Your Highness’s upcoming birthday celebration.”

“Ah, I suppose it’s just over a month away now, isn’t it?” Chrom muses before frowning. “I’m not eager to throw a ball so soon after the war’s end, but I'm well aware the council thinks it will raise the people’s spirits. It’s not anything I’m not prepared for.”

Frederick shakes his head. “If only that were all, milord. However, it seems quite a few members of the League have…rather extensive expectations regarding the guest list.”

Chrom swallows down the unpleasant inkling that accompanies those words. “…What do you mean?” he asks.

Silently, he sends up a prayer to Naga or any other gods listening that his suspicions are off-base. Such worries are not alleviated when the line of Frederick’s mouth manages to contort into an even deeper frown.

“From the discussion I overheard, the council intends to push for the event to be attended by eligible nobility from far and wide. Their hope is that the ball may also serve as a venue for you to make a formal announcement…” he clears his throat, “an announcement declaring yourself to be betrothed.”

Chrom’s stomach plummets, a chaotic cocktail of dread and frustration roiling in his gut. 

“I’m not ready,” he says flatly.

Frederick bows his head as if in apology. “I understand your hesitation, milord. But given the…'' he pauses, some sort of conflict briefly evident on his features before he continues “…the recent loss of Her Grace, the council is anxious to ensure the exalted bloodline is secure for many years to come.”

“That’s nonsense! We’re not at war anymore and I’m in good health,” Chrom argues. He pushes aside the ever-present sting that still accompanies any mention of his elder sister and pushes on, "Emm was…she was older than I am, and she still hadn’t married.”

Frederick simply shakes his head. “I’m afraid that among the League members there were those who put significant pressure on Her Grace to marry, as well. They now believe her untimely loss only further justifies the need to produce an heir.”

“Excellent. They’re using my sister’s death to further their own agenda." Chrom scowls. "Even then, I don’t see how that justifies going to such extreme lengths to secure the bloodline. If something were to happen to me, we still have Lissa.” 

Frederick’s jaw clenches tight, and though he seems to be on the cusp of saying something, he pauses for so long that Chrom starts to wonder if he might not intend to reply at all. Finally, in a voice colored with distaste Frederick says, “…With regards to Lady Lissa, there are those among the council who still harbor doubts about her legitimacy as an heir.” 

Chrom slams his fist on the desk. It speaks to Frederick’s steely composure that he doesn’t so much as flinch.

“To hell with that!” Chrom seethes. “They have no right to question her legitimacy. Lissa doesn’t need a brand to prove her lineage! She’s one of us, she—”

He stops himself just shy of choking out ‘she’s the only family I have left,’ though the way Frederick grimaces suggests he can guess at the nature of Chrom’s thoughts. 

“I assure you, milord, I do not like hearing Her Highness discussed in such a manner any more than you do. I am only relaying to you the concerns that I have heard whispered amongst the council in the past.” 

Chrom’s eyes burn another moment, but he knows he has nothing to gain by lashing out at Frederick, and finding no fuel for his fury, it sputters out. In the anger’s absence, there is only gnawing dread to take its place.

“I’m not ready…” he murmurs again. “I’m not—I can’t afford to be spending my time on courting etiquette when there's a country to run—one still in the midst of recovery from war. Everything is still so unstable, Frederick. Don’t they see that?” 

“I do understand the sentiment, milord,” Frederick says. Haltingly he adds, “I think perhaps it is the council’s hope that were you to find a suitable match, it might aid the halidom in achieving lasting stability. And that perhaps having a partner to share the burden of rule could lessen some of your responsibilities.”

“Ah, is that what this is about then?” Chrom asks sullenly. Something in his chest clenches tight and dimly he recognizes the feeling as shame. “They don’t trust me to rule on my own, do they? They think the best thing I can do for Ylisse is to marry and heft my duties onto a partner who’s better at politics than I am. And that the only way I’ll manage not to plunge us right back into war is by securing an alliance through marriage.”

“Milord, I did not say—”

“Peace, Frederick,” Chrom interjects, “I know you wouldn’t say such a thing. No matter how much truth there may be to it.” 

Frederick stares at him long and hard and Chrom feels suddenly as if all the evidence of his floundering these last few months has been laid bare: it is there coloring the dark circles beneath his eyes and weighing down his slumped shoulders. There are few who he has allowed to see how much he has been struggling to rise to his new role, but at present, he knows it must be as glaringly obvious as the brand upon his arm. 

Abruptly, Frederick makes his way around Chrom’s desk and, after a moment’s hesitation, places a hand upon his shoulder. It is about as close to a display of affection as the knight ever permits himself, and Chrom casts his eyes up at him, grateful for the silent showing of support.

“Thank you for coming to warn me, Frederick,” Chrom says when Frederick offers no further words of his own. Frederick nods stiffly before withdrawing his hand.

“Would that I could be of more help than just informing you of what is to come,” he says, then moves back to the front of Chrom’s desk. For a moment, another emotion seems to cross Frederick’s face, but it passes just as quickly. “And whatever you may choose regarding how to proceed, I shall endeavor to continue supporting you to the best of my abilities.”

Chrom gives him his closest approximation of a smile. “Your support is always appreciated, my friend,” he says, and he injects as much sincerity into it as he can, because it’s true. He can still feel Frederick's eyes poring over him though, so with some effort, he refocuses his attention on the trade agreement laying on his desk. “If that will be all, I should really get back to this paperwork. Otherwise I won’t have any hope of finishing before nightfall."

Frederick bows and exits without another word.

Chrom suspects the gods finally decided to take pity on him, because the rest of the day passes uneventfully. He finishes the monstrous stack of paperwork in relative peace (though it undoubtedly takes longer than it should have, given the stewy state of his thoughts) and then has a late dinner sent up to his room. Though he normally enjoys having company for his meals, he can’t quite bring himself to feign a cheery disposition today. 

Idly, he stabs at the food on his plate, the same thoughts still churning in his mind since he spoke to Frederick earlier.

Five weeks. There are only five short weeks until his birthday. The thought of announcing an engagement to someone in that time is beyond belief. Chrom tries to picture it—striding out onto the mezzanine that overlooks the Ylissean palace’s ballroom, with someone’s hand in his and matching rings on their fingers. It’s inconceivable that he could find someone he would be content to marry in such a short time. 

Well…almost inconceivable. 

For a single fractured moment, he can imagine one specific person’s hand in his, and an accompanying smile bright on both their faces. Because truthfully, in all his life, there has only ever been one person who he’s wanted to stay by his side; one person with whom even forever together might not be quite long enough. 

One person he considers his partner in all things. His other half…

Unfortunately, Chrom is reasonably certain that Robin shares no such sentiments. Any time he has dared to hint that his feelings for her are more than strictly platonic, Robin has thoroughly shut him down; reiterating time and again how well suited they are as friends and how completely content she is with the current state of their relationship.

In each of those instances, it very much seemed like Robin did not even want to consider the possibility that Chrom might feel something romantic for her—presumably at least in part because of the damage such feelings could do to their friendship. So Chrom has slowly learned to package his affections for her away, in the hopes of avoiding troubling her or hurting himself. To be her best friend should be more than enough. 

Still, despite his best efforts, his love for Robin has been alarmingly stubborn. No matter how many times he's told himself that it's pointless to cling to his own heartbreak, his feelings continue to lurk shallowly just beneath the surface—ready to bubble up the moment her hand brushes his or the two of them hold eye contact longer than necessary. It’s hard to prevent such sentiments from being unearthed again now, with thoughts of an engagement at the front of his mind.

He wonders, absentmindedly, what Robin herself would have to say about all this: if perhaps that razor-sharp, whirlwind mind of hers would be able to root out a solution that hasn’t occurred to him…some angle for an argument to convince the Ylissean League that there’s no need for such drastic measures at this time.

…He could just go ask Robin himself. It might not hurt to get another opinion on the matter before the meeting tomorrow. And her perspective is always the one he values most.

The moment he has thought about going to see her, the desire to do so fans up into a small inferno. It seems so obvious: if anyone might have some insight to put his mind at ease, it would be Robin. And if she can’t help, then at least his evening will be that much better for having been spent in her company. 

Mind now made up, Chrom finishes his meal and makes for her quarters, located just one wing over from where his own are. It’s a walk he’s made many times since the war’s conclusion, and he hardly pauses outside her door before knocking.

Muffled shuffling sounds come from within her chambers, and the door swings open a moment later. Robin pops her head out to see who’s there, and immediately Chrom notices that her hair is damp; silver-white locks hanging long and loose over her shoulders. It frames her face in a way that feels oddly intimate—if only for the sheer rarity of seeing her without her hair up. 

“Oh! Hello, Chrom! What a pleasant surprise,” Robin exclaims. Her mouth curves up into a crescent moon smile at the sight of him; it makes him think perhaps this day will not be completely irredeemable after all.

“May I come in?” he inquires. “I’d like to discuss something with you, if that’s alright.”

“Of course,” she answers immediately, and then steps aside, beckoning for him to enter. “Go ahead and make yourself comfortable and we can talk.”

Chrom shoots her a grateful smile as he enters her quarters.

Following the war campaign, Chrom insisted that Robin be given lodging in the palace rather than the Shepherds’ garrison. Though she'd protested initially on the grounds of feeling she should not receive special treatment, he assured her the room would not be anything extravagant, and that it was customary for Ylissean royalty to have their advisors stay somewhere they would be easily accessible. 

“Advisor?” Robin laughed, “Since when am I your advisor?” 

“Well, there’s less need for military strategists during times of peace,” he explained, “but I can hardly imagine how I’d fare without your counsel altogether. I thought this could serve as an appropriate appointment for the time being. You’re still my tactician, I’ll just be consulting you on matters other than the military.”

It didn’t take much convincing beyond that—Robin was as eager to be of assistance as ever, and happy to take on a position that allowed her to do more to serve the halidom. And as far as Chrom was concerned, it was as good an arrangement as any. He liked having reason to still consult with her, and there had been more than one occasion already where Robin’s analytical mind made simple work of conundrums he’d thought unsolvable. 

Keeping her so close was an added bonus—if for no reason other than that it makes paying her impromptu visits like this one that much more convenient. At this point, the bright, jewel-tone decor and the simple wooden furnishings buried beneath her book stacks all feel nearly as familiar as his own chambers do.

Chrom settles on the loveseat by the fireplace while Robin takes her favorite reading chair before turning her attention towards him.

“Now,” she prompts, tossing the long silvery curtain of her hair over one shoulder, “what sort of matter are we discussing? Does this pertain to the state or is it something more personal?”

“The state,” Chrom answers and then hesitates, resting his chin in his hand. “Er…actually, personal. Maybe both?”

Robin chuckles. “I ask because I wanted to know if you were looking to speak to me as your friend or in a more official capacity,” she explains.

“Ahh,” Chrom says, with a wry smile, “well in that case, let’s go with as a friend.”

She nods, folding her hands in her lap and fixing her gaze on him thoughtfully. In the firelight, her eyes are like two smoldering embers of their own—and they make him feel just as warm.

“Well, go on then,” she prompts, “what’s on your mind?”

Chrom sighs, fidgeting in the seat as his thoughts shift back to his reason for the visit. “Frederick came to see me earlier,” he begins. “He said that he’d overheard some of the council discussing their plans for the meeting tomorrow, and for my birthday in particular. They want to throw a ball, which is to be expected, but…” Chrom trails off, replaying Frederick's words in his head again.

“But…?” Robin encourages. Chrom frowns.

“But it seems they're hoping it will be more than just a birthday celebration. They want to ensure that eligible nobility from across all of Ylisse will be in attendance. Apparently, they intend to put pressure on me to begin courting someone from among the guests. There was even talk of the event doubling as an engagement announcement.” 

“Ahh,” Robin says, her lips pulling down in an expression that mirrors his own, “and I assume that’s not something you want to concern yourself with right now?” 

“Exactly. It’s the very last thing I want to worry about,” Chrom says emphatically. His eyes fall to his lap then, chagrin coloring his words. “I know that eventually I’ll be expected to marry and produce an heir. But it’s only been a few months, and I…I can’t do it, Robin. Not right now, not yet. I hardly have a handle on all of my new duties, and most days I still have no idea what I’m doing. I can’t imagine juggling a courtship on top of that—especially not with a complete stranger.”

“Oh, Chrom…” Robin breathes. She pauses, weighing his admission for a moment. He feels terribly vulnerable with his words hanging in the air between them.

“It’s not your fault, you know,” she says, finally. “Anyone would be overwhelmed in your position; those nobles have no idea how much they’re asking of you. I know the work hasn’t been easy, but I think you should be proud of all you’ve been able to learn already, especially during a time when I’m sure all you want is to be left to grieve in peace.”

Chrom tears his eyes from his lap to look at her again and finds her expression is soft with sympathy without bearing any trace of pity. Not for the first time, he is struck by the clarity with which his best friend sees every crack and corner of his heart. 

An impulse surfaces inside him to pull her close—as if falling against her will keep him from falling into despair instead. Their seats are too far apart to reach her though, and he’s not sure how welcome his touch would be anyway. Instead, he forces himself to sit straighter in his seat and summon a smile.  

“Thank you, Robin. But even if what you say is true, admitting my reservations to the council isn’t an option. I can’t afford to give them more reasons to doubt my competence—not when they already see me as unfit to follow in…in my sister’s footsteps.”

“I understand. And from what you’ve told me the Ylissean Council is hardly known for their compassion. It’s not an easy situation. Although…” she trails off, drumming her fingers against the chair’s arm. Suddenly, her brows furrow—her eyes flick back and forth rapidly. 

Chrom knows that expression. It’s the same one she wore the time that she suggested sending their most vulnerable fighters out into the open to lure a nasty squadron of wyvern riders in…near enough that their mages could set fire to Virion’s arrows and make contact before the projectiles burned to ash. It’s her I-have-a-crazy-idea face. 

“Did you think of something?” he prompts, unable to keep a splash of optimism from coloring his voice. After all, if anyone would be able to dream up a solution to this predicament, it’s Robin.

“Maybe…” she murmurs distractedly, but then her eyes refocus and she shakes her head. “I had an idea but I’m not sure how viable it would actually be. It’s good in theory, but…I don’t know if it’s all that practical.”

“Tell me anyway,” Chrom urges. “At this point I’m open to impractical solutions too.”

“Well…” Robin hedges, but then excitement seems to win out, and she leans forward conspiratorially. “What if you let the council believe that they’re already getting what they want?”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean: what if you told the Council you were already courting someone? It would involve some dishonesty of course, but you could say…I don’t know, that you're already in a relationship, but that you've been keeping it a secret. To make sure that it's stable before announcing anything officially.”

Her eyes glimmer triumphantly as she goes on. “The council could hardly put pressure on you to begin courting if they believe that’s what you’re already doing. And then when it comes time to make an announcement about the engagement, you could simply say that the relationship didn’t work out after all. They probably wouldn’t be thrilled, but if you play your cards right, it’s not as if there is much they’d be able to do about it.”

Chrom’s eyes widen throughout her explanation, a chuckle tumbling out of him as she reaches the end. “Robin, you sly cat. That just might work.”

His praise pulls a proud grin from her.

“I think the biggest challenge would be selling it,” she continues. “You’d need to find a way to make it seem believable. Maybe get a few people in on the plan so that the council would have some suspects for who you might be courting. You’d have to be careful to keep it all under wraps, of course, but I think if you had others playing along, that would help lend the story some credibility—especially since you’re not the most convincing liar.” 

“Hey!” Chrom protests, but his indignation just makes her laugh.

“Do you deny it?” she challenges, raising her eyebrows at him. 

“W-well, no, but that’s only because I can never think of a good lie when put on the spot. With time to prepare, I’ll manage just fine."

“And you’re okay with lying to that many people?”

“I am when the people I’m lying to are trying to corner me into living however they see fit," Chrom retaliates. "No one on that council cares for my wishes or well-being." 

Robin makes a non-committal humming sound that he knows means she isn’t fully convinced, but he’s content to let her doubt his abilities if she wants to. He’ll happily rise to the challenge. Already the thought of having a means out of this mess has instilled him with renewed optimism. 

“It also wouldn’t be a permanent solution,” Robin muses after another moment, “but it could at least buy you some time.” 

“Time is all I need,” Chrom assures her. “It's as I said earlier: I know I’ll have to marry eventually. I just don't want to be rushed into it while I’m still learning how to rule Ylisse.” 

“Sounds plenty reasonable to me,” Robin replies with an understanding smile. 

He doesn’t mention how impossible it still feels to lock himself into a life with someone other than her. Or how, despite the ache his feelings for her bring, they still seem as though they belong within him—a soreness that proves his heart works like any other muscle. Hopefully buying some time will also help buy him the will he’ll need to relinquish those sentiments. 

Chrom takes a moment to just look at her appreciatively, so much of the unease he was plagued with throughout the day fading in light of her ingenuity.

“Thank you, Robin,” he says. “I really think I’ll be able to make this work. Truly, I can’t imagine what I would do without you.” 

“Fumble about hopelessly, I’m sure." She winks, and it makes his heart patter like the still falling rain. “But you know I’m always happy to help.” 

“Ha, there may be more truth to that than you realize,” he admits wryly, and then pushes to his feet. “Well, I don’t want to keep you. I’ll let you know tomorrow how your master plan plays out.”

“Excellent!” Robin's grin is electric, sending sparks surging through his veins. “I’ll be looking forward to a full report. Give those bossy nobles a run for their money.”

“I’ll be sure to do just that,” he promises her.

The next day, Chrom enters the council meeting with more tension coiled in his body than he ever harbored while walking onto the battlefield during the war. But then, the rules of battle have always been much more intuitive to him: At war, he knows who his allies and enemies are, and the goals of each side are clear. 

Navigating court is much more treacherous—there are too many sugary words and painted on smiles covering up people’s true agendas. Often times, moderating these council meetings feels more like trying to walk through a minefield while blindfolded. He’s hoping that today, at least, they won’t have to waste time before cutting to the heart of what they are here to discuss. Despite his assurances to Robin that he has no qualms with lying to the group of them, he can feel his spun fable flittering around in his throat. He’ll feel much calmer once he has set it free.

As Chrom enters the meeting hall, the council rises to stand. His footsteps echo against the marble floor—the only sound in the room. In the months since Emmeryn’s passing, he has slowly begun to adjust to the intensity of the council members' stares during these meetings, but there is a part of him that still finds the scrutiny intimidating. 

“You may be seated,” Chrom says, once he has made it to his own chair at the head of the table. The council members settle around him, 11 expectant faces peering back at him as they wait for him to formally open the meeting. He wills his nerves to settle and takes a calming breath before reciting the customary words. “Let the Ylissean Noble League’s biweekly council in the fourth month of the 997th year of the halidom now commence. May those who have concerns they would like to bring to the attention of Ylisse’s incumbent ruler now speak freely.”

Immediately, a portly man seated directly to Chrom’s right turns towards him. Given that he's also Maribelle's father, Chrom has known the Duke of Themis for years. He's a kindly, if somewhat old-fashioned man, with fair hair and a complexion much like his daughter’s.

“Thank you, Your Highness. We have much to discuss," the duke states. "In particular, the Council would like to further debate the matter of your approaching birthday. On a previous occasion, we broached the possibility that it serve as an opportunity for a halidom-wide celebration. It's our belief that commemorating your status as our new ruler could serve to bolster the spirits of the Ylissean people.”

They’re getting right to it then, Chrom thinks with some relief. That’s fine by him. The sooner this matter is settled, the better.

“Yes,” he says, “I’ve considered the proposal and despite my initial misgivings, I can see the merits of the suggestion. I’m amenable to having a celebration if it is held with the Ylissean people’s best interests at its heart.” 

There is some pleased murmuring from around the table, which he takes to be a good sign. He decided in advance that he would concede on the celebration in the hopes that it would put the Council in good spirits and leave him more bargaining room regarding the topic of his courtship.

“I’m pleased to hear you say that, Your Highness,” declares the woman seated at the Duke of Themis’s other side.

That’s Lady Idris, he recalls, the Duchess of Lefcandith. She has angular features further accentuated by meticulously manicured eyebrows. The bright red that paints her mouth is a perfect match to her hair, which is piled atop her head in an up-do so intricate that Chrom wouldn’t begin to know how it is achieved. If his previous meetings with the League are anything to go by, she is one of the more outspoken members of the council. 

“And while we are on the topic…” she says with a saccharine smile, "it is also the League’s wish that you might consider how such a celebration could give our halidom another cause for exultation.”

“And how is that?” Chrom asks, keeping his voice and expression carefully neutral. 

There is a slight pause before another council member speaks. It’s Lady Cecily, the Duchess of Adria—a petite woman who looks to be only a few years older than himself. Her round, dark eyes bespeak a restrained sort of sorrow, her tone surprisingly gentle. “Sometimes the only way to move forward after so terrible a loss is to find a cause for joy," she begins. "Following all the uncertainty of war, the council thought perhaps that…that a declaration announcing Your Highness’s betrothal might help to heal our people’s wounds, as well as to secure a more stable future for the halidom.”

Chrom pauses, taking a moment to breathe and to appear as if he is processing this information for the first time. Despite knowing it will be futile, he can’t resist attempting to press the matter from a more honest direction first.

“Is it truly necessary to go to such lengths?” he asks. “This birthday celebration only marks my 22nd year. Surely I’m not at an age where the need for an heir is so urgent.”

The council members exchange glances amongst themselves.

“Of course not, Your Highness,” Lady Cecily says. “It is all of our hope that you will be ruling for a long time to come. However, we would like to avoid a situation in which…” she hesitates for a moment before pressing on, “…in which someone is once again forced to take over rule of the halidom when they are still very young. The future is never certain, and it would take the better part of two decades before your heir was of age. It seems prudent that said heir is provided sooner rather than later—so as to avoid such a recurrence as befell your sister, the late exalt, before you.”

Despite the passage of several months since her death, direct mention of Emmeryn still has a quieting effect on the group—a stillness settling over them all, like one collective breath being held. Chrom swallows against the grief constricting his throat.

“I…understand,” he says finally. “I would never wish for a child of mine to be saddled with such a duty when they were still so young.” 

And that, at least, is true. He’s both surprised and relieved to hear a justification for his marrying that is so much more compassionate than what he had originally assumed must be motivating the council. And while it’s true that Lissa could serve as Exalt in the interim, he also knows that’s something his sister has never wanted for herself. 

“Your concerns are valid,” Chrom admits haltingly, “it’s just that…that doesn’t give me very much time. My birthday is only five weeks away. A betrothal is a serious decision—I wouldn’t want to rush it. And it would be difficult to find anyone suitable for the role so quickly.” 

“Oh nonsense, Your Highness,” says Lady Idris with a dismissive wave of her hand. “There are ample eligible nobles from across all of Ylisse and beyond who would make for a suitable match and offer plenty of political advantage. Why, it is for that very reason that we hope to invite such individuals to attend the celebration. While our cities and villages may celebrate with a grand festival, Ylisstol palace shall celebrate with a ball. The castle can house the attendees in the days leading up to it, and Your Highness can use that time to seek out a suitable match, to be announced at the celebration’s conclusion.” 

“And where am I to find the time to meet and entertain guests on top of my normal duties?” Chrom asks coolly.

The duchess doesn't so much as flinch. “If it would be of assistance to you, Prince Chrom, I would gladly aid in arranging some such meetings." 

Chrom suddenly remembers that Lady Idris has a noble daughter roughly his age. It colors her statements with a different sort of intent and only serves to tighten his resolve.

“R-right, well, those meetings actually won’t be necessary at all,” he says, hoping that the quiver of his voice isn’t audible to anyone but himself. A few surprised looks are exchanged. 

“And why is that?” the Duke of Themis asks, genuine curiosity plain on his features.

“W-well, because…because I’m already courting someone,” Chrom answers.

There is a moment of prolonged silence…then everyone starts speaking at once.

“Why is this the first we’re hearing of this?”

“Lord Chrom, how long have you been—”

“Your Highness has a responsibility to disclose to the council that—”

“By the gods, who is it that you are courting, milord?!” The shrill soprano of Lady Idris’s voice pierces through the other council member’s outcries, restoring some semblance of order.

“W-who is it?” Chrom stammers. “Er, well, I was hoping not to announce that quite yet. It’s still early in the courtship, a-and given the implications that come with courting a member of the royal family, I thought it would be prudent to er, test the waters first. To ensure it's a good match.” 

Displeased murmuring swells around him. Chrom's cheeks burn and he hopes desperately that it won’t be interpreted as anything but the understandable shyness that comes with proclaiming yourself to be in a secret relationship.

“Your Highness, if I may,” Ricken’s father, the Duke of Menedy interjects, “while your caution with announcing such a relationship publicly is wise, it is only customary that the Council, at least, be told of this individual’s identity.”

“Quite so,” the Duke of Themis says. “It is our responsibility to offer you guidance and ensure that you are fully considering the ramifications that come with choosing a specific partner. We cannot do so if we do not know who the individual is.”

Chrom swallows thickly. He’s not sure why he didn’t anticipate this argument for having to reveal the imaginary person’s identity. Perhaps he was just too caught up in the relief of having an escape route to bother analyzing every step of it. 

“R-right,” he musters, “I understand your concerns, but don’t you think it's too soon for a discussion like that? As I said, it’s still early in the relationship. There's no need for discourse when I don't yet know if—er, that is, I'm not sure if it will be…”  

Lady Idris raises one of her immaculately manicured eyebrows at him. “Do you anticipate that this relationship will not be a lasting one, Your Highness?”

“N-no!” Chrom insists quickly. “No, that’s not it at all.”

“Then I think we should endeavor to treat it with all the serious consideration that any courtship with a member of the royal family would typically receive,” she says, and Chrom does not miss the icy undercurrent to her words. 

“I must agree with Lady Idris, Your Highness,” says the Duchess of Adria. “It is essential that the League is able to weigh in, especially as it is the only way we shall be able to properly prepare for the political implications that come with your choice—not the least of which is the upcoming ball. The identity of your partner affects everyone in this room, and as such, it’s imperative that we be enlightened on the matter.”

Sweat trickles down Chrom’s neck. “Ah, right, of course. I—I understand your concerns. It’s just that…” he tugs nervously at his collar, “that I…I’m not quite ready to—”

“With all due respect, Lord Chrom,” Lady Idris interjects again, “surely when first entering into your relationship you must have considered the necessity of having such a discussion with the League. I should think it obvious that if you were not ready to speak your choice to this council, you were not ready to engage in the partnership at all.”

Her words prickle at him—a strange sense of shame and anger flaring at her dismissive tone, despite the fact that she’s completely correct. He wasn’t ready; that’s the whole reason he decided to tell this lie. And now it’s very quickly blowing up in his face. 

“No, it’s—it’s not that I didn’t consider it,” he insists, trying desperately to think of a way to salvage the situation. “It’s only that I didn’t anticipate having this conversation quite so soon, and, er…”

“What difference does it make for you to inform us now as opposed to in a month, milord?” the duchess challenges. “Surely the League’s opinion on the match will not be any different then, but knowing now grants each of us more time to prepare accordingly.” 

“She's quite right. Especially with regards to the preparations that will need to be made for the halidom’s celebration of Your Highness’s birthday,” the Duke of Menedy adds.

There is a rumble of agreement from the other nobles at the table. 

“Y-yes, that makes sense,” Chrom stammers. His hands fidget in his lap. A sudden wash of clamminess settles over him, making his gloves feel stifling. 

“Well then, Prince Chrom,” the Duke of Themis urges him, “pray tell: who is the lucky sir or madam?” 

“Er…” Chrom’s voice catches in his throat. Everywhere he looks he finds another set of eyes boring into him. “It’s, uh…it’s…” 

“Come now, Your Highness. You have nothing to hide from us,” says Lady Idris, in a tone that suggests she very much does think he is hiding something. 

“R-right, well, it’s—” 

Chrom’s thoughts are thrashing and frantic. He feels cornered, and if he doesn’t tell them something he risks losing all of their belief in this story he's spun, as well as his dignity. It all seemed so simple when Robin first laid it out for him. If only she were here now, she’d find some way to rescue him. Some way to dig him out of this mess, and turn everything—

Her name flashes through his panicked mind again—a brilliant bolt of inspiration that strikes him like lightning.

“It’s Robin!” he blurts. “I’m courting Robin!”

Chapter Text

The second the words have left him, Chrom wishes he could snatch them out of the air and cram them back down his throat. There is one moment of tranquility as his answer washes over the council members, and in which he manages to stammer out, “Er, w-wait, actually that’s—”

And then the council erupts into discordant shouting. 

If it was chaotic when he announced that he was courting someone, then it is full out anarchy now. Chrom feels cowed in a way that he hasn’t in many years—not since his father was alive and last fixed him with the full intensity of his steely gaze: equal parts anger and disappointment. 

Everyone is talking at once, arguing with each other, or with him, but he can’t make any of it out over the sound of blood rushing in his ears. It’s too much, it’s overwhelming, it’s—

“Enough!” Chrom bellows, and to his surprise the council is immediately stunned silent. It’s a welcome reminder of his own authority. 

He takes a steadying breath, fisting his trembling hands and trying to draw confidence from the knowledge that he’s not a little boy anymore—he’s the acting ruler of the realm. He needn't yield to anyone here, no matter how loud or angry they become.

“I did not share this information to ask your permission,” Chrom says finally. He hopes his tone is sufficiently commanding. “I disclosed it only for the sake of ensuring the Council can make the appropriate preparations. The decision is my own, and it has…it has already been made.” 

He nearly falters at the end when he considers just what he is claiming to have decided. He told them he’s courting Robin. 

Gods, why did he say he is courting Robin? What was he thinking?

“Your Highness, if I may—” Lady Idris begins.

“You may not,” he replies coolly. The puckered expression on her face leaves him with a good guess as to what sentiments she would like to express, and it only contorts further in response to his words. Chrom is absolutely certain he does not want to hear what she has to say on the matter.

…He is also absolutely certain that he needs to get out of this meeting room before he finds a way to stick his other foot in his mouth.

For a moment, he thinks of Emmeryn, and the times he sat in to watch her in court. Somehow, despite her gentle nature and slight frame, she could still command the room effortlessly. She never allowed any of the council members to treat her disrespectfully.

He tries to remember how it felt to be near her back then—Emm’s special brand of self-assured serenity that always set his heart at ease. He has to believe there is a flicker of that in him somewhere that he can tap into. Chrom draws back his shoulders and lets his face fall placid. The realization that the council has been waiting in tense silence for him to speak again helps spur him on.

“I understand that there is much to discuss,” he says finally, “but given the council’s evident shock over this announcement, I think it would be best to resume our conversation on the matter at a later date. At that time, I will be happy to address all of the League’s concerns about my courtship so long as they are broached with the level of respect and dignity befitting our stations.” 

To his relief, the words seem to have the desired effect. No one at the table calls his bluff—there are even a few apologetic murmurs. Chrom rises from his seat, trying very hard to look kingly and confident. 

“We will reopen discussion over arrangements for my birthday celebration at that time as well. For now, the Council is dismissed,” he declares. Without waiting for a response, he strides from the room with just enough restraint to keep from appearing as if he is running away.

The second the latch of the door has clicked behind him, Chrom collapses against the adjacent wall. He can’t afford more than a moment’s respite here—the League members will come trailing out behind him any minute, but he didn’t have it in him to feign composure a single second longer. 

He releases a long, shuddering breath and tries to ground himself against the cool stone at his back. He needs to think, but the whole world seems to be tipping off balance around him. Chrom scrunches his eyes shut, praying it will help to abate the dizziness enough that he can—

“Ah, Chrom! Did your meeting finish already?”

His eyes snap open in response to the familiar voice—one that would be a welcome relief under any other set of circumstances. Robin is approaching him from the end of the hallway, a blithe smile on her face. 

Robin…who he just told the entire Ylissean Noble League he is courting…the members of which could begin walking out of the council room any second now.

Chrom lets out a sound half way between a gasp and a yelp and rushes forward, only to stop just short of her, suddenly unsure of how to proceed. 

“…Chrom?” Robin broaches, tilting her head to peer up at his face, “Hey, is everything alright? Did…did the meeting not go well?”

At that moment, he hears the door swing open behind them. Gods, he has to get her out of here right now. 

“I’m fine! Everything is fine, just uh, c-come along, dear,” he says loudly. Hastily, he grabs Robin’s hand and drags her around the corner of the hallway, cringing inwardly at himself as he does. Dear? Really?

“I—I’m sorry, what did you just call me?” Robin asks. She’s looking at him like he suddenly sprouted three heads but thankfully still allows herself to be hauled along behind him. 

“I promise I’ll explain everything in a moment,” he assures her in a distressed whisper as he turns a corner and drags her down another hallway. He needs to find somewhere for them to talk—somewhere private, where they won’t be overheard or—

As Chrom rounds a corner, he finds himself face to face with what must be an entrance to the servants’ quarters, because several of them are ambling about, engaged in various tasks. Out of options, he stumbles backwards and throws open the nearest door, quickly tugging Robin into the room and out of sight.

Chrom shuts the door behind them and turns to find that they are standing in a cramped storeroom, the walls of which are lined with shelves stocked with various kitchen and cleaning supplies. A single narrow window along the ceiling serves as the only light source. Judging by the layer of dust coating most of the room’s contents, it’s not used very often.

Well, at least they’re unlikely to be interrupted. 

Chrom turns back to address Robin and immediately finds he overestimated the size of the space, because they are nearly chest to chest. He swallows and shuffles back from her, pressing himself into the shelving in the process.

“Uh, Chrom?” Robin urges, her voice taking on that higher pitch it only has when she’s nervous. “I’m not trying to pressure you here, but I’d really appreciate it if you could tell me what’s going on? Why are you acting so strange? And why are we hiding in an old storeroom?”

Right. He needs to explain everything. Only his heart won’t stop hammering from their narrow escape from the council. And Robin’s proximity in the cramped, dimly lit space is not doing anything to help. 

“I—the Council meeting—” he begins, his thoughts and words all seeming to climb over each other on their way out of his mouth. “I told them that I was courting someone like you suggested, but—”

Robin’s eyes glint with understanding before her mouth pulls taut in a frown.

“What happened? Did they not believe you?”

“N-no! Er, yes?” he flounders. “They believed me, but they—they demanded that I tell them who it was. They wouldn’t take no for an answer.” 

He can practically hear the whirl of gears in Robin’s head as she processes this information. “Okay well, what you should do is tell them you’d like a day to prepare a formal statement on the matter. You’re the crown prince, they can hardly deny you a single day to gather your thoughts. It won’t give us a lot of time, but I think we should be able to work out something. We can talk to—”

“No!” Chrom interrupts, with growing hopelessness. Gods, why hadn’t he thought to try and argue for that? “It’s too late for that now, I already told them.”

Robin stiffens. “You told them? Who you’re courting?”

“…Yes,” Chrom mumbles.

“But…but you’re not courting anyone, are you?” Robin asks, a brief flash of uncertainty on her face.

“No, of course not! If I was, I wouldn’t be in this damn mess.”

Her expression crinkles up in confusion. “But then who did you—”

“You!” he confesses. “I told them it was you.”

Robin stares at him, visibly buffering. He can identify the exact moment when the information connects because her face goes crimson, and her whole body goes rigid as she jerks away from him—as far as she can in the confines of the small, dingy space.

“Ch-Chrom!” she hisses, “You said it was me? Are you insane?” 

“Y-yes and maybe? I don’t know!” he answers. 

Robin rubs her temples as if she suddenly has a horrible headache. “Of all the people whose names you could have told them, why would you say—I mean, even the idea that we would be in a relationship is completely ludicrous! What were you thinking?” 

And he can’t help it: her reaction stings. 

More than just stings—it’s a lancing pain that cracks open his chest. Even though he has no right to feel hurt that she would be distressed about him dragging her into this…the sheer blend of outrage and horror on Robin's face is enough to make it painfully clear how unappealing she considers the notion to be. It’s not as if he didn’t already expect that she felt that way…but it still hurts to be confronted with it so plainly—it still makes him feel hollowed out inside. 

“Chrom,” she demands, her voice snapping him out of his sulking, “Why would you—”

“I…I don’t know,” he mumbles again, embarrassment coiling up in his gut and crawling down his neck. “I was panicking and…you seemed like the most obvious choice.”

“The most obvious…?” Robin shakes her head in disbelief. “Chrom, that’s—that doesn’t make any sense! I’m not even nobility, I’m not even—” She groans in exasperation. “Gods, the Council must have been furious. I’m probably the worst possible person whose name you could have given. This is only going to create more problems for you, and—”

“I’m sorry!” he snaps, but the moment he does he recognizes that his hurt feelings and frazzled nerves are making him lash out unfairly. 

“I’m sorry, Robin,” he repeats, more softly. “It was a stupid thing to say. You were only trying to help, and now I’ve gone and dragged you into all of this too. That’s hardly any way to thank a friend.” His shoulders slump and he shakes his head, feeling guiltier by the minute. “I’ll tell the council the truth: that I lied to them because I was desperate to avoid being forced into going along with their wishes.” Chrom gives a sardonic chuckle. “Perhaps they’ll take pity on me and give me a little more time.” 

“Chrom, hold on, can you just—just give me a minute?” Robin asks tersely. 

He risks another glance at her and finds that rather than seeming angry like he expected, she looks vaguely pained. She’s staring adamantly at the floor, her lips pressed into a tight line and brow furrowed as if she’s engaged in a chess match against an invisible opponent—and currently she’s losing.

Well, the least he can do is give her a moment to process everything. With great effort, Chrom forces himself to fall quiet and shifts his focus to the dust motes floating through the single slant of light in the storeroom—willing the image to occupy enough space in his mind that his panicked feelings can’t crowd in instead.

“…No,” Robin says finally, her voice startling him.

“No…?” he echoes back.

“No. You can’t tell the League that,” she says. Though her voice quivers, he can hear the steeled resolve beneath it. “If the Council knows you lied to them about this, it will undermine your whole working relationship with them. They won’t trust you anymore: not on this or on anything else going forward. And it puts you right back at square one with being rushed into courting a stranger.”

“I know that,” Chrom replies, frowning, “but what other choice do I have?”

“Well, there is one other option…” Robin says slowly. “We could pretend that it’s true.”

“I…” Chrom blinks at her, “we could what?”

“I said we could pretend it’s true—that we really are courting,” she clarifies. When Chrom continues to look baffled, she huffs. “Oh, you can’t be that shocked. I mean you already had the same idea, didn’t you? Or was calling me ‘dear’ something you planned to make a habit of doing completely independently of all this?”

Chrom flushes to the tips of his ears. “Th-that wasn’t meant to be—I was just—”

“Panicking,” Robin finishes for him, but he’s relieved to recognize a tinge of sympathy to her voice. “I know, and I would have been too.” She drags her eyes up to his, their determined sheen visible even in the low light. “Telling the council my name was…definitely not ideal. But what’s done is done, and we only have so many options for how to proceed. And out of all of them, I—I think pretending to be in a relationship might be the best one.”

Chrom gapes at her, his lips working around the shape of soundless words while Robin brings a hand to her chin in contemplation.

“I mean, just consider it for a moment,” she continues. “It would spare you the embarrassment and damage that would come with having to admit you lied to the council. And it would get you out of having to find a suitable partner before your birthday. We’d have to set aside some time to put on an act for anyone observing you too closely, but for the most part, you could keep focusing on your political responsibilities—just like with the original plan.”

“B-but I…”

Chrom’s thoughts tug him in a hundred different directions. Pretend to be courting Robin? Let people believe they’re a couple? Potentially do…couple-y things together for the sake of selling the ruse? He’s not even sure what that would entail, but just considering it sends his heart skittering.

Reality settles back in a moment later though, and he shakes his head. “No, I can’t ask that of you, Robin. That extends far beyond any favor I could request from a friend.”

She frowns at him. “You’re not asking me to, I’m offering. I’m the one who suggested that you lie to the council in the first place. And now that it’s backfired, I think this is the least I can do.”

“Robin…” Chrom stares at her in disbelief, “you can’t possibly believe that this is your fault. It was my own decision to follow your advice. I should have thought it through accordingly.”

She just shakes her head. “Even so, I’m supposed to be your tactician. It’s my job to devise suitable strategies for you. And despite that, I let you walk into this battle with what was clearly a very poorly thought-out plan.” She smiles wryly at him. “I owe it to you to try and make it right, Chrom.”

“That’s not true! You don’t owe me anything,” he insists, and Robin frowns again.

“If the idea makes you too uncomfortable, you can just say so, you know.”

“Me? N-no, I wouldn’t mind at all,” he tells her and then immediately realizes that statement might be a little too honest. “Er, what I mean is, it might be a little awkward, but it’s definitely the preferable option on my end. But I can’t just let you—”

“Willingly volunteer my help?” she interjects. “Like I said, I’m offering to do this. You may not think I owe it to you but…but the truth is, I owe you everything, Chrom.” Robin’s eyes flick to his, and in the brief moment that they meet, he’s surprised by the shy tenderness written there.

“All of our friends, my home here in Ylisse, my whole sense of purpose—” she continues quietly, “I wouldn’t have any of that without you. Allowing me a place in your life when I was just a stranger was the greatest kindness I can imagine. I may never be able to repay all you’ve done for me, but if I can help you in this small way, then I want to.”

Chrom swallows hard, fighting the urge to take her hand or grasp her shoulder—to pull her near and let his touch convey in a way that his words can't that she has already given him more than she will ever understand. That for months now, she’s been his strength, his shelter and his hope all at once.

Instead, his hands twitch at his side, unable to cross the expanse between them. He’s never known anyone who made him long so poignantly to just be nearer—every scarce inch between them a palpable ache. 

“Besides,” Robin says, and he realizes that he hasn’t actually managed to reply to her admission at all, “it would only be for…what? Five weeks? That’s a manageable length of time to have to pretend. And we’d only need to do so when there were other people around. It wouldn’t be so hard.”

“Five weeks…” Chrom echoes, and she nods.

“After your birthday, we could just say that the relationship hadn’t worked out; that we realized we’re better as friends and called it off. Everything would go back to normal, and you’d have more time to continue adjusting to your role before the council could pressure you again to take a spouse. Just like in the original plan.”

Slowly, Chrom releases the breath he’d been holding.

“It does seem like it could work,” he admits. “But…Robin, please, will you take the night to think it over? Even if we're only pretending, there’s a lot of scrutiny that comes with courting a member of the royal family. I don’t want to put you in a situation that would make you uncomfortable or unhappy solely for my sake.” 

He frowns to himself, thinking of the open fury in that council room when he’d spoken her name. He hadn’t realized the jar of worms he was opening at the time, but he doesn’t want Robin to have to endure such hostility from them—certainly not on his account. 

“Just take some time to consider it,” he urges her. “And come morning, I promise not to fault you if you’ve had a change of heart.”

Robin breathes out a short laugh. “I appreciate your concern, Chrom, but it’s really not necessary: I understand what I’m agreeing to. But if it will give you peace of mind then…yes,” she agrees, her voice softening. “I’ll take the night to think it over.”

“Thank you,” he murmurs. At least this way she won’t feel pressured into making a rushed decision…even if his wait to hear what she’s chosen is bound to be a torturous one.

When next his eyes meet Robin's, he finds them sparkling with amusement. “If you’re insisting that we wait until tomorrow to make things official, then let’s plan to meet up then—so that I can tell you my decision hasn’t changed,” she says cheekily. “Oh, and if you can, have Frederick arrange for the two of us to have tea or lunch together. Preferably someplace that’s somewhat secluded but not completely private.”

“Er, alright,” Chrom replies, “but do you mind if I ask why?”

“Because,” she replies, “if Maribelle has taught me anything about court nobles, it’s that they’re all shameless gossips. 24 hours is more than enough time for the news of your courtship to start making the rounds, so we might as well get to work on selling the story.”

With that, Robin opens the door of the storeroom and strolls out—not sparing a single glance back to see the way her words have left him a stammering, red-faced mess.  

Chrom stumbles through the rest of the day in an anxious haze. He manages to avoid any awkward run-ins with League members who might be lurking around the palace by locking himself in his office for most of the day, but by the time he’s back in his chambers and winding down for the night, he still hasn’t managed to approach Frederick with Robin’s request.

He’s been dreading the conversation all day, mostly because he’s not sure how he will get through it without rousing some sort of suspicion. He and Robin didn’t have time to spell out how to approach a fake courtship with their closest friends—and that doesn’t even begin to account for the fact that she could still change her mind on the plan altogether. Either way, Chrom has no idea how much he can safely afford to give away.

Frederick is just finishing laying out his clothes for the next day (a habit Chrom has insisted isn’t necessary, but which he has not yet successfully broken his retainer of) when he decides he can wait no longer to broach it.

“Frederick,” Chrom calls, in a tone as close to casual as he can manage, “before you go, might I make a request?”

Immediately Frederick straightens up from where he is assiduously hanging a silken neckband over Chrom’s dressing screen. He turns to face him, eyes brimming with eagerness.

“Of course, milord. If it is at all in my power, then I shall see it done,” he promises. The declaration feels a little dramatic considering Chrom is basically about to ask him to arrange a tea party…but then, this is Frederick, after all. The man clears pebbles from Chrom’s path with the same intensity that he clears out enemy soldiers. 

“Could you see if there is an opening in my schedule tomorrow for taking tea with…er, with a companion?” Chrom asks.

If he didn’t know Frederick so well, he might have missed the inquisitive flicker on his face. He crosses the room to where his written account of Chrom’s obligations for the next day is laid out upon a table. Frederick’s eyes sweep over the parchment.

“And where were you hoping to take your tea, milord?”

“Well, weather permitting, I was thinking perhaps the royal gardens? There’s that nice spot by the pergola, I thought maybe—”

“I know the one,” Frederick replies, narrowing his eyes as he looks the schedule over again. Chrom wonders if Frederick also knows like he does that it’s one of Robin’s favorite reading nooks. He figured that since he already knows she’s fond of the place and it meets her criteria for being semi-secluded, it should make for as good a choice as any.

“In that case, I shall speak to the head of the guard about having their debriefing occur a half hour earlier. That should leave you with a full hour to take tea in the afternoon before your meeting with the magistrate. Will that be sufficient?”

“Yes, that should be plenty of time. Thank you, Frederick,” Chrom says. He huffs in a short breath and forces himself to barrel on ahead. “A-and would you mind seeing to it that everything is laid out properly beforehand?” 

This time Frederick does not bother trying to conceal his curiosity. Despite his knight’s enthusiasm for completing such tasks, it’s extremely rare for Chrom to specifically request such a thing from him. The fact that he has implies there is some sort of important or personal nature to the request.

…Which is undoubtedly why Robin suggested he ask Frederick specifically. Because if they were courting, it would only be natural for him to entrust the arrangement of such private matters to his retainer.

“It would be my pleasure, milord,” Frederick replies carefully. “But if I am to arrange for the tea appropriately, I will need to know who it is you are to be taking it with.” 

“Ah, r-right…” Chrom swallows, embarrassed that this is the second time today where he has landed himself in a predicament where he has to answer that question. “Er…it’s with Robin.” 

Frederick straightens so abruptly that Chrom jumps a little despite being half way across the room.

“Then…is it true?” Frederick’s face conveys a surprising level of intensity.

“Is what true?” Chrom asks thinly.

“I had refused to give credence to mere gossip but…milord, is it true that you told the Council that you are courting Robin?”

Chrom inhales sharply. Gods above, it’s barely been twelve hours since then and there are already rumors circulating?

“…I did, yes,” he admits, because really, what use is there denying it if Frederick has already heard as much? 

“M-milord, I—” Frederick’s voice falters, a flurry of emotion passing across his face. Chrom braces himself for the incoming lecture on the consequences of lying to the Ylissean Council: for exasperated sighs, and the weary expression Frederick wears when he or Lissa act in a way ‘ill-befitting their station’.

He does not expect Frederick to cross the room in a few long strides, and crush him into a hug.

A hug.

Chrom is so completely flummoxed, that he doesn’t manage to react at all before Frederick is withdrawing again.

“My profuse apologies for the breach of conduct, milord. I hope you can forgive such a gaffe. I’m afraid I…I was overwhelmed for a moment,” he apologizes. There is a suspiciously misty quality to his eyes as he says, “I merely wish to convey that you and Lady Robin have my most heartfelt congratulations.”

Lady Robin. Oh gods. 

“In truth, I had hoped perhaps that warning you of the council’s intentions might serve to spur you to action, but I did not think it my place to interfere,” Frederick tells him. “I am tremendously gratified to hear that it did.”

“R-right, yes. I appreciate it, Frederick. And there’s no need for you to apologize,” Chrom says, even as he struggles to parse this information. Frederick had hoped that the information would spur him to…to do what, exactly? To actually propose to Robin?

Chrom hasn’t the slightest idea what kind of expression he is wearing, but Frederick seems to finally take stock of it, his own face shifting to display concern.

“Are you feeling alright, milord? You look a bit queasy. Shall I call for a healer?”

“N-no! That won’t be necessary, I’m fine,” Chrom assures him. “I’m just…er, still feeling a bit overwhelmed by everything.”

It’s certainly true enough. Frederick nods solemnly in response.

“I understand completely, milord. I shall leave you to rest, then. I’m sure the day has been a difficult one.” 

Deftly, he collects his copy of Chrom's schedule and makes his way to the door. Just before leaving, he turns back towards where Chrom is seated, his expression schooled once again into one of unfaltering professionalism. 

“You may rest assured that I shall see to all the suitable arrangements for your tea with Lady Robin tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Frederick…” Chrom calls weakly after him. The door closes and he collapses onto his bed—grateful to the pile of pillows that muffles his groan.

Frederick believed it was true, just like that…and Chrom let him believe it. Guilt threatens to smother him with the same startling intensity that Frederick’s hug did.

You didn’t actually lie, he reminds himself feebly. Though if he does go through with this plan with Robin, he will likely have to very soon.

Chrom shoves his face further into the pillow, trying to block the rest of the world out. He can't believe Frederick hoped that short conversation in Chrom's office would be enough to nudge him into proposing to Robin. Has he really been so obviously lovesick over her?

…And if his affections are so obvious, then how is he possibly supposed to pretend to court Robin without her realizing how desperately he wants it to be real?

He thinks of the prospect of holding her hand in his own; of sitting too close together, sharing lingering touches and shy smiles. Of how easily he could become intoxicated by her nearness and start to pretend to even himself that—

Chrom severs that line of thought with all the conviction he can summon. 

She is offering to do this as his friend—nothing more. It would be wrong for him to treat it as anything else. And frankly, if they’re going to pull it off, then he needs to keep himself firmly rooted in reality.

Robin’s words replay in his mind from when he first told her of his hasty declaration to the council—her shock and confusion; her insistence that a relationship between them would be both ridiculous and impossible. Even in the washed-out guise of his memories, her reaction ruptures him anew.

But maybe he can use that.

Chrom clenches his eyes shut and his fists tight—imagines himself pushing against the edges of the gaping, aching feeling her words left him with until it is compressed into a leaden ball, heavy in his chest. He prays it can be the weight that keeps his head from the clouds—that keeps his feet firmly planted on the ground, in this world where princes don’t get to marry their best friends. 

He can do it. If Robin decides she is still intent on making such a sacrifice on his behalf, then he can and will do his part to honor that. They will get through the next five weeks together, and he will remain as professional and unaffected throughout the process as possible.

All he has to do is pretend that he is pretending to love her. How hard could it possibly be? 

On all accounts, the setting for his tea with Robin is perfect. The rain from two days prior has enfolded the palace garden in a lush eruption of greens. Silver sunlight spills from a cloudless sky, and a breeze feathers its way through the flowers—tickling the chains of wisteria draped overhead…

Yet to Chrom, the fragrant spring air feels cloying. He paces beneath the pergola, taking too shallow breaths while he awaits Robin’s arrival.

In a predictable turn of events, Frederick went utterly overboard with the preparations. The table is laid out with their finest silver and a tea set of polished porcelain and gold leaf. Despite the presence of flowers everywhere around them, an obtrusive bouquet has been arranged at the table’s center, and a three-tiered tower of pastries looms over the arrangement—boasting both his and Robin’s favorites.

There had even been a trail of rose petals winding across the stone pathway and leading up to the chairs, but Chrom was too mortified to leave it in place and scattered the petals with his boots when he first arrived. Despite the fact that he didn’t make the tea preparations himself, he can’t help but worry that it will seem like he’s trying too hard. And what if Robin shows up only to tell him that she is no longer willing to go through with the fake courtship after all?

…Well, if it comes to that, at least he’ll be able to drown his sorrows with fancy tea and a selection of delicious looking blueberry turnovers.

He's so deep in worst-case scenarios, that he doesn’t even notice Robin approaching at first. When he finally does, it stops him in his tracks. 

That long silver blonde hair could only belong to Robin, but even so, he finds himself squinting through the sunlight to ensure it is, in fact, her and not some lovely apparition that his frazzled mind cooked up. 

Robin has her tactician’s coat folded over her arm, but in place of her usual outfit, she is wearing an elegant, cream-colored dress. The design is simple—not nearly as elaborate as what he might expect his sister or Maribelle to wear to a formal tea, but it doesn’t matter. Crossing the rippling grass, with the breeze fluttering the dress’s fabric and her hair, she looks radiant.

“A—Aaah…?” Chrom says, in all his practiced eloquence. To his surprise, Robin walks directly up to him instead of taking one of the seats, valiantly attempting to restrain laughter as she does.

“Oh, come now, is that the best you’ve got?” she teases. “That’s no way to greet your fake fiancée.”

Chrom’s eyes widen. “Th-then you decided…?”

“I told you I wasn’t going to change my mind." She smirks, and Chrom allows himself a sigh of relief. 

“Honestly, I’m glad to hear it,” he admits. “I meant it when I said I was willing to tell the council I'd lied, but it wouldn’t have been pleasant.”

He didn’t realize just how much dread he was carrying at the thought of having to own up to the truth: to know he is saved from such humiliation goes a long way in chasing out his anxious mood. And in a pattern he is familiar with from months past, though thoughts of Robin sometimes make him nervous, her actual presence provides an immediate sense of rightness and relief. 

…That being said, the surprise assault of her arriving dressed so nicely with mirth shimmering in her eyes is making it hard to catch his breath.

“Wow…Frederick really outdid himself,” Robin observes, her attention turned to the immaculately laid out table before them.

“He did,” Chrom chuckles. “I regret to inform you that if we’re really going through with this, you’re about to become the next victim of his excessive doting.”

“Oh, I think I’ll manage,” she assures him. “Somehow, I doubt that Frederick is going to be the greatest challenge that comes with all of this. That’s one of the things I wanted to talk about today, actually.”

“It is? Oh, here, let me—” He lurches forward when he sees Robin moving towards her seat—pulling her chair out and draping her coat over the back. For some reason, the gesture seems to embarrass her, a faint blush springing to her cheeks as she settles down.

“Thank you,” she says, with a shy smile. “I figure even if we’re using these fake dates for strategic planning, we might as well enjoy the amenities.”

“Oh?” Chrom laughs, taking his own seat and pouring them each a cup of tea as he does. “Is this tea party actually a tactics meeting? I’m afraid I didn’t get the memo.”

Robin grins at him, rummaging in the pockets of her coat for a moment before she pulls out a small, leather-bound journal.

“Well, since you told me to take the night to think it over, I did. I thought about it a lot. In fact, I came up with a whole plan of action.”

She riffles through the pages, in search of something, and Chrom finds himself smiling as he watches. He’s amused that she seems to have already put so much effort into preparing for this. Amused, and charmed, and slightly flustered all at once—but then, that’s not an uncommon combination of emotions for Robin to elicit in him.

“Ah! Here it is,” she declares triumphantly, jabbing her finger at one of the pages. “Right, so there’s several points I think it’s best we discuss upfront. Little things we need to establish so we’re on the same page with our expectations and have our story straight.”

“A sound plan,” Chrom agrees. The topic he bemoaned the night before—about how to handle their fake relationship with mutual friends—is likely one of many she intends to cover. “What did you have in mind?”

“Well, for one thing, we’ll have to decide on a timeline for certain key events in the courtship. And set some boundaries for physical behaviors,” she begins, only to immediately frown. “Initially, I thought we could get by without changing much; it seemed reasonable that the crown prince would want to keep his personal relationships fairly private. But the more I thought about our specific circumstances, the more I realized we might have some work cut out for ourselves.”

“How do you mean?” he prompts, taking an experimental sip of the tea. It’s good—a bright mint flavor with a hint of lemon.

“Well…” Robin swirls her own cup of tea around aimlessly, suddenly hesitant, “there are only so many reasons that people choose to get married, right?”

“Right,” he says.

“People may marry for financial stability, to gain status or…or for love. Monarchs in particular often marry for political advantage. In many cases, it’s more of a business arrangement than anything else.”

“Which is what the council was hoping I would do,” Chrom offers.

“It is. But that’s also where our problem arises. It’s fairly evident that I can’t offer any sort of power or stability to Ylisse, so…” Robin pauses, opting to stare very intently at a pastry rather than meet his eyes. “So, the only plausible reason that you would choose to court me specifically, over every other more eligible suitor…”

“Oh.” He swallows, finally connecting the dots, “Would be because…because we were in love.”

“Well, yes, but it’s more than that,” she sighs. “We’d have to be so in love that you were willing to throw aside all of your duty for it. And that you’d refuse to even consider being with anyone else—regardless of how much more advantageous it may be to the halidom.”

“A-ah. Right, yes, that…that makes sense," he stammers, thinking that it all hits a little too close to home. "I can see how it might make the courtship harder to sell.”

He obviously knew there would be romantic implications that came along with this charade…but not at that level of intensity. For their relationship to seem believable, they’re going to have to seem head-over-heels for each other. Chrom takes another sip from his teacup, praying the drink will exert its purported calming effects a little faster.

“So, all that being said…” Robin continues, “I think we need to establish what we’re comfortable with when it comes to touching each other.” 

Chrom promptly chokes on his tea. 

“P-pardon?!” he sputters. His cheeks burn rash red, his reaction igniting Robin’s face too.

“I’m not talking about—” she huffs, “I just mean little things! Like, you know, holding hands or…I don’t know, hugging! W-whatever it is that couples do.” 

“Right! I knew that,” Chrom lies, desperately trying to wrangle his thoughts back in line.

“W-well…then what are you comfortable with?” Robin asks, valiantly pressing ahead despite the fact she still looks vaguely mortified.

“M-me?”

The question gives him pause. What is he comfortable with?

If he’s being honest, when he thinks of Robin holding his hand or encircling him in her arms—well, he wouldn’t exactly say that they are comfortable thoughts. It’s more that they leave him feeling nervous and giddy—like a cozy bout of lightheadedness. But while it seems wrong to let his feelings for her dictate how they behave, there’s no denying that they will have a hard time selling themselves as hopelessly in love without ever touching each other. And besides, she’s just asking what she has his permission to do: how much she acts on those permissions is still ultimately her decision.

“W-well…I think holding hands or…er, e-embracing should both be alright,” he manages. Technically, they’ve done both those things once or twice before, but he doubts that those scarce instances of contact were as memorable and precious for her as they were to him. Probably best not to broach it.

To his amusement, Robin proceeds to write down his answer in her journal. He wishes he was capable of viewing the whole situation as clinically as she seems to be.

“Okay, and what about touching your face? Or your shoulder or waist?” she asks.

“Also fine,” he says.

“And what about—”

“That’s fine too,” he answers automatically.

Robin purses her lips. “Chrom, I didn’t even specify what I was asking about yet.”

Blood creeps into his cheeks again. “Er, right, but whatever it is, I’m sure I won’t mind. I trust you,” he offers by way of explanation. Robin’s face looks faintly pink as she jots something else down in her notes…but that could just be the effects of the afternoon sun. 

“…What about you?” he prompts, when her quill has stilled. She glances up at him and then back down, suddenly very interested in smoothing the wrinkles in her dress.

“I’m fine with about the same,” she answers carefully. “I certainly don’t mind if you hold my hand, and the rest of the things I asked about are okay too. Anything else…well, I guess we can discuss it later as we work our way up to it.”

Chrom almost doesn’t hear the rest of her statement, his mind too transfixed on the way she said she doesn’t mind him holding her hand. Just considering it makes him feel ticklish and warm. With a surge of confidence, he reaches across the table and places his hand on Robin's. The gloves she’s wearing are thin, and he can feel the sun-kissed warmth of her skin through them. 

“C-Chrom, there’s not anyone around right now?” she says; and though she probably intended it as a statement, it comes out closer to a question.

“Oh, I—sorry. Should I stop then?” he asks, unable to keep from sounding a bit put-out. “I just thought we could practice…” 

He moves to withdraw his hand again when Robin surprises him by tangling her fingers around his.

“Wait, no!” she exclaims. “You don’t have to stop, I—or rather, you’re right. It is probably smart to practice. If we look like we’re jumping out of our skin every time we make contact, we won’t be very convincing.”

“Yeah,” Chrom agrees with a smile—though he suspects he would have agreed to anything that meant he didn’t have to let go just yet. It is, frankly, a little juvenile to be so elated and nervous just about holding hands with her. But he can’t help it. 

“Well,” Robin says, “now that that’s settled, I guess the next thing we need to do is—”

For a moment, her eyes drift away, fixing on something over his shoulder. Abruptly, they snap back to him. Her fingers squeeze his more tightly, and she leans across the table, closing the space between them. Chrom’s breath catches.

“Don’t look now, but I think we have company,” Robin whispers. He turns his head to see who she’s referring to and—

“Chrom!” she hisses, and her other hand darts out to catch his cheek, freezing him in place. “I said don’t look now!”

“R-right,” he stammers, certain that his skin must be burning her fingers where they rest feather-light against him. Robin bites her lip, and unwittingly his eyes flick down to her mouth for a moment.

“I suspect we’re about to have our first test on how well we can sell this,” she murmurs, oblivious to the effect her touch is having on him. “Just…follow my lead. And if you’re not sure how to answer something, you can stall for a few seconds by sipping tea or taking a bite of a pastry.”

Oh gods. He has a feeling he’s about to be eating a lot of pastries.

Robin straightens in her seat, dropping the hand that’s at his face, but keeping the fingers of the other entangled with his. She aims a carefree smile at the person approaching them. Although, from the sound of it, it's more like they're stomping—

“Hello, Lissa!” Robin chirps. “Fancy seeing you here!” 

A vicious chill runs down Chrom’s spine at the sound of his sister's name. He turns slowly in his chair, only to find himself pinned by the knife-edge scrutiny of Lissa's gaze. If he survives this conversation, he is never going to mistake her for being delicate again.

“Chrom…” she seethes. She slams a hand onto the table with such force that the whole tea set rattles. “You have a lot of explaining to do.”

Chapter Text

“Lissa!” Chrom exclaims. “Er…I suppose you heard the news?”

Lissa’s responding scowl is nothing short of violent.

“Oh yeah, I ‘heard the news’ alright,” she fumes. “No thanks to you!”

Chrom swallows heavily and casts Robin a pleading look. He is relieved when she squeezes his hand in reassurance before turning to address his sister.

“Lissa, try and cut Chrom a little bit of slack,” Robin urges her. “He had every intention of telling you, but it’s been a stressful couple of days and—”

“Don’t think you’re off the hook either, Robin,” Lissa interrupts, shooting a glare her way. “I thought we were supposed to be friends!”

“We are!” Robin insists.

“Oh yeah?” Lissa challenges, her narrowed eyes darting between the two of them. “Then how come neither of you bothered to tell me you were ENGAGED? I had to find out from Maribelle who heard it from her dad!”

Chrom fumbles for a proper justification while trying his hardest not to buckle in the face of her outrage. But the reality is that Lissa has every right to be upset. If the situation were reversed and he found out his sister was engaged from anyone other than her, he would be livid. 

Perhaps the only way to appease her is with the truth. He glances across the tea table at Robin, trying to communicate his request for permission with his eyes, but her expression remains carefully schooled in an apologetic smile.

“I’m sorry, Lissa,” he mumbles finally. “You’re right, I should have told you myself. It’s just that…well,” he looks to Robin again, “the truth is, Robin and I…we aren’t actually—”

“What Chrom means is that we weren’t actually planning to tell anyone yet,” Robin interjects.

Finally, her eyes meet his and he sees a flash of warning there: for some reason she must not want even Lissa to know the truth. It seems a little extreme to lie to his own sister about a matter as serious as his prospective marriage, but he trusts Robin. She must have her reasons; for now, he’ll just have to play along with it. 

“We only just began courting,” she continues, “and given the serious consequences regarding Chrom’s choice of partner, we thought it would be better to get our bearings before announcing it to anyone. We didn’t want the relationship to be crushed by political pressures before it so much as had a chance.”

“That’s right!” Chrom agrees. “But then at the council meeting yesterday they tried to spring arrangements for a betrothal on me, and…well, I’m sure you heard the rest from Maribelle.” 

Lissa frowns at the two of them, her eyes flicking from one face to the other. Chrom wills for the truth of the sentiments behind his sheepish smile to shine through even if the circumstances surrounding them are fabricated.

“Well…” Lissa concedes, “I guess that kinda makes sense. But even if you didn’t want to tell the council, I don’t get why you couldn’t tell me.”

“We were going to tell you before anyone else,” Robin says. “Had things gone according to plan, Chrom and I wanted you to be the first to know. But the council cornered him and, unfortunately, there was no other choice. I hope you can forgive us."

Lissa purses her lips. “You were really going to tell me first?” she asks skeptically.

“Of course we were, Lissa,” Chrom assures her. “Who else?” He comforts himself with the knowledge that someday, when he’s engaged to someone who actually intends to marry him, he’ll make sure his sister is the first to know. 

For a long moment, Lissa weighs his words in silence. Then with an indignant huff, the anger in her eyes softens to something closer to annoyance.

“Okay…” she says finally, “I guess I can forgive you guys. But you better tell me all the juicy details about your relationship to make up for it. Oh, and I want some of these pastries too, so scooch over.” She plucks a croissant from the top of the tiered stand and looks at Chrom expectantly.

“Er, where exactly am I supposed to move to?” Chrom asks, trying not to think too hard about what his sister’s definition of ‘juicy details’ could possibly constitute. “There are only two chairs out here and—”

“Robin’s your fiancée, isn’t she?” Lissa replies with a dismissive hand wave. “She can just sit in your lap.”

“I-in my—?!” Chrom sputters, his face heating. When he glances at Robin, he sees her cheeks aren't faring much better. 

“Very funny, Lissa,” Robin says with a strained chuckle. “I know I’m not exactly an expert on courting etiquette for nobility, but even I know that wouldn’t be appropriate.”

“I mean sure, if you were actually in court or whatever,” Lissa counters. “But this is a private tea with your future sister-in-law. We’re gonna be family, Robin! I’m not gonna have a meltdown over you two cuddling a bit.”

Robin reddens further, while Chrom tries to grapple with the rush of emotions Lissa’s words brought with them. Robin as part of his family…in many ways, he already thinks of her as such. But gods, if it wouldn’t be nice to make it official: to show all the world how inextricably his heart is bound to hers and—

“Chrom?” Robin prompts, startling him back into reality. She has shifted over in her chair and is now perched on the far edge of it. “We can share the seat…if you’re okay with that.” 

“Are you sure? I can stand if you’d rather—”

“No, it’s fine, I don’t mind,” she insists. With a wavery smile she tacks on, “It’ll be nice to be so close to you.” 

Chrom’s heart thuds irregularly in his chest as he rises from his own seat, only for it to be instantly commandeered by his sister. Cautiously, he edges himself onto the other side of Robin’s chair, doing his best to ensure he’s not taking up too much of the space with his larger frame. Even so, it’s impossible to keep the side of his leg and shoulder from bumping up against hers. The contact blazes a thousand times warmer than the spring sun. She gives him a reassuring smile as he settles down and forces himself to relax. 

It's short lived, though. He immediately tenses again when he glances across the table and finds Lissa watching them both hyper-critically while she chews away at her pastry. 

“You’d really rather sit like that?” she asks, blatant disbelief coloring her tone. “I thought new couples were usually in that mushy honeymoon stage where they’re all over each other, but you guys are awfully stiff.”

“We’re not stiff!” Chrom protests quickly. “We’re just, er…shy.” 

“Hmm…if you say so,” says Lissa, sounding unimpressed. “When exactly did you two get together anyway? I can’t believe no one caught on.” 

Chrom swallows heavily. He and Robin hadn’t had time to iron out that part of their story before his sister arrived. Hurriedly, he snatches a biscuit off the tray and shoves it into his mouth, shrugging in feigned helplessness as Lissa looks at him expectantly.

“J-just two days ago,” Robin replies in his stead. “Which is why this is all still so new for us. We’re both still coming to terms with the reality of it.”

Ha, 'the reality', indeed, Chrom thinks dryly. 

“Oh wow, you meant really new. And how’d you guys get together? Like—who confessed to who?” Lissa probes while leaning eagerly across the table. Chrom immediately shoves another biscuit in his mouth before turning to Robin, who meets his apologetic smile with a look of mild exasperation. He feels a little bad for leaving her the responsibility of filling in these blanks, but they both know she’s better at this sort of thing.

“It…it was Chrom,” she answers. “He came to my room and just sort of blurted it out. You know how he can be.” Chrom tries not to cringe visibly from just how believable that response is.

“Chrom!” Lissa chides. “Is that seriously the best you could do? That’s not romantic at all!” 

“S-sorry?” he apologizes, not entirely sure if it should be addressed to Lissa or Robin. Hurriedly, he grasps at some strand of truth that he can follow to guide the rest of his response. “It’s just that I—I didn’t think that she was going to say that she felt the same, so….”

Lissa rolls her eyes. “Gods, you’re hopeless, you know that? But I guess I should just be glad that you finally stopped mooning over Robin long enough to do something about your feelings. It was honestly getting hard to watch.” 

Suddenly the biscuits he swallowed seem determined to climb back up his throat.

“Th-that’s not—” he sputters through coughs, “I—I haven’t been—”

“Although I gotta admit, I’m kinda surprised you said yes,” Lissa continues, addressing Robin now and paying no mind to his frantic objections. “You really want to marry my lame brother?” 

“Y-yes, of course,” Robin answers with a brave smile, even as her hand clenches tightly around her tea cup. “I…I love Chrom very much.”

Instantly, Chrom’s choked protests die on his tongue and he falls into an abrupt, stunned silence. It’s almost cruel how desperately he has wished to hear Robin say such a thing…how many times he has wistfully imagined those words spoken in her voice. He finally knows what they would sound like now—though they never left him with such a heaviness in any of his fantasies. 

Lissa just looks at them dubiously.

“I mean, if you say so…” she replies, not bothering to conceal her doubt. "It's just kinda hard to believe."

Sharing a chair with Robin means that Chrom can feel how she stiffens in response to his sister’s words.

“I would have said something to Chrom sooner, you know,” Robin offers. “But it didn’t seem like my place. I was worried how my intentions would be interpreted…or that the Council wouldn’t approve.”

Lissa bobs her head along to that. “Yeah, according to Maribelle’s dad, the League was all over the place when they heard the news. I kinda wish I was there to see it myself,” she snickers.

“I would have gladly let you take my place,” Chrom grumbles. He’d give just about anything to not have been the one forced into that conversation—the cacophony of the council members' questions and demands is still fresh in his mind.

“Well, I can’t totally blame them,” Robin sighs. “I mean, it makes sense that they wouldn’t be pleased that the Halidom's prince is courting who in their minds is just some suspicious foreigner. I have no known history, let alone any social standing—I’m pretty much a political nightmare.”

“Is that really how you see yourself?” Chrom asks with a frown. Robin just stares into her teacup, and he finds himself grasping her shoulder in a plea for her to face him and see the earnestness written on his face. Hesitantly, she shifts in the shared chair to meet his eyes sidelong. 

“You’re selling yourself far too short, you know,” he insists gently. “The war against Plegia would have been lost without you. I owe my life to you, Robin, as do many others. That’s more than enough to make you worthy.”

Robin flushes, but her smile remains sullen. “You’re kind to say that Chrom, but I sincerely doubt anyone on the council sees it that way. To them, I’ll always be some Plegian nobody.” 

“Actually,” Lissa chirps, “from what I heard from Maribelle, the council is a bit more divided than that. I mean some of them are mad, sure—especially the ones who have kids Chrom’s age that they were hoping to marry him off to. But some of the members were really impressed by everything you did for Ylisse during the war!”

“As they should be,” Chrom declares, swelling with pride at the thought of all of Robin’s accomplishments. For a moment, she just blinks at Lissa in disbelief before huffing out a laugh.

“No,” she insists, “I just can’t believe that’s true. War hero or not, there are still too many unknowns surrounding my past, and that alone is enough to make me a liability. I’m far from a suitable choice for Chrom, or for the role of queen consort.”

Lissa gives her a funny look. “Um…Robin? Why are you trying to convince me that you and Chrom getting married is a bad idea? Isn’t this what you want?”

“Er, I’m not, I—s-sorry. Just some lingering doubts, is all,” Robin stammers before laughing nervously. “Do you like the tea, Lissa? Here, let me refill your cup for you.”

“It’s nice, I guess,” Lissa answers noncommittally, before dropping a small pile of sugar cubes into her freshly filled teacup. Well, originally it had been his teacup but his sister stole it along with his seat. Lissa traces his wistful gaze as he watches her sip the drink and suddenly a devilish smile springs to her face.

“Say, are you gonna have any more tea, big brother?” she asks. Chrom’s hands twitch nervously where they lie on the table—that expression on Lissa’s face always spells trouble.

“No, I think I’ll pass for the time being.”

“Really?” Lissa prods, raising a single challenging eyebrow at him. “You don’t need to wash down all those pastries you were putting away a minute ago?”

“I’m not really—”

“Or is it just that you’re too much of a prude to put your lips right where Robin’s were?” 

Chrom’s voice dies in his throat. After a moment, he realizes his mouth is hanging open and promptly snaps it shut.

“I—I just, I’m not thirsty, that’s all,” he insists. 

“Uhuh, sure,” Lissa says with a roll of her eyes. “Have you two even kissed at all?” 

“Th-that’s a completely inappropriate question!” Chrom answers at the same time that Robin says:

“Of course we have!” 

Their heads both whirl to look at each other and despite his best efforts, Chrom can feel heat crawling into his cheeks. Robin stares back at him with grimace.

“Ugh, enough already!” Lissa exclaims. The porcelain tea set rattles as she slams her fist down on the table for the second time since she arrived. “You guys are acting super weird and I know something’s up! I was gonna wait for you to tell me on your own, but I’m going crazy over here! So, what is it?”

Chrom audibly gulps, wondering if shoving another pastry in his mouth to avoid answering is still a viable option. For her part, Robin laughs tightly before giving her best placating smile.

“Lissa, I’m not sure what you’re talking about. Like we said earlier, this relationship is still very new to us both, so we’re just—”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re ‘getting your bearings’ or whatever,” she says with a roll of her eyes. “You can say that all you want, but I know you two, and you’re definitely hiding something. So, are you gonna tell me what it is or not?” 

“There’s nothing to tell!” Chrom insists quickly. “Nothing at all, actually, because Robin and I have nothing to hide. Not from you, or the council, or anyone else for that matter! I’m not sure where you got the idea that—”

“Oh come off it already! You’re like the worst liar ever, Chrom.” Crossing her arms, Lissa glowers at them both. “Is Robin pregnant?” 

“What?!” Chrom gasps as a wave of embarrassment threatens to swallow him. He shoots a panicked look at Robin and finds her completely crimson. “G-Gods, no, Lissa! What do you take me for, some kind of—”

“Then what is it?!” his sister demands, her voice becoming shrill. “It’s bad enough that you guys didn’t tell me you were engaged, so at least tell me what you’re hiding!”

“We’re not hiding anything!” Chrom shouts with growing frustration. “And I’d appreciate it if you could stop treating this conversation like an interrogation!”

“Fine, forget it! Don’t tell me then! I don’t care anymore,” Lissa yells, jolting to her feet. “You two enjoy the rest of your stupid tea date!” And with that, she storms off, stomping even more loudly than she had when she first arrived. 

“Well…” Robin sighs, when Lissa is finally out of sight, “that was a disaster.” Chrom lets his shoulders fall and releases the breath he was holding.

“Yes, it certainly could have gone better,” he agrees, teeth gritted. Now that Lissa is gone and he doesn’t feel so put on the spot, his defensiveness is quickly morphing into shame at his own dishonesty.

“Robin…” he murmurs, “I have to ask: was all of that really necessary? I understand we need to take precautions, but it feels wrong lying to my sister.” 

Robin frowns down at the table, not meeting his eyes. “I understand, Chrom. And I didn’t like it either. But Lissa is someone we absolutely cannot afford to have doubting our story.”

“Then it seems we have an uphill battle ahead of us,” he sighs. “Why is it so important that we convince Lissa specifically?”

“Because Lissa is best friends with Maribelle,” Robin answers. “And if Maribelle picks up even the smallest whiff of doubt about the legitimacy of our relationship, then—”

“Then it will spread like wildfire…” Chrom groans. “Gods, how are we going to fix this?”

“We’re going to have to find a way to convince Lissa this relationship is real beyond a shadow of a doubt…” Robin says. “She may still think we’re hiding something, but at the very least we need her to believe that we’re together. I have a few ideas but…well, I’m not sure how much you’ll like them.”

“Well, we can't very well leave things as they are. And if it's a plan you made, then I’ll at least hear it out,” Chrom replies. 

“Okay, but I think it will be better if we discuss them somewhere we’ll have no risk of interruptions from angry sisters,” Robin says, with a wry smile. “Is there a time I can come to your room tonight?”

Chrom’s breath hitches. As often as he stops by Robin’s room, it’s unusual for her to come to his, particularly in the late hours.

“…If you think that's best,” he answers. “I should be back in my quarters by 10 o'clock at the latest, but—”

“Then I’ll be there,” she says, then surprises him by laying her hand atop his own. “Don’t worry too much, okay? We may have hit a bit of a roadblock, but I’m certain we can still fix this. I’m not about to let one of my plans fall apart so easily.” 

A knot comes loose in his stomach at her words, and he squeezes her hand back appreciatively.

“Of course,” he says with a chuckle. “I have far more faith in you than that.” 

Robin shoots an impish grin his way, and with the scarce distance between them, he can see every fleck of amber and gold that dapples her dark irises. Here in the gardens around them, they look like the inverted petals of a tiger lily. He wishes he could tell her how lovely they are. Unfortunately, he’s fairly certain that such a comment would be odd even between the closest of friends. Still, if sharing her seat could give him the opportunity to admire her eyes from up close, then maybe the embarrassment was worth it after all. 

“Ah!” he says with a start, “I suppose now that Lissa’s gone, I should return your chair.” 

“Oh, it’s not a big deal.” Robin shrugs indifferently, but her cheeks look rosy as she says it. “It’s about time for us to be wrapping things up anyway. I’m sure you have plenty of work to do, and I want to iron out some more details for my plans to convince Lissa before we meet later tonight.”

“Then I’ll leave it in your capable hands,” Chrom says. He almost stops there, but there’s a nagging feeling his sister’s words left him with that compels him to speak again. He runs a hand through his hair nervously while he gathers his courage. “And Robin? About what Lissa said before…about how I was m-mooning over you. I just wanted to say—”

“Don’t worry, Chrom,” Robin interrupts, with a shake of her head. “I know there’s no truth to it. Lissa was obviously just looking for any opportunity to tease you, just like she always does.”

“Right…” he agrees, though the word sticks uncomfortably in his throat. 

“Is that all, then?” she asks, standing from the chair and smoothing out her dress, and gods help him if she catches his eyes tracking up her figure one last time. It really is unreasonable for her to be so beautiful.

“That’s all. I’ll see you this evening,” he confirms, praying his face doesn’t betray his thoughts.

Robin tosses a parting smile over her shoulder, and he watches her drift away across the gardens, like dandelion seeds caught in the breeze.

Though the confrontation with Lissa was undoubtedly the most stressful one of the day, he does not make it through the afternoon completely free of further interrogations.

He’s taking a shortcut past the stables on his way back to his office when a piercing squeal tears through the air around him. Chrom barely manages to brace himself before Sumia descends upon him, clutching his hands in both of hers and gushing out congratulations with stars in her eyes.

He’s managed to get through most of the conversation with little more than appreciative smiles and nods when Cordelia, who is standing several paces back and looking significantly more sullen, finally meets his eyes.

“When are you two planning to have the wedding?” she asks, her tone oddly somber.

“Oh yes!” Sumia enthuses, “A royal wedding—I can hardly wait! Oh Captain, I’m sure it will be just lovely.”

Chrom glances between the two of them, feeling an awful lot like a mouse caught in a trap.

“W-well, Ylisse is still recovering, as you know, so it won’t be for a while yet. It wouldn’t feel right to have a wedding during such a solemn time. Besides, Robin and I are in no rush…”

It’s more of a non-answer than anything, but despite that, Sumia nods fervently, her grip on his hands tightening further and her eyes going soft with sympathy.

“Of course,” she says, “you should both take all the time you need. Oh, but you will tell us when you’ve settled on a date, won’t you?” 

“Y-you have my word,” he assures her. And since he’s not exactly planning on choosing a date for a wedding that will never happen, he’s reasonably confident he won’t be breaking any promises.

Cordelia steps forward, placing one hand upon Sumia’s shoulder, and gently drawing her back.

“Apologies for the interruption, Captain,” she says, more on Sumia’s behalf than her own. “Many congratulations to yourself and Lady Robin. I…I hope that you will both be happy together.”

“We will,” he assures her, as the two make their way back to the stables, though those words he fears will never be anything more than a lie. 

By the time his work for the day is complete, there’s only a few minutes left until Robin is due to arrive. Chrom hurriedly changes out of his formal attire and into something more suitable for a casual visit from a friend, and does his best not to get overly worked up about what the servants may think if they spy Robin coming to his room at this hour.

…He also keeps finding himself wondering if she will still be wearing the dress from their tea earlier. Despite the flustered state it left him in, he rather hopes she will be. 

A knock sounds on his door, startling him from his thoughts. He stumbles his way over and combs a quick hand through his hair before answering.

“Robin, hello!” he greets her. She is back in her usual outfit, but smiling up at him shyly as she is, it’s not as if she’s any less breathtaking.

“Hi, Chrom,” she says, “Can I come in?” 

“Of course,” he says, moving aside and waving her in behind him. He can’t help but feel a strange sense of deja vu from when he visited her two nights prior…only this time, their roles are reversed, and the better part of the palace thinks them to be a couple. Chrom swallows nervously.  

“Would you care for a drink?” He gestures vaguely to his sideboard, thinking that he wouldn’t mind a glass of wine himself, but Robin shakes her head and moves towards the drawing room sofa instead.

“I’m okay,” she says, “but thank you for the offer.”

Chrom follows after her, intent on taking the chair across from her just like she had when last he’d visited. But before he can, Robin catches his hand and tugs him back. 

“A lot of the reason we roused so much suspicion with Lissa today was because we were too stiff around each other,” she explains. “I think you were right when you suggested that we practice being physically affectionate. That way we can be more convincing when it matters.”

“Ah, r-right,” Chrom stammers, “that makes sense. Then I’ll just—”

Stilted, he takes a seat on the opposite end of the sofa from her. Robin rolls her eyes.

“I don’t have cooties, Chrom.”

“I never said that you do!” he protests, unwilling to meet her gaze.

“Then why are you sitting as far away from me as physically possible?” Robin laughs while scooting closer, and then places a hand on his shoulder. He does his best not to prove her point by shying away. 

“You’re overthinking this,” she says gently. “We’ve had to be in each other’s space plenty of times when we’re paired up in battle or going over plans. Just…don’t be so in your head about it.” 

“You’re right,” he admits. They sat closer than this during their tea this afternoon—it shouldn’t be hard to do it again now. And yet…

“I’m sorry for making this difficult,” he apologizes, feeling a genuine pang of frustration with himself. “It seems I’m not a very good actor. But more than that, I’m still worried about overstepping.”

Robin’s expression softens. “It’s nothing to apologize for, Chrom. I haven’t exactly been a model actress myself. But practice makes perfect, right? Better that we get the hiccups out of the way now. And as far as overstepping goes, that’s what we set the guidelines for earlier.”

“Right,” he agrees with a curt nod, “and I know that. But I still can’t seem to loosen up, for whatever reason.”

In this case, ‘for whatever reason’ more closely translates to: ‘because I’m in love with you, and if I let myself go, I don’t trust that I won't get carried away’...but Chrom figures it’s less awkward for both of them if he doesn’t elaborate. Robin studies him thoughtfully another moment. 

“Would you feel more at ease if I promise to tell you immediately if you do anything that makes me uncomfortable?”

“Yes, actually,” Chrom breathes. “I'd rest much easier knowing that.” 

“Then you have my word,” she assures him. “So long as you promise to do the same.” 

“I do,” he agrees, and immediately some of the tension he’s been carrying all day seeps out of him. He trusts Robin unconditionally, and it’s that steadfast belief in each other that makes them such good partners. If he’s struggling to have faith in his own abilities to navigate this situation properly, then he’ll just have to put his faith in Robin instead. She’s never led him astray before. 

Chrom takes a steadying breath, drawing courage from the warmth in her eyes, and from the easy smile on her face. He shifts nearer, closing the remaining distance between them so their shoulders are pressed together once again and then hesitantly wraps an arm around her waist. 

Robin’s eyebrows lift in surprise.

“Wow, I’m impressed.” She laughs, and the sound of it is a reward all its own. “I guess I had better start pulling my weight.” As she speaks, she angles herself towards him and rests her head upon his shoulder before shuffling closer.

“Still doing okay?” she asks, her voice much nearer his ear than he is used to it being.

‘Okay’ is perhaps not the first word he would choose. She’s close enough now that he can smell the faint aroma of the palace’s soap on her skin, and something else too—something uniquely Robin. It’s the scent of honey, and sun-paled parchment, and cinnamon; and it makes his head feel hazy. She’s warm and solid against him, and it’s not hard to imagine that he might be content to hold her this way for the rest of his life. 

“Y-yes, I’m alright,” he replies, mentally congratulating himself that his voice only trembles slightly. “It’s not bad, actually.”

Robin snorts. “Did you think that it would be?” 

“No! I just—I didn't know what to expect,” Chrom answers truthfully. “I don't have much in the way of experience with…this.”

“Then I guess that makes two of us,” she admits. “Which, I suppose, is all the more reason it’s good that we’re practicing.” 

“R-right,” he agrees, “it should only get easier with time.” At least, he sincerely hopes it will. If his heart races this fast every time they get close like this, then these next five weeks might see him to an early grave. He can only pray that his galloping pulse isn’t audible from where Robin is resting her head. 

“Anyway, enough of that. We still have a lot to discuss that we didn’t get to at our tea,” she says. “I’m not sure how many of our friends you ran into today, but I’ve already been fielding a lot of questions.”

Chrom nods. “Sumia and Cordelia cornered me outside the stables."

For some reason, Robin tenses against him upon hearing this. He glances down at her in confusion, but nothing in her expression gives him a hint as to the cause.

“…How did they seem to be taking everything?” she asks.

“Sumia was over the moon. I feel guilty for giving her false hope over such a big celebration.” He chuckles before continuing, “Cordelia seemed distracted at the time, but she did want to know if we’d settled on a date yet for the, uh…the wedding.”

Robin chews at her bottom lip and glances up at him from beneath her silvery lashes. It's a rather enticing sight. “…What did you tell them?” she asks.

Chrom shrugs the shoulder she’s not leaning against. “I said that the Halidom is still mourning and that we’re not in any rush.”

“Good,” Robin commends. “I got some similar questions, as well, and I said about the same. The further we can push back the anticipated date, the less planning we’ll be expected to do for an event that’s never going to happen.”

“Right…” Chrom agrees. And he knows that this is pretend and that they’re not really engaged, so he’s not sure why her phrasing still leaves his heart stinging. 

“There was one other question I got, as well…” Robin adds. “Well, aside from when we got together, of course. But we we already have an answer for that.”

“And that was?”

“Some of our friends wanted to know when we developed feelings for each other.”

“Ah.” Suddenly his chest seems too small to contain its own aching. "I…I see."

Robin gives a shaky laugh. “I mean, it’s a natural thing to wonder, isn’t it? The Shepherds were along with us for the whole war campaign; it makes sense they would want to know when their commanding officer and tactician managed to fall in love right under their noses. I skirted around the question earlier, but we should probably decide on an answer.”

Chrom shifts in his seat, the hand he has at her waist tightening unwittingly. “Right. Then I suppose I’ll say that…”

He is probably being foolish, but the fact of the matter is that he may never have the opportunity to tell Robin how he really feels. If he can’t bring himself to trouble her with a real confession, then perhaps at least in this small way, he can admit the truth to her—with their farcical relationship in place as a shield to protect him.

“…I loved you from the very first moment I laid eyes on you. I just didn’t realize it until the last little while." He's surprised by the steadiness of his own voice.

“Chrom…” Robin chides. She looks at him incredulously.

“What?”

“Be realistic. I mean, love at first sight? No one is going to believe that, it’s the stuff of fairytales.”

“W-well!” he bristles. “If we’re supposed to be swept up in our feelings, then I don’t see why that’s such a terrible answer.”

Robin’s hands fidget in her lap. She seems on the verge of saying something, but then sighs instead. “You’re right,” she admits.

“I am?”

“Yes,” she says, “I mean, the answer is completely illogical, but I think it’s just the type of thing that two people who are newly together would say, so…I’ll tell them the same.”

“A-alright then,” he says. His shoulder feels very warm, and when he glances down, he sees that her face has gone red—the rush of warmth to her face perceptible even through the cloth of his shirt. He’s not quite sure what to make of it. 

“Well, I guess that takes care of that, then,” she says, with an air of intentional breeziness. “Shall we move on to the main reason I’m here?” 

“The—the main reason?” He’s still staring at her flushed cheeks, the prettiness of them scrambling his thoughts. “Oh, you mean Lissa.”

“Exactly. The longer she doubts us, the more risk there is that those doubts will get around to others, so time is of the essence. I’d like to have this cleared up by tomorrow, if at all possible.”

“Ambitious,” he chuckles. “Though I’ve no doubt you’re capable of it. You said you have ideas?”

“I do, yes,” Robin says, looking pleased by his praise. “Two, to be specific. One of them is much easier to execute than the other, though I suspect you’ll like it less.”

“Easier, how?” Chrom inquires.

“Less set up, less acting on both our parts, and the timing for it isn’t as particular or demanding,” she answers.

“Well, if it’s that much easier, then I’d at least like to hear it.” 

Robin sighs and then shifts against him, rummaging around in her pockets. A moment later, she makes a soft 'aha' noise when she finds what she was looking for, wielding it before him triumphantly. 

It’s her shirt…or a duplicate of it, anyway. He didn’t actually realize she had more than one, but as far as he can tell it's identical to the one that she usually wears beneath her tactician’s robes. That doesn’t explain why she brought it, though.

“Er, how exactly is your shirt going to help us?” he asks.

“Chrom, are you really going to make me spell it out for you?” When he continues to just stare at the clothing blankly, she laughs and averts her gaze. “Well, the idea is that we could just leave this tangled in your bedsheets for the cleaning staff to find and…our work would be done.” 

Chrom blinks back at her as all of the gears in his mind grind to a halt. He waits in dumbfounded silence for Robin to assure him that she’s joking, but the quiet that stretches out between them is interrupted by nothing but the pops and crackles of the fireplace. A nervous chuckle slips out of him.

“I—we—wh-what?” he finally manages to articulate.

“It’s quite simple, really,” she says, adamantly keeping her voice steady, despite the fact her whole face has gone pink again. “Tomorrow, when the palace staff is making your bed, they’ll find it and assume that…well, you know. That I s-spent the night here. A rumor like that would circulate in no time. It might not involve Lissa directly, but it would get back to her all the same and then—”

“Y-your plan is for my sister to think that we slept together?!” he sputters.

“Well…yes,” she answers with a frown. “I mean, if the goal is to convince Lissa that we’re together, then—”

“No,” Chrom says emphatically. “Absolutely not. We can’t—I don’t want people to think we—I mean, I wouldn’t—”

“Chrom, just breathe for a moment,” Robin interjects. “You do realize the whole reason the council wants you to get married is to produce an heir, don’t you? So it’s not as if this isn’t part of what we’re ultimately expected to be doing.”

“But we’re not married yet!” Chrom exclaims, still scandalized. “We can’t just pretend that we—i-it wouldn’t be proper!”

Robin rolls her eyes at him. “Oh yes, Naga forbid two consenting adults in a relationship decide to have sex. I figured you might react this way, though.” 

She sighs and stuffs the shirt back in her pocket. Chrom is still too flabbergasted to say anything else, staring ahead as he grapples with the thought of Robin’s clothes in his bed. Or more specifically, Robin’s clothes in his bed because he took them off her. Robin in his bed, and him there with her, because the two of them were—

“Chrom?” she prompts impatiently, “Do you want to hear the other plan or not?”

"Y-yes," he stammers. Whatever it is, it can't possibly be as bad as the first.

As it turns out, the 'plan' in question brings them back to the palace gardens, though they now find themselves in a private section reserved only for the royal family.

“Okay, this is the spot,” Robin declares. She gestures to the side of a path that winds around an ostentatious fountain of Naga; where an alcove is closed in by trellises of ivy and shaded from the sun.

“Remind me again how you know that Lissa will be passing by here?” he asks nervously.

“Because I got her schedule for the day from Frederick, and this is the only logical path for her to take on her way to lunch with Maribelle—especially when the weather is so nice,” she answers with perfect certainty.

Chrom watches, somewhat at a loss, as Robin drags him into the tucked away space before slipping her coat and gloves off and dropping them indiscreetly onto the ground.

“Er…do you want me to move those somewhere for you?” he asks. "So they won't get dirty, I mean." Robin is usually more mindful about taking care of her possessions. Her tactician's coat, in particular, he knows she's fiercely attached to, and almost reverent in her treatment of.

Evidentially, that's not a concern today because she snorts in response. “No, because the point is for it to look like they were tossed aside in a hurry,” she reminds him. “You should take your gloves off too. And you might want to dishevel yourself a bit.”

He tugs the gloves off, discarding them beside hers, then stares down at the rest of his outfit dubiously. Robin catches sight of his puzzled expression and laughs. “Here, like this,” she says, and suddenly she’s standing much closer.

Chrom’s breath catches as her fingers reach up to tug at his collar, rumpling the fabric. She fiddles with it for a moment and then undoes the top button of his shirt, as well—her fingertips skimming over the base of his throat in the process. Chrom fights back a shiver. 

“We should probably do something about your hair, too,” she murmurs thoughtfully. “Bend forward a bit for me?”

He obeys unthinkingly, only to let out an embarrassing gasp when she threads her slender fingers through his hair.

“You’re so jumpy,” she laughs, as she proceeds to muss his hair up so that it sticks out even more than usual. The ruffling motions leave his scalp tingling and he’s rather disappointed when she stops a moment later. 

“There, that should do it,” Robin declares with a self-satisfied nod. She steps back to survey her work and Chrom has to steady himself against the ivy trellis at his back—fighting with his frazzled nerves as he processes the implications of the scene they have set.

“Do you really think all of this is necessary? Or that it’s even going to work?” he asks, once he’s relatively certain his voice won’t shake.

Robin shoots him a disbelieving look. “It’s a little late to be second-guessing the plan. But yes, I think it’s necessary and I think it will work. Have a little faith in me, won’t you?” 

“It’s not a matter of faith,” he assures her. “It just seems…I mean, aren’t you embarrassed that Lissa will think that she saw us, y-you know…”

“Making out?” she supplies.

“Yeah….” When Robin posed the plan the night before, it seemed a lot less overwhelming than it does presently. Maybe that was because the thought of his sister finding them kissing was infinitely less embarrassing than the prior alternative in which the whole of the castle staff would think they had slept together.

…Now that he thinks about it, it's definitely possible Robin suggested that plan first just so this one would seem less wild by comparison. He wouldn’t put it past her. 

“Mm, not particularly,” she answers, with impressive nonchalance. “I don’t especially think it’s embarrassing for two people who are engaged to kiss each other when they’re in private.”

“Then I envy your indifference,” he sighs. “I’m going to feel thoroughly humiliated by the time this is done.”

Robin visibly flinches and it’s only then that he realizes how that must have sounded.

“Er, not because it’s you!” he corrects quickly. “I just mean, in general, that I wouldn’t want to be seen kissing anyone—and especially not by Lissa. She’s never going to let me live this down. B-but I don’t mind that it’s you specifically who I’m doing it with. Er, not that I’m saying I want to kiss you, I just—”

“Chrom,” she interrupts. “Why don’t you just stop there?”

“Yes, that would probably be best,” he agrees through gritted teeth. 

“Do you have the time?” she asks, mercifully sparing him any further discussion on the matter. Chrom withdraws his pocket watch.

“It’s five minutes to the hour.”

“Okay, then we should probably get in position now, to be safe. Then I’ll talk you through the rest of it.”

“Right,” Chrom agrees, and then hesitates, “Er, what position, exactly?” 

Without a word, Robin takes his hand and draws him away from the ivy trellis he was leaning against, standing so she has her own back to it instead. Gently, she tugs on his hand and he takes a stumbling step forward—the space between them disappearing as his chest is pressed flush to hers. Abruptly, he feels very aware of how much smaller she is than him. 

“Okay…you’re going to have to lean down a bit and—I’m going to put one of my hands on the back of your neck,” she tells him. 

He’s grateful for the warning, otherwise the sensation of her bare fingers skimming over his nape would likely have drawn another shiver from him. With Robin’s hand in place, he bends down as instructed. She tips her head up at the same time, and suddenly their faces are very, very close. Closer even than they were the night before. Closer than they have ever been, as far as he can remember. 

“Good,” Robin says. “And if you could just rest one hand on my waist and cup my cheek with the other…”

“Like this?” he asks, as he tentatively places his hands where she instructed. And Gods, a revelation about the softness of her skin against his sword calloused fingers is the last thing he needs right now.

“Perfect,” Robin replies, with a flicker of a smile. “I’ll put my hand on your waist as well, and…n-now we wait.” He’s almost relieved to hear that her voice sounds shaky. At least he’s not the only one who’s nervous. 

“What, um—” his thought is cut short when his voice draws her eyes up to his, and any words he had in his head promptly vanish. In the dappled sunlight that tangles through the ivy, Robin is luminescent. Chrom blinks at her, spellbound by her nearness, her softness, her radiance—all of it. It’s several seconds before he remembers he was trying to ask her something.

“S-sorry. What I meant to say is: what are we supposed to do when we hear Lissa coming?” 

“Oh!” Robin says. “Right. Well, like I said last night, the goal is for it to sound and look like we’re kissing.”

“Ah…right,” Chrom agrees. He thinks this over for a beat and frowns. “A-and how exactly do we make it seem like we're doing that?”

“From the angle Lissa will be approaching us, she won't be able to see our faces, so that will help. But we do need her to hear us and come over here. So we should be fine if we just, you know, sort of sigh, or say each other’s name and…” Robin huffs out a laugh, her cheeks faintly pink. “I mean, maybe kiss the air for the uh, the lip sounds.”

“Okay…" Chrom manages through a tight throat. "Sighing and saying your name and…lip sounds. I'll, er, do my best.”

Robin gives another apologetic laugh. “Sorry, I know this is strange. Honestly, I’m half convinced it would be less awkward if we just forgo faking it and actually kiss, but…” she trails off, looking away; and gods, given the hand she has resting on his neck, he dearly hopes she can’t feel how those words spike his pulse. 

Before he can reply, Robin’s posture stiffens, and she tugs him even closer, causing their noses to bump against each other. Chrom’s heart is hammering too loudly for him to hear anything around them, including the sounds of Lissa’s approach.

“Robin?” he whispers. “Is she coming? Do we need t—” but as he speaks, his lower lip brushes against hers. 

His words die. The contact was so light that for a fraction of a second, he thinks maybe he imagined it. But then Robin’s eyes pop wide in surprise. Blood thunders in his ears.

“I’m sorry!” Chrom gasps, “I wasn’t—”

“Shh!” she hisses, and then she bobs her head forward and kisses him.

She—oh gods, she’s—

Robin is kissing him. He’s kissing Robin.

At first, all he really manages to do is gasp. And then some dauntless part of him kicks in and carries him over the crest of his shock and into a fluttery flood of adrenaline and bliss. He presses his lips to hers with all the fervor he can muster, clumsily moving his mouth against hers.

Robin’s lips are soft and warm; constant and careful. But better yet, they’re hers. She huffs out a dreamy little sigh and even her breath tastes unbearably sweet: it fills his heart full of helium until he feels he could float away. He cradles her cheek and kisses her harder. 

“Ahem! ” 

A whole year of yearning draws him in closer to her, burns him in the places where skin meets skin. He feels feverish. His mind is nothing but a litany of her name, and even the darkness behind his eyelids looks blindingly vibrant. He could kiss her like this forever, he could—

“Um, hello? Can you guys not hear me?” 

Lissa’s voice startles him so badly that he leaps apart from Robin, gasping for air. When he turns, he finds his sister with her arms crossed, wearing an expression that’s horrifically smug.

“Lissa!” Chrom yelps, not needing to feign how flustered he is. “I—I didn’t know you were—”

“Yeah, clearly,” she huffs. “Sorry to interrupt, but I figured someone had to tell you this spot is not as private as you think it is. I don’t really care what you guys do, but you could at least get a room so I don’t have to see it. Especially not right before lunch.” She makes an exaggerated gagging sound and Chrom feels dizzy with mortification.

“B-but we thought—this spot wasn’t supposed to be visible from the path…” Robin stammers. Chrom’s eyes whip back to find her just as red in the face as he knows he must be. At the moment, it’s impossible to read any emotion from her expression other than embarrassment.

“It wasn’t. But I could hear you guys making out even over the fountain,” Lissa snickers.

Making out. Gods, he and Robin were—

Chrom’s fingers jump to his lips, where Robin’s were pressed just moments before. He long ago lost count of how many times he’d surrendered to fantasies of kissing her like that. But this wasn’t a fantasy, it was real…and now he’ll be able to conjure the heat of her mouth against his with his memory, rather than his imagination.

“Chrom, did you hear me?” Lissa demands indignantly.

“What?” he asks, startling from his amorous thoughts. “Sorry, did you say something?”

“Gods, what’s the point of making fun of you if you aren’t even listening?” Lissa whines. “You two are seriously gross.” 

“Er…sorry?” he offers, still only paying half a mind to her words because Robin kissed him. His sister rolls her eyes.

“Ugh, whatever. I have lunch with Maribelle so I’m leaving,” she grumbles. “But you two better not still be here when I get back, or I’m telling Frederick I saw you making out. And then he’ll start chaperoning all your dates.”

“You’ve made your point, Lissa,” Robin replies with a flash of genuine fear in her eyes. “It won’t happen again.” And with that, Lissa saunters off, grousing the whole way. 

There’s a beat of relative silence, filled only by the flow of the fountain and the staticy pulse of Chrom’s frazzled thoughts. And then Robin places her hand against his arm.

“That was good work,” she says, a shy smile curving her lips. Her perfect, kissable lips. Chrom takes her hand in his and turns towards her, hopeful to resume where they left off.

“I really think we sold it,” Robin continues. “With any luck, Lissa will mention this to Maribelle and we’ll be in the clear with her, as well.”

He freezes. She’s talking about the plan they had to convince Lissa. But…but the plan wasn’t for them to actually kiss like that, the plan was—

“I—I thought we were just going to pretend!” he blurts out, a storm of doubt raining down upon him. Robin blinks back in confusion.

“That was the idea, yes, but obviously it wouldn’t have been as convincing as the real thing. So, I mean…w-when you kissed me, I assumed that you were suggesting that we—Chrom?” she breaks off. “Are you alright?” 

He’s not. The sweetness of the flower clotted air around them suddenly burns his lungs and stings his eyes. But he should have known better. Of course she wouldn’t have kissed him like that just because she wanted to. The sincerity and tenderness he thought he felt was nothing but proof of her dedication to playing her role. It was foolish for him to believe it could have been anything else.

“Y-yes,” he lies. “I’m fine, I just didn’t—I’m sorry.” He forces himself to take a shuddering breath and try again. “I’m glad everything went according to plan. But if we’ve done everything we need to here, then I see no point in lingering.” 

He needs to get away and work through the tumult of his emotions on his own. Too many different feelings are crashing down on him and he’s not capable of concealing them all from her.

And yet some feeble, love-lorn part of him hopes that she will tell him not to go. That she will take his hand and say that she doesn’t want their time together to end just yet. That while they might have come here to put on an act, she enjoyed their kiss not as his fake fiancée, but as Robin.

“Of course,” she says instead, glancing aside. “I’m sure you’re very busy, and I wouldn’t want to take up any more of your time than necessary with this…charade.”

“Right,” Chrom grits out, turning away before the hurt can show on his face. “Then I guess I’ll see you around….”

“Okay," Robin agrees. "Although, before you go, we may want to make arrangements for the next time we intend to—”

He doesn’t even wait for her to finish before he all but flees the scene.

Chapter Text

In the days immediately following his kiss with Robin, Chrom can’t bring himself to face her. Perhaps more accurately, he can’t bring himself to face anyone; for surely a man newly engaged to the love of his life should not be seen swinging between fits of anxiety and bouts of brooding.

Instead, he locks himself in his office from dawn until well after twilight has fallen, emerging only to make the trek back to his chambers to sleep. In terms of the number of hours he is dedicating to his work, he has never been more diligent. And yet with each passing day, the stack of missives to read and proposals to sign grows larger; too much of his time occupied with restless pacing and heaving heavy sighs. Every time something reminds him of Robin, his chest clenches up and his fingers drift unconsciously to his lips, remembering the sweet burn of her mouth on his. And everything reminds him of Robin.

Truthfully, it's probably not the most productive solution. He has nothing but his own agitated thoughts to fill the silence of his office, looping over themselves until it feels like he's trapped in an echo chamber. Afterall, he can't help but notice that Robin hasn't sought him out since their kiss either. Is it possible that she could be avoiding him too? Robin is well aware of his tendency to wear his heart on his sleeve—it seems all too likely she'll have deconstructed the events in the gardens and realized the truth of his feelings for her.

And what if the realization has made her uncomfortable around him? And what if she still feels obligated to continue their fake relationship regardless? They're questions he doesn’t feel ready to confront.

The nights are even worse. Chrom stares at the darkened canopy over his bed, knotted in his sheets, his body pyretic. In the past, he wondered if sharing a single kiss with Robin might be enough to sate his curiosity—if finally knowing how it felt to brush their lips together would stop his want of her from swallowing him whole. If his dreams are any indication, it’s just the opposite.  

By the end of the week, his longing has been honed into a different type of hurt: he misses her. 

Perhaps he should be ashamed of his own clinginess, but since finding Robin in that field, they’ve scarcely spent a whole day apart. He’s used to having her counsel to soothe his worries and her wit to lighten his heart. How he ever managed without her, he hasn’t the faintest idea. There is a reason, Chrom reminds himself, that he's chosen to endure the aching of loving her in secret rather than confess his feelings: having Robin beside him as a friend is infinitely less painful than not having her there at all. 

When he realizes that he has the same leaf of parchment laying in front of him at lunch time as he did during his breakfast, his despondency starts to shift into determination. Clearly, he needs to do something to address the situation, lest the halidom fall into complete disrepair on his watch.

He can put the kiss behind him if it means getting to see Robin again. And if she’s bothered by what happened, then he’ll just have to set things right. After all, there is nothing in the world worth losing their friendship over. Faking a relationship with her was always going to sting him with the taunt of what-could-be, but even knowing that, he resolved to go through with it. He just needs to get back into that mindset again: it’s too late to be having doubts.

As it’s midday, Chrom decides to check for Robin in her office first, but finds it empty. The library and her personal quarters also yield no results. By the time he has looped through the Shepherd’s barracks and the training grounds, he’s running out of ideas.

Chrom wanders the hallways with rising frustration. Will it seem too desperate if he waits outside her room for her to return? There are probably more efficient uses of his time, but it’s not as if he has been able to get any work done anyway.

“Milord?”

If it comes to it, he could always ask Tharja. The mage is infamous for keeping near constant tabs on Robin's location. But he hasn’t actually seen her since news of his engagement to Robin began to circulate amongst the Shepherds, and he’s not entirely sure that she wouldn’t just hex him dead where he stands. Still, as a last resort…

“Milord, is something the matter?”

Chrom blinks back into the present to find Frederick eyeing him quizzically. He'd been so occupied wondering after Robin’s whereabouts that he didn’t notice his retainer approaching him from down the hall.

“No, no, everything’s fine,” he answers distractedly. “It’s just that I can’t find—” Chrom breaks off, snapping his fingers in realization. “Oh, but you might have the answer, Frederick! Do you know where Robin is?”

Frederick raises an eyebrow at him. “I do. Presently, she is receiving etiquette lessons from Lady Maribelle.”

“Etiquette lessons?” Chrom echoes. He didn’t think Robin cared for such things. 

“Indeed, in preparation for the upcoming ball and the appearances she will be expected to make at your side.”  Frederick pauses, weighing Chrom's response. “I was under the impression, however, that you had been invited to attend them as well, milord.” 

Chrom scrambles to conceal his surprise. “R-right! Yes, of course! I’ve been so busy it must have slipped my mind.” He forces a chuckle. “Would you mind refreshing me on where it is they’re meeting?” 

“In Lady Maribelle’s chambers,” Frederick replies. “But milord, are you certain that everything is alright? You seem rather—”

“Yes, I’m fine! No cause for concern, really,” Chrom assures him with a hurried clap on his shoulder. “Thank you for your help, Frederick, I’ll be going now!” 

He hastens down the hall before his knight has another chance to speak, already making his way towards the east wing where Maribelle’s personal quarters are located. It hadn’t occurred to him that Robin would need to begin etiquette lessons already—though given that his birthday is now just a month away, perhaps he should have expected as much. It feels wrong for her to be saddled with such responsibilities when he is the one who dragged her into the fake courtship. The least he can do is provide moral support while she learns the ins and outs of court etiquette.

Unless, of course, she doesn’t want him there.

Doubt twines around him, making his steps falter. Frederick said that, to his knowledge, Chrom had been invited to these lessons as well, but he'd obviously received no such invitation. Did Robin intentionally choose not to tell him because she didn’t want to see him?

But if that’s the case, then it’s all the more reason he needs to find her. There’s no other way to get things between them back on track. He resumes his trek to Maribelle’s room with renewed vigor, skidding to a stop outside the door and only remembering to knock at the last moment.

“You may leave the tea tray on the table,” Maribelle’s voice calls from within. She must have been expecting someone else, but Chrom decides to take it as permission to enter anyway. He huffs in a preparatory breath and pokes his head around the door.

It’s been some time since he’s had any reason to visit Maribelle’s personal rooms, but he’s familiar enough with them from her long friendship with Lissa. The space looks just as he remembered it; the walls papered in petal pink with doilies draped across every bare surface. At the center of the drawing room, he spies Maribelle and Robin seated across from each other on a pair of lavish loveseats. 

“Hello,” Chrom calls, and both women whirl at the sound of his voice, “Er, sorry that I’m late?” 

“My, my! Look who decided to make an appearance at long last,” Maribelle says, her voice tart.

“Chrom?” Robin’s face lights up with surprise, and just the sight of her after these days apart is a balm to his heartache. It banishes his lingering anxieties and spurs his legs towards her. 

“Robin!” He grins. “I’m so glad to see you.” 

A hesitant smile brightens her face, a mirror of his enthusiasm. “I—I wasn’t expecting you,” she admits, with a confounding blush. “But I’m happy to see you, as well.” 

Chrom beams and settles in the seat beside her, relieved that at least for the moment, any residual awkwardness over their kiss seems to be forgotten. He wonders if he should be concerned that it takes such little time apart to leave him starved for the sight of her. He can hardly look away.

“Well,” Maribelle huffs, and Chrom flinches, having nearly forgotten she was there, “it’s nice to see you’re finally making an effort on your fiancée’s behalf.”

“Oh! Hello, Maribelle,” he greets her hastily, “I, uh, hope you’ve been well?”

“I have,” she replies, her voice clipped. “Robin makes for a superb pupil and her lessons are going swimmingly. That is, as much as has been possible given your complete negligence.” 

Chrom winces, taken aback. Maribelle’s mouth is puckered with disapproval—her gaze scathing. The reaction seems a bit extreme to be brought on by just his tardiness.

“Er,” he falters, “did I do something wrong?” 

“Maribelle, please,” Robin interjects before she can answer. “Chrom has the whole halidom to look after. You can’t fault him for being busy given the circum—”

“So busy that he can’t make time for the woman he loves?” Maribelle challenges, her eyes still narrowed at Chrom in disapproval. “I am happy to take the helm on these etiquette lessons, but there are certain matters for which his presence is absolutely necessary. And yet he has not put in a single appearance the whole week long! Nor has he made any efforts to see you, from the sound of it.” 

Chrom looks back and forth between the two women, clambering to make sense of Maribelle's acerbic attitude. Frederick said that he was meant to have been invited to this lesson, but there must have been others before it that he was expected to attend as well. What he doesn’t understand is why no one bothered to actually tell him that they were occurring. 

…Though with how he stayed locked up in his office at all hours, it’s not like he gave anyone much of a chance to. So maybe he is at least partially to blame. 

Evidently Maribelle has not finished chewing him out, because she shakes her head in disapproval, sending her thick curls bouncing around her in the process. “Milord, if you are neglecting to attend to your fiancée in the earliest stages of your relationship when infatuation is at its peak, then I must say I fear for the future state of your marriage.”

“He’s not neglecting me!” Robin insists quickly, while Chrom reddens from the admonishment.

Maribelle rolls her eyes. “Utter nonsense. Why, you confessed mere moments ago that you’ve been missing him terribly and could scarcely recall when last you’d spent so little time together.”

A line of lightning shoots down Chrom’s spine, making him straighten up. Hope and horror war within him in response to her words.

“Robin, is that true?” he asks.

“W-well,” she stammers, looking as pink as the wallpaper, “Maribelle is exaggerating my phrasing a bit but…yes, I have missed you.”

Her eyes fall to her lap, the admittance soft and shy. She could just be saying it to play up their fake relationship, but surely her face wouldn't burn like that if there wasn’t some truth to the words. It’s a relief to think he may not have been alone in longing to see her.

Chrom takes both her hands in his before he can think better of it.

“Forgive me, then, for my absence these last few days,” he says with an apologetic smile. “It’s true that I’ve been busy, but I should have made time to see you regardless.” 

“There’s nothing to forgive,” Robin insists, the pink of her cheeks deepening further. “Your duties to the halidom are more important than—”

“No,” Chrom cuts her off, shaking his head. “Maribelle is right, that’s hardly an excuse. There will always be work to be done, but I don’t ever want you to feel like you’re not a priority to me, Robin.”

An impulse surges up within him, to seal the sincerity of the words with a kiss to her hand. Under normal circumstances, he would immediately squash it. But Maribelle is here, and given that they’re supposed to be courting…

Before his shyness can get the better of him, Chrom presses his lips fleetingly to the knuckles of Robin’s glove. It’s a far cry from the kiss they shared when last they were together, but it tangles his stomach in knots all the same.

“I’ll make more of an effort for us to see each other from now on,” he vows. The gesture startles a laugh out of her, the sound of it both abashed and bright. 

“You really don’t have to worry about it,” she insists, but the words are undercut by her smile and the way she threads their fingers together. Chrom smiles too: with his palm pressed to hers, he feels like some semblance of his world’s balance has been restored.  

“I’m afraid I must disagree, milord: it is entirely necessary that you do just that,” Maribelle interjects, though he is relieved to note there is less acidity in her tone than before. “At the very least, I expect you to make greater efforts in attending these lessons; elsewise it shall be nigh impossible to teach your lady to dance properly.” 

“To dance?” Chrom asks. “Is that what you wanted me here for?”

Maribelle gives an exasperated huff. “But of course. Unless you wish to make fools of yourselves at the ball celebrating your own birthday?”

He laughs. “No, I’d rather not."

“I thought as much,” she says, with a curt nod. “Right, well hop to it then! We’ve wasted more than enough time as it is.” 

“Right now?” Robin asks. “But we don’t have any music or—”

“Not a problem in the slightest, I’ll count out the time for you and you shall practice executing the steps to that. Now, if you would please—” Maribelle’s words are interrupted by a knock at the door. 

“Ah, well that must be the tea tray, finally,” she says, moving towards the door to retrieve it.

The moment her eyes are off the pair of them, Robin shuffles closer to Chrom on the loveseat, pressing into his side. His skin thrums with her nearness, unhelpfully pushing the image of her bracketed by his arms beneath the ivy trellis back into his mind. 

“I’m sorry about all that,” she apologizes, her voice hushed to keep from being overheard. Chrom blinks at her.

“Sorry?” he asks, matching the soft tone of her voice. “What for, exactly?” 

“I shouldn’t have told Maribelle about how I hadn’t seen you recently,” she says, chewing at her lip. “I didn’t mean to get you lectured over it.”

Robin ducks her eyes and lets her hair fall forward to conceal part of her face. She’s embarrassed, he realizes. Though he’s not sure why.

“That’s nothing to apologize for,” he assures her. “It was true, after all. And it seems so long as I get my act together, Maribelle is unlikely to filet me, so…” 

Gingerly, he brushes his fingers across Robin’s temple, tucking her hair back so he can see the rest of her features properly. He’d intended for it to be reassuring, but she freezes, eyes stretched wide in surprise as his hand lingers there, palm ghosting her cheek.

Her reaction is a stark reminder that until just days ago, such a gesture would never have felt second nature to him. Yet now, with their arms pressed together and their other hands laying entangled in his lap, it feels dangerously easy. Especially given that the last time he touched her face like this was right before they kissed…

As if following the same train of thought, Robin's eyes flick down to his mouth. Chrom swallows hard, wondering when all the air was sucked out of the room.

“My! Aren’t you two smitten?” Maribelle crows, returning to her seat with a tea tray in hand. Hastily, Chrom pulls his hand back and clears his throat and Robin makes a show of sliding apart from him.

“S-sorry,” he stammers. “That was just—”

“Oh, you needn’t explain yourself, milord. I know how new lovers are,” Maribelle assures him, unmindful to how her words embarrass them both further. “I do believe we’ve dawdled quite long enough, however, so if you would both be so kind as to take your positions? Chop, chop!”

She claps her hands to urge them up, and he does his best to shake off his jitters before helping Robin to her feet—another gesture which really shouldn’t feel as natural as it does. They move to the center of the drawing room at Maribelle’s instruction.

“Do you have any experience with this?” Chrom asks, hesitantly moving his hand to rest at Robin’s waist while she lays hers on his shoulder.

“None that I can remember,” she answers. “Maribelle coached me through the basics of the steps but this will be my first-time dancing with a partner, as far as I know.” 

“Then I’ll do my best not to lead you astray,” he promises, and she gives him an appreciative smile in return.

Maribelle takes a moment to scrutinize their posture, and when she’s satisfied, she moves to stand against the edge of the room, leaving ample space for their dance. 

“We’ll do two full counts and you’ll begin on the third,” she declares. “Ready? And one, two, three. One, two, three.” 

They stutter into motion as instructed, stumbling through the early steps as they find their rhythm. Occasionally, Maribelle interjects with feedback and corrections on their form which they both do their best to heed, but for the most part she seems content to just let them get a feel for moving together.

Chrom is unbearably aware of how precious a thing it is to be gliding about with Robin in his arms. But truthfully, he’s a bit out of practice and the dance steps are taking more of his attention than they usually would. It has been some time since last he danced like this. He can’t remember doing so since before the war—not since Emm’s birthday, he realizes with a start. Her last one before tensions with Plegia began to mount. Her last one ever.

It was a merry event, marked with three nights of festivities as a combined celebration of the winter solstice and her 26th year. He remembers whirling his sister across the floor, happy that he could rescue her from the dancing invitations of persistent suitors, if only for a minute. He was so carefree back then: his biggest concern of the night was how Frederick would fuss if he saw the wine Chrom had spilled on his coat sleeve. What he wouldn’t give to celebrate with Emm like that just once more. For her to be able to see the peace her life helped pay for…

“Are you alright?” Robin asks quietly. Her voice startles him, and he realizes he’d stopped registering the motions of the dance all together. He wonders how badly he must have misstepped to prompt her question.

“Yes, sorry,” he replies quickly. “I was just…remembering something.”

“Your sister?”

Chrom allows himself a bittersweet chuckle. “Have you gained mind reading powers that you’d like to tell me about?” 

Robin shakes her head minutely. “I could just tell from your expression. You’re a bit of an open book,” she explains, with a small smile. “Plus, I know you.” 

“Ha, so you do,” he agrees. “Perhaps better than anyone.” 

“…I’d like to think so,” she says quietly, and he wonders if he’s just imagining the wistful edge to her voice. “…Was the memory one you’d like to share?” 

Chrom returns her smile, softly grateful for the offer. “Maybe another time. I missed so many of these lessons already. The least I can do is give them my attention now.”

Robin opens her mouth to reply, but is interrupted when Maribelle calls out to them between counts.

“Shoulders back, milord,” she reprimands. “And Robin, dear, your footwork is becoming sloppy. Remember, knees bent!” 

Her voice slices through the privacy of the moment and they both jostle about, trying to correct their posture without interrupting the dance steps. Their knees knock against each other in the process and Robin nearly tips forward into him.

“Woah, there! I’ve got you,” Chrom says, steadying her against his chest for a moment before she straightens up. To his surprise, rather than seeming embarrassed by the misstep, she’s laughing. He can hear Maribelle tutting in disapproval from the side of the room, but she makes no move to intervene.

“Sorry,” Robin apologizes, through lingering giggles, and the sound of them combined with her nearness makes roses bloom behind his ribs. “I just feel a bit ridiculous. This is still so surreal.” 

“…Dancing?” Chrom asks.

“No, no—though I suppose that's part of it.” She laughs again, though she’s regained enough of her composure now for them to resume their waltz. “I mean the fact that I’m being given lessons on etiquette at all. Because our friends believe that I’m to be Ylisse’s queen consort, of all things.”

“It does make for a bit of a jump in your station, doesn’t it?” he muses.

“Just a bit,” she agrees with a grin.

It really must be odd for her. Whereas their fake courtship has largely meant an escape from new responsibilities for him, for Robin, it has meant having dozens more thrust upon her. It makes him that much more grateful for her willingness to play along…and also makes him feel that much more guilty for having left her to face it alone this last week while he licked his wounds. He thinks of her hurried apology for having confided in Maribelle about his absence and it tugs his heartstrings taut.

“You know,” he says, quietly enough that only Robin will hear it, “about what you said before…I didn’t mind the lecture from Maribelle. I’ve received enough of them over the years that they don’t really faze me anymore.”

“Well, don’t tell her that.” Robin chuckles and Chrom laughs along before continuing. 

“What I mind more is that I didn’t even know these lessons were happening. You could have told me, you know.” He punctuates his next words with a light squeeze of her hand. “We’re supposed to be in this together.” 

Robin gives a small smile before her eyes fall, as if she’s suddenly very interested in watching her feet move through each of the dance steps.

“…I know I could have told you,” she says after a moment. “It’s just that…well, part of why we settled on this arrangement was to spare you from having your time taken up with a bunch of dreary courting nonsense. I assumed these etiquette lessons would fall in the same category.”

“But it’s not dreary nonsense if I’m doing it with you,” he insists. Immediately, her eyes swing back to his, her obvious surprise a warning that he’s stumbled too close to the truth of his feelings.

“W-what I mean is that we’re friends! And so, I enjoy the activities more than I would if I had to do them with a stranger,” he elaborates quickly. “I’d much rather have tea and practice dancing with you than—” anyone else in the world, “—some uptight noble I can barely hold a conversation with.”

“Well, I’m glad that our fake courtship hasn’t been completely torturous for you, then,” Robin jokes, still careful to keep her voice quiet so Maribelle won’t overhear.

“Far from it,” he says. And maybe it’s the dangerous spike of courage that comes from her hand clasped in his, but a moment later he adds, “I could do much worse.”

Robin holds his gaze as they continue their dance, something soft aglow in her eyes. He thinks again how entrancing she is up close like this—how dancing with her sends tremors through his heart even here in Maribelle’s room, with no real music. He imagines whisking her through these same steps but beneath the shimmer of chandelier crystals, light winking off of champagne flutes and gossamer gowns. How spellbound he will be to twirl about with her when their feet are carried on the swell of a waltz’s refrain—

“Milord, do mind where you’re resting your hand. You wouldn’t want to cause a scandal,” Maribelle chides. 

Chrom reddens and jolts the hand that had drifted from her waist back into place, while Robin fails to suppress a snort.

“Aren’t you supposed to be the expert here? I’m pretty sure you’ve received more corrections on your form today than I have,” she teases.

“Hey, I’m just a bit rusty on my fundamentals, that’s all,” he insists, his embarrassment fading in light of the competitive lilt to her voice. “You’re lucky we’ve just been sticking to the basics or I’d definitely be sweeping you away.”

“Oh, really? Now that I’d like to see,” Robin says, and Chrom grins because that’s a challenge if ever he’s heard one.

“Alright, then, one demonstration, coming right up,” he declares, and he drops his other hand to her waist, and lifts her into the air, spinning her around. 

“C-Chrom!” Robin squeals in surprise, her legs flailing beneath her. He whirls her around a couple more times before setting her down, at which point she immediately falls against his chest, laughing infectiously. The vibrations tickle his skin.

“Alright you two, that's quite enough!” Maribelle calls over their shared giggling. She looks as if she can’t quite decide if she should be exasperated or amused by their antics. “It wasn’t my intention to practice lifts today, but I see someone’s eagerness has gotten the better of them. It’s best we stop there.”

“Oh, come now, Maribelle!” Chrom protests. “Surely we don’t have to end the whole lesson over it. I promise I’ll behave.”

“Hm, yes, well while I have my doubts about that, it was about time we concluded anyway,” she tells him. “I am a busy woman and these etiquette lessons are far from my only obligation for the day.” 

“Ah, fair enough,” Chrom allows. He’s disappointed not to get to spend more time dancing with Robin, but the warmth of her palm resting against his chest goes some way in making up for it. 

Sensing his dismay over the lesson's end, Maribelle’s expression turns smug. “Fret not, milord. So long as you keep your word about attending these lessons more regularly, you’ll have plenty more opportunities to dance with your beloved.” 

Beloved.

His heart stutters over the word. It’s a perfect descriptor of what Robin is to him, and yet to hear it from someone else’s mouth is all too vivid a reminder of the transience of their perceived courtship…a reminder that the dance they’ve just rehearsed is intended for the very night when it will come to an end.

Suddenly sobered, Chrom steps back from her so that she’s no longer tucked against his heart. His withdrawal causes Robin to glance up at him quizzically, but she doesn’t comment.

“Well, I suppose we ought to get out of your hair then” she says, addressing Maribelle instead. 

“Yes, please allow me to see you off. I expect to see you both back here to resume practice tomorrow. And this time,” she says, with a pointed look at Chrom, “you had best not be late.” 

The pair of them have only just turned out of the corridor leading to Maribelle’s room when Chrom hears another voice calling him from down the hall.

“Ah, well if it isn’t Lord Chrom! It’s good to see you, Your Highness!” 

Upon hearing his title, Chrom tenses reflexively but it lessens somewhat once he recognizes Maribellle’s father striding towards them.

“Ah, it’s good to see you as well, Lord Antoine,” Chrom says, with his most diplomatic smile. Truthfully, he's been making a point to avoid run-ins with all the council members, but if he had to encounter one of them, he could certainly do much worse. “Robin, have you met Maribelle’s father, the Duke of Themis?”

“I have not, no,” she answers amicably. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lord Antoine.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” the duke beams. “Maribelle has spoken most highly of you, and she is not one to dispense praise where it hasn’t been earned. Ylisse will be fortunate to have such a capable Queen Consort.” 

Immediately, Chrom feels his misgivings over the encounter melt away, replaced instead by a swell of pride at the duke’s declaration. Were Robin to actually take the title of queen consort, he has no doubt that her intelligence and forward way of thinking would benefit the halidom tremendously.

Robin, however, seems far from put at ease—at least if the strained smile plastered across her face is anything to go by.

“Ah, well, that’s very kind of you, milord,” she says, releasing a laugh that sounds more like a nervous rush of air. Instinctively, Chrom places a hand lightly at her waist—an offering of support and reassurance if she needs it. It must be appreciated, because immediately she relaxes into his touch, her posture noticeably less stiff.

“We actually just finished meeting with your daughter,” he tells the duke. “She’s been tutoring Robin in etiquette so that she’ll be prepared for any appearances she has to make before the court.” 

“Well, how wonderful!” the duke declares, his kindly eyes gleaming. “I remember years ago when my Maribelle did just the same for you, Lord Chrom.”

“Indeed,” he chuckles, “though I suspect Robin makes for a much better student than I ever was.”

The duke smiles, before turning his gaze back to Robin. “Forgive me if I'm being too forward in asking, but I don’t suppose you would be willing to accompany your fiancé to the next meeting with the Ylissean Noble League?”

Robin blinks back at him for a moment, clearly caught off guard, before glancing at Chrom uncertainly.

“I think such a matter would be for Chrom to decide, rather than myself,” she answers. “I’d happily accompany him, of course. But only if he wants me there.” 

Unwittingly, Chrom’s hand tightens where it rests at her waist. The thought of bringing her into the council room, where many of the members desire nothing more than to see her torn apart, sets something within him flaring fiercely in protest.

“I always want you by my side,” he assures her. “But bringing you before the Council…I’m not sure that would be wise.”

“If I may, milord,” the duke interjects, “I suggested it on account of the fact that many on the council have never had the opportunity to meet your lady. I believe that having a face to pair with her name and seeing the general dignity with which she conducts herself may go a long way in easing some of their misgivings on the matter. And moreover,” he says, addressing Robin now, “if you are as well-spoken and persuasive as my daughter tells me, I suspect there would be no one more equipped to address the council’s concerns.”

Chrom frowns, thinking the suggestion over.

“You have a point…” he admits. “But after the councilors' reactions when I announced our courtship, I'd rather not bring Robin before them. The last thing I want is for her to have to listen to all of them claim she's not suitable to be my partner. Up until now, I didn't even realize you weren't in opposition to our courting as well, Lord Antoine.”

The duke opens his mouth to reply, but before he can, Robin speaks up. “If that’s your only concern, then I’d like to attend.”

“You...you would?" Chrom asks, disbelieving. “Robin, are you certain? You haven't seen what those meetings are like. Many among the League won't hesitate to tear into any vulnerability they can find—court etiquette be damned. Er...no offense,” he adds hastily, with a glance towards the duke. He dismisses Chrom's apology with a wave of his hand, clearly aware of the truth the statement holds. 

“Yes, I’m sure,” Robin replies. “I think Lord Antoine makes an excellent point that we’ll be better equipped to address their concerns if I’m present as well. It’s best that we put up a united front. And in regards to any of the criticism the council may have of me, I can handle it. I’m not so fragile as to shatter from a few harsh words,” she reminds him, nudging his side with her elbow.

“I know you’re not,” Chrom assures her. “You’re one of the strongest people I know. It’s just that I—” he breaks off, struggling to find the right words. “Just because you’re capable of enduring that kind of talk, doesn’t mean that you should have to,” he settles on.

Robin scoffs, but it’s tinged with fondness. “You worry about me too much.”

“I can’t help it,” Chrom insists. “The gods know you won’t look out for yourself.” 

The duke clears his throat, calling their attention back to him. 

“I certainly don’t mean to keep you,” he says, “and I have my own meeting with my daughter I ought to be embarking for. But I’m grateful to have had the opportunity to pose this matter for Your Highness’s consideration. Perhaps when you have reached a decision, you can send word to the council on if we should anticipate Lady Robin’s attendance at the next meeting.” 

“There’ll be no need for that, Lord Antoine. I can assure you right now that you can expect me there,” Robin chirps. Chrom recognizes that tone in her voice: she’s already made up her mind. Trying to get her to reconsider now will be like trying to wrestle a wyvern.

Having said his piece, the duke gives a short bow to Chrom and waves farewell to the both of them before continuing down the corridor. Chrom waits for him to turn the corner at the end and disappear before he speaks again. 

“Robin…” he begins.

“Chrom,” she says back, mimicking his tone of voice. He sighs.

“I swear to you I’m not trying to cast doubt on the strength of your character. But I don’t understand why you would want to attend this meeting if you don’t have to. I’d do damn near anything to get out of going myself.” 

“I want to go because I think I can help,” Robin insists. “Unless you disagree with the duke about me being persuasive and well spoken?”

“Gods no, I know that better than anyone,” Chrom assures her. “But—”

“And besides,” she continues, “the last time you met with the council on your own, you told them that we were courting, of all things. Don’t you think it might do some good to have me there to help when you’re put on the spot?”

“That’s—” Chrom frowns, remembering his panicked declaration at the last meeting, “—a fair point, actually.” He presses a hand over his eyes, massaging his temple. “Though I'm not sure what that says about my capabilities. I’m supposed to be the leader of this country and I can’t even navigate a meeting with my own council…” 

With his eyes closed, he has no way of anticipating the brush of Robin’s fingers against the hand he has at his face. She pries it away, before entwining their fingers together, and the ease with which she does it makes him dizzy. Perhaps she’s becoming more comfortable with the contact between them, as well.

“Chrom, I’m not trying to say you’re not capable of managing it on your own,” she assures him. “You’ve gotten by without me up until this point, after all. But it’s like you’re always saying: we’re better and stronger together. We’re—” 

“Two halves of a greater whole. That’s true,” he admits, smiling faintly and squeezing her hand. “You really are dangerously convincing, you know that?” 

“How kind of you to notice.” She smirks. “Does that mean you’ll let me attend?”

Chrom takes only a beat to think it over, already knowing he’s helpless to deny her resolved smile and eager eyes. 

“Alright,” he agrees. “But the meeting is just a few days away, so if you’re coming with me, we’ll need to spend some time planning out how to approach any arguments or questions the council may have. Is that alright?”

“You’re asking your tactician if she minds having to strategize?” Robin grins. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The morning of the Ylissean Noble League’s next meeting, Chrom makes the trek to Robin’s quarters so that they can walk to the council room together. 

Since they had their conversation with the duke, the two of them met several times to prepare counterpoints to any objections the council would be likely to raise, and Chrom did his best to coach her on what to expect. They’re prepared, or as best they can be given the circumstances, and yet given the disaster that was the last meeting with the League, it’s hard not to feel on edge.

The pouch sitting heavily in his pocket does nothing to calm his nerves, either. He pats it for the dozenth time since leaving his room, ensuring that it’s still there, and then steels his nerves to knock on her door. 

“It’s unlocked! You can come in,” Robin’s voice calls out. 

Chrom pushes open the door and makes his way into her chambers to find her standing in front of a long mirror wearing a floor-length dress the color of iridescent iris petals. The cowled neckline leaves her collarbones bare and the silver of her hair has been swept up into a single ponytail that spills down her back in elegant curls. Chrom halts mid-step, watching entranced as she scrunches her face up in concentration and fumbles with the last of the dress’s buttons.

“There! Finally,” she sighs in relief, before turning towards him. “Sorry about that.”

“No, it’s…it’s no problem,” he says, trying to restore some sense of order to his thoughts. It really did not occur to him that pretending to court Robin would mean seeing her dressed up so often. He would consider asking her to give him some warning each time she was going to appear before him looking so breathtaking if such a request wouldn’t be inherently mortifying to make. 

“You’re staring,” Robin observes, pursing her lips. “Does it look ridiculous? I told Frederick this was overdoing it, but—”

“No!” Chrom interjects quickly, “Not at all. It’s just…I’ve seen you wearing more dresses this last week than the entire rest of the time I’ve known you.”

Robin meets his sheepish smile with a grin of her own. “Well, I didn’t have much cause for dressing up during a war campaign, now did I?” 

“No, I suppose not,” he agrees. Maybe that’s for the best. It would have been a shame for him to be skewered by an enemy lance because he was too busy admiring her to notice their approach. 

Not that such a thing didn’t nearly happen a few times anyway, but—

“Shall we get going then?” Robin asks. “We don’t want to be late.” She moves to walk past him towards the door but Chrom catches her by the wrist before she can.

“Er, wait! There’s something that I still need to do,” he says.

Robin pauses, tipping her head at him curiously. “Okay?” she prompts.

“It’s, uh…” Chrom fidgets, shifting from one foot to the other. Heat blooms across his face. “I have something I want to give you.” 

Quiet stretches between them as Robin waits expectantly for him to elaborate, or move, or do something, but it’s as if he’s suddenly paralyzed.

“Chrom, are you—”

“I’m trying!” he insists. His hands inch towards the pocket of his trousers only to ball up with uncertainty. How is he supposed to do this? It’s not as if he can get down on one knee…

“…Could you close your eyes for a moment?” he asks finally. Robin’s eyes burn with curiosity at the request, but she acquiesces anyway. He steadies himself with a breath. 

You have nothing to be nervous about, he reminds himself for the hundredth time that morning. It’s not real, after all. Just one more layer of disguise for their ruse. 

Chrom moves to stand behind her before removing a velvet pouch from his pocket and allowing the golden chain and ring within to spill into his palm. The metal is smooth and solid through his clammy gloves, and the tiny sapphires embedded in the crest wink back at him in the morning light. 

Mustering his courage, he brings his hands to Robin’s shoulders, resting them there for a moment so as not to startle her by touching her neck without warning. Delicately, he drapes the chain over one of her collar bones, letting the ring fall against the plane of her sternum. His fingers bumble on the clasp, trembling with nerves, but at last it clips soundly into place.

“Alright, you can open them now,” he says, taking a step back and away.

Robin’s eyes fly open and immediately her hand gravitates to the necklace chain. Fingertips trail down the woven metal until they settle at the golden halo dangling below.

“Chrom,” she breathes, “is this…?”

“It’s a signet ring, bearing the crest of house Ylisse. My parents had it crafted to commemorate my birth,” he answers. “I always intended to give it away one day to the person I want to spend my life with. It's only right for you to have it.” 

He realizes as soon as the words are out that he could have done a better job of phrasing that so as not to imply he really does want to marry her. To his relief, Robin doesn’t seem to notice. She’s inspecting the ring as delicately as if it were made from stained glass instead of gold—one errant touch and it might shatter to pieces.

“Are you sure it’s okay for me to wear this?” she asks, her voice soft. “I’ll take care of it, of course. But…you don't think your future spouse will be bothered to know someone else had it before them?” 

Chrom deliberates over this for a moment but ultimately shrugs. 

"I suppose they might be. It's hard to know how they’ll feel about it, when I don’t know who they are. But I’d like to believe that whoever I wind up marrying will be understanding. Besides,” he continues, “the ring’s existence is hardly a secret. Frederick and Lissa know that I planned to give it to my future partner. And the council will expect to see some sort of memento we’ve exchanged as a promise to each other. It would be suspicious for you not to have it.”

“Fair enough,” Robin acknowledges. “But I suppose actually wearing it on my finger wouldn't be appropriate, given that we’re not supposed to have announced the engagement publicly yet?” 

“Exactly. I thought wearing it like this could be a good middle ground.”

Robin turns to him then, a grin bright on her face.

“It is. A chain around my neck that I never take off will be just enough to feed the rumors without giving formal confirmation. It’s perfect. It’s smart,” she commends. 

“Oh, w-well, I’m glad you think so." He runs a hand through his hair, preening a little from her praise.

Robin clutches the ring to her chest tightly for a moment and then tucks it beneath the neckline of her dress. “Thank you for trusting me with this, Chrom,” she says, and he swears the amber of her eyes could put the ring's gems to shame. 

“Of course,” he replies, “there’s no one I trust more.” 

Robin blushes faintly and looks away but she’s smiling, and that’s enough for him. 

“Should we head over to the meeting, then?” she asks after a moment.

Too quickly, his giddiness over Robin so happily receiving his ring is overtaken again by nerves over what they are about to be up against. “Yes, it’s about time."

“And you remember everything we discussed?” she asks.

Chrom chuckles. “Given that I’m the one who has actually attended these meetings before, shouldn't I be asking you that?”

Robin grins wordlessly and extends her hand to him as they move towards the door. He takes it without hesitation. Their entwined fingers may be a sight specifically intended for the eyes of the council members, but it feels like a silent showing of support as well—a reminder that they will be standing together in all they face within that room.

Chapter Text

When Chrom and Robin enter the meeting room, they find the members of the Ylissean Noble League awaiting their arrival in silence. It is not like the last time the council met, when a sudden hush fell over the group the moment Chrom entered. Instead, he suspects the tense quiet in the room has been present since long before he and Robin arrived. 

This time, he will also not be bearing the council’s scrutiny alone—while many of the League members’ eyes do linger on him, he is aware of just as many on Robin at his side. The meeting has not even begun and already a fierce protectiveness clambers inside of him. Chrom would willfully endure the full brunt of their hostility if it meant shielding Robin from them.

But she wants to be here, he reminds himself. The two of them are prepared for most every question the council is likely to pose—and they’ve even readied a proposal of their own. He has to believe that Robin’s presence beside him will bolster their case.

Their footsteps ring out in syncopated strikes as he leads Robin to her seat. To his relief, the extra chair is positioned so that she will be sandwiched between him and the Duke of Themis—a friendly face on either side. Chrom relinquishes her hand for only a moment, for the sake of pulling her chair out for her, and then reclaims it again before he has even sat himself. 

“You may be seated,” he announces to the council. The League members settle stiffly into their seats with the rumble and scrape of wood on marble. Chrom launches into the customary opening without further preamble. “Let the Ylissean Noble League’s ancillary council meeting in the fifth month of the 997th year of the Halidom now commence.”

He tries for an amiable smile and finds it met by a slew of tight jaws and pursed lips. The next couple hours are going to be long ones.

“Before we get started, I believe introductions are in order. Members of the Ylissean Noble League, this is Robin: Ylisse’s master tactician, and—” he pushes past the feeling of cotton thick in his throat, “—a-and my betrothed.” 

Robin, for her part, looks much more at ease than he feels. She sweeps her gaze around the table, smiling cordially. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I’m looking forward to working with you all,” she says, with practiced poise. If not for the tremor of her hand, still clasped in his own, Chrom would have no idea she was out of her element. 

He squeezes her fingers between his, offering all the reassurance he can muster as he rattles off the name and station of each noble seated around them. Despite the fact Robin committed all their identities to memory days earlier, she pays rapt attention, repeating each name back with a bow of her head. He almost wishes there were more council members to introduce, because once he’s finished, there’s nothing he can do to further delay aknowledging why they’ve gathered.

“Alright, now that that’s out of the way, I suppose we should address why this meeting had to be called,” he says, plunging ahead before his nerves can get the best of him. “As you all know, when the League last convened, I announced my courtship with Robin.”

‘Announced’ is probably a generous description of his behavior. ‘Blurted out’ would be much closer to the truth, but he needn’t remind all these nobles of that. 

He makes a point to phrase his next words carefully. “At the time, a number of you seemed to have questions regarding my courtship. If any League members still wish to make those inquiries known, then they are welcome to do so now.”

A blessed moment of silence follows in which Chrom almost convinces himself that none of the council members will speak—that he can end the meeting now, and go back to pretending to court Robin in peace. His hopes are dashed a moment later when Lord Ambrose, the Duke of Deil, noisily clears his throat. 

“Milord, if I may?” 

Chrom appraises him for a moment. The duke is a gaunt and severe looking man, with an impressive pallor for someone who presides over a territory on Ylisse’s southern coast. At previous meetings, he did not stand out to Chrom as being particularly compassionate or cruel, and as far as he can recall, Lord Ambrose did not speak at all when the engagement was first announced. Chrom isn’t sure what perspective the duke is likely to have on his courtship with Robin, but he supposes it’s as good a place to start as any. 

“Go right ahead, Lord Ambrose,” Chrom says.

The duke gives a short, appreciative bow of his head and steeples his spidery fingers together before speaking. “I believe I am not the lone member of this council to bear a certain…curiosity over what considerations played a role in your selection of your prospective spouse. Perhaps Your Highness would be willing to divulge your reasoning to the League?”

Chrom swallows and meets the watery, gray eyes of the duke head on.

“W-well, it wasn’t so much about political considerations,” he admits, cheeks aflame. “The truth is just that Robin is…very dear to me.”

Beside him, Robin inhales sharply through her teeth. The reaction is too soft for anyone else at the table to have heard it, but it sends a stab of anxiety through his chest all the same. The answer he gave wasn’t a lie, but he can only assume that his delivery left something to be desired—that Robin is worried the Council will not believe that he really was motivated by feelings for her. He has to do better for both their sakes.

“Er, that is to say…I love her. I-I’m in love with her,” he chokes out. “I’ve never felt this way about anyone before. Robin is my other half, and I want to spend my life with her. There could be no one else.”

He realizes as the words leave him just how rarely he has permitted himself to speak any of them aloud—even to himself. To say them here, before so many incisive pairs of eyes, feels akin to wrenching his heart from his chest and offering it as carrion to vultures. And to his dismay, the council member's faces give away very little about what they think of his declaration.

After a tense pause, Lord Ambrose responds.

“Ah, yes, I wondered if that might be the case. Are we to take it, then, that Your Highness does not feel that the halidom’s fragile peace calls for a more experienced politician beside you at the helm?” 

Chrom flinches. He knew many on the council were likely to see his choice as irresponsible, but he wasn't expecting them to say it quite so plainly—at least not with Robin present. But perhaps it was overly optimistic of him to think they would care about sparing her feelings. 

“It’s…it’s not that I don’t think that Ylisse needs a capable consort,” he begins haltingly. “I’m not ignorant to the uncertainty that comes with new-found peace—this is not the first war I have lived through, after all. But you’re mistaken if you believe Robin isn’t capable of filling that role.”

The duke drums his fingers against the lacquered table. “Forgive me for questioning your judgment, Your Highness, but on what basis have you deemed the lady to be suitable?” 

“Robin is brilliant and hardworking and innovative—more so than any person I’ve ever known,” Chrom declares. He's relieved to have a chance to sing Robin’s praises rather than continung to clumsily lay his affections bare. “Ylisse may not have been her first home, but it is her home now, and she cares deeply for our people. She…she made me a better general—a better man. And I believe having her at my side will ultimately make me a better king, as well.”

He steals a peek at her and finds his words have painted Robin's cheeks a brilliant scarlet. It’s oddly gratifying. A titter from his other side pulls his attention away from her again.

“What a touching declaration, Your Highness,” Lady Idris coos. “And I suppose your word alone should be enough for the council to overlook the fact that she is Plegian?”

Chrom clenches his jaw and does his best to keep his anger locked in his muscles instead of letting it leak into his words. “Robin is Plegian, yes, but I hardly see how that matters. Neither I nor my sister before me have shared my father’s prejudice against the Plegian people. You would do well to remember that, Lady Idris.”

Her eyebrows soar skyward. “Prejudice? You wound me, Lord Chrom. No, I have no grudge against the Plegians. I speak only out of a fear for your lady, you see. That the Ylissean people will not accept her.” 

Robin’s hold on his hand tightens minutely. With great effort, Chrom bites back the first retort that arises on his lips and settles for something more diplomatic. “Perhaps at first not all of them will,” he says. “But the marriage would be a showing of good faith between our countries. And Ylisse has no rockier relationship than with Plegia.”

Glances are exchanged around the table. 

Lady Cecily clears her throat. “There is no doubt that the halidom’s relationship with Plegia is in need of healing,” she acknowledges. “But unless Lady Robin is a member of their royalty, I’m afraid that such a gesture is unlikely to mean much to the Plegian government.”

“Unfortunately, Lady Cecily is right,” the Duke of Menedy chimes in. “While I’ve heard nothing but praise regarding Lady Robin’s abilities, her lack of social station means the union would do little to benefit Plegia or, consequently, our diplomatic relations with them.”

Lord Ambrose tuts softly to himself. “And it is rather unorthodox for the exalt to take someone with no social standing as their spouse.”

"W-well," Chrom stumbles over his words as his frustration coils tighter. It's as if they've all made up their minds already and don't care what he has to say at all. "Even if it doesn’t help our relations with Plegia, it would still—”

“Milord, consider the logistics for a moment,” Lady Idris interrupts, and though she is addressing Chrom, her caustic eyes lock onto Robin. “The marriage won’t ease Ylisse’s political tensions, and her heritage will only stir unrest amongst the people. What reason do they have to trust a Plegian peasant as their ruler? You must be reasonable, Your Highness.”

Chrom's temper snaps free. “Be reasonable? I’m not the one who’s lacking reason!”

“Chrom,” Robin says softly, laying a hand on his forearm. “You don’t have to—”

“But it’s true!” he shouts. “Lady Idris, you ask what reason the people have to trust Robin; is the fact that she led us through the last war not reason enough? She risked her life day and night to keep Ylisse’s people safe!”

Lord Ambrose’s austere face darkens. “Now, Lord Chrom, there’s no reason to be so cross. Lady Idris only meant that—”

“I know exactly what she meant,” he spits. “You’re all too busy judging Robin by her heritage to pay any attention to her character.”

“Chrom—” Robin warns, louder this time. 

“What?” he answers sharply. “I’m not just going to sit here and listen to them talk down to you!”

Lady Idris catches his glare and immediately her face contorts into a simpering smile. “Please, milord, I meant no offense to you or your lady. Surely you can understand why the League would be hesitant to place a stranger—a foreigner, no less—in a position with so much power. You speak of the strength of her character but how is the League to know that your affections are not clouding your judgment?”

“Because I’m telling you it’s not like that!” Chrom insists heatedly. “I love Robin because of her character!”

“Be that as it may, until the council has seen some proof of her dedication to the Ylissean people’s wellbeing—”

“Proof of her dedication? Robin has done more for Ylisse in the last year than you have in your entire damn life!”

A tense silence follows his outburst. Infuriatingly, Lady Idris is still smiling, and he wants nothing more than to bodily wipe the expression from her face. Perhaps he would do just that if not for the vice grip Robin has on his hand. Why is she holding him back, anyway? She has even more reason to be livid than he does. But so far, she’s barely spoken at all. Instead, she has been sitting quietly beside him—her thumb rubbing insistent, soothing circles over his knuckles. 

With a sickening jolt, Chrom realizes that it’s because his anger is exactly what the duchess wants. The more she can make him look like an impetuous hot-head, the more the council members will doubt the integrity of his decisions. All too clearly, he can imagine the weary expression that Emmeryn would fix him with were she here to witness his loss of composure. 

Chrom schools his ragged breathing and bites his tongue—willing himself calm. If the duchess is baiting him, he will not give her anymore of his righteous fury to use against him. He focuses on the feel of Robin’s fingers, threaded through his own, and loosens his white-knuckle grip.

“…I apologize, duchess,” he grunts, even though he’s not sorry at all. “That was uncalled for.”  

Lady Idris’s lips part. Chrom braces himself for her smug reply, but Robin speaks first.

“…Perhaps I might make a suggestion?”

“Please do,” the Duke of Themis replies quickly, relief evident in his voice.

Chrom tears his glare from Lady Idris and turns in his seat to give Robin his attention.

At some point, the sun crested high enough outside for its rays to reach the stained-glass window to their backs. Tinted sunshine dapples Robin with coruscating light—the verdant emerald and shimmering sapphire tones depicting Mila’s tree now refracting off the silver in her hair. She’s entrancing—so much so, that the sight dims his lingering anger.

“I am grateful for Chrom’s defense of my character, but I think it’s only fair to acknowledge the reason for the League’s caution," Robin says, meeting the eyes of each of the League members as she does. "The future of Ylisse is important to all of you. I understand many of you are meeting me for the first time, and while you may have heard tales of my achievements during the war, stories can exaggerate—it’s another thing altogether to witness a person’s capabilities for yourself. Therefore, I think the best way to ease the League's concerns would be for me to demonstrate my abilities to you all first hand.”

Beside her, the Duke of Themis offers a measured smile. “I take it you had something in mind, Lady Robin?”

She nods, and the movement causes the glass colors to shift around her like a prismatic halo. “There is still nearly a month’s time before Chrom is meant to announce our courtship publicly to the Ylissean people. I propose the Council use the weeks leading up to the ball to test my proclivity for administrative work. Perhaps I could be assigned duties related to the impending celebration—that way I can lessen the League’s workload and prove myself in the process.” 

Thoughtful murmuring crescendos around the table—clearly the council members consider her offer to shoulder some of their responsibilities to be an appealing one. Chrom can’t help but marvel at how quickly Robin is smoothing things over.

“What a…generous proposal,” Lady Idris lauds, her voice syrupy sweet. “Though I can't help but wonder who would be in charge of overseeing your efforts. Just to ensure they meet the League’s exacting standards, of course.”

“The Council may appoint anyone to the task they deem fit,” Robin replies, a quiet fierceness in her eyes. “The work will be new to me, and I’m sure at first I’ll require some guidance and corrections. But the League will find I am a fast learner—I’m certain that by the arrival of the ball, my efforts will be deemed more than satisfactory.”

Lady Idris’s smile has twisted into a grimace, but Robin meets it unflinchingly. Beneath the rippling stained glass hues, her resolve burns like blue embers. This is her own form of retaliation against the duchess’s scathing distrust, he realizes. And Robin is never so beautiful as when she is crackling with confidence.

“I’ll look them over myself, if no one on the Council is willing,” Chrom offers, still unable to tear his eyes from her. 

Lady Idris lets out a tetchy huff. “I thought we had already established that Your Highness is hardly an objective judge.”

Fortunately, he is stopped from retorting when Lady Cecily raises her hand. 

“I would be willing to oversee Lady Robin’s work,” she offers. “My territory is one of the smaller ones in Ylisse and as I am a recent addition to the council, I have fewer responsibilities than many of the senior members.” 

“Thank you, Lady Cecily,” Chrom says, with obvious relief. She was appointed to the council by Emmeryn and is much more progressive than many of the elder League members; she should make for as fair a judge of Robin’s work as they can hope for.

“Of course, Lord Chrom,” Lady Cecily says, giving a short bow of her head to him and then to Robin, as well. “I look forward to working with you, Lady Robin.” 

“Well then,” the Duke of Themis calls, “do any other League members wish to pose objections to Lady Robin’s proposal?”

In the pause that follows, Chrom feels the tremble in Robin’s fingers—a candle flame flicker of doubt. He holds her through it until the duke deems an ample window of opportunity to have passed. 

“Excellent, excellent,” he declares. “Since there are no objections, perhaps we should turn our attention to deciding what tasks would be suitable for Lady Robin’s trial run?”

Robin’s hand relaxes in his. The meeting is far from over, but the worst of it should be behind them. 

When they exit the council room at the turn of the hour, Chrom is vibrating with a jumble of exhaustion and relief. The door has barely shut behind them when he turns to Robin, a dozen different thoughts ready to fly from his lips. 

“That was—” he begins, only for her to shush him immediately.

“Not here,” she mouths, before silently guiding him further down the hall. They pass a smattering of servants as they walk, their eyes lingering on his and Robin's linked arms. Chrom bites down on his words, bursting at the seams with questions and praise and apologies he couldn’t voice to Robin while they were still before the council.

She waits until they have arrived at an empty corridor half-way between the meeting hall and her rooms before exhaling in a rush. “Okay,” she says, “we should be in the clear.”

Chrom sags against her side. “Thank the gods. That couldn’t be over soon enough.” 

Robin gives a light chuckle and nudges him with her hip, shifting his weight back off of her. She makes no move to unlink their arms, though. “All things considered, I think it could have gone much worse.”

Chrom eyes her skeptically. “Could it have? I…I lost control of my temper. If you hadn’t been there—”

“But I was there,” she reminds him. “And in the end, they agreed to the trial run—just like we planned. So I’d call this a success. Truthfully, I half believed this whole courting charade would be over after today.”

Her words settle over him uncomfortably. “…What do you mean ‘over’?”

Robin offers a rueful smile. “I thought the council might threaten to resign en masse if you didn’t agree to stop courting me. And that we’d have no choice but to give the whole thing up.”

“Well, if they did, then good riddance,” Chrom grumbles. “Maybe the members that replaced them wouldn’t be so stubbornly old-fashioned. And besides, this was never about asking their permission. I was always willing to fight for you, Robin.” 

Robin says nothing to this, instead chewing at her lip the way she does when she’s weighing invisible worries. 

“Hey,” Chrom calls, insistent on breaking into her reverie, “you know I meant every word I said in there, don’t you?”

A flash of bewilderment crosses Robin’s face before, abruptly, she snorts. 

“I should think not every word,” she says with a meaningful look, and Chrom reddens as he rapidly recalls the numerous love declarations he’d made.

“Er, th-that is—I meant every word about how capable you are. And how Ylisse would be lucky to have you,” he corrects. “I wasn’t just saying that for show.”

“…Right,” she releases a long puff of air in what he can only assume is relief. “Yes, well, you’ve always had too much faith in me.”

“That’s not true. All of my faith in you is entirely deserved,” he insists and then nudges her side with their linked elbows.  “Why the sudden self-doubt? You sounded so confident in front of the League.”

Robin shrugs. “I had to get them to agree to the plan, didn’t I?”

“I suppose…” Chrom mutters. 

Only…it hadn’t seemed like a bluff when she’d spoken during the meeting. But maybe he just doesn’t want to believe all her fierce determination could have been feigned. Because if it wasn’t, then maybe it would mean a part of her did care about proving she was capable of helping to lead Ylisse—that part of her really did want the council to know she was worthy of standing by his side. 

“It’s just…I don’t usually think of you as wracked with insecurities,” he says carefully.

Robin gives a full-bodied laugh. “I have no doubts where my intelligence and tactical abilities are concerned. But this is a different matter altogether, Chrom. You’re plenty self-assured when it comes to how you handle yourself in battle, but that hasn’t stopped you from worrying you’re not suited to rule.”

He’s about to reply when Robin’s footsteps slow. At first, he’s not sure of the reason, but he gets his answer when he tracks her gaze to the golden-framed painting adorning the hall. A sudden wash of solemness settles over them both.

It’s a portrait of Emmeryn from shortly after she inherited rule over the halidom, her chin held high despite the too-large halo crown atop her head. A crown that was never meant to be worn by a mere teenager. Chrom had almost forgotten it hung here. He misses his older sister’s face—desperately so—and yet this memory of her is not a comforting one. 

Chrom closes his eyes and allows himself a moment to steep in the scraped-raw sting of his grief. Of all the terrible things his father did, he sometimes thinks dying is the one it is hardest for him to forgive—even if Ylisse was better off for it. Not for the first time, he wonders at the impossibility of it all: his newly orphaned teenage sister forced to carry a responsibility that still feels too big and heavy for him to bear today. He wishes he’d asked her how she did it. There is so much he should have asked…so much he will never have the chance to. 

“No, it hasn’t stopped me from having doubts,” he admits quietly, not entirely sure if the words are intended for Robin or the painting of Emmeryn before him. “But even if I’ll never be a natural at this…and even if a part of me will always think Ylisse deserves more than what I know how to be…I’m trying to believe that I can learn.” 

Robin unlinks their arms, allowing her hand to fall and hold his instead. “You already have,” she assures him. 

“…A little,” he acknowledges, “I can only hope that it will be enough.” He lifts his leaden feet and forces himself to continue down the hallway. “Actually, I think you would be much better suited to this than I am.”

Robin casts him a skeptical look. “I don’t see why I would be.”

"Really? It seems obvious to me," Chrom says, chuckling. “You don’t share any of my same weaknesses, Robin. You’re far more diplomatic than I am and much better at compromise—the council meeting was proof enough of that. You would be good at this; I’m certain.”

Robin huffs out a laugh of her own. “Well, I’m not. And I think you’re so determined to see the best in me that you’re discounting many of your own strengths.” 

“Then perhaps our differing strengths just mean we would make a good team," he suggests with a smile. 

Something shivers in her amber eyes before, abruptly, she turns her attention away. “Well, there’s no sense in arguing about it—not when we both know that my being the queen consort is preposterous anyway. My qualifications are a moot point when it’s never going to happen.”

Chrom’s heart shutters up. He drops his hold on her hand as if he’s been burned by it. 

“Right,” he grumbles, “why put yourself through the misery of a marriage with me.” 

The words come out sharper than he intended. Perhaps it’s because he spent the last hour declaring his love for her in front of the council…or because the two of them still can’t make it through a conversation without her finding some way to remind him how outlandish it is to think she would ever be romantically involved with him.

The bite to his words is not lost on Robin, and her steps stutter beside him before she looks up in alarm. “…Chrom? What did you—”

“It’s nothing,” he mutters. Just as quickly as hurt swelled within him, he realizes that he is being unfair. “Forget that I mentioned it.”

“No, hold on! Don’t just—” Robin captures his wrist again, peering up at him. His eyes flicker to hers only a moment but that’s all it takes for her to see the sting still lingering there. “You’re upset,” she concludes, her surprise plain.

“N-no! I—I'm not upset, I just..." he stammers over the denial, and Robin’s eyes narrow, obviously disbelieving. It’s useless trying to lie to her—not when she can read him with such ease.

“…Alright, yes, a little,” he admits with a sigh, still trying to avoid her inquisitive eyes. “It’s just…you make it sound like being married to me would be the worst fate that could befall a person. And I already know that you don’t want that, Robin—you’ve made it very clear. You don’t need to keep reminding me at every turn. Believe me, I’m not likely to forget.” 

“Chrom—” she begins, sounding startled.

“No—it’s alright. You don’t have to say anything. I don’t blame you for how you feel.” He tries for a chuckle but it sounds strained even to his own ears. “I should be grateful that you’re willing to pretend that we’re together at all. Especially when you seem horrified to even consider it, and—”

“Chrom,” Robin interrupts, more sharply now. “Slow down. I don’t—it doesn’t horrify me.”

He nearly trips over the carpet at their feet. “I-it doesn’t?”

“No,” she says firmly, “definitely not. To be honest, the reason I kept bringing up that the relationship is pretend was to comfort you.”

“It…it was? Really?” Despite himself, Chrom laughs—for someone who knows him so well, Robin is impressively off base about what he finds comforting. 

She registers his laughter and lightening mood with a relieved smile. “Is that so hard to believe? I know our friendship is important to you and…it is to me too. I thought reminding you that the pretending is only temporary would be reassuring—because at the end of it all, our relationship can go back to normal again.”

“I suppose when you put it that way it makes sense,” he admits. 

Truthfully, of course, he’s not really looking forward to going back to how things were before. But whether it’s what he wants or not, there is some comfort to be found in the assertion that none of this pretending will permanently strain their friendship. And at the very least, this explanation is vastly preferable to his initial assumption—that she found the thought of being with him so abhorrent that she had to constantly reassure herself it wasn’t real. 

Chrom rubs his neck sheepishly. “I’m sorry I interpreted your words so uncharitably.”

“Don’t apologize. Given the way that I was talking, I can see why you would,” she assures him. “But I promise, Chrom: acting like we’re together doesn’t bother me. And it definitely doesn’t disgust me. You know I think of you as—” 

She breaks off suddenly, lips sealed tight as a servant emerges at the end of the hall pushing a cart of linens towards them. Chrom swallows the sound of frustration that arises in his throat from being denied the end of her admission. He places a hand at the small of Robin’s back to lead her hurriedly to the end of the hall. 

The moment they’re out of the servant’s earshot his words come spilling out. “You think of me as what?” 

Robin chuckles at his obvious eagerness. “Are you really going to make me say it?” She must see the hope on his face because she shakes her head and sighs. “Alright, fine, I suppose you’ve earned as much after giving me all those compliments in the council room.” 

She nibbles at her lip and fixes her eyes determinedly on the hallway ahead of them. “I…I think of you as a good man. A great one, actually. And…someone I’m very lucky to call my closest friend. You’re loyal and earnest and endlessly kind and…and there’s no doubt in my mind that whoever winds up calling you their husband will be very fortunate for it. I’m sorry if anything I’ve said gave you cause to doubt that.”

“Robin…” he murmurs. Dizzying warmth unfurls in his chest. “Do you really mean that?” 

It could be you, he wants to tell her. It could be you, if that was what you wanted.  

“I do,” she assures him and then huffs out a laugh. “There. Have I embarrassed myself enough now to appease your ego?”

He makes a show of thinking it over very seriously. “It’s a promising start. But I think I’ll need a few more compliments to fully recover.”

“Alright, how’s this for another?” Robin says, rolling her eyes. “You are completely unbearable.”

A grin breaks across his face. “Hm, not your best work. But it will have to do.”

Robin snorts, and reaches to poke him in the ribs—right where she knows he’s most ticklish—but he captures her hand in his before she can. For a moment they tussle and bat at each other amidst breathless laughter before, rather abruptly, Chrom realizes they have reached the end of the hallway and her door. 

Robin’s giggles putter out but a smile lingers on her face. “You didn’t have to walk me all the way back, you know.”

“Ah, but what type of fiancé would I be then?” he jokes. “And besides, I may have gotten distracted during our walk but…I wanted to make sure you're alright.” Just recalling how the council members treated her makes his teeth grind, so he can only imagine how she must feel. 

Robin’s smile dips for only a moment. “I’m okay,” she assures him. “Mostly thanks to you sticking up for me.” 

Chrom chuckles wryly. “Truly? If anything, I thought you’d be upset with me for losing my composure.”

“Well, diplomatically speaking there were probably better ways to approach it,” she admits. “But even so…it meant a lot to me that you cared enough to be angry on my behalf.”

He squeezes their still joined hands. “Of course I did, Robin. You know I’ll always be on your side.”

“Yes, I do,” she agrees. “And I’m grateful for it.” 

“I wish I could have done more,” he continues. “With how some of them were talking, it was—”

The rest of his words are wiped clean from his mind when, without warning, Robin rolls onto her tiptoes and pecks him lightly on the cheek. Chrom’s mouth pops open, but before he can begin to process what just occurred, Robin is retreating from him and reaching for the handle of her door.

“Well, I guess I’ll be going then,” she chirps. “Bye Chrom, I’ll see you at our next dancing lesson.”

“R-right, I’ll—” she flits into her room, closing the door behind her. “—S-see you…then…” he finishes weakly.

Stunned, his fingers fly to the now searing patch of skin where she pressed her lips. He has just enough presence of mind to search the hallway for whatever onlooker the gesture was intended for, but as far as he can tell, they’d been completely alone. Chrom’s heart pounds harder.

For a long moment, he allows himself to linger, wobbling on his feet and staring jubilantly at nothing in particular. He’s still standing there stupefied when Robin’s door flies open. She comes barreling out before he can think to react.

“Chrom!” she shouts. “Wait, you have to—”

She collides with his chest and both of them stumble apart.

“R-Robin?” he gasps. “Why are you—”

“Ah, I’m sorry! I thought you’d have left by now, and—” she breaks off as confusion flickers across her face. “What are you still doing here?”

“Oh, er…I was just…” He scrambles for an explanation that isn’t ‘you kissed my cheek and I was waiting until I was sure my legs wouldn’t give out to leave’ and comes up horribly blank. Robin dismisses her own question with a curt shake of her head.

“Never mind that. It’s not important right now,” she says, and now that her shock has rescinded her voice has gone low and serious. “Chrom…there’s something you have to see.”

“In your room?” he clarifies. She nods wordlessly. 

Briefly, he hesitates. He’s not sure what she could need to show him when they’d both been in her room just before the council meeting. He stops, though, when he sees how her lower lip is pinched between her teeth. Chrom has spent enough time around Robin to be fairly adept at reading her moods, and in the time between going into her room and coming out just now, she went from seeming reasonably upbeat to looking nervous.

No, it’s more than that, he corrects himself. Her arms are folded across her chest, nails digging into her skin. She’s not nervous—she’s scared. Apprehension swells within him; all the cheer he'd felt mere moments before freezes over and shatters.

“Robin…” he murmurs, “is everything alright?” 

“I’m…I don’t think so,” she answers. The tremble in her voice sends icy tremors down his neck. “You’ll have to see for yourself.”

“Alright,” he says grimly, “show me.” 

Robin leads him back into her quarters without another word.

Upon first glance, the space looks just as it had a few hours ago. Nothing seems so out of place as to warrant chasing him down. As Chrom takes it in, the apparent normalcy just makes his unease grow.

Robin shuts the door behind them, careful to turn the key all the way in its lock. With a steeled breath and a wave of her arm, she gestures to her vanity set on the opposite side of the room. 

“It was lying there when I came in,” she explains softly. “And Chrom? Be careful.”

Fighting down a chill, he creeps closer to the piece of furniture she indicated. The sight that greets him turns his stomach. 

Squarely in the middle of the vanity table lies the lifeless body of a rodent. A rat, he realizes. His unease boils over into scalding alarm. 

As Chrom moves to inspect it more closely, he catches sight of something else—a torn scrap of parchment pressed beneath the creature’s limp, hairy body. 

It’s a note: unsigned, and scrawled in thick, jagged ink strokes.

“Know your place, Plegian witch—or someone will have to remind you of it.”

Chapter Text

Chrom reads the note again. And then a third time—unwilling to believe he processed its meaning correctly. His eyes rake over the parchment, desperate for some indication that this is no more than a tasteless prank, but even after his third pass, the words of the threat remain unchanged. 

Because that’s what this is: a threat. Dread clamps down and tears at him with teeth.

He steadies himself with a hand on the vanity, and Robin’s voice sounds from far away, warning him not to touch the note. All his thoughts seem to be coming to him through sludge: slow and sickly. 

Someone wants to hurt Robin. 

Someone wants to hurt her, and somehow, they bypassed the lock on her door and broke into her room. Her room; a space where she is supposed to be safe…a space in which she does not usually arm herself. Because after months at war—during which they always slept with a weapon in reach—the Shepherds are supposed to have earned the luxury of letting their guard down in the comfort of their living quarters. 

Which means they were lucky. If the person who left this threat had been lying in wait for Robin to return, then she could have been—

Sickness swells in Chrom’s stomach. Robin says something else—asks a question, perhaps—but he can’t parse it over the terrified tempest roaring within him. He still hasn’t looked away from the vanity…where the rat’s beady eyes leer back at him in the mirror. 

“We’ll call it off,” Chrom says, the words tumbling out of him breathlessly.

Robin, whose face he can see in the mirror’s reflection, blinks at him, uncomprehending. “Sorry, what was that?” she asks.

“We’ll call off the engagement,” Chrom answers, firmer now. Saying the words splinters something in his heart, but he tries stubbornly to push it aside. He’d thought they had more time before this newfound intimacy between them would come to an end. He’d thought— 

“We’ll—we’ll do what?!” Robin sputters. 

“I said we’ll call off the engagement,” Chrom repeats. 

He watches Robin’s mouth open and close several times before it settles into a frown.

“Chrom, slow down a minute,” she pleads. “If we call off the engagement, we’d be rewarding the behavior of the person who did this. Think about the message that would send: we’d essentially be telling them they can intimidate you into doing whatever they want. Not to mention what the council would—”

“The council doesn’t matter. I’ll figure out some way to appease them,” Chrom interrupts. “And I don’t care what the person who did this thinks, Robin. Let them believe they can strong-arm me into obeying their will if they want—they’ll find very quickly I’m not so willing to yield on other matters. But this…this is different.”

Robin’s frown deepens. “And if they threaten me again the next time they want something? Would you yield to that as well?”

“...It would be different,” Chrom insists again. 

“Different how?” 

“It would be about something real!” he snaps. “I’m not going to risk your wellbeing over a fake relationship, but I—”

He breaks off abruptly. He doesn’t dare say the rest of what he’s thinking: I would fight to be with you if you actually loved me.

And he would. If Robin wanted to be with him, if they had a real chance at a life spent together in love, then Chrom would obliterate every obstacle that was foolish enough to stand in their way. But she doesn’t; they don’t. The only thing awaiting him at the end of their counterfeit courtship is a wounded heart—and that’s not a cause he is willing to gamble with her safety over. 

Robin’s fingertips tickle his wrist and it wrests his attention back. 

“Chrom…will you look at me?” she prompts gently. When he hesitates, she takes his hand fully in hers, squeezing it firmly. “Please.” 

Reluctantly, he tears his gaze from the vanity, a part of him afraid that the second his eyes leave it, the rat will re-animate and pounce at them like some sort of horrid, rodent-risen. 

He faces Robin—her hand still clutching his. She looks much calmer than she had when she came running out of her room: as if his panic somehow displaced her own. 

Her dark eyes dance across his face, appraising him. In his quest to avoid them, his own eyes settle on the golden glint of the necklace chain he gave her earlier that morning. It’s too easy to imagine the circular band of his family ring transformed into a target; one dangling just beside her heart. 

“Aren’t you afraid?” he blurts.

Robin’s hand tightens her hold on his. “I’m shaken up, certainly. And—yes, okay,” she admits when she sees his dubious expression, “I’m afraid, as well. Of course I am. But we’ve faced worse threats than this, haven’t we?” 

He remains silent, so Robin presses on. “Chrom, I’m grateful for your concern over my wellbeing, but right now, I need you to think about this as a prince or a general would—not as a worried friend. We need to act rationally here. And as long as we’re strategic in how we handle this, nothing is going to happen to me. We’ll make sure of it.”

Chrom bites back a frustrated protest.

‘How can you know that?’ he longs to ask. ‘How can you know for certain? I couldn’t keep Emm safe; how do I know I won’t lose you too?’

But another part of him recognizes that those are the words of a grieving brother—not a prince or a general. He’s never been as good as Robin is at playing his roles without input from his over-loud heart…but she’s asking him to try, and Chrom has never been one to willfully let her down, either.  

Besides, it’s not fair for Robin to be comforting him when she is the one who just received a threat. When he remembers her trembling hands and compares them to the surety with which she holds his now…it makes him angry. Angry at himself for not being stronger, and even angrier at the coward who did this.

He focuses on that thought until his fear crystalizes into low-simmering fury, then he bolsters his resolve, and releases her hand.

“...You’re right,” he admits. “I wasn’t thinking clearly, but I am now. We’ll find the dastard who did this and we’ll make them pay.”

Robin is visibly relieved. “Now that’s more like it,” she commends.

“I’ll notify the guards right away,” he assures her, “and if you have any other ideas for how to track down the culprit, I’ll see it done.”

Robin nods, determination burning just as brightly in her countenance as his. “I already have a few things in mind…”

The next hour is filled with a flurry of comings and goings. Chrom sends a servant to fetch a slew of palace guards, as well as Gaius and Tharja, at Robin’s request. 

Almost instantaneously, Tharja materializes from a swathe of shadows just down the corridor. Robin gives her instructions to test the rat corpse for signs of dark magic and to see if a tracing hex can clue them in to who might be behind it. Then she sends Tharja off again, with the rat swaddled in one of Robin’s old shirts.

Chrom watches Tharja slink back down the hall, a gash of a smile on her face as she mutters balefully to the rodent cradled against her chest. The entire exchange took less than five minutes; Tharja seemed very eager to get to work. Given that this was Chrom’s first time seeing her since word spread about his engagement to Robin, he probably owes the rat some gratitude for monopolizing the dark mage’s ire. 

The guards respond to their summons shortly after and offer profuse apologies about the breach in security, as well as promises to re-work patrol routes as needed. Once Gaius arrives, Chrom orders them back into the hallway to serve as look out while his friend inspects the scene.

Gaius’s slick grin slides away when he hears why he’s been summoned, and he sets to work inspecting the note and prodding at the locks and windows of Robin’s room in troubled silence. 

Normally, Chrom would appreciate that the sometimes-overly-lax thief was taking the job so seriously…but given his own desperation for a lead, he just finds the suspense of the quiet to be maddening.

Left to its own devices, Chrom’s mind races and spins—like carriage wheels careening off course. He keeps ricocheting between anxiety and anger, and he’s desperate for someone—anyone—to direct it at. What’s more, Robin has claimed the opposite wall of the room for her own perturbed pacing, and the frantic back-and-forth of her steps is making him even more restless.

“Well, anything yet?” he prompts, not for the first time since Gaius’s arrival. 

Gaius, who is currently hunched over Robin’s vanity, answers without looking up from the note. “Can’t say, Blue. It’s hard to think straight with you breathing down my neck.”

“Er, right, sorry…” Chrom apologizes. He steps back a half pace to give Gaius some room to work. “But when you find something, you’ll alert us right away, won’t you?” 

Gaius shoots him a weary look over his shoulder, emerald eyes narrowed to dagger points. “When I find something, sure. But I’ve got a process, and I don’t appreciate having it interrupted. Now, are you gonna let me work my magic, or not?” 

“R-right, of course…” Chrom mumbles, though it doesn’t stop him from craning his neck for a better vantage point as Gaius continues his inspection.

He should really be making more of a point to not get on Gaius’s nerves when he’s doing him a favor. But standing by and watching others tackle a problem without him has never been Chrom’s strong suit—especially when there’s a maelstrom of emotions buffeting around inside him. Before he knows it, he’s drifting closer again—trying to glean any sense of the progress being made. Gaius flips the parchment over to inspect the other side and Chrom watches, riveted, as he prods at it. Gaius’s brow furrows in thought and Chrom can contain himself no longer.

“What is it, Gaius? Did you find something? Does that side of the parchment have any—”

“Hey Bubbles,” Gaius calls sharply, interrupting him, “can you please get your beau off my back?”

Robin doesn’t so much as glance up towards either of them. “Hm? Sure, sure…” she replies absently, and, notably, makes no move to pause her pacing.

Gaius heaves a long-suffering sigh. “You know, it’s a good thing you two are usually the ones calling the shots, cause you sure as hell aren’t good at following instructions.” 

Before Chrom can comment, Gaius straightens his back, and slaps a hand down on the vanity. “Alright, get your royal behinds over here and I’ll tell you what I’ve got. I’m warning you up front, though, it’s not a lot to go on.” 

“That’s okay, we’ll take whatever information you can give us,” Robin assures him. Evidently, the clatter against the wood managed to capture her attention, and she veers sharply to join them beside the vanity. 

Gaius nods as they both huddle nearer. Without further prompting, he holds the parchment up in front of the nearest window. The torn edges blot out the light in a jagged shape. 

“You see that?” he asks. 

Chrom squints at the parchment dubiously, but he can’t make any details out now that it’s backlit against the sun. “I can’t see much of anything,” he admits.

“Bingo,” Gaius says. “You see how thick this baby is? The light can’t even get through. And it’s got a fancy finish on it, to boot. This is good quality stuff.”

“What does that tell us?” Chrom asks, his thoughts already hurtling ahead. “That the note was left by someone who can afford high quality parchment? Someone who’s wealthy?” 

Every thinly veiled scowl the council members aimed Robin’s way during the meeting flashes through his mind’s eye. Undoubtedly, some among them wouldn’t be above resorting to such dirty intimidation tactics. 

“Mm, that could be the case, but not necessarily,” Robin muses. “It could just as easily be anyone with access to a wealthy person’s supply stores, and that would include most of the palace staff.”

“That’s true…” Chrom admits. “But if that’s the case it hardly narrows down our suspects at all.” 

Gaius shakes his head. “You’re both thinking about it all wrong. It’s not about who could send a note like this, it’s about who would bother to.”

“And what do you mean by that?” Robin asks.

Gaius flashes her a cheeky grin. “Look at it this way, Bubbles: if you really want someone dead, you don’t send a pretty little threat telling them that. Paranoid people are a whole lot harder to kill. No one with experience doing their own dirty work would send a note like this.”

Robin brightens. “In that case, couldn’t the person who did this be all talk? It stands to reason that if they had a way to back up their threat, they wouldn’t bother with a note.”

Gaius’s smug nonchalance hardens abruptly. “Hey, now, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I’m all for optimism, but whoever left this note doesn’t like you one bit, Bubbles. And they found a way into your room with the door locked—that’s nothing to sneeze at. I can tell you from experience that the key holes on these palace doors aren’t easy to pick.”

“I agree with Gaius,” Chrom says. “They already took a risk breaking in to leave the note—there’s no telling what they may try next. We can’t afford to take their threat lightly.” 

In fact, he’d much rather they take every precaution possible. The whole situation is dredging up memories he’d rather keep locked away: of the indigo quiet in the palace’s courtyard mottled with the shadows of assassins. If not for Marth’s timely warning, he might have lost his sister even sooner. 

His fist clenches tight on Falchion’s hilt at the thought. He wishes this was the type of problem he could solve with his sword alone.

Gaius deposits the note back on the vanity and swings his gaze around to face them again. “Look, the way I see it, your culprit must not have the resources to pull off anything bigger. At least not right now—and not without risking their own neck. But I’d bet all my honey cakes that the closer you two are to getting hitched, the more desperate they’re gonna be to stop it. So, unless you want to make their job easy, you’re gonna need to put some safety measures in place.” 

Robin taps her chin thoughtfully. “What do you have in mind? I know we want to avoid any unnecessary risks, but it’s not as if I’m incapable of defending myself.” 

“‘Course you’re not, Bubbles,” Gaius agrees. “No one’s saying you need a nanny—as long as you’re armed, no crook's getting the best of you. But even you have to sleep sometimes”

“Well, then what should we do?”

He grins. “Ain’t it obvious?” 

Robin shoots an uncertain look Chrom’s way, but he has no more idea of what Gaius is thinking than she does.

Gaius lazes back against the vanity, looking between them with a growing smirk. “Ya know, I gotta say, I never thought the future king and queen of Ylisse would be relying on the likes of me for advice. I’m touched, really. Feels great to be needed by royalty...”

“Gaius,” Chrom prompts sharply, “your idea?”

“Right, right,” he says, though his grin doesn’t waver. “What I’m saying is that you don’t need to up security everywhere. If they know a way into Bubbles’s room, then she just needs to stay somewhere safer. That way, you don’t have to worry about some craven sneaking in while she has her guard down.”

“Somewhere safer?” Robin frowns. “Like where?” 

“How about the most secure room in the whole palace?” he suggests, grin widening. 

“But that would be—”

“—my living chambers,” Chrom finishes for her.

The moment the words are out, a stubborn shade of pink rises to his cheeks. Blazes, he can’t actually be suggesting that we—

But of course he is. Gaius thinks that he and Robin are engaged. Which also means neither of them are in a position to react to the suggestion as if it's outlandish. 

“Hey, now you’re getting it, Blue,” Gaius declares, with an encouraging thump to his shoulder. “There’s no way an amateur who leaves a flashy note like this could get past all the security around the royal suite. Hell, I don’t even know if I could sneak in there at this point.” 

The worst part is that he actually makes a good case.

Following the scare with Emmeryn’s assassins, numerous warding charms and protective hexes were put into place surrounding the royal wing; guard’s patrolling routes had been reworked to account for previous oversights; and the number of lookouts and security points one had to pass to get there had more than doubled. There would be nowhere safer for Robin to spend her nights.

But it could take weeks to catch the culprit behind this. And when Chrom considers the logistics of Robin sleeping in his room every night, in his bed, no less…

“Hey, what’s the deal with you two?” 

The obvious suspicion in Gaius’s voice jolts Chrom back to the present—where he becomes blisteringly aware of how odd his and Robin’s silence and reddened faces must seem. 

“I figured this would be the sweetest news you’ve heard all day,” Gaius continues. “Though come to think of it…why aren’t you already sharing a room?”

Robin finds her voice first. “W-well, I’d be happy to stay with Chrom. But he’s very concerned with treating this as a proper courtship. And since he’s royalty, we’ve been trying to be mindful of propriety.” 

Chrom makes an indignant sound in the back of his throat at having the blame pinned solely on him. But it’s hard to be upset when the first half of her statement is echoing around in his head.  

‘I’d be happy to stay with Chrom’—is he supposed to take that as the truth? Is that her way of telling him she really wouldn’t be opposed to sharing a room with him? 

She was fine with the implications of leaving her shirt in his bedsheets when they needed to convince Lissa of their relationship. Really, she has seemed fine with everything they’ve had to do as part of their fake courtship thus far. And she promised to tell him if any aspect of it made her uncomfortable, so…

“Yeesh, Blue,” Gaius groans. “I knew you were uptight, but I didn’t know it went that far. You won’t let your fiancée stay in your bed even if her safety depends on it?” 

“Hey, I never said that!” Chrom objects. 

“You didn’t have to,” Robin replies. “I know you don’t want to risk causing a scandal—not when most of the nobility are already bent out of shape about our courtship as it is.”

Except she’s wrong. There is a much more pressing risk at the front of his mind.

“Actually, I…I think we should do it,” he says.

“Y-you do?" Robin’s face flickers through a number of emotions before settling on what seems to be disbelief. "Chrom, you don’t have to agree to this if you don’t want to—there must be other options. Maybe the same security measures could be put in place around my room, or—”

“But that would take time to arrange, and until then you’d still be in danger,” he counters. “Robin, please. I’m the reason you’re being threatened in the first place. If you’re truly not opposed to it, then let me do what I can to keep you safe.”

She shakes her head. “You’re not the reason I’m being threatened, Chrom. The only blame for this lies with the person who did it. I don’t want you to agree to let me stay with you out of misplaced guilt.”

“It’s not just that. Selfishly, I’d…I’d rather have you close,” he admits, ignoring the red flush rising in his cheeks. “It will be hard to rest easy unless I know you’re safe—and if you stay with me, I won’t have to wonder.” 

Robin’s expression remains doubtful. Not knowing how else to convey his sincerity, Chrom takes each of her hands into his own. “Robin…do you remember how it was last time, with Emm? After those assassins broke into the castle, I…I couldn’t—”

He couldn’t sleep through the night for weeks. 

He’d wake up drenched in sweat and wouldn’t be able to fall asleep again until he made the trek to Emmeryn’s chambers to ensure she was still unharmed. And on the nights when they were on the road, and a visit to her room was impossible, he’d wind up pacing the woods instead. Or down at the training grounds—where he would slice training dummies until his muscles screamed loud enough to drown out his haunted thoughts. 

Robin had an uncanny knack for finding him when something was wrong, and she stumbled upon him on more than one of those occasions. Whenever she did, she offered her ear, her company, or her training sword for as long as he needed it: it made those nights a little more bearable than the others.

Which is exactly why he doesn’t need to explain to her how worries over her safety will affect him now—she already knows.

Robin’s expression softens as she follows the same road his own thoughts traveled. Slowly, she nods. 

“If it really won’t be an imposition, and you’re sure it’s what you want, then I’ll stay with you,” she agrees.

“It is,” Chrom assures her. “Gods, it is.”

A fraction of the tension he’d been carrying since she first called him back to her room finally eases. Lightheaded with relief, he tugs Robin against his chest and rests his chin on her shoulder. It’s an indulgence on his part, but if asked, at least he can chalk up his behavior to Gaius being there as a witness. Robin makes a small, surprised sound, but leans into him all the same, and he’s glad for it; the physical presence of her in his arms is immensely reassuring—a reminder that she’s here and she’s safe.

“I suspect staying with you will bring me peace of mind, as well,” she admits quietly. “I…I always find I feel safer when we’re together.”

The words make Chrom’s heart shiver. She said them so softly that he’s not even sure if Gaius could have heard properly like she must have intended for him to. Whether he heard Robin or not, Gaius grins roguishly at them. 

“Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?” he asks, winking at them both. “Congrats on the engagement, by the way. Glad you two finally figured it out.”

“Finally…?” Chrom questions, and then quickly realizes it’s probably better for him not to elaborate on that. “Er, right! Thank you, Gaius.” 

“Sure thing, Blue. And hey, while we’re at it, let’s talk payment,” he continues. “I won’t charge you what I usually would for this job, but you can make it up to me with an extra big slice of wedding cake—preferably with a whole pile of those fancy frosting flowers.” 

Robin answers him—offering assurance that he will be properly compensated with sugar—and Chrom lets his attention drift away as he holds her a few minutes more. All too soon, he’ll be wrested away to manage a dozen bureaucratic duties that could never feel as important as this does.

Beneath the lingering anxieties, he can’t help the twinge that travels through his chest as he listens to the two of them debate the details of Gaius’s payment. It will be easy enough to get their friend some other treat in the wedding cake’s stead, but Chrom is already growing weary with making false promises.

Just as he expected, Chrom spends the remainder of his day playing catch up. Lacking omniscience, he had not blocked “finding a dead rat and threatening note in my fake fiancé’s room” into his schedule, and the result is a day spent hurrying from one meeting to another—making a dozen apologies for his tardiness along the way.

Inevitably, worries and wonderings about who left the note nag him in the scarce moments in between. But no matter how much he would rather be tearing the palace apart in search of the culprit, for the time being, it’s simply not possible for him to perform his own investigation into the matter. He tries to place his trust in the knowledge that the palace guards are hard at work on the case, but it makes for a long, distracted day, regardless.

His packed schedule also leaves him with little time to ruminate on the details surrounding Robin’s agreement to begin staying with him every night. He knows his room is stocked with plenty of pillows and blankets:  it should be easy enough to create a suitably comfortable place for himself on the sofa by his fireplace. But beyond the basics of his own sleeping arrangements, he’s not sure what else to expect. In the chaos following the note’s discovery and their consultation with Gaius, they hadn’t even settled on a time for her to come by. 

Chrom gets his answers when he finally returns to his chambers late that evening. The corridor leading to his rooms is notably more heavily guarded than usual—gold and green tapestries alternating with austere, armored sentinels. Frederick stands alert outside the door, awaiting his arrival. 

“Good evening, milord,” his knight greets him, with a low bow. “I hope you don’t mind that I took the liberty of making arrangements to have Lady Robin’s belongings brought over.” 

“Ah, good evening, Frederick,” Chrom replies. “No, not at all, that sounds—oh.” 

Frederick’s meaning becomes apparent as Chrom enters his chambers. Along one wall of the drawing room, a desk and shelf have been piled with Robin’s personal books and journals. Her favorite reading chair has also been relocated to sit beside his, with a spare linen housecoat and a set of towels folded neatly atop its foot stool. 

“Thank you, Frederick—this is perfect,” Chrom says, looking around the room in wonder. “I’m sure it will help Robin feel at home here.”  

“As was my intent.”

Frederick hovers a few paces behind as Chrom crosses into his bed chambers to change. A crystal vase filled with a bouquet of gardenias has been arranged on the nightstand, opposite the side Chrom sleeps on. Beside it, Chrom notes a small bottle fashioned from green glass. He can’t remember seeing it before, but it must belong to Robin if Frederick went to the trouble of bringing it along. 

“You will find that in addition to the furnishings in the drawing room, Lady Robin’s clothes have been transferred to the spare wardrobe,” Frederick continues. “If, at any time, she finds herself needing something else from her chambers, you need merely call for me and I will see it delivered posthaste.” 

“I appreciate it, friend,” Chrom says. “Though I doubt that will be necessary. As usual, you seem to have thought of everything.” 

“Of course, milord,” Frederick bows again, obviously glowing from the praise. “As Lady Robin is soon to be a part of the royal family, it is my sworn duty as your retainer to see that all her needs are met.”

“R-right, the royal family…” Chrom mumbles. 

A swell of guilt rises in him from Frederick’s enthusiasm over adding Robin to his list of charges. Chrom might be the person who stands to be hurt most by the dissolution of their fake courtship, but he’s starting to think Frederick’s disappointment will not be far behind. Chrom ducks behind his changing screen as he begins undressing, grateful that it means not having to look his faithful knight in the eye.

“Will that be all, Frederick?” he prompts—a gentle nudge to be left in peace. He’s still not sure what time to expect Robin, but he’d like a moment to decompress before then.

Frederick hesitates and when he answers, it’s with an odd, stilted sort of tension to his voice. “...Not quite, milord. There is one other matter which we ought to discuss. Though perhaps it would be best if we wait for Lady Robin to arrive before doing so.”

Chrom is immediately on high alert. “Did you learn more about who left Robin that note?”

“Not yet, milord. Though you will be the first to know when I have.” Frederick takes his tunic from him, folds it over an arm, and passes Chrom his nightshirt all without missing a beat. “This is in regard to a more personal matter.”

“More personal?” Chrom gives a wry laugh. “That’s hard to imagine. What could be more personal than a hand-written threat left in her bedroom?” 

Before Frederick can reply, a knock sounds on the door. Robin peers around the door frame and Chrom is supremely grateful that he finished dressing a moment before.

“Hello Chrom, Frederick. I hope this isn’t a bad time?” she asks, hanging back in the doorway.

“On the contrary, your timing could not be more perfect, milady,” Frederick responds. “I have already debriefed milord Chrom on the transfer of your personal items to what is now your shared chambers. Only one matter remains which I wish to discuss with you both.”

While he speaks, Robin wanders up to the entryway of the bed chambers, only to pause there uncertainly. Sensing her hesitation, Chrom takes her hand and leads her over the threshold to stand beside him. Robin offers a small, grateful smile before they turn to face Frederick together. 

“Well, Frederick, you have your full audience now,” Chrom encourages him. “What is it you wished to discuss?”

Frederick crosses the room and stops beside the nightstand adorned with the bouquet. He straightens his already impeccable posture—the perfect picture of professionalism. 

“Before we proceed, I wish to assure you that I have approached the matter at hand with the utmost mind to confidentiality,” Frederick informs them. The words only stoke Chrom’s curiosity further. “As the two of you are betrothed and will be sharing this bedchamber for the foreseeable future, I thought it only wise to take certain…precautions.”

Frederick pauses, clearing his throat pointedly, and then gestures to the small, green bottle sitting on the nightstand. “As such, while it is not my intention to be presumptuous, I have procured this concoction for milady Robin’s use.”

“Presumptuous…?” Chrom echoes. He hasn’t the faintest idea what Frederick is talking about. He stares at the bottle, bewildered, as the knight goes on. 

“I, of course, have the utmost faith that the two of you will be responsible and mindful of the duties that come with your positions. But one can never be too careful; particularly where the politics surrounding noble courts are concerned.”

Beside him, Robin stiffens abruptly. She, at least, must have caught on to what Frederick is talking about.

“Thank you, Frederick,” she says, a tight smile pasted across her face. “That was very…considerate of you.” 

Frederick bows his head. “Of course, milady.”

“I’m sorry,” Chrom interrupts, “what are we discussing here?” 

“It is a medicinal solution, milord,” Frederick answers steadily. “If it is consumed within twelve hours of intercourse, it will prevent a pregnancy from taking.” 

Chrom reels back as if Frederick slapped him. 

“I—we don’t—we’re not—” he sputters, but coherent thoughts are completely evading him. He gapes at the bottle while blood rushes to his face. He’s certain he hasn’t been this red since the time he walked in on Robin in the bathing tent…a comparison which is really not helpful at the moment and only makes him flush brighter. 

“I assure you, milord, there is no cause for alarm—the solution is well tested and used often. It’s entirely safe,” Frederick continues, clearly misunderstanding the source of his panic. “Although, I have it on good authority that the herbs comprising the concoction are rather bitter, so in the event that milady Robin requires any tea or sweets to cut the flavor, you need only summon me.”

“Thank you, Frederick,” Robin says again, more pointedly this time. “But I’m sure I’ll manage just fine if the need for it arises.” 

Which it won’t, Chrom wants to add, but at the moment he doesn’t trust himself to produce anything but strangled gibberish.

Frederick nods solemnly at her. “As you wish, milady. And if, at any time, you run out of the solution and require more—”

“Thank you, Frederick,” Robin interjects. “Your…diligence is appreciated, but I think that will be all.” 

Frederick’s brow furrows. He looks to his liege for confirmation that he is to leave, but Chrom is still too mortified to speak properly and only manages a vague wave of his hand.

Begrudgingly, Frederick plods to the door.“...In that case, I bid you both a good night. But should you need me for any reason—”

“Yes, yes, you’re only a call away, we know,” Robin replies, ushering him out. “Thank you and goodnight.”

She closes the door before Frederick can speak again, and a fleeting quiet settles between them as they await the sound of Frederick’s retreating footsteps. Chrom stares up at the golden filigree ceiling, praying that fixing his eyes on a single point will stop the room from spinning.

“…Alright, he’s gone,” Robin says. Immediately, Chrom collapses back onto the drawing room sofa, groaning.

“I’m…I apologize for that,” he mutters, still unable to look at her. “Frederick means well, but he can be…well, intense, when you’re on the receiving end.”

Robin scoffs and the sound of her crossing towards him follows. “Don’t apologize to me,” she says. “You’re the one who nearly went into cardiac arrest at the mere suggestion that we might have sex.”

Heat scorches across his face, all the way to the tips of his ears. Were it possible to blush so hard as to actually ignite, he would be at risk of burning to death on the spot.

“D-don’t phrase it like that!” he hisses at her. And do not think about it, he orders his mind, just as frantically. “Besides, that’s…t-that’s not even true!”

“Oh, but it is,” Robin insists, an unmistakable, teasing lilt to her voice. “You could be one of those maidens in the romance novels Sumia reads. You know, the ones who collapse onto a fainting couch if they hear anything too shocking for their sensibilities.” 

“Very funny,” he grumbles. Though, given the way he’s currently splayed across the sofa, she’s not completely off base.

Chrom scrambles upright to find Robin seated on the armrest beside him, restraining laughter. He opens his mouth to protest again but stops when she reaches a hand out to ruffle his hair fondly. It’s embarrassing how quickly any irritation he felt evaporates: the sensation of her lithe fingers against his scalp is much more important.

“Starting to recover?” she asks, mischief twinkling in her eyes.

He leans into her touch and mumbles, “I’ll manage.”

Robin laughs before hopping to her feet, and he bites back the disappointed sound that threatens to escape him from the loss of contact. 

“Well, I suppose I oughtn't tease you when you’re being kind enough to let me stay here,” she muses.

Chrom offers a crooked smile. “What’s this? Is that some appreciation I finally hear?” 

This time, they laugh together, their eyes locking as they do. Even with most of the room between them, it does strange things to his stomach.

Chrom clears his throat. “R-right—well, you’re welcome to make yourself comfortable, if you’d like.” 

“Okay. Thanks, Chrom,” she chirps.

And just like that, Robin picks her way over to the wardrobe to rifle through it—as if this arrangement is the most natural thing in the world. It’s reassuring, in a way: he doesn’t want her to feel out of place here.

Chrom takes the opportunity to cross over to the nightstand, where he hastily stows that damned, green bottle in a drawer and collects a number of decorative pillows, as well as a quilt folded at the foot of the bed. 

Robin vanishes behind the changing screen, sleeping clothes in hand, while he ambles back over to the sofa. A moment later, he sees her tactician’s coat drop to the ground in a pool of fabric around her feet.

He can’t see anything, of course, but his steps stutter, all the same. The knowledge that she is undressing in the same room as him feels unbearably intimate. Robin’s arms stretch over her head as she pulls her nightgown on, and there is a brief flash of the bronzed skin of her hands and wrists. Suddenly, he feels much too warm in his nightshirt. 

He really shouldn’t be losing his head over this. Blazes, her bare wrists, of all things, shouldn’t phase him—not when he’s seen her wearing nothing at all before. When he’s seen her silhouetted in steam, with water droplets clinging to her curves…

And that is precisely the least helpful direction for his thoughts to travel, as it only makes him redden all over again. Chrom fiddles with his collar and wonders when, if ever, he will build up some kind of immunity to her beauty. 

Not wanting to be caught staring lest she think he is trying to peep, he makes himself busy arranging the pillows and quilt that he gathered. Robin emerges from behind the screen a minute later with her hair let down and wearing a long, linen chemise. The cut is simple, and modest, and there is no reason whatsoever for the sight to make his heart thunder the way it does. 

Tentatively, she perches on the edge of the bed, looking more nervous now that she has shed her usual clothes—like a skittish bird ready to take flight. Inquisitive eyes fix on him as she combs out her hair, and he prays his thoughts aren’t as obvious on his face as they feel. 

“What are you doing over there?” Robin calls after a minute. 

“Just getting ready to sleep,” he replies. When he glances back at her, he sees she’s ceased her brushing, her mouth settled into a frown. “Er, is that a problem? Were you planning to stay up for a while yet?” 

Robin shakes her head. “No, it’s not that. It’s just—you’re on the sofa.”

“...Yes?” 

“Why?” she asks bluntly.

Chrom stills his fussing with the pillows and turns to face her. “Well, you’re the guest. I wouldn’t feel right denying you a proper bed to sleep in after I asked you to stay here.”

Robin laughs, incredulous. “Chrom, I know you don’t care about social stations, but do you honestly think I’d be willing to kick the Prince of Ylisse out of his own bed?” 

“Peace, Robin. You’re not kicking me out,” he assures her. “And I’ve slept in much worse conditions when traveling with the Shepherds. I’ll be plenty comfortable here.”

“But it’s your bed,” she says emphatically.

“And you’re the guest,” he retaliates. “If you think I’m going to let you take the sofa in my place, then—”

“That’s not what I was suggesting.”

The rest of his protest dies in his throat. At this point, he’s spent so much of the evening blushing, that he’s growing concerned his face will be stuck this color.

Gods above, this day is taking years off his life. 

“Y-you mean—you’re suggesting that we both sleep in the bed?” he asks carefully.

“Well…yes. That is what couples sharing a room typically do.” Robin’s tone is casual, but she avoids looking at him as she presses on. “Obviously if you don’t like the idea, I won’t force you to go through with it. But if we don’t share the bed, we run the risk of Frederick bursting in here at the crack of dawn and finding one of us on the sofa—and I’m not sure how we would explain our way out of that.”

Chrom hedges. She makes the case convincingly enough—and he would certainly like to take her up on it. But worry nags at him that she’d be forcing herself to go through with it. And it’s hard to concentrate on whether or not she sounds nervous about the prospect of sharing a bed when his own mind is monopolized with images of waking up beside her. 

“We could just request that Frederick knock?” Chrom finally manages, ignoring the part of his brain that’s begging him to stop protesting. “Surely it wouldn’t be strange for us to want privacy.”

“We could,” Robin acknowledges, “but there’s always the risk that he might forget one morning. Or that there will be an emergency and he won’t have time to bother knocking. Or that the cleaning staff will come in to change your sheets and notice there’s still only one side of the bed being slept in. Or—”

“Right, okay…you’ve made your point.” Chrom swallows.

“And this bed is enormous, anyway,” Robin continues. “We can easily share it without infringing on each other’s personal space.”

“Yes, that’s true…” he admits. He eyes the massive, navy canopy draped over the four-post bed, the headboard of which is adorned with intricate carvings of Naga’s tear. The whole thing is undoubtedly extravagant—and huge. In truth, it could probably fit four people comfortably, let alone the two of them.

Chrom sighs, crossing towards the side of the bed opposite to where Robin is seated.

“I just…I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” he explains. “When I said that it was a good idea for you to stay here, making you share a bed with me wasn’t what I had in mind.”

“Well, I hardly think I’ll be uncomfortable,” Robin replies. “This is easily the nicest bed I’ll ever have slept in.”

Chrom frowns at the deflection. “Robin, you know that’s not what I meant.”

“I’m refraining from acknowledging what you meant because what you meant is ridiculous,” she says cheekily. “You’re not making me do anything, Chrom: I’m the one who suggested we share. And if I was so terribly uncomfortable lying next to you, I wouldn’t have agreed to stay here in the first place.”

He meets the stubborn spitfire in her eyes and relents. “Alright, point taken. But will you promise to tell me if you change your mind?”

Robin considers this a moment. “Mm…no, I won’t.”

“Wh-what?!” he stammers.

“I won’t. Because I already promised to tell you if you make me uncomfortable, remember?” She grins impishly. “Promising again would just be redundant.”

“Fine, have it your way,” he groans, but even exasperated, he can’t keep the fondness from his voice. “But if you can’t sleep because I’m snoring and stealing all the blankets, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Robin laughs and flops onto her back, only to yelp in surprise as she sinks into the plush mattress and duvet. 

“Gods, this is heaven,” she declares. She gives an enormous yawn before stretching out like a content cat and Naga help him, her reaction is so cute. “Do you really sleep in this every night? How do you ever force yourself to get up in the morning?”

“Frederick can be very persistent—you’ll see for yourself tomorrow,” Chrom chuckles. “Are you ready to sleep, then?”

Robin hums in affirmation before wriggling under the covers, and he waits until she’s fully situated beneath the blankets to extinguish the flame of the lamp on his nightstand. 

The room feels much more somber without the warm glow of the candle. Pale blue moonlight steals through the glass panes on the doors to the balcony, lending a muted serenity to the room—as if the whole space has been plunged underwater. 

Chrom climbs under the covers to join her, the wooden frame creaking beneath him. He’s never paid much mind before to the act of getting into bed, but the movements feel clumsy and foreign now in a way they haven’t before. He feels terribly aware of how much room he takes up. 

Discreetly, Chrom turns onto his side and scoots to the edge of the mattress so as not to infringe on Robin’s personal space. Right as he’s settled in, he’s struck with the memory of edging away from her on the sofa a week earlier—and how she teased him for acting like she was contagious. Not wishing for a repeat of the ribbing, he rolls onto his back instead, and centers himself on his pillow. 

No need to overcompensate, he reminds himself. Just behave naturally.

His eyes have adjusted enough to the moonlight to make out the dim shape of Robin as little more than a blanketed lump to his side. He always forgets how slight she is beneath the bulk of her tactician’s coat. 

A curious warmth ebbs through him at the sight of her. Robin is in his bed. Robin is in his bed with him—their own quiet, quilted hideaway. It’s intimate, and domestic, and paints a dangerously vivid picture of what a life with her could look like: a life where every day ends with a return to each other's arms. Where they spend languorous nights murmuring about trivial matters, and stealing sleepy kisses before they drift off, entwined. 

Chrom wonders if his pillows will begin to smell of honey, and candle wax—just like Robin does. He wonders if sleeping here beside her will make him smell more like her, too. The thought leaves him feeling both deliriously happy and acutely guilty that he’s enjoying the situation so much. He shouldn’t be—especially when the circumstances that lead to her staying here were so dire.

Just like that, the memories of the dead rat and the threatening message left in Robin’s room snuff out his idyllic fantasies. 

“Robin?” he whispers. If she’s asleep already, he doesn’t want to wake her. 

There’s a rustling sound as the blankets shift and she angles towards him. 

“Yes, Chrom?” Her voice is just as soft as his, and he rolls closer so they can speak without raising their voices. 

“Who do you think did it?” he asks. 

A pause stretches out between them. Chrom opens his mouth to clarify what he’s referring to, but before he can, Robin answers.

“I don’t have any basis for it, but…my intuition says it was someone on the council.”

“That was my first thought, as well,” he admits quietly.

“Mm, there’s certainly plenty of them who have a motive,” Robin continues, her voice hushed. “And I can’t help but think it’s conspicuous that the note was left while we were at the council meeting. Whoever it was knew we’d be out of the room, and if it was someone from the council, having it placed then would ensure they’d have an alibi. But…I don’t know,” she wavers. “Maybe I just don’t want to consider the possibility that someone else in this palace hates me more than those nobles do.”

“Not all of them hate you,” Chrom reminds her gently. 

She snorts. “You mean not all of them are obvious about it.” 

“No, I meant what I said,” he insists. “You know, I’m not exactly unanimously popular with the council either—even Emm wasn’t. But you can’t give too much weight to what they think. Even before I began running the council meetings I learned that it's pointless trying to appease them all. Believe me, there are much better uses of your energy.”  

Robin huffs out a quiet laugh. “I wish it was that simple.”

“It is,” he says, but even in the dark, he can sense the disbelieving look she gives him.

“Alright, maybe not simple,” he amends. “But it’s nothing worth making yourself anxious over, Robin. If the council is unhappy, there are things they can do to make my life more difficult, but I…i-if I wanted to marry you—er, or anyone else who isn’t an Ylissean noble…I could. I could follow my heart and the council wouldn’t be able to stop me.” 

Despite having spoken in a whisper, his own words sound deafening to him in the silence that follows. He’s struck utterly by how foolish it was to volunteer that information—especially when it veers so close to the truth of his feelings for her.

After a pause that lasts a beat too long, he hears Robin give a tiny, breathless laugh. “...Well, I’m glad for you. That you won’t have to cater specifically to the council’s wishes, I mean.”

“I…right, yes,” Chrom replies, barely suppressing his own sigh of relief.

“And when you decide you’re ready for a courtship, hopefully not having to limit your choices to appease the council will make it easier to meet someone you can be happy with,” she murmurs.

Chrom’s heart drops. ‘Easier to meet someone’—the implication being that he surely hasn’t met them already. He feels like he just swallowed half the sand in the Plegian desert. 

“Yes, I…I hope so, too,” he manages. 

Truthfully, he’s not sure what he expected her to say. He keeps grasping for scraps of proof that his love for her could be reciprocated, and no amount of her tactfully expressed disinterest has succeeded yet in stopping him. 

Chrom is just resigning himself to soaking in self-pity until sleep takes him, when Robin speaks again.

“Chrom? Thank you for agreeing to let me stay here,” she says. “I know that conversation with Frederick earlier must have been uncomfortable for you. But I really do feel safer here, and…I’m grateful. Truly.”

The softness of the confession sunders his sulking. Despite the reminder of their painfully awkward encounter with his knight, Chrom feels a faint smile steal across his lips. The ache in his chest numbs to something much more bearable.

“Of course, Robin. It was the least I could do. Your safety is more than worth it.”  

And it’s true—he’d endure a million mortifying conversations with Frederick for her sake. 

Beneath the blankets, he senses the barest flicker of movement: feather-light fingertips dragging against his upturned palm. He grasps for them, but Robin has already withdrawn her hand again, leaving him to wonder if she truly meant to touch him at all.  

“Well…goodnight, Chrom,” she says, her voice muffled as she burrows further into the blankets.

“...Goodnight, Robin,” he whispers back.

He’s not expecting to fall asleep for a long while, still. The knowledge of her presence in the bed beside him leaves him feeling like he has an electric current thrumming through him. But to his surprise, the rhythm of Robin’s breathing makes for an alluring lullaby, and it’s not long before he drifts into a peaceful sleep.

When Chrom awakens, it’s to rhythmic puffs of warm air, and the tickle of his bangs against his forehead. He blinks open his bleary eyes, trying to place the source of the unfamiliar sensation. The answer to his question is much closer than expected.

Robin. Robin slept here with me.

And they must have tossed around during the night, because her peaceful face now lies a mere finger’s width from his. They’re not touching—not quite—but laying so near her is more than enough to banish his remaining grogginess. 

He’s seen her asleep plenty of times, of course. Robin has a horrendous habit of overworking herself to the point of exhaustion and then drifting into unconsciousness in the oddest places. Chrom once found her asleep against a suit of armor in their arms storage tent, not to mention the many times she’s dozed off around the campfire or at her desk.

Though he doesn’t condone her tendency to deprive herself of sleep, he does, admittedly, harbor a certain fondness for when he stumbles upon her while she’s resting. Her sleeping expression was the first one he ever saw on her face, after all. Seeing her doze so peacefully fills him with nostalgia for that blustery spring day a year prior—when he found her in the fields outside of Southtown. 

Even setting aside the tenderness he feels over their first meeting, she’s unquestionably beautiful like this. Her tangled silver hair glistens like dewy spider-web thread; the stress lines have been smoothed from her face; her lips lay slack, like drooping petals…

It’s a mistake to let his eyes linger on her mouth.

Their kiss from a week prior burns in his mind: vibrant and insistent on being remembered. The heat of it still curls his toes and fills the air around him with the scent of roses. It would be so easy to close what little space separates the two of them; to let their morning breath mingle, and their lips brush together—light as the feathers and down in the mattress they lay upon.

…And it would also be a complete violation of her trust, Chrom reminds himself pointedly. He would never take advantage of Robin like that. 

But surely it’s alright to linger here, unmoving, for a little longer. They both shifted to lay like this of their own accord—it’s not overstepping to remain for just a moment more, admiring the way her eyelashes cast lacy shadows on her cheeks in the blush-colored light of morning.

All too soon, Robin grunts in her sleep—a reminder that she could awaken at any moment. Watching her while she’s asleep might not be crossing a line, but he’d rather not be caught in the act, all the same. If she were to wake and find him staring at her like this, adoration plain on his face…well, at best it would be embarrassing, and at worst she might think him to be some kind of creep.

Chrom sighs and rolls onto his back, resenting every modicum of space the motion puts between them. It’s probably time to get ready for the day, anyway. 

Moving carefully so as not to disturb her, Chrom extracts himself from the bed and makes his way into the washroom attached to his bedchambers. Steam fogs the windows as the tub fills—the air swims with the scent of citrus and sandalwood. Since he seems to have woken without Frederick’s prodding for once, he takes his time soaking. The warmth of the water threatens to lull him back into a torpor.

It’s not until he’s halfway through his bath that he realizes that, out of habit, he didn’t bring a change of clothes in with him…and that will mean walking back out there, where Robin is sleeping, with nothing but a towel to cover him. Chrom sinks lower in the tub, hiding his face beneath the sudsy waterline. She didn’t exactly respond well the last time she accidentally caught him bathing.

Perhaps it’s not too late, though—assuming she’s still asleep, he can grab his clothes and make it to the changing screen without incident. He just needs to be quick about it. And now that he’s realized his blunder, he’s too nervous to enjoy soaking longer, anyway. 

Chrom hastily rinses off, throws a towel around his waist, and marches himself back into the bedchamber before his nerves get the better of him. To his immense relief, Robin has not moved from where he left her, and still appears sound asleep. His eyes stay fixed on her, watching for any signs she’s rousing while he crosses the room. 

His eyes stay so fixed on her, in fact, that he doesn’t notice how close he is to the vanity until the corner jabs into his knee. 

The wood clatters from the collision and he hisses from the pain—barely biting back the curse that springs to his lips. 

Chrom casts a panicked glance Robin’s way, just as a yawn drifts over to him from the bed. He freezes—a hare in the flight path of a notched arrow—and prays that if he is absolutely silent, Robin will go back to sleep, and he will remain unseen.

No such luck. The blanketed lump that is Robin rolls towards him, brown eyes blinking open by degrees. He holds his breath, bracing for more shouting and hurled objects, but to his surprise, she looks at him with nothing but melted chocolate warmth.

“…Mm? Chrom? What’re you doing over there?” she mumbles. “C’mere already.”

Chrom stares at her, dumbstruck.

“I…w-what?” he manages. This was not the reaction he was expecting. 

Robin’s lower lip juts out in a very cute pout that he’s certain she would not be caught with if she were fully awake. She pats the bed beside her.

“I said c’mere,” she repeats, the words still slurred with sleep. “What’s the matter? Why’re you so—”

Robin pauses, rubbing at her eyes.

Her mouth falls open mid-sentence. All at once, her drooping eyelids snap open and she rockets up in bed. Wakefulness ripples through her like a surge of electricity. 

“…C-Chrom?! You’re really here?” she squeaks.

“Er…yes?” 

Some small part of his mind registers this question as odd, seeing as though they’re in his bedroom, but he’s too occupied with his own embarrassment to pay it much mind.

Robin’s eyes dart from his dripping hair, down his bare chest, and follow the trail of hair at his navel to the damp towel tied loosely across his hips. “W-why aren’t you wearing—”

Finally, he finds his voice.

“S-sorry! I was just—I was coming out of the washroom, I didn’t mean to wake you, and—” He holds up his hands in an offering of surrender, only for his towel to nearly slip free. Robin yelps in alarm and he catches it just in time.

“W-wait, hold on, I really can explain!” he insists, but she’s already buried her face in the pillows.

“Go, just—go!” she shouts, the words somehow perceptible through the stuffing and pillowcases. 

“R-right, yes, I’m going!” 

He scrambles the rest of the way across the room, grabbing the first shirt and trousers he can get his hands on, regardless of how poorly they match. 

When he emerges from behind the changing screen a moment later—finally, blessedly dressed—he’s bewildered to find Robin out of the bed and throwing her tactician’s coat on over her chemise. 

“…Are you going somewhere?” he manages to ask.

Robin’s cheeks are ruddy red—as if she is the one with cause to be embarrassed. She pointedly avoids looking at him when she answers. 

“Y-yes, I just need some air.”

He watches while she hurriedly puts her boots on, as well. There’s a tension in her body language that’s setting alarm bells ringing in his head, telling him there’s something wrong. 

But why would there be? They’ve walked in on each other before, and while it was awkward, they moved past it without incident on both occasions. He wasn’t even truly naked this time.

Concerned, he presses further. “Do you want me to come with you? I could—”

“No,” she answers too quickly. The word stings him, razor sharp and definitive. “No, I—I’ll be fine.”

He tries again, determined to right things. “Robin, please, let me explain. I was just getting out of the bath. I only brought a towel in with me and—”

“Chrom, stop,” she interrupts, face even redder than before. “That’s not even what’s—I just—I can’t talk about this with you right now.”

“But I—”

Robin pushes past him and out the door before he can get another word out. Crushed, he watches her go, wracking his mind in search of what he’s said or done that would upset her enough to send her fleeing from him.

Chrom wilts against the wall, utterly at a loss. She’s only stayed with him one night and already he feels like he’s failing her.

Chapter Text

Chrom buries himself in work the rest of the day; policy reforms, the allocation of war reparations—anything he can throw himself into to keep from fretting over Robin’s frantic departure that morning. Despite his best efforts, he hasn’t arrived at any illuminating conclusions about how he upset her, and it’s difficult to formulate a proper apology without that piece of the puzzle. It seems his best option is to broach the matter with her again in the evening and hope she’ll be more amenable to discussing it then.

That is…if she’s even planning to come back to his room. Part of him fears that he blundered things so badly that their new sleeping arrangement is already off the table. His own personal disappointment aside, the identity of Robin’s threat-sender remains unknown; the thought of her sleeping in her own room again before the culprit has been caught whips him raw with worry. 

He’s so worried that the only break he takes all day is to meet with the head of the palace guard. If they’ve made progress finding the person behind the threat, Robin’s safety will no longer depend on her staying in his room. At least on that front, he would be able to rest easy. But of course he couldn’t be so lucky. Absolutely nothing has come to light since he first spoke with the palace security and he adds their lack of progress to the list of anxieties gnawing on his nerves.

Chrom sulks the whole way back to his office, boots dragging on the plush palace carpet. Beneath all his worry over Robin’s wellbeing, there’s also a self-pitying voice chiming in with another fear: one that wonders if the reason Robin fled from him might have been distaste instead of distress. If, after seeing him half-naked, she couldn’t bear to be in his presence a moment longer. Perhaps he’s being a touch melodramatic, but there’s only been one other time that she saw him undressed, and she reacted with horror then, as well. The thought doesn’t exactly do wonders for his self-esteem. 

Chrom heaves a sigh as he approaches his office, trying to confine those misgivings to a remote corner of his mind. Just as he rounds the corner of the hallway, though, the clamor of raised voices snaps his attention back into place.

Just one raised voice, he corrects himself a moment later. Outside the entrance to the southern wing, a woman in full court dress is screeching at a shame-faced guard. 

“—n absolute outrage!” she cries. “I should think the Ylisstol palace’s staff would have a greater sense of respect for the nobility! With Naga as my witness, your superior officer will be hearing about this.”

The guard hangs his head. “I’m very sorry, ma’am, but as I explained, there was an incident recently that required us to bolster the palace’s security. I have strict orders not to let anyone beyond this point without Prince Chrom’s express approval.”

“Are you daft? As I already informed you, the prince is a long-standing friend of mine! In fact, when he hears you detained me—”

“What’s going on here?” Chrom interrupts.

The guard and unknown woman whirl to face him in unison. 

“A-ah, Your Highness! This woman was trying to gain entry to the southern wing. I detained her per my orders, but she is insistent that she’s a friend of yours,” the guard explains. 

“That’s because I am, you cur,” the woman snaps, only for all her hostility to melt away the second her eyes slide back to Chrom. She dips low in a curtsy—the silken layers of her gown rippling with the motion. “Milord Chrom, it’s a pleasure to see you again. It’s been so very long.”

“...Do I know you?” Chrom asks, realizing a moment too late that the question is probably rude.  

“But of course, Your Highness,” she says, though the sweetness in her voice suddenly sounds strained.  “We took tea together a number of times as children. Surely, you remember me.”

“D-did we? Er…” 

Chrom racks his brain for some memory fragment that will clue him in to the woman’s identity. It’s true that when he was young, his father would often insist on him having tea with the royal court members’ children…though more often than not, Chrom would slip off part way through to play in the gardens instead. In his memory, all the stuffy nobles he was meant to entertain have blurred together into one hellish mass of frilly clothes and stilted smiles. The chances he’ll recall this woman from one of those teas are near zero. 

Still, the more he looks at her, the more he realizes that she does look familiar. He’s seen that blaring red hair and those uncanny, citrine eyes somewhere before—recently, in fact.  

“...You’re Lady Idris’s daughter,” he realizes. “Lady Penelope, was it?” 

“Right you are, Your Highness! I just knew our time together must have made an impression,” she coos, before shooting a razor-edged glare the guard’s way. “Now if only the men in your employ had a better sense for when they are in the presence of a lady of the court.” 

“I–I apologize, milady,” the guard stammers. 

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Chrom assures him before Lady Penelope can retort again. “You were only following orders, after all. Your diligence is appreciated, but I’ll take things from here.”

The guard gives a short bow, muttering more apologies, then retreats further down the hall. Truthfully, Chrom doesn’t want to be left alone with this woman, but the poor guard has suffered enough at her hands already. Chrom turns his attention back to Lady Penelope, half expecting to be chewed out for failing to admonish his staff. Instead, all traces of venom have vanished from her face. 

“It must have been by Naga’s grace that you arrived when you did, milord,” she purrs, sidling closer. “You have my sincere gratitude for your intervention. I see you’re just as chivalrous as I’ve heard.”

“Er, right…” Chrom takes a decisive step away from her, inching towards the safety of his office. “Now what is it that brings you here, exactly?”

Lady Penelope beams at him, her smile as bright as a polished knife. “Why, the ball of course! I heard about the celebration honoring Your Highness’s birthday and that Ylisstol palace will be housing anyone who’s anyone in the days leading up to it.”

“That’s right, but the ball is still weeks away,” Chrom notes, frowning.  “What are you doing here now?” 

Lady Penelope’s fluttering lashes stutter as her eye twitches once, but when Chrom blinks her porcelain mask is in place again. 

“Well, it’s been so very many years since we last spent time together, Your Highness. I was hoping we might use the days leading up to the ball to reconnect.” She places a dainty hand against his arm, trailing gloved fingers up and down his bicep. Suddenly the reason for her early arrival is abundantly clear. 

“Now that we’re no longer children, I’d love to get to know you more personally,” she continues. “Perhaps we could start with a private dinner this evening, to catch up?”

Chrom shrugs out of her grasp, making no attempt to disguise his discomfort. “Apologies, Lady Penelope, but that won’t be possible. Tonight, or any other night for that matter.”

“A-and why ever not?”

“I don’t have time for it,” he says, matter of fact. “I’d think as a daughter of a council member, you’d know how busy we’ve all been since the war ended."

The Lady’s alabaster skin flushes splotchy red. “O-of course, Your Highness. It’s only…I thought for me, you might make an—”

“And what little free time I do have, I intend to spend with my sister or my fiancée,” Chrom tells her, voice firm. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to attend to.”

He’s halfway through the doorway to his office when a surge of pettiness beckons him to add, “And Lady Penelope? I’d ask that you don’t linger. I’m sure the guard from earlier won’t be the only one who recognizes you have no business here. I’d rather not have my work interrupted by you making another racket.” 

He catches only a glimpse of her pinched and puckered face as he sweeps into his office, but it’s enough to make the fire he’s just set for his future self well worth it. 

Once the door has latched behind him, Chrom presses his ear against the wood grain, listening to the carpet-muffled stomp of Lady Penelope’s footsteps as she makes her indignant retreat. He waits until the hallway is wholly silent to release his breath. 

He really shouldn’t have done that. All his lessons in court etiquette dictate that he is not to be so brusque addressing other nobility. More than likely, she will find a way to make his life miserable for it.

But gods, what was he supposed to do? Surely making a pass at a man who’s supposed to be engaged breaches proper court conduct as well. And what type of person do Lady Idris and her daughter take him for that they thought a plan like that would work? It’s insulting, not to mention foolish. 

…Maybe too foolish. For all of the Duchess’s vile qualities, she has never been stupid—surely she wouldn’t expect him to take such obvious bait. Lovesick as he is, his heart hasn’t been his to give away for the better part of a year now. But even if it was, he’s been a prince for long enough to know better than to be taken in by such flagrant flattery. The whole situation reeks of something more sinister. 

If only he could ask Robin what she makes of it…but at the moment, he’s not in a position to ask her much of anything. Chrom groans—thinking of her turns his chest to lead. 

But he can’t let himself get discouraged. The odd encounter he just had is all the more reason to mend things with Robin. Chrom drags himself back to his desk, where his quill lies capsized in a stray blot of ink—abandoned for far longer than he intended. Whatever went wrong between Robin and him that morning, he will get to the bottom of it. He just has to get through the day first.

As soon as his work is complete, Chrom retires early to his bed chambers to ensure he’ll be there as soon as Robin arrives. As it turns out, though, he needn’t have bothered: the candles burn low, and the moon climbs higher, and still Robin has not returned. 

Chrom slumps in his armchair, letting the book he long ago stopped paying attention to slide from his hands to lay discarded on the floor. It’s fast approaching midnight; perhaps Robin really isn’t planning to come back after all. If she truly doesn’t feel comfortable staying with him anymore, then he can’t begrudge her the decision, but he needs to at least try apologizing again. And he can’t keep waiting around.

Buoyed to his feet by determination, Chrom flings a cloak over his shoulders and steps into his boots. Now that he can finally act, his blood thrums in his ears; he’ll search the castle high and low for her if he must. 

Chrom yanks his door open, but someone is standing right outside, and he half trips over his feet to avoid crashing into them.

“R-robin?” he stammers. Because there she is, her fist suspended in the air, halted mid knocking motion. His surprise melts into relief. “You’re here.”

“Chrom! Er, hi…” she greets him. Her eyes flick away from his, registering the cloak he’s wearing. “I didn’t think you would still be up.”

“Actually, I was going to go looking for you,” he explains. “I wasn’t sure if you were still planning to come back here, and I thought…” he trails off, shaking his head. “In any case, I’m glad I was wrong.” 

“Well, would you consider letting me in?” Robin cracks a smile, but she’s still looking everywhere but at him. “I’m rather tired, so…”

“Right, of course.” 

Chrom stands aside to grant her entry, at which point she immediately crosses over to her desk to deposit a large stack of papers he hadn’t realized she was carrying. He trails after her, but when he tries to move into her line of sight, Robin swivels away like a magnet repelled. Her eyes settle instead on the discarded book lying by his chair.

“...You really didn’t need to wait up for me,” she mumbles.

“I know, but I wanted to.” A pause drags between them as he weighs her words. “Were you hoping I would already be asleep? So that you wouldn’t have to see me?” 

“What? No, no!” she protests. “It's not that. It’s just…it’s late. And you need your rest too, so there’s no sense in—”

“Robin—” he interrupts, because he cannot take another second of this, “can we talk about what happened this morning?” 

“I…I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she replies, but her posture says otherwise, her every muscle tensed for flight. “Like I said before, I’m very tired. So, if you don’t mind, I’d rather just call it a night.”

“I do mind, actually,” he says, voice firm. “Come with me out to the balcony, we’ll talk there.” And because he is not interested in arguing with her, he swings the doors open and strides out into the cool air before Robin can respond—trusting blindly that she will follow. 

He’s always found it’s easier to have hard conversations out there, with no ceiling overhead. Something about the yawning horizon line makes secrets feel smaller and easier to share.

The night is damp with dew, and Chrom leans against the balustrade, his eyes fixed on the view while he waits for Robin to join him. His rooms overlook the inner courtyards and, further out, the pastures where the pegasi and palace horses graze. It’s late enough that few of the torches on the castle remain lit, leaving nothing to interrupt the darkness but the sky itself. It stretches infinite before him; indigo encrusted with stars like diamond dust, and stamped with a sliver of marrow-white moon. 

Just as he’s beginning to wonder if his faith that Robin would follow him was unfounded, the balcony door creaks behind him. Shuffling footsteps follow as she joins him at the railing—a deliberate distance left between them. 

For a long moment, they simply soak up the night together, only the brief gusts of wind that funnel through the castle spires breaking the silence. He’d like to leave Robin the opportunity to direct the conversation, if she wants to take it, but he can only bear the quiet for so long. 

“So, are you going to tell me what happened?” he coaxes at last.

Robin glances at him, wary. “I didn’t realize I was going to be facing an interrogation when I came back here tonight.” 

“Robin, please. I only want to make things right,” he insists. “And I can’t apologize if I don’t know what I did wrong.”

She sighs, voice dripping with exhaustion, “You didn’t do anything wrong, Chrom.”

“You can’t expect me to believe that. You ran out this morning without even getting dressed properly,” he reminds her. “And I know you, Robin—well enough that I can tell when you’re upset. So please, just…tell me what I can do. I can’t bear the thought of any resentment lingering between us. Especially since I—”

He breaks himself off just in time, clamping his mouth shut. Dangerous declarations sit caged behind his teeth.

“...Th-that is, especially since we’re going to be spending so much time together,” he amends. “And when we’re supposed to seem like we’re closer than ever.” 

“And have you considered the possibility that whatever is upsetting me might not be your fault?” she counters.

Puzzled, he finally surrenders to his own desire to look at her. Robin keeps her gaze determinedly ahead, but there’s a dimness to her expression and a glassiness to her eyes—as if she’s sifting all the stars from the night without really seeing any of them. For the first time since that morning, he wonders if he might have entirely misunderstood what transpired between them. 

Chrom takes a long breath, releasing it slowly as he mulls over her words. “Frankly…no. I hadn’t considered that,” he admits. “I suppose that was rather self-important of me, wasn’t it?”

A flicker of a grin winks across her face, but it gutters out just as quickly. “Well, not entirely. The reason I ran off was related to you. It just wasn’t something you’re to blame for.”

“I don’t understand.” 

“You’re really not going to drop it, are you?” she sighs. Chrom shakes his head. “Well, fine then.” 

Robin spends a breath gathering her conviction, her fingers clenching and unclenching against the balustrade. He almost wishes they weren’t alone, if only so he would have a justifiable reason to offer his hand for her to clutch instead. 

“The truth is…I was embarrassed,” she admits—each word spoken slowly and chosen with care. “When I woke up, I was disoriented. I was in an unfamiliar place, and you were there too and looking—w-well, you know.” Robin coughs once before continuing. “I was groggy and I wasn’t thinking clearly, and I reacted strangely to you because of it.”

“Alright,” Chrom encourages, “and?”

She’s flushing again, just like she was that morning—her cheeks a ruddy garnet in the low light. “And…w-well, I was worried what you might make of what I said. Or that my reaction might have made you uncomfortable.” A bit defensively she huffs out, “I would think you of all people would understand that concern.” 

Perplexed, Chrom skims through the memory of what she said after waking, trying to parse from it anything he would have cause to take offense over. He’d certainly been hurt by how she ran off, but not by anything she said. Though, admittedly, his recollection of her words is jumbled by how flustered he’d been at the time.

“Well, I was a bit confused,” he admits, finally. “But you just asked me what I was doing and told me to come back to bed, didn’t you?”

“Something like that, yes…” Robin mumbles.

“Right. And you clearly hadn’t woken up enough yet to notice, er…all the specifics of the situation.” He flushes at the memory of his own nakedness but pushes on regardless. “I assumed you only said what you did because you didn’t realize what was going on. I can’t imagine any other reason you’d react that way.”

He turns, expecting to see relief on her face, but finds her chewing at her lip instead—fisted fingers digging into the railing. 

“...Robin?” he prompts. Worry flares hot in his stomach; the fear that he’s somehow managed to upset her with his offer of forgiveness. Just as quickly, though, the clouds behind her eyes part, replaced by a faint smile.

“No, you’re right. Why else, indeed,” she agrees softly. “I’m glad I had nothing to worry about after all.”

“R-really?” Chrom breathes out a tremulous laugh as the fears plaguing him all day fizzle into bearable white noise. “That’s it then? This whole time you were just embarrassed?”

“Just embarrassed?” Robin scoffs, but a smile lingers behind it. “I’d thank you not to be so dismissive of my feelings.” 

“No, I didn’t mean it like that! I’m just relieved it wasn’t something more serious,” he explains. “I’ve been so worried that I did something irreparable…and that you wouldn’t be willing to stay here anymore.”

“Hm, is that so?” Robin cocks an eyebrow at him playfully. “Awfully attached to my night-time company already, aren’t you?”

Chrom rolls his eyes even as he’s secretly elated to hear her teasing him again. “I’m attached to your safety,” he corrects her.

“Yes, well, in the future maybe you won’t have to worry that you’ve scared me off if you can just manage to be fully clothed when I wake up.”

“R-right yes, I can do that,” he assures her, cursing how quickly a blush blooms across his face. “I promise it won’t happen again.”  

Robin laughs, her eyes twinkling in the star dappled night, and he thinks again how magnetic she is—how there’s not a celestial body in the sky whose gravity pulls at him the way she does. 

“I know,” she murmurs, “I believe you.”

Suddenly desperate to close the space between them, Chrom bumps his shoulder against hers. He only meant it as a playful nudge to ensure things between them really are okay, but instead of bumping him back, Robin rests her head against him, freezing him in place. 

Her cheek is so much warmer than the night air. He aches to put his arm around her—and then realizes an instant later that he can. Two weeks ago, he wouldn’t have had the courage, but he does now. He shifts his arm to wrap it loosely around her waist and wishes it was possible to fall asleep standing, if only so he could hold her like this the whole night long.

They watch the sky together in comfortable silence until a yawn sneaks free of him. Immediately, Robin straightens up and he curses himself silently.

“Getting tired?” she asks. 

“I’m fine,” Chrom insists, though he strains to contain another yawn as he says it.

“Very convincing,” she snorts. “Come on, I’d rather not lose all the favor I’ve curried with Frederick because he thinks I’m depriving you of sleep.”

“Alright,” Chrom concedes, “I suppose if it’s to spare you Frederick’s wrath then I can’t argue.” He could leave it at that, but he can’t resist confirming one last time, “And Robin? Everything really is okay now?”

Robin stifles a chuckle. “Yes, Chrom, everything is fine.” More softly she adds, “I’m sorry to have worried you, but I’m okay—I mean it. Now come on.”

And it’s the fact that her hand lingers in his as she tugs him back inside that finally makes him believe it’s true. 

On the fourth morning of their new sleeping arrangement, Chrom awakens to something warm pressed against his face. Something much too firm to be his pillow. He blinks himself awake and then immediately loses his breath. Robin’s forehead is pressed against his, the tips of their noses brushing. One of his arms is slung across her waist—her thigh is wedged loosely between his legs.

Chrom’s pulse soars—half his mind bent on engraving every sensation into his memory while the other half is seared with guilt. Every morning this week he has woken to find himself lying closer to Robin than he was when he went to sleep. But this is the first time that ‘closer’ has crossed the line to actual contact, and the difference between them feels monstrous. 

It’s your fault, he reproaches himself, and on some level, he knows it’s true. Unconscious or not, it’s his feelings that are responsible for the shrinking space between his body and Robin’s every night. Even asleep, his love for her tugs at him like tides. 

But what is he supposed to do about it? He can’t stop himself from tossing towards her, he can only pry himself away again once he’s awake—and keep praying that Robin won’t be the one to wake up first one morning and find them entangled. 

Speaking of, he should probably get started on the prying-himself-away part. Only, now that he’s had a second for his heart to settle, it’s very hard to convince himself to move. The sight of Robin’s face spangled with slats of sunshine is more beautiful every time he wakes up beside her; he would happily lay there grounded by the warmth and weight of her skin on his for the rest of his days.

Twelve breaths, he bargains with himself. Twelve breaths and then you have to move. And if they happen to be the slowest breaths he’s ever taken, no one but him will know. He spends every one of them imagining a life where he could enjoy the intimacy of holding her like this guiltlessly. 

When his count is up, Chrom withdraws his arm first, then his face. The legs are harder—it takes a significant amount of wiggling and contorting to get her thigh out from under him without accidentally rubbing his groin against her, and even more to manage it without waking her up. By the time he’s lying safely back on his side of the bed, there’s sweat beading on his brow—born from both the heatwave his heart went through from waking up that way, and the concentration it took to undo it. Idly, Chrom thinks that if this keeps happening, he’s going to need to start doing his flexibility drills from during the war again. 

Once his limbs are no longer interwoven with Robin’s, there’s not much sense in lingering. He washes up, splashing his face with cold water to discourage the unabating flush in his cheeks, and is extra, doubly sure to bring a change of clothes in with him. 

He has just finished dressing when there’s a knock on the door. Chrom hastens across the room and opens it to find Frederick standing outside with a thick roll of parchment in one hand and a breakfast tray balanced on the other.

“Good morning, milord, I am pleased to see you’re already up.” Frederick peers around him, eyes falling upon where Robin remains curled under the covers. “Though I see the same cannot be said of the lady.” 

He makes to cross the room to her but Chrom lays a hand on his shoulder, stopping him.

“Can’t we let her rest a little longer, Frederick? She came to bed late again last night. I think all the work she’s doing for the council has been keeping her up.”

Frederick’s eyes soften a fraction, but he shakes his head, unyielding as ever. 

“I’m afraid not, milord. There are important changes to your and Lady Robin’s schedules which I must appraise you of.”

“I don’t like the sound of that…” Chrom mutters. “But fine. At least let me be the one to wake her then.”

Frederick nods and hands the breakfast tray to Chrom. The scent of freshly baked berry muffins and coffee makes his mouth water, and he pockets one of the muffins for later as he deposits the tray on the bedside table. 

“Robin, breakfast is here,” he calls. No response—the rhythm of her breaths remains even as a metronome. Maybe he didn’t need to be so worried about waking her accidentally after all. 

Chrom perches himself carefully on the edge of the mattress and tries again.

“Robin, wake up,” he says, gently shaking her shoulder. She grumbles something incomprehensible and bats his hand away without opening her eyes. “Frederick brought coffee,” he adds.

That gets her attention. Robin’s nose scrunches up as she sniffs the air before begrudgingly cracking open one eye. 

“Ngh…issit morning already?”

“Yes, it’s morning,” Chrom says, failing to suppress a smile. “I’ll pour you a cup of coffee while Frederick tells us about our schedules for the day.” He hopes she’s not so tired that she misses the emphasis he adds to Frederick’s name; a warning that they’re currently meant to be putting on a performance. 

She doesn’t—Robin sits up straighter, rubbing sleep from her eyes before training them upon their visitor.

“G’morning Frederick,” she huffs, taking the coffee that Chrom hands her. “What’s so damn important that it couldn’t wait until the sun is over the horizon?” 

“Good morning to you as well, milady,” Frederick responds pleasantly. “As for the reason for my calling on you so early, I’m here to inform you both that your previous engagements for this afternoon have been postponed. A number of lords and ladies have arrived in Ylisstol over the last few days, and they’ve requested a tour of the palace grounds on horseback as a formal welcome. Several council members will also be present.” He turns to Chrom before adding, “I’ve arranged to serve as the guide myself, but naturally our guests are expecting for you to be in attendance as well.”

All the cheer Chrom mustered since waking falls away. “Frederick, please tell me you’re joking.”

His knight arches a brow. “When have you ever known me to joke, milord?”

“Never,” Chrom bemoans, flopping back against the bed frame. “Gods, how many of them are going to try this? At this rate, we might as well throw the ball tomorrow. At least then they wouldn't have any reason to stay.”

“You’re awfully distressed about having visitors,” Robin notes. “Is it so bad that they’re here ahead of time?” 

“Yes. Lady Idris’s daughter tried to corner me outside my office the other day—she said she wanted to spend time together before the ball,” Chrom explains. “Obviously, I told her I wasn’t interested, and I hoped that would be the end of it. But it seems she wasn’t the only one who had the idea.” 

“Lady Idris’s daughter?” Robin hums against the rim of her cup, weighing the information. “Well, I can’t say it’s overly surprising. I imagine all of Ylisse’s nobles are very eager to get on the Exalt-to-be’s good side. Though I’m not sure why she of all people thought that would work.”

“I thought the same,” Chrom agrees. “The whole arrangement seems suspicious. I don’t like it one bit.” 

“In that case, I am glad I arranged to guide the tour,” Frederick says. “Rest assured I will be on high alert for any signs of nefarious activity—especially with regards to the Duchess of Lefcandith and her daughter.”

“Thank you, Frederick,” Chrom says. “That does give me some peace of mind.”

“Of course, milord. I’m afraid, however, it does not change your hosting obligations this afternoon. I suggest you view the tour as an opportunity to become reacquainted with those members of Ylisse’s nobility you have not spoken to in some time. I’m sure I needn't remind you of the importance of establishing strong relationships with the Halidom’s aristocracy now that you’re to assume the throne.”

“No, you needn’t,” Chrom groans, sagging further against the bed frame. “I’m painfully aware of my diplomatic inadequacies.” 

“And I’m expected to attend this tour as well?” Robin asks.

“Yes, milady, that would be for the best—especially given that your engagement has not been announced publicly yet,” Frederick says. “It’s possible that some of the nobles in attendance are as of yet unaware of it, so it would be beneficial for you to introduce yourself.”

Robin nibbles her lip and clenches her coffee cup. “You really think so?” 

“It’s alright,” Chrom assures her, placing a hand on her shoulder—it’s much easier to shore up his own dread if it’s for the sake of comforting her. “I’ll be right there with you the whole time—we can endure it together.” 

For a beat, Robin still seems preoccupied. But then she nods her head slowly, laying her hand atop his and squeezing it. “I appreciate it, Chrom. Don’t worry about me, though—you should focus on building strong connections with everyone who’s visiting. Frederick is right about it being a good opportunity.” 

Chrom groans. “Not you too.”

“It’s good advice,” she insists.

“Good advice or not, I’d rather fight a horde of Risen with my sword arm tied behind my back,” he grumbles, and Robin giggles.

“Now that’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?”

“Not at all,” he sighs, but his frown has lost all the force behind it in the wake of her laughter. “I’d probably have higher odds of surviving the Risen, too.”

“Really? Without your sword arm?” she contemplates. “I’m not familiar with what your combat abilities would be without it, but that could be useful information in a pinch. I wonder…” Robin’s eyes sparkle, battle schemes bubbling up behind them. “Maybe we could put it to the test! The next time we’re sparring we should—”

“Apologies, milady,” Frederick interjects, before she can get any more carried away, “but there is still one other schedule change I must make milord aware of.” 

“What is it?” Chrom asks, trying not to be too visibly disappointed over being denied the chance to listen to Robin’s enthusiastic plotting. 

“Your meeting with the Valmese ambassador has been moved an hour earlier to clear extra time in your schedule for the tour this afternoon,” Frederick informs him. 

Chrom glances at the time piece on the dresser and curses. “Blazes, Frederick, why didn’t you start with that? In that case, I should be going.” 

He stands from the bed, readying himself to leave.  Just as he’s intending to head for the door, though, Frederick makes a rather deliberate show of looking away from Robin and him—almost as if he’s trying to grant them a semblance of privacy to—

Oh…that’s right. 

Chrom pauses, locking eyes with Robin, and tipping his head in Frederick’s direction. She traces the motion to where the knight is standing before recognition dawns on her face, and she gives a small nod of approval.

“Er…right then.” Chrom jerks forward and presses a swift kiss to the crown of her head, his stomach somersaulting as he does. 

“W-well, I’ll see you later, my—” his nerve falters at the last second. “M-my…Robin,” he finishes lamely.

They’re lucky that Frederick isn’t looking at them head on, or he would most certainly see the laughter Robin struggles to contain. 

“Oh yes, I’ll be counting down the minutes until then, my Chrom,” she replies, a teasing lilt to her voice.

Chrom’s whole face burns. He can’t meet Robin’s eyes when she’s smirking like that, so he grumbles out an unintelligible farewell, and hurries past Frederick, out the door. Much to his dismay, his blush doesn’t fade with distance from her, and he spends the whole walk to his meeting cursing the fact that, even when she’s making fun of him, Robin makes his heart shimmer. 

The tour of the palace grounds is about as miserable as Chrom expected it to be. 

The scenery is beautiful, of course, but that’s hardly a surprise: Ylisse is at its best in the spring. Frederick guides the group of them down the path that skirts the grounds’ outer perimeter and into the lush woods beyond. Gusts thrum through the just-budding branches and hustle clouds across the sky, and there’s a wild fizziness to the air that promises a late rain. 

After weeks cramped up in his office, Chrom wishes he could enjoy it. But instead, he’s stuck trotting along in a claustrophobic procession—the forest path much too narrow to accommodate the number of lords and ladies scrabbling to ride near him. 

At least they’re moving a bit faster now. Shortly after they’d departed, Frederick enforced a two wide riding arrangement due to how the constant jostling was upsetting the horses. Unfortunately for Chrom, Robin is all the way at the head of the group—about a dozen, desperate nobles away from him. And all of them seem hell-bent on having their turn to engage him in conversation.

A wistful sigh escapes him as he peers through the herd to where Robin is riding. He misses conversing with her on their marches, and the way there was always a space at her side, reserved for him. He misses, too, the way everyone in the Shepherds understood that they were inseparable: that they’re two halves of a whole, ever together, ever—

“...Your Highness?”

Chrom startles, wrestling his attention back to the conversation he was supposed to be participating in. The Viscount of Knorda is staring at him expectantly from where he sits perched atop an impressive white stallion.  

“Er, I’m sorry, Lord Cyrus,” Chrom apologizes, “what was that again?” 

“I said that I would love for you to visit our vineyards this summer, milord,” the viscount says. He makes a show of tossing his long violet hair over one shoulder as he shuffles his horse nearer—so near, in fact, that Chrom’s horse pins her ears back, visibly annoyed over having her space invaded. “They make for a very scenic getaway.” 

“Ah. Well, that’s certainly an…interesting proposition,” Chrom answers as noncommittally as possible.

“At least consider it, Your Highness. I think you’d find the trip to be exceptionally pleasurable…” 

The viscount places a hand on Chrom’s shoulder but swiftly slides it down to rest in the crook of his elbow. The motion is not remotely natural given that they’re both on horseback and Chrom eyes his hand with a mixture of contempt and disbelief. What is it with all these nobles and trying to touch his arms? 

At least the man isn’t totally blind to social cues. He registers Chrom’s stony silence and drops his hold on him. 

“My, my,” the viscount laughs tightly. “Most men would jump at the opportunity to taste such fine wine. I’m not boring you am I, Your Highness?”

“Er…no. Not boring me, exactly…”

“Then whatever is the—”

“Did you know I’m engaged?” Chrom blurts. 

The viscount blinks at him, but he’s only taken aback for a handful of hoofbeats before he shrugs instead. “I did hear a rumor suggesting as much, yes,” he admits. 

“And what, then?” Chrom grumbles, immediately irked. “You and everyone else here decided you didn’t give a damn?”

The viscount’s brows soar towards his hairline. “I see I’ve offended you. My apologies, milord, that was not my intent.” 

Chrom throws up a hand in exasperation. “You’re telling me you didn’t realize that I’d be offended by having my engagement disregarded?”

“Allow me a moment to explain, milord,” Lord Cyrus says, suddenly very stiff atop his horse. “I did hear a rumor of your engagement when I arrived. However, there seemed to be a number of…uncertainties surrounding the circumstances. I began asking around—just to get a proper gauge of the situation, of course—and was told the engagement was decided very suddenly, and that you and the lady in question have hardly been seen together since.”

Chrom’s anger sputters out, bewilderment taking its place. “W-what? We haven’t?”

“No, Your Highness. Or at least not by the palace staff,” the viscount replies. “And what few servants did claim to have seen you with your betrothed said that everything they witnessed was quite chaste. Nothing like the passionate displays you’d expect from new lovers. I could only assume you had some other motive for proposing to your lady.”

“Th-that’s not—” Chrom flicks through the last few weeks in his head, unwilling to believe it’s true. Yet the more he thinks about it, the more he realizes that nearly every performance he’s put on with Robin has been for a targeted audience—and behind closed doors. He never thought to worry about duping the people who weren’t seeing them together.

“What reason could I possibly have to get engaged to Robin if I wasn’t in love with her?” Chrom demands. His fists tremble on his horse’s reins—braced for if the answer the viscount supplies him with hits upon the truth. 

“Well, I’d presumed it was driven by some sort of misplaced sense of obligation,” Lord Cyrus replies, with a dismissive wave of his hand. “It’s well known how instrumental Ylisse’s tactician was to the halidom’s victory in the war, after all. Perhaps you thought you owed it to her. Or, more likely, she threatened to desert the halidom if she wasn’t given some incentive to stay. We’ve all heard the rumors of her cunning and ambition,” he explains. The casualness with which he says it makes Chrom nauseous. “I’d hoped, of course, that since Your Highness’s heart didn’t seem to be in the arrangement, you could be swayed to reconsider. I thought that if you only knew how many other options were available to you—”

“Well, you’re mistaken,” Chrom snaps. “My engagement to Robin was never about a sense of obligation or a lack of options. If I could have my pick of anyone in the world I would still choose her every time.”

“Is that so?” the viscount asks, voice flat. “Forgive my boldness in asking, then, but if that’s the truth, then why aren’t you with your fiancée at this very moment?” 

“Why?” Chrom echoes in disbelief. “Because no one on this blasted horse ride will give me—”

“A moment, Lord Chrom?” 

Chrom wrenches his head around to find Lady Cecily perched sidesaddle on a chocolate brown mare. He could swear both her horse’s and her own dark eyes look softly sympathetic. He takes a breath to try and smooth the grimace from his face.

“Yes…of course,” he tells her. “I’m sorry Lord Cyrus, we'll have to pick this up some other time.” 

The viscount doesn’t look pleased, but he nods all the same and urges his horse ahead, while Chrom falls into pace with the council woman. “What can I do for you, Lady Cecily?”

“Oh, there isn’t anything I need from you, milord,” she says, something close to amusement shimmering in her eyes. “I merely took it upon myself to rescue you from what seemed to be a rather unpleasant conversation.”

Chrom’s cheeks burn. “Ah, was it that obvious?”

“I’m afraid so,” she replies, chuckling. “Forgive my saying so, but you do wear your emotions rather plainly, Your Highness.”

Chrom ducks his eyes, suddenly sheepish. “Yes, I’m afraid being overly transparent has always been a weakness of mine.” 

To his surprise, Lady Cecily shakes her head.

“It’s not intrinsically a weakness. Your elder sister considered your lack of duplicity to be one of your greatest strengths.”

“Emm said that?” he asks, startled.

It’s not so much that he’s shocked to hear that his sister would have praised him for such a thing—she always did have a way of seeing the best in others. What surprises him is that she would have mentioned it to Lady Cecily. It’s hard to imagine when the topic would have come up during a council meeting. 

Seeming to follow the path of his confusion, Lady Cecily nods. “Did you know Lady Emmeryn and I played together quite regularly as children?”

“I did not,” he admits.

“You were very young back then—I can hardly blame you for not remembering. And of course, my play time with your sister came to a rather abrupt end once she inherited the throne.” Lady Cecily’s smile turns bittersweet. “Still, there was a time when we were quite close. And though I know Lady Emmeryn’s position limited her ability to have traditional friendships, I admit I still thought of her that way to the end.”

Chrom softens. “Emm wasn’t the type to care overly about formalities. I’m sure she thought of you as a friend as well,” he assures her. “And she wouldn’t have appointed you to the council if she didn’t think highly of your judgment.” 

“You are kind to say that, milord,” Lady Cecily murmurs. “I admit I was…distraught when I heard the news of her passing. I can only imagine how hard it must be for you and Lady Lissa.”

A knot in Chrom’s chest that’s been strangling him for months loosens minutely. It’s a small thing, but he’s grateful for Lady Cecily’s use of the present tense: that it is not just an acknowledgement that Emmeryn’s death hurt Lissa and him, but that her absence still leaves them aching now. 

“It’s been…difficult,” he begins, then shakes his head. “No, it’s more than difficult. There are days when anguish is the only word I know that comes close to describing it. I am going to miss Emm every day for the rest of my life. But—”

Chrom grips the reins tighter and clears his throat before his voice can start to shake. “But I don’t think my sister would want grief to paralyze me—or any of us. Moving forward is the best way to honor her legacy…that’s what she gave her life for. I’m doing my best to remember that.”

“I feel certain that you’re right,” Lady Cecily agrees. She blinks rapidly up at the trees, fighting back a mistiness he knows all too well before she smiles again. “And I suppose your approaching marriage will be a way of moving forward, as well. She would have been very happy for you.” 

“Th-thank you. I—” and maybe it’s the weight of not having anyone he could share this particular truth with, but something compels him to blurt out, “I never got to tell her. How I felt about Robin, that is. I was going to, but—” he clears his throat but can’t find the words to finish. 

“I’m very sorry to hear that,” Lady Cecily murmurs, and truly, she sounds as if she means it. 

He wants to say more—a part of him is so hungry for someone to talk to about his sister. Someone who misses her, but isn’t at risk of being shorn open by the grief that comes with speaking about it. Someone who might have stories of her he’s never heard.

But now is not the time for that—not when there are still nobles clamoring around him who would be all too eager to eavesdrop. And the mention of Robin niggles him with thoughts of Lord Cyrus’s words a few minutes earlier. A sprig of Chrom’s earlier panic takes root again—he needs to warn her about what the viscount said.

“Speaking of my fiancée, I really ought to go find her,” he says. “But thank you for the kind words, Lady Cecily.”

“Of course, Your Highness,” she says, bowing her head. “Enjoy your time together.”

Chrom bids her farewell and urges his horse into a canter. The front of their group has already broken through the treeline and into the sprawling meadow Frederick selected as their destination. Chrom pauses at the edge of the clearing to take it in. In the time since he last visited it, spring has painted over the yellowing grasses with wildflowers. New-blooming poppies smolder amidst swaying towers of goldenrod, and a creek curls across the rolling hills—its water like slate beneath the cloud splattered sky. 

As he dismounts, Chrom’s eyes dance over the grazing horses and wandering nobles in search of snowy white hair. He finally spies Robin kneeling at the edge of the stream, her horse gulping water beside her.

“Robin!” he calls, already striding her way. She startles at the sound of his voice but it softens to a smile as soon as she realizes it’s him. “Do you have a moment?”

“Hi Chrom,” she says, beckoning him nearer. “Look at these little guys!”

Chrom crouches beside her along the water and follows her pointed finger to where a school of minnows are weaving about in the shallows. 

“Aren’t they neat? Their movements are so agile,” she marvels. 

“Yes, they’re very nice,” he agrees, with a faint smile. It’s hard to resist indulging her even when he’s impatient. Normally, he’d be more than happy to sit with her while she admires the fish—Robin’s curiosity is a wonder within itself. But at the moment— 

“Anyway, did you need something?” Robin prompts.

“I did,” he says. “We need to talk."

“Alright then, I’m all ears.”

Chrom shakes his head and extends his hand to help her to her feet. “Not here. It’s private.” 

Robin’s smile puckers with concern. She glances around the meadow, where a smattering of the nobles are already edging in nearer—like he’s the meal lying at the center of a pack of starved scavengers. In particular, he can see Lady Idris watching him with an unnerving intensity as her daughter stumbles through the flowers towards them.

“Can it wait until we get back?” Robin suggests. “I’m sure a lot of our travel companions are still hoping to speak with you, and I wouldn’t want to—”

“No, it can’t wait,” he says, nudging his outstretched palm towards her again. Robin eyes it warily for a second longer but lets him pull her to her feet. 

“Chrom, I really don’t think we should be sneaking off right now,” she protests, as he drags her along with him towards a grove on the meadow’s edge. “They came all this way to see you. And they’re all staring…”

“That’s all the more reason, then,” he mutters. 

Robin’s brow furrows, apprehensive, but she allows him to lead her under the cover of an oak tree on the edge of the clearing without further objections. Chrom does a quick once over to ensure no one has wandered close enough to overhear them before releasing her hand. 

“We have a problem.”

Immediately, Robin stands taller, eyes flashing with the promise of a challenge for her to solve. “What type of problem?”

“It’s with our pretend courtship,” he explains, voice low. “During the ride here, the Viscount of Knorda told me that he heard the rumor that we were engaged, but when he asked around with the palace staff, they made it sound like we, er…”

“...Like we what?” Robin urges.

Chrom glances around again to ensure they’re still alone. “W-well, like we’re not in love. They told him they never see us together or acting like a couple.”

“What?” Robin hisses.

“It gets worse.” Chrom grimaces. “After he heard all this, the viscount assumed we must have gotten engaged because I felt some sense of obligation to you over the war. Or that…that you pressured me into it.”

“Th-that I—but—” Robin breaks off, cursing colorfully. “Gods, this must be because we only ever bother pretending in front of the council and our friends...”

“Yes, I realized the same,” Chrom agrees. 

Robin continues muttering to herself, hardly seeming to hear him. “We’ve been so focused on how we behave when we’re seen that we haven’t put nearly enough consideration into who we’re being seen by. Or how often. Gods, I should have anticipated this…”

“Hey,” he interjects, “you can’t blame yourself, Robin. Or if you’re going to, then it’s as much my fault as yours.” 

She shakes her head adamantly. “I’m supposed to have foresight about these things, Chrom. What good is a tactician who can’t plan ahead?”

“You have plenty of worth beyond that,” he insists. “You’ve just been distracted—we both have. Between the threat, and the work from the council—”

“I know. But that doesn’t excuse it,” she says ruefully. “Distractions or not, we have to fix this before these rumors spread any further. If the viscount heard about it, then it’s already gotten out of hand. And if this rumor gets back to the council…”

“Then we will,” he assures her. “We will fix it. Now that we know what’s going on, it shouldn’t be hard.”

Robin doesn’t seem to hear him. Her eyes flick back and forth, lips moving silently around thoughts she’s flying through too fast to articulate. Frustrated, Chrom takes her by both of her shoulders.

“Robin,” he says firmly, and she jolts as her eyes refocus on him, panic still alight in them. “Listen to me. We’re going to be alright. We’ll figure this out together—like we always do. So just,” he pauses and inhales deeply, “breathe.” 

“R-right. Okay. Breathe,” she echoes. Robin sucks in a long, shaky breath that quivers as she releases it, but the next one comes steadier. Chrom lets his hands linger on her shoulders until her breathing is as even as when she’s sleeping beside him, then lets them fall away.

“Better?” he asks her.

“Yes,” she murmurs. “Thank you. I—” Robin sighs, her eyelids drooping closed. “I’m sorry Chrom. The whole idea behind this arrangement was for you to be able to keep focusing on your duties. Keeping up this act is turning out to be more work than it’s worth.”

“I wouldn't say that,” he protests quickly. “We just need to be seen together more often—and maybe be a little more, er, affectionate, when we are. But that’s an easy enough change to make.”

“I suppose,” Robin mumbles. “But won’t that bother you?” 

“No!” he answers, over-quickly. “I-I mean, it might not be what we originally planned, but if that’s what it takes to keep anyone from becoming suspicious, I’m not opposed. We could even start now…i-if you wanted,” he suggests, praying she can’t hear the hopeful way his voice wobbles on the word ‘now’.

“Now?” Robin’s gaze wanders over his shoulder to the meadow behind him, clearly hesitant. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“Why wouldn’t it be? The nobles I spoke with today could certainly use some convincing.” He suppresses the urge to shudder from the memory of so many overly familiar hands. “If they think we’re happy together, maybe they’ll finally leave me alone.” 

“That’s exactly what I’m worried about…” Robin mutters.

Chrom frowns. “What do you mean?” 

“I mean someday you’re still going to have to choose someone to marry, Chrom,” Robin sighs. She steps away from him, slumping against the tree trunk at her back, as if she suddenly lacks the strength to stand on her own. “There’s not going to be a lot of opportunities like this, you know. It would be smart for you to spend this time getting to know the people here. Maybe…maybe one of them will be someone you could see yourself being with some day. I don’t want our pretend courtship to stand in the way of that.” More quietly, she adds, “I don’t want to stand in the way of that.” 

“Robin…” he murmurs, taken aback. “You could never be in my way.” 

“Ah, but I could,” she insists. “You could fall in love with one of them. And if you do, then this act we’re putting on might scare them off. They’ll think that—” a strange expression flits across her face before her eyes fall to the forest floor, “—That your heart’s already taken.”

“That’s not going to happen,” he assures her. “It’s not even…” 

‘…possible’, he wants to say. But he can’t tell her that—can’t risk revealing that the whole of his heart is bound to someone already. That it’s bound to her. Instead, he steps closer, so they’re almost chest to chest. Chrom peers into her eyes, willing for her to see his sincerity.

“Look,” he starts again, “the way these nobles treat me…I don’t think they see me as a person at all. To them, I’m just a stepping stone to more power. And I don’t want to marry someone who’s only interested in me because I’m going to be the exalt.

“I know finding a person who doesn’t care about that will be hard. Maybe impossible. But right now, I still want to try. So please, Robin. Believe me when I say I’m not going to find that with anyone who came here today. Not when they’re so hungry for power, they’re willing to throw themselves at a man who’s pretending to be engaged.”

For a handful of heartbeats, Robin searches his expression; golden-brown eyes probing his own, like lightning sundering the sea. Finally, she nods. 

“Alright. I understand,” she says, and then more softly, “and…I hope you find them. You deserve someone who will care about you for more reasons than just your title.”

“Thank you,” he murmurs, half breathless from how close they’re still standing. “But in the meantime, I think I’ll be content if I can just discourage our travel companions’ advances.”

A grin curves her lips—the first one since he told her what the viscount said. “In that case, I’m happy to help however I can,” she assures him. 

“Really?” Chrom asks. Encouraged, he leans lower, so their faces are almost at level. “Are…are they still watching us right now?” 

Robin peeks surreptitiously over his shoulder, smile widening. “Oh, most certainly. Though they’re doing an admirable job pretending they aren’t. Probably all hoping to see some sort of explosive fall out.” 

Chrom chuckles. “Well, I don’t know about a fall out, but we can at least give them a show.” He moves a hand to her waist but halts when she grabs hold of his forearm. “Er, t-that is, if you’re alright with that…?” he stammers, his confidence from a moment before flickering out. 

“It’s…it’s not that I have a problem with it—I did just say I would help. But…” Robin chews at her lip, nameless misgivings flitting behind her eyes, “you’re sure this is how you want to do it?”

Chrom nods. “The sooner I can discourage them the better—and I can’t think of a better way than this,” he tells her. “Besides, from the sound of it, we’re going to need the practice for when we’re back at the castle, as well.” 

Abruptly, Robin’s cheeks flush a full, rosy, red—but before he can ask about it, she loosens her grip on his arm, migrating her hand to rest at his shoulder instead.

“W-well…alright. Go ahead then,” she murmurs, and he watches, mystified, as her snowy eyelashes flutter shut, and she presses her lips together. Almost as if—

The whole world slides sideways around him. 

He’d only been thinking of embracing her—not a kiss. He hasn’t dared to try kissing her again since their first and last attempt in the gardens. But…Robin just gave him her permission, didn’t she? And if it wouldn’t be unwelcome…

Chrom’s heart rate hurtles as his thumb curls under her chin. Achingly slow, he tips her face up to his, searching for any sign that he misunderstood. But there is none: she doesn’t flinch from him even as he leans his forehead against hers—their noses brushing just as they had when he first awoke that morning.

It will be more convincing this way, he insists to himself—desperate for any justification to press his lips to hers again. Not that it matters. This is not an offer he has the conviction to turn down. 

Chrom closes his eyes and silences every misgiving that tangles in around him beneath the trees. 

And then he kisses her.

It is not like their first kiss, against the trellis. He was frantic and flustered then—carried away on a current of giddy disbelief. This time, Chrom sets the pace himself: slow and sweet, every motion an echo of the tenderness he burns for her with. One of Robin’s hands slides from his shoulder to lie flat-palmed over his heart, and when he caresses her cheek, her fingers fist in his shirt fabric—pulling him impossibly closer. 

He clutches her waist, her neck: Robin’s breath is still flavored faintly with the coffee he poured her that morning and he longs to chase that astringency deeper, to taste all of her, but he can’t —it would be asking too much. Instead, he reins himself in and tries to content himself with the softness of her mouth on his…a gentleness that fails to justify the jagged rhythm his heart is pounding against her palm. 

He’s lost all sense of time. They’ve probably been kissing long enough to make their point—he should stop. He needs to stop. But it has never been so easy to pretend that Robin could want this too, and—

The thought stings just enough to drag him from his daydream. Chrom forces himself to pull back, but it’s as if his body is fighting against having to relinquish her, and without consciously choosing to, he places a quick peck upon her nose and then her forehead. Robin lets out a tiny, surprised squeak, and in a heart-rending flash, he’s afraid that this, of all things, has finally revealed too much of his feelings for her.

She’s not pushing him away, though. Robin clings loosely to his shoulders and releases a shaky breath against his neck that coaxes his skin into goosebumps. Hesitantly, Chrom rests his chin atop her head, waiting to see what she will do, and praying she hasn’t heard any of the ‘I-love-you’s’ straining for freedom in his throat. 

“W-well…” she murmurs, “it looks like that did the trick.”

Chrom coughs out a laugh that’s more air than sound, shoulders slackening with relief. “I take it our audience seems convinced?”

“If their sulking expressions are anything to go by, then yes,” she replies, a smile audible in her voice. 

“Ah, w-well…good work then, partner.”

Robin snorts. Her palms are still pressed flat to his chest: one of her fingers is stroking absently along his collar bone, and it’s making it very hard to put his heart back into working order.

“You know,” she says suddenly, “you’re better at this than I thought you would be.”

“I’m—w-what?” he stammers. Better than she thought? At…at kissing? 

Chrom scrambles to pull apart the implications such a confession would hold. Has Robin wondered what it would be like to kiss him before? And if she has, does that mean—

“You’re always so earnest,” she explains. “I figured you’d have a harder time feigning your feelings convincingly, but…you put on a good performance.”

“Oh.” He swallows down a sigh and tries to reel his thoughts back into safer territory. “Right. Well, it’s easier doing this with you than it would be with someone else.”

“Easier?” Robin asks, peering up at him curiously. “And…why would that be?”

“I…” Chrom hesitates but settles on a truth that feels safe enough to share. “Because I don’t have to pretend that I care deeply about you, Robin.”  

“Oh,” she echoes. 

He isn’t expecting her to say anything else—half wonders if even such a restrained declaration will have alarmed her. But then she burrows closer to his chest and, almost too softly to hear, she murmurs, “Well…the feeling’s mutual.” 

Chrom barely dares to breathe. He blinks overhead at the jigsaw patterns the muted gray light makes with the canopy of leaves, trying to ground himself to something concrete—trying to be reasonable. In all likelihood, Robin has no idea what she just implied about her feelings for him. He knows that. And yet for one blinding, world-warping moment, he lets himself imagine that her words might be true.

Could Robin love me? he wonders. What if, through all of this, she has loved me too? 

The thought ushers in a hundred other questions, all of them just as treacherous: Would he know it if she loved him? Would he be able to tell? How would she act if she did? They toll in his mind and drown out the distant groaning of thunder. He doesn’t even notice when the first raindrops fall—doesn’t realize until there is one dripping down his nose.

“Chrom?” Robin nudges him and his attention jounces back to her. He must have missed something else she said, because she’s staring at him with open amusement—eyes crinkled at the corners, enjoying some private joke. She swipes a trail of rain from his chin, still grinning, and gods, he would scale mountains and cross seas so long as he knew she’d look at him that way again. 

“Chrom,” she repeats, more insistently now, and he finally comes out of his trance enough to realize he hasn’t responded. “Are you okay? We should go get our horses—we need to head back before it starts raining harder.”

“I—r-right,” he agrees shakily. When he tries for a smile, though, she mirrors it, and it steadies him enough to add, “Er, you lead the way, then.” 

Robin laughs but obliges. She guides him by the hand back to where Frederick waits, miffed and surrounded by an assortment of damp, foul-spirited nobles. As Chrom re-mounts his horse, Frederick’s disapproving gaze scalds the back of his neck: despite how joyous he’s been over Chrom’s courtship, apparently Chrom ignoring his guests in favor of sneaking off to kiss his fiancée pushed Frederick’s indulgence farther than it will stretch. 

Sneaking off to kiss Robin. He can’t believe he’s done it twice now. Greedy as he knows it is, he wonders how many more chances he will have at it…then wonders if she wonders too. 

Chrom’s horse gives a disgruntled snort as he leads her back onto the rapidly muddying forest path. Between the rain, his reproachful knight, and a slew of irritated nobles, the ride back will likely be even more miserable than the one there. Still, when he locks eyes with Robin and sees her lingering smile and her cheeks the color of the poppies’ petals, Chrom thinks it’s all worth it for the perilous hope still flickering in his heart. 

Chapter Text

By the time Chrom is ready to leave the stables, the gentle drizzle from the woods has roared into a deluge. The other nobles have already fled, leaving the stabling of the horses to Frederick in their eagerness to take cover in the castle. Though Chrom and Robin both stayed behind to help, Frederick would allow them to do little more than hang up their riding gear, and his terse dismissal of their offers made it clear that Chrom would most certainly be receiving a lecture later about his behavior in front of the visiting nobles.  

In truth, he’s still much too elated about kissing Robin to dread it properly. 

She waits just a few paces ahead of him now, halted underneath the stable roof’s overhang. Chrom places a hand on her shoulder as he moves to her side, and though Robin’s gaze doesn’t shift from the rain, he can see the quirk of her smile in his peripherals. He stares out at the torrents battering the dirt path—where the rain carves muddy runnels and miniature lakes out of carriage wheel tracks and hoofprints. The sweet, musty scent of damp hay saturates the air. 

“Not eager to get drenched?” he asks.

Robin glances at him and smiles sheepishly. “Not exactly,” she concedes. “Though I doubt it’s going to lighten up any time soon.”

“At least you have a coat,” he reminds her, and Robin snorts.

“Is that your way of asking me to share it?”

“Are you offering?” Chrom asks, raising an eyebrow playfully. Normally, the prospect of getting poured on would fill him with more dread, but a little rain is hardly enough to douse the dreamy warmth that’s been spilling over within him since kissing her again.

Robin rolls her eyes, but still undoes the clasp at the base of her throat and slips her arms out before laying the coat over her head like a blanket. “Well, come on then,” she says, beckoning him under. 

“You mean it?”

With her expression schooled into something solemn, Robin nods. “Only for you, milord,” she professes. It sounds suspiciously like an imitation of Frederick’s voice. 

Chrom chuckles as he joins her. “Thank you, milady. Your dedication to serving the exalted family will not go unnoted.” 

Robin elbows him in the rib, but she’s laughing too.  Even hunched over, he’s too much taller and broader than her for it to be an especially practical arrangement, but in truth, he’s just happy to have an excuse to press close to her. Chrom pulls the coat tighter around him and loops an arm around her waist.

“It will be easier to stay together this way,” he explains, when Robin looks up at him inquisitively. 

“Right. Of course,” she replies, and Chrom isn’t sure if the faint pink he sees painting her cheeks is real or just conjured by his hopeful imagination. 

Robin takes a long breath and then huffs it out again. “Well, no time like the present,” she says. “On three?” 

“On three,” he agrees. “One, two—”

They peel off into the rain together, water pummeling the coat from overhead and rapidly soaking it through. The trek up to the castle isn’t a short one, but they run the whole way there, breathless with laughter and gleefully indifferent to the mud they’re splattering on their clothes—though it will no doubt make for one more thing for Frederick to chastise them over later.

The sluicing rain shrinks the whole world down to a few smeared gray meters of visibility in each direction, and Chrom doesn’t see the castle courtyard until they’re practically upon it. Robin drags him the last few steps under the cover of the portico, where they attempt to catch their breath. Rain drops drip from their clothes and puddle at their feet.

“A lot of good my coat did,” Robin says, laughing between pants of air. “I think we overestimated how water resistant it is. Or how well it can fit two people.”

Chrom laughs along with her, sliding it down from over top of their heads to rest around their shoulders instead. “Well, even if it couldn’t keep us dry, I appreciate—woah!”

His boots, slick with mud, slip against the floor as he tries to move out from under the coat. Chrom overcorrects and stumbles forward, pressing Robin’s back against one of the columns, one hand shooting out to steady himself.

“Sorry!” he begins hurriedly, “I lost my—”

What little breath he’d regained flees him when he looks at her. Silvery rivulets stream from Robin’s hair and over her cheeks—still flushed from running. One drop has pooled in the cupid’s bow of her lips, and as he looks at it, the air between them ionizes: he’s too transfixed to peel himself away. 

Belatedly, Chrom finds his voice again. “—m-my balance. I lost my balance. Er, let me just—” He tries again to extract himself from the coat and to shift away, but this time, Robin’s arms snake around his neck. 

His heart rattles against his ribs. “Wh-what are you…?”

“Someone’s coming,” she whispers, and with a smirk she adds, “might as well work on selling our story to the palace staff.”

With great difficulty, Chrom tears his eyes from her to glance over his shoulder in search of whomever she’s referring to. A pair of servants are passing by further down the colonnade, silhouetted against the warm torch light.

“I see them,” he replies, turning back to her. “In that case, what do you want to—” 

Robin cups his cheek and leads his lips to hers in a languid kiss. 

Chrom’s wordless exclamation is muffled by her mouth on his, but a heartbeat later he is kissing her back. His lips move softly against hers; his hands find her waist with alarming ease. Dizzily, he wonders if he should be frightened by how quickly this is all becoming second nature. Hadn’t he been embarrassed the first time they kissed, about what anyone who saw them might think? He can hardly conceive of such concerns now—the sweet, slow tug of Robin’s lips on his is so much more important.

All too soon, the sounds of the servants’ retreating footsteps are drowned out by the steady drum of rain—their cue that they no longer have an audience. Lightning pulses across the sky as Chrom draws back, the veins of electricity shimmering bright and violent against Robin’s dark eyes. 

“Come on,” she urges softly, tugging at his hand, “we need to get back to our room.” 

Chrom just nods, her words ringing in his head louder than the thunder. Our room. He could get used to the sound of that. 

Something in his awareness of their surroundings shifts, becoming fuzzier around the edges, but he doesn’t have much time to contemplate it; they barely make it a dozen paces before they’re met with more footsteps. 

Chrom stutters to a halt and turns back to Robin, wearing his hope all too plainly. It’s only now, in the amber glow of the torch light, that he realizes how thoroughly the rain soaked through her camisole: the cloth clings to her chest, semi-transparent, leaving very little to the imagination. He snaps his eyes back up to hers a moment too late, acutely aware that he was staring. The footsteps grow louder.

“Someone else is coming,” he says. “Sh-should we…?”

Robin nods. “The more of them see us together, the better.”

Chrom only half processes what she says—he’s past needing any reason to kiss her beyond her permission. Taking the initiative, he presses her into the nearest alcove, and returns his lips to hers. Immediately, Robin’s fingers twine in his hair and it sends heat roiling through him from his scalp to his toes. She punctuates the presses of their lips with soft sighs of his name and snatches of breathless laughter, and Chrom clings fiercely to his self-discipline—determined to keep their kissing chaste despite how desperate he is for her. 

Regrettably, it's not long before the servants’ steps fade out, alerting them the coast is clear once again. He loosens his grip on Robin, waits for her to draw back from him, but she presses her lips to his as insistently as ever. Chrom struggles to rein in his hope: did she not hear the servants leave? 

With titanic effort, he pulls away. “I think…I think they’re gone now,” he pants. He really shouldn’t be so out of breath, but his heart and lungs don’t seem to be adjusting to kissing her the way his hands and lips have. 

Bizarrely, Robin’s face splits into an impish grin. “Are they? I didn’t notice.”

“Y-yeah.” Chrom clears his throat. “So, if you wanted to—”

Before he can get the rest of the words out, Robin pulls him down into a hungry kiss. Her teeth catch on his lip, and molten hot desire blooms in his chest, only to be tempered immediately by a tide of bewilderment. 

“R-Robin?!” he gasps. “What are you—ah!” He breaks off when she kisses his neck. 

“Do you want me to stop?” she murmurs, breath tickling his ear. Chrom shudders and unthinkingly pushes closer to her.

“...N-no, I don’t,” he admits, despite how damning that answer is, “but—there isn’t anyone here. You don’t have to keep pretending.”

Robin pulls back slightly—just enough to look him in the eyes. He’s not sure what she’s looking for there, but she must find it, because a moment later that playful smile splits her face again and she leans tantalizingly close. 

“Who said anything about pretending?” she whispers against his lips. Any semblance of hesitance he still had crumbles to dust. 

Chrom crushes his lips to hers in an open mouth kiss, cradling the back of her head with one hand to keep it from colliding with the stone. Robin moans as he drags his tongue over hers, the soft sound reverberating between them. Finally, he can taste her like he has longed to. She pushes her thigh up between his legs, and he forgets how to think. 

Chrom groans and rocks himself against her, all his awareness fuzzing at the edges from the haze of electric heat spreading through him. His hands rove over her body with dwindling restraint—straying both higher and lower than he has dared to let them before; each hushed, desperate noise Robin makes only spurring him on. He can’t even hear the rain anymore over the pounding of his pulse: his whole world has narrowed to her hands in his hair, and his tongue in her mouth, and the friction from their soaked clothes—chilly, damp fabric against feverish skin—as they work to press every curve and angle of their bodies together.

He never thought he could have this. It feels too good to be true. 

It feels like he must be—

Chrom wrenches awake, gasping for air, his thoughts hurtling a hundred directions at once. His eyes burn from the sudden brightness: searing sunlight spills through his bedroom windows and onto the blankets he’s tangled in—nothing like the rain-muted torch-light from moments before.

He groans, long and miserable. It was a dream…an impossibly vivid dream.

What a fool he is, of course it was a dream. It’s not as if Robin would ever—

But no, that’s not right either.

Blood pounding, Chrom flicks through his memories of the day before, as they return to him in pieces. After the horse ride, they did run back through the rain together. He did stumble into Robin and press her against that pillar. Even that first kiss was blissfully, electrically real. It was just what came after the servants departed that veered from reality. 

But Robin did kiss him. And much like he’d found himself thinking in the forest, she didn’t seem to mind doing it at all. Chrom’s heart clobbers the inside of his chest, flashing between relief the whole thing wasn’t fictionalized and searing guilt over the portions he did fabricate. 

He shouldn’t be surprised. This same thing happened after the first time they kissed: his subconscious was all too eager to pillage his memories for material to build increasingly vivid fantasies with. He thinks of the tide of sparks that pulsed through him from riding up on her thigh in the dream and makes the dismaying (if not surprising) discovery that he is completely hard. 

Blazes, what if Robin notices?

He sits up in bed so abruptly that were she beside him, it surely would have woken her. 

But she’s not beside him. Chrom finally comes out of his head enough to take better stock of his surroundings and realizes Robin is nowhere to be found. It’s the first time since she started staying in his chambers that he’s woken to the bed empty—the sheets cool on the side where she sleeps. Chrom takes another steadying breath: if she was going to wake up before him at any point, then he’s lucky it was today. He can scarcely imagine the humiliation if she were here to realize the state he’s in. 

…That is, assuming he wasn’t already this worked up when she awoke. And assuming that they didn’t wind up tangled together in their sleep again. A fresh wave of mortification threatens to smother him. What would Robin have thought if she woke and found them wound around each other? Did she have to carefully unhook their limbs, the same way he had the morning before? 

And where is she, anyway? Robin isn’t exactly an early riser.

Faintly alarmed, Chrom casts his eyes around the room in search of her again and spies a piece of parchment on his bedside table. Memories of the threat she was left flicker through his mind; for a second, his heart rate surges with panic, but it abates as he recognizes Robin’s handwriting on the note. Chrom rubs the rheum from his eyes and squints down at her sloppy script. 

‘Chrom, 

Meet me for lunch at noon today in the central courtyard—need to show you something.

With love,

Robin’

He sinks back into the pillows, gripping the parchment tightly. ‘With love’. She signed the note ‘with love’. Gods, his pulse hasn’t had the chance to slow once since waking.

He knows better than to take it to heart. Robin is exceptionally thorough; realistically, she only chose those words in case Frederick or a palace servant saw the note before he did. But even so…

Chrom’s fingers drift back up to his lips, recalling the intoxicating warmth of her mouth on his. The memory is punctuated by an unhelpful throbbing between his legs, insistently reminding him that he has other problems that need addressing.

Gods, what is he going to do? If they continue trying to sell others on their relationship through public displays of affection, it seems unlikely that this dream will be the last of its kind. And while it was one thing to have those thoughts about Robin when he’s alone in his bed, it’s another altogether to have them with her lying beside him. Despite his complete lack of control over it, it feels acutely like a betrayal of her trust. Yet if there’s anything he’s learned in the last year of harboring these feelings for her, it’s that he can feel all the guilt in the world for those fantasies, and it still won’t keep them away.

…And maybe Robin wouldn’t be so horrified by them anyway, a tiny voice in the back of his head suggests—an echo of his wondering from the day before. It’s a dangerous thought…and a vain one. Who is he to presume Robin would want him dreaming about her that way? 

Chrom shakes his head, shoving the idea aside in favor of taking a cold bath and getting dressed. The only way to know if Robin wants such a thing would be to ask her…a question which would be contingent on first confessing his own feelings. And given that just under three weeks still remain before his birthday, such a course seems foolhardy at best. If his love is one-sided—and it’s entirely possible that it is—then telling Robin too early would result in an agonizingly awkward slog through the rest of their feigned relationship. 

…Then again, if it isn’t, they might not need to continue faking a relationship at all. 

Once he’s dressed, Chrom reads over the note she left one more time before tucking it into his pocket for safe keeping. For now, he decides, it’s best to wait and see how things unfold. He’s always been inclined to be rashly optimistic, and it’s gotten him into trouble before: he can’t risk making the same mistake now—not if something as precious as their friendship is on the line. Though if he’s being honest with himself, there’s a kindling of hope hidden away in that decision. He knows Robin so well; if she loves him, surely at some point she’ll do something that will make it known. 

It’s not hard to tell where they’re meant to meet for lunch. A checked blanket is spread out in an open stretch of the courtyard, a picnic basket beside it. Chrom settles down to wait for her there, grateful for the protection the picnic cloth offers. Despite the sun creeping its way towards the sky’s zenith, the courtyard grass remains damp from the vicious weather the night before—the air heavy with petrichor. Every breath of it stains his cheeks pink with memories of how rain tasted on Robin's lips. 

Mid-day is when the castle is at its busiest, and servants and visiting nobles alike crisscross the courtyard, bowing to him and calling out greetings as their station dictates. The picnic will hardly be private, and he wonders idly if Robin chose this time and meeting location for that very reason. Though he’s given it some thought since receiving her note earlier, he’s not entirely sure what it could be that she needs to show him.

Without consciously thinking about it, Chrom finds himself taking the note from his pocket again. A wistful sigh slips out as his fingers sketch over the quill strokes that make up the sign off. 

‘With love’, he reads again. Could she mean it?

“You could have left the note, you know.”

Chrom jumps, whipping his head around. “R-Robin!” he exclaims. She’s standing right behind him, a sly grin on her face and mischief in her amber eyes. “You snuck up on me!”

She laughs before plopping down next to him. “Sorry,” she says, not sounding remotely repentant, “you just seemed so focused; I couldn’t resist. Why’d you bother bringing that along anyway?” 

Chrom’s attention snaps back to the parchment he’s clutching. Caught red-handed. “Oh! Er, you know, I just wanted to make sure I had the meeting time right,” he tells her, hastily shoving it back in his pocket. “You weren’t here yet, so I…woah,” Chrom breaks off, changing directions as he focuses more closely on her face. "Are you alright? You look terrible.”

And she does. Robin’s skin—normally a warm, rich bronze—is sallow and dull. The circles beneath her eyes are dark enough to be bruises. 

Her grin shrivels up. “Thank you, Chrom. Very flattering.”

“N-no, wait! I didn’t mean it like that,” he corrects quickly. “You just look completely exhausted.” 

She wrinkles her nose and gives him a look that very clearly says ‘that’s not much better’. He groans and tries again.

“What I meant to say is that you seem tired, and I wanted to make sure you’re okay. B-but even if you’re tired, you still look—'' 

Beautiful, his mind supplies. 

“—er, f-fine,” he mumbles instead. Robin massages her temple, and if she didn’t look drained before then she most certainly does now.

“You know, for your sake, I really hope you get better at giving compliments before you have an actual fiancée you need to worry about trying not to offend,” she sighs, and Chrom flushes with shame. “But to answer your question, I’m fine. I just woke up earlier than usual so I’d have time to throw something together before we met up.”

He’s still juggling words around in his head, trying to find a better way to express his concern when Robin leans around him and swipes the picnic basket. From within, she withdraws a wooden platter laden with fresh bread, cured meats, and cheese; followed by a bowl of freshly picked strawberries. 

“Wait, you made all this yourself?” he asks, watching in disbelief as Robin unloads a sealed jug of lemonade and a jar of pickles to add to the array. His mouth waters at the sight and he realizes suddenly that he hasn’t had anything to eat all day.

“Gods, no,” she laughs. “And you should be glad I didn’t, or else it would hardly be edible. All of this is courtesy of the palace chefs. We just need it for set dressing.”

“Oh.” He shouldn’t be surprised, really. Neither of them are much for cooking. “Then what were you ‘throwing together’?”

Robin glances over her shoulder, noting the ambling passer-by. A few sneak curious peeks at the two of them and others gawk outright, but no one is near enough to overhear. 

“Well, I was doing some thinking about that threat I received,” she begins, shifting the food around so it lays more directly in front of them. There’s a pleasant smile on her face that’s at odds with her words, but he can only assume it’s meant to keep from rousing any suspicion from onlookers. “Obviously there are plenty of reasons someone might oppose me as a match for you, but the language in the note made it seem like this person takes more issue with the fact that I’m Plegian than that I’m not of noble birth. I thought it could be a jumping off point, at least.” 

“That’s true,” Chrom concedes, even as he struggles to keep his expression blithe like hers. The perpetrator’s choice insult was ‘Plegian witch’, and the vitriol behind it was clear. Whoever left the note clearly does not think highly of Ylisse’s western neighbors. 

“Right,” Robin continues. “So, if there’s any merit to our instincts about someone from the council being involved, that could be a starting point for an investigation. As long as we have a way to determine who among them still holds strong anti-Plegian sentiment, it will narrow our list of suspects considerably.”

“Someone like Lady Idris, then,” Chrom volunteers his face nearly slipping into a grimace from her name alone.

“Well, yes and no. She certainly made her bias known during that meeting. But…in some ways that makes me less suspicious of her,” Robin says, nudging a sandwich into Chrom’s hand as she speaks. He’s oddly touched that she knows exactly which ingredients he prefers without having to ask. “Look at it this way: if Lady Idris knew she was planning to leave a note like that, don’t you think she would have at least tried to be less…brazen about her bigotry?”

Chrom chews her words over. “You mean because it wouldn’t make sense to draw so much attention to herself if she was having the note placed the same day?”

“Exactly,” Robin says. “Most likely the person responsible would try to keep their opinions on the subject a little more under wraps, at least in front of the two of us.”

“Then how are we supposed to know which of the council members it could be?” he asks.

Robin grins. “I couldn’t figure it out either, at first. But then it hit me.”

She shifts nearer suddenly, leaning her head against his shoulder and pressing into his side. Against Chrom’s wishes, his whole body reacts to it, somehow both stiffening and bending immediately to accommodate her. The back of her hand brushes over his thigh and he just about has a heart attack before he realizes she’s sliding papers into his lap—and trying to do so without drawing attention to it. 

Chrom coughs out a nervous laugh. With his focus divided, it takes a second to parse what he’s looking at. When he does, his eyes stretch wide. “Wait, these are—”

“A copy of the council’s voting records,” Robin finishes for him. “I went through the archive in the library and dug out the written record of every time the council was asked to vote on matters related to military action against Plegia in the last 20 years.” 

Chrom leafs through the pages as subtly as he can, skimming over her careful notes and shaking his head in wonder. “You’re brilliant,” he tells her. “And single handedly more effective than the entirety of Ylisse’s royal intelligence officers. This could be just the opening we need.”

“Well, don’t give me too much credit; this is only the first step,” Robin says, but she’s beaming.  More soberly she adds, “The next one will be up to you.”

“Just say the word and I’ll see it done."

“I hoped you'd say that,” Robin says, clearly pleased with his enthusiasm. Her eyes wander off briefly to the side before she continues. “Just keep eating while we talk. This is supposed to look like a date to anyone passing by. You know, fell two wyverns with one arrow, and all that.”

As if to emphasize her point, she runs her fingers down his exposed arm—stroking along his bicep in a way that’s not dissimilar to how all those visiting nobles had. Except when Robin does it, the trail of her touch burns bright as comet tails. Chrom fights back a shiver. 

“R-right. I can do that,” he says, obediently taking another bite of his sandwich.

Robin smirks before tilting her face up so her lips hover just beside his ear. To anyone looking on, she’ll appear to be murmuring sweet nothings to him, though he knows the real purpose is to ensure they’re not overheard. Even so, it doesn’t stop heat from creeping into his face. 

“Do you see the names I underlined?” she whispers. Chrom nods, so she presses on. “Those mark every council member who has voted in favor of military action against Plegia in the last 20 years. The circled names are the people who were still voting that way the last time the matter was broached, just before Maribelle was abducted.” 

Chrom skims over the list on the front page—noting that some names are both circled and underlined, while others are marked with only the latter. “Some of them changed their voting pattern?”

Robin hums her ascent. “A few of them used to vote in favor of war with Plegia but changed their tune later on. I noticed it with Ricken’s father, for one. As soon as Emmeryn took over, he started voting for more peaceful relations. I'm assuming it was to get on her good side. Lord Ambrose was another whose voting habits changed, though he began voting for peace with Plegia while your father was still on the throne. I guess he had a change of heart.” 

Chrom works to keep himself centered but her words kick up a dust storm of emotions in him, clouding his mind. Frustration for the bigotry his father sowed, grief that his sister was lost before all the wounds from it closed, and a nagging curiosity for the council members' motives…they all swirl around in his head, making him nearly dizzy. He’s grateful for it when Robin squeezes his shoulder, grounding him.

Chrom takes a steadying breath. “Alright. What do you need me to do?”

“Well, as you know, all members of the council have certain protection and security afforded to them by virtue of their status," she says. "A civilian can’t access their personal records and family history.”

“Ah,” Chrom says, piecing it together, “but a member of the royal family can.” 

“Exactly,” she agrees. “It’s far from a sure bet, but if any of these council members have a personal reason for opposing peace with Plegia—or are covering up any sort of shady history, for that matter—then it’s as good a place to start looking as any.” 

Chrom nods. “I’ll see what I can find. And if anything turns up, you’ll be the first to hear about it.” 

He turns his gaze back to the notes, eyes narrowing as they rove over them. It’s wholly possible one of these names denotes the identity of the person wishing harm on Robin. That she could be so reviled for a heritage she doesn’t even remember—and so used to it that she can speak about the matter so calmly—still makes him nauseous. He’ll do everything in his power to see that the person responsible is found and dealt with. 

His ruminations are interrupted by the brush of soft leather against his brow line. Robin runs her thumb along his skin, and he stills beneath her touch. 

“You’re scowling,” she chides. “No one who sees you making that face is going to believe that you’re having a nice picnic with your fiancée.”

“That’s just what my face looks like,” Chrom mumbles, but Robin quirks a dubious eyebrow at him, and so with conscious effort, he flattens his mouth out of a frown.

“Sorry,” he sighs, snagging her hand in his. “I’m just worried. When I woke up this morning and realized you weren’t there, there was a moment where I thought the worst. But this is a good lead. And worried or not, we’ll find the person behind this and stop them. I know it.”

Robin squeezes his hand back. “Was it really that hard to believe I woke up before you of my own free will?” 

“Yes,” he says, completely serious. 

She meets his gaze for only a second before she bursts out laughing, and he can’t help but join in. The laugh lines eclipse some of the exhaustion written on her face and it fills him with a strange burst of courage. 

Chrom plucks a strawberry from the bowl before them, twirling it by the leafy cap as he searches for the right words. “Er, and Robin. A-about this morning…when you woke up, was there anything—I mean, did you have to—”

“Hold that thought,” she says, suddenly shuffling closer. She shifts the papers behind the picnic basket and leans against him again. “We’ve got company.” 

Her eyes flick across the courtyard to where a gaggle of the visiting nobles and their handmaidens are crossing the lawn—a gossipy susurrus drifting from behind their raised hands to where Chrom and Robin are sitting. 

“Hold that out for me, would you?” she says, jutting her chin towards the strawberry in Chrom’s hand. 

“Hmm? This?”

He nudges the end of the fruit towards her, and in one fluid motion, Robin leans close and bites it—her lips brushing against his fingertips where they grip the berry. Chrom’s jaw goes slack. It’s not until she sits back and registers his reaction that her cheeks flush pink. 

“It was meant to be—y-you know, like you were feeding me,” she explains, belatedly embarrassed. “That is something couples do, right?” 

“Y-yes. Right. Good thinking,” Chrom manages, finally succeeding in snapping his mouth shut. Even then, he can’t seem to tear his eyes away from her lips. Robin shifts self-consciously beneath his gaze.

“Was that too much?” she mumbles. Chrom shakes his head frantically. 

“No! Nope. It’s just, er…you still have a little—” he gestures to the corner of her mouth, where a fleck of the fruit sits trapped. Robin raises her hand to wipe it away, but Chrom catches her wrist before she can. “Here, let me.”

She goes still as he brings his other hand up, cradling her cheek. Delicately, his thumb traces her lower lip, catching the tiny speck of berry against the pad of his finger. He should just swipe it away and be done with it, but instead, he hovers there—transfixed with memories of how soft and warm her mouth was when she kissed him. A steady flush is rising in Robin’s cheeks—her eyes are surprisingly dark in the spring sunshine. Without consciously meaning to, he leans closer.

Do you love me, Robin? he wonders again—the thought so blaring in his head it’s a small miracle she can’t hear it. 

“Chrom?” she murmurs. His name is a shaky rush of hot air against his hand. “Um. Did you get it?”

Before he can answer, Robin’s tongue darts out to moisten her lips. It flickers, accidentally, against the side of his thumb, and—

Chrom crushes his mouth to hers—kissing her without ever having decided to. Robin makes a hushed, startled sound but recovers, sweetly returning the kiss.

A wave of hot blood crashes through him. Her lips against his are so gentle—so tender. He should be savoring every second, not wishing for more. Yet while half his mind is swept up in the bliss of her mouth against his, the other half yearns to un-seam her lips with his tongue; to press her into the scratchy fabric of the picnic blanket beneath them; to trail hungry, lingering kisses down her neck, and along her collar bones, and—

Chrom lurches back from her with a sharp gasp—embarrassingly winded and wholly appalled with himself. He should not be thinking those things when he's with her.

“I—I’m so sorry,” he stammers, unable to conceal the frantic edge to his voice. He glances, panicked, over his shoulder, and finds the last of the nobles trailing out of the courtyard. He hadn’t even thought to check that they were still being watched before kissing her. “Gods, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that, I—”

“Chrom,” Robin interjects, “it’s okay. You don’t need to apologize.”

Her words crack through enough of his distress to make him focus on her face again, and while her posture is tense and her expression is befuddled, she doesn’t seem angry or upset. 

“But I—I didn’t ask first!" he presses. "Or warn you, or…or anything! That's not—"

“Well, neither did I the two times I kissed you,” Robin counters.

That stops him in his tracks. Chrom’s lips flap around silent words. He wants to tell her that that’s different; different because he can conceive of very few situations where he would not welcome Robin kissing him. Possibly if they were in imminent mortal peril, although even then—

“S-still,” he insists. “I don’t want to put you in a situation where you can’t—where you’re not—” he breaks off, floundering for words, but Robin seems to know what he means. She offers him a tentative smile, though her cheeks are still dyed strawberry red. 

“I appreciate that, Chrom. Really, I do. But…that’s also why I trust you," she says. "And why you don’t always have to ask me first.”

The flipping in Chrom’s stomach briefly assuages his guilt. “I—I don’t?”

“No. Because I know if I ever wanted you to stop, you would.” Robin stares down at her hands where she’s wringing them in her lap. “It’s…it’s good, actually—if you don’t always ask. It seems more spontaneous that way. More believable.” 

Chrom tries to let those words sink in—feels reassuring warmth smolder in his chest from her faith in him. “Okay…” he breathes. “I-if you’re sure.”

“I am,” Robin says. She worries her lip before adding, “I’m just…a bit surprised. After that first time in front of Lissa, I thought…well. I assumed you’d want to avoid kissing again if possible.”

She gives a timid laugh—one that makes Chrom’s heart seize up. So, Robin did realize I was upset….

He runs a hand through his hair, fishing for something he can tell her that won’t be a lie. 

“Er, right, well…that was only because I was embarrassed that Lissa saw us.” He coughs once into his fist. “It’s like I said yesterday: if we need to be more, er…a-affectionate to convince people, then that’s—”

Robin’s expression melts into an amused smile. “You really have a hard time talking about this stuff, huh?” Before he can work up the words to protest, she presses on. “So…kissing really is fine with you, then? Should I add that to the guidelines I have written in my journal?” 

There’s a twinkle in her eyes that tells him she’s only half kidding.

Chrom huffs out a breathless laugh, the tips of his ears going pink. “Er, yeah, if you want to. I mean, if it’s fine with you too.”

“It is,” she says, holding his gaze. He can feel his face heating further for every second she keeps her dark, warm eyes on him, but he can’t bring himself to look away, either. Briefly, he thinks of leaning in and kissing her again right there and then, but—no. He’s already pushed his luck more than enough for one day.

Finally, Robin breaks eye contact, picking absently at a strand of silver blonde hair. “Do you have the time?” she asks abruptly. 

Chrom cranes his neck and squints until he can read the nearby sundial from where he’s sitting. “Looks like it’s a quarter to the hour.” 

All the light and playfulness sheds from Robin's face at once. “That late?” She mutters a curse under her breath, hurriedly shuffling the items from their picnic back into the basket. “I better be going, but—oh! You were going to ask me something about this morning?” 

He’d completely forgotten. And now that he remembers, and especially in the wake of the conversation they just had, doing so seems wholly imprudent—he doesn’t want to risk ruining his own good mood. 

“It’s nothing,” Chrom assures her. Honestly, he’s not sure what he’d been hoping to hear her say anyway. ‘Yes, you were completely wrapped around me when I woke up, but I didn’t mind’? Even if it were true, he doubts it’s information she’d volunteer. 

“Are you sure?”

He nods once, definitive. “Completely.” 

Robin seems to measure him for a moment before apparently deciding he sounds adequately sincere. “Okay,” she agrees, squeezing his hand as she stands. “I’ll see you tonight then?” 

“See you then,” he agrees, heart pattering at the thought. Gods, he loves having her to come back to each night. “And I’ll see what I can dig up about the council members before then.” 

Robin nods in approval. “See to it that you do.” She shoots him one last smile and wave before scampering off down the colonnade. 

Chrom watches her as she goes—his heart brimming with more good cheer than he can remember in some time. Right before she turns the corner, though, he sees Robin pause. For just a second, she seems to hunch in on herself, shoulders dropping and posture deflating…but then he blinks, and she’s already zipped off again, and Chrom decides it must have just been his imagination after all. 

He doesn’t actually see Robin that night. Or either of the two that follow. By the fourth, Chrom finds himself pacing the bedchamber with mounting restlessness.

Despite his best efforts, it took a couple days before he was able to carve out the time to review the council members’ records thoroughly. The work was monotonous, but he was determined to see it through to the best of his ability—Robin’s well-being could depend on it, and that meant no amount of effort was too much to expend. He’d focused on the circled names first, as instructed, but there was little in those council members’ personal history that gave clues as to where their prejudices might have stemmed from, and nothing that cast suspicion on their general conduct. He probably shouldn’t have been surprised—if any of them had shady dealings, they’d likely be well covered up. 

Chrom was determined to turn up something of use, though, so he’d combed through the records from the remaining council members as well, and it was only then that he snagged on a possible lead.

He wanted to tell Robin right away, but between both of their busy schedules, it was impressively difficult to find the time. He’d thought that telling her when she retired to their room for the night would be a sure-fire plan, but the past three evenings, midnight came and went without any sign of her, and he’d accidentally dozed off before she returned. Chrom has only the sleep-fogged memories of the mattress sinking beside him as an assurance that she eventually crawled into bed with him at all.  It’s like living with a specter; and by the time he awakens in the morning she’s already vanished with the moonlight. 

It’s troubling. Chrom himself is far from the most well-rested person in the castle—his own days are long and grueling, but Robin’s hours make him look like he’s on holiday. He knows she took on some work for the council, but he’s having a hard time understanding how party preparations could be keeping her busier than the entirety of his work as the future exalt.

He’d hoped this evening might be different, but he’s also learned his lesson from the last few nights’ attempts: waiting up for her is fruitless. If he needs to speak with Robin, then he’ll have to go retrieve her himself. And the information he found is too important to put off sharing any longer. 

Hastily, Chrom stows the papers in a drawer where they will be safe from prying eyes and then locks the room behind him. He gives a curt nod to the guard as he leaves the royal wing and beats a path to Robin’s office. 

The attendant standing watch outside bows deeply to him and knocks on the door before he’s even said a word about why he’s there. 

“Lady Robin, Lord Chrom is here to see you,” the servant—who is named Greta, if he remembers correctly—announces.

Chrom hovers hopefully by the entrance. When Robin doesn’t appear, Greta bows again. “I’m very sorry, Your Highness. She’s been in there all day,” she apologizes, then cracks the door open and bustles away, clearing out for Chrom.

He pokes his head around the door frame and peeks into the office. 

“Robin?” he calls. Still no response. 

Chrom crosses more fully into the room to find her hunched over in her chair, scribbling away with her quill. Her desk has been transformed into a lonely plank of flotsam—struggling to stay afloat amidst a veritable sea of papers and hulking texts. Ink stains decorate her gloves in flower-petal blotches. 

“Hey…” he tries again, nudging her arm this time, but she shrugs him off without even seeming to realize she’s doing it. If he didn’t know her so well, he might think she was angry or upset with him, but he’s all too familiar with this song and dance. 

Sighing, Chrom scoots her chair back so that she can no longer reach the page she’s working on with her quill. Robin frowns and attempts to drag her chair closer again only to find it’s impossible with him gripping it. She turns, puzzled, and finally her eyes fall on him. 

“Oh…Chrom.” She blinks several times, bringing him into focus. “When did you get here?” 

“Just a moment ago,” he replies. “I’m here to steal you away from your work.” 

“You are?” Robin’s attention wanders back to the papers on her desk, features crinkled into a frown. “Well, can it wait another half hour or so? I’m almost through this stack, and—”

“Robin, what time do you think it is?” he interrupts.

She pauses then steals a glance at the violet night outside her windows and the miniscule glob of candle wax guttering on the corner of her desk.

“...Past dinner time?” she ventures sheepishly. 

“Well, you’re technically correct.” Chrom chuckles and places a hand gently upon her shoulder. “It’s well past time to call it a night.”

Robin groans, massaging her forehead and smearing a tiny blot of ink on her skin in the process. “Gods, I swear it was just noon. I should be done with more of this by now. Will you at least let me finish going over the last few pages of these taxation records?”

“No bargaining,” Chrom replies firmly. “I should have come to cut you off hours ago.” It takes a second before her words catch up with his thoughts. “Wait, did you say taxation records? I thought you were just helping the council with arrangements for the ball.”

“I am!” Robin assures him, and then seeing the doubt etched into his expression she amends, “Well, mostly. Sometimes they give me other work to complete for them as well, but I don’t mind. I like keeping busy. And it’s nice to be able to contribute something.”

Anger makes a tight knot of his stomach—is that why Robin’s been staying up so late? Has the council been taking advantage of her willingness to help? He’ll have to speak with Lady Cecily about it. 

“There’s a difference between keeping busy and running yourself ragged, and we both know you’re prone to the latter,” he reminds her, keeping his voice gentle. “We’re not at war anymore, Robin. No one is going to perish if it takes you until tomorrow morning to complete some tax forms.”

Robin chews at her lip, weighing his words. “You’re right—I know you’re right. But I was just getting into the swing of things, and…” Her attention wanders back to the papers on her desk as she speaks, eyes landing upon a particular line of text. Robin’s words trail off. In disbelief, Chrom watches her grab her quill, scoot forward in the chair so she can reach the papers again, and begin scratching something out on the forms—all without saying another word. It’s as if she has already forgotten that he is there.

Chrom huffs out an astounded laugh—he can’t decide if he should be amused or offended. Clearly the normal means of getting her attention aren’t working. But if Robin won’t listen to reason, perhaps a different sort of plea will reach her. He casts a quick glance towards the doorway, where Greta hovers, ready to offer her assistance should it be needed. Assured that there are watching eyes upon them, Chrom encircles his arms loosely around Robin’s shoulders, resting his head atop hers. 

“Please, my love. If not for your own sake, then for mine,” he implores. “Don’t make me wait up for you any longer.” 

The term of endearment slips off his tongue with surprising ease—dulcet and tender. Perhaps he’s spent so long thinking about her that way that saying it only feels natural. Either way, it has the desired effect: Robin’s distraction shatters, all her attention boomeranging back to him.

She drops the quill, her cheeks flushed pink. “Oh. Uh…w-well, if you insist…” she mumbles, and to his tremendous joy, she turns her head to kiss the back of his hand where it rests over her collarbone.

“That’s more like it,” Chrom says, guiding her by the hand away from her desk. “I was starting to think you’d rather do paperwork all night than come to bed with me.” 

She raises a quizzical eyebrow at him and suddenly he hears his own words back and registers how suggestive they sound.

“Er, w-wait, I didn’t mean with me—” he stammers, casting a panicked glance where Greta is still standing by the door, politely pretending not to listen. “Or, rather, I—I did, but not like—”

He’s cut off abruptly as Robin quiets him with a fleeting kiss, her expression halfway between a warning and amusement. The message is very clearly ‘shut up’, and the kiss was too quick for him to properly return it, but Chrom’s stomach still swoops like he dove 30 meters on a pegasus’s back. All his embarrassment is instantly forgotten, replaced instead with glittering giddiness. 

“Well, are we going then?” Robin prompts. 

He nods, holding tight to her hand as they leave together, his heart and mind both abuzz. He knows that after their last conversation, kissing is fully on the table for selling their relationship to others, but she did it so effortlessly. Could it have been easy for Robin to kiss him for the same reason it was easy for him to call her ‘love’? Because all this time she has wanted to do it? 

Once they’ve turned a corner and are out of earshot, Robin nudges him with her elbow. “Alright, what’s all this about?”

He blinks his dreaminess away, focusing on her again. “What’s what about?”

Robin snorts and rolls her eyes. “Chrom, I know you weren’t really coming to get me so we could snuggle up before bed. But I’m assuming you have some reason for being so insistent I come right away. So, what is it?”

“Couldn’t I just be worried about you?” he suggests, turning pink even while he tries valiantly to focus only on the second half of her words. Robin raises an eyebrow, and he relents. “Alright, yes. There was a reason I came to get you. But for the record, I am concerned over how late you’re working.” 

“I’m fine, Chrom,” she replies curtly. “I’ve told you a dozen times not to worry about me. Besides, this work is nothing compared to during the war.”

“Isn’t it?” he asks, doubtful. “At least during the war campaign, I knew you were getting some sleep.” 

Robin huffs. “Did you pull me away from my work just to lecture me?” 

“N-no! I—” he fumbles, frustrated with himself. Just moments ago, she was being so playful and affectionate. Chrom backpedals, searching for words that will convey the sincerity of his feelings. “What I’m trying to say is…I care about you, Robin. And I want to make sure you’re not neglecting your well-being.”

“Of course I’m not,” she replies, her voice clipped. “I know how to take care of myself.”  

“I know that. But it seems like you never take time for yourself. Even though we’re living together, I…” He runs a nervous hand through his hair, suddenly self-conscious about how needy he sounds. “…I’ve still hardly seen you this week.” 

Immediately, Robin deflates—her prickliness vanishing and her eyes drooping closed. “…Right. Of course. We’re supposed to be spending time together around the palace staff. I’m sorry, Chrom," she murmurs. "No wonder you’ve been worried. I’ll find a way to carve out more time for outings together. Maybe if I wake up earlier—”

“No, that’s not what I mean at all!” he exclaims, exasperated. How can she be so brilliant and still not understand why he’d worry over her? “Your free time doesn’t need to be spent with me. And definitely not for the sake of convincing the palace staff of anything. I just want to make certain you’re not pushing yourself too hard.” 

“Well, I’m not,” she says. She must see the continued doubt on his face because more sharply she adds “I’m not. I can handle this. And that’s the last I want to hear about it.” 

“…Fine,” he sighs, relenting. He trusts Robin, and he’s just going to have to take her word that she’s not overdoing it—even if every bit of his intuition is screaming at him that he knows her limits better than even she does.

The moment they arrive at the door to their room, Robin drops his hand, and his stomach drops with it. He’s growing dangerously reliant on the comfort of her touch—it’s like his hands have forgotten what to do with themselves when they’re not woven with hers. 

She waits until the door latches to turn her expectant gaze on him. “Well? The reason you came to get me?”

Chrom swallows—ashamed that he’d nearly forgotten. “Right. I looked through the personal records of the council members, like you suggested. And I found something that seems important.” 

Some of the dullness in Robin’s eyes vanishes—her interest immediately piqued. “You did? Let’s see it then.” 

Chrom retrieves the papers he stowed and lays them out on the room’s desk for them to inspect together. Robin looms over them, her gaze darting between the pages.

“You were right about Ricken’s father, for one thing,” he begins. “After their territory fell onto hard times, the Duke began changing his voting patterns to match the policies of whoever was ruling Ylisse.”

Robin hums softly as she reads over the papers detailing the Duke’s family’s fall from grace. “Right, Ricken has told us as much. What about the others?” 

“I couldn’t turn up anything on the circled names,” he admits. “But as for Lord Ambrose…”

Robin perks up. “Lord Ambrose? All his recent voting records favored peaceful relations with Plegia.”

“Yes,” Chrom agrees, “but I still thought it was strange they’d shifted so suddenly. Especially given how he behaved during the last council meeting. So, I dug a little further, and….” He shifts one of the pages to the center of the desk for Robin to inspect. “Look here.”

Robin hunches over to examine the record in question. “Lord Ambrose has two sons and a daughter?” she asks, squinting down at the parchment. “Why is this the first I’ve ever—oh.” 

She trails off as she lifts the page…and comes face to face with a list of matching mortality schedules: all reporting an identical cause and date of death. 

“...They were killed during a small-scale invasion in the first war with Plegia, along with his wife,” Chrom says softly. 

“Gods…” Robin murmurs, “I’ve read texts on the first war that alluded to the Plegian occupation of Deil, but I never thought—” she breaks off, blowing out a long breath. “How horrible. His whole family, gone in a single night…” 

Chrom’s heart twinges with sympathy. The staggered loss of his mother and sister was hard enough; if he’d lost them both at once, along with Lissa? The thought is an agony he can scarcely comprehend. 

And yet he knows his compassion can only stretch so far. No matter how many family members the Duke might have lost, that doesn’t make it fair or right to condemn all Plegians for it—especially when Plegia was only responding to attacks that Ylisse instigated. If it truly was Lord Ambrose who sent that threat, Robin is now paying the price for violence that was committed when she was no more than a little girl. The thought churns Chrom’s stomach: even so many years later they're all still living through the consequences of his father’s hatred. 

“It is horrible,” Chrom agrees, soberly. “But tragedy or not, it does paint the Duke’s changed voting record in a different light. I suspect his sudden shift towards voting for peaceful relations with Plegia doesn’t come from an eagerness to forge an alliance at all. Most likely, it came from—”

“—Fear,” Robin finishes with him. She runs a nail beneath the line of text listing the Duke’s deceased family members’ names. “You’re right. It’s not hard to imagine that Lord Ambrose wouldn’t take kindly to Ylisse having a Plegian queen. Particularly one of suspect origin.”  Robin turns her attention up to him, squeezing his shoulder as she does. “This was an important discovery. Good work, Chrom.”

He bows his head, suddenly shy. “Well, we don’t know if anything will come of it.”

“That’s true,” she acknowledges, “But it’s the closest thing we’ve found to a lead so far: at the very least it warrants further investigation.”

“I thought you might say that,” he chuckles. “I took the liberty of having Frederick pull the Duke’s schedule for the next few days. Here’s a list of everyone he’s meeting with, as well as the time and location.” 

He hands Robin a separate roll of parchment and she raises an eyebrow as she skims over it. “Impressive foresight,” she commends. 

“Well, I can’t let you show me up all the time,” he says, and takes no small amount of joy in watching her lips curve into a smirk.

“It looks like Lord Ambrose has a meeting with the Minister of Religious Affairs tomorrow—right when we’ll be finishing up that wedding planning meeting with Maribelle,” she notes. “If memory serves, his office is near her rooms. Perhaps I’ll pay it a visit while he’s away.”

“I’ll come with you,” Chrom volunteers. Immediately, Robin’s smile dissolves. 

“Chrom, as much as I’d love to have your help, I don’t think that’s wise. It’s hardly a good look for the future exalt to be poking through his council members' things.” 

“It’s only a bad look if we’re caught,” Chrom insists. “And if I come along that’s much less likely to happen.”

“And why is that?” 

“Two people can search a room faster than one,” he says. “We’ll be in and out much quicker. Besides, if you’re going right after the wedding planning I’ll be there anyway.”

Fleetingly he thinks how odd it is for a sentence like that to come out of his mouth so casually. Wedding planning with Robin. Weeks ago, such a thing would have been utterly inconceivable. But they’ve come a long way since sitting next to each other on a chair sent them both into a blushing tizzy—and Maribelle’s insistence they get an early start on the wedding planning had become too smothering to delay any longer. 

Robin shakes her head, bringing him back to the matter at hand. 

“It’s too risky,” she argues. “If you think I can’t look through the office fast enough, then I’ll get Gaius to come along with me. The consequences if you were caught are too great to justify.”

“Please Robin, there must be something I can do,” he presses, turning imploring eyes on her. “I can’t bear the thought of standing back idly while you take all the risks—not when I should be doing everything in my power to bring this matter to a close. I want to help. I won't feel right about it if I don't.”

Robin worries her lip. They both know that she can’t technically stop him from coming along, but he’s used to deferring to her judgment where all plans are concerned. And he wants her to want him there—not resent him for it.

After nearly a full minute of studiously avoiding his pleading gaze, she sighs.

“...Okay,” she relents, “you can come along. But only to serve as a look out. Leave the actual snooping to me.” 

“Alright,” Chrom agrees, a mollified smile stretching across his face. “Hey, it will be like we really are partners in crime.”

Robin snorts. “Haven’t heard that one in a while.” After another moment of deliberation she adds, “It probably goes without saying, but if you're coming too, then Frederick can't hear a word about this. I do not want to sit through a lecture about how I'm ‘corrupting your princely integrity’.” 

“I’m not sure if it counts as corrupting me if I’m begging to be brought along,” Chrom notes with a chuckle.

“Well, good,” she says, with a meaningful look. “Because between that potion he left us and that kiss in front of the visiting nobles, I’m pretty sure he already thinks I’m seducing you.”

“Wh-what?!” Chrom sputters, his whole face blazing red. A second too late, he registers Robin’s poorly suppressed grin.

“You’re ruthless…” he grumbles. Robin lets loose an unrestrained peal of laughter, nudging his hip with hers on her way over to the dresser. Her mirth is infectious, and despite himself, Chrom finds he’s laughing too. 

They both slip into their nighttime routines without further comment and it’s not until they’re crawling into bed that Chrom realizes it’s the first time they’ve gone to sleep together all week. He'd never thought he'd be in a position where that was something he got a chance to miss.

As he extinguishes the lamp, he imagines the same scene if his feelings were known to Robin—and returned. There would be no stiffly laying on his own side of the bed, skin itching with the knowledge of her so near but untouchable. Instead, he could wind his arms around her waist and tug her back to rest against his chest. He could nuzzle against her hair and neck and leave playful, nipping kisses in a line from her jaw to her ear. He could lose himself in loving her; let his tender caresses convince her in a way that words never will of just how much she means to him. 

It’s a future that’s becoming much too easy to believe in. Chrom’s next breath quivers on its way out of his lungs: every day that passes like this, it becomes a little harder to keep loving her in secret. His tongue aches from the strain of keeping so many confessions locked away. 

Soon, maybe, he finds himself thinking. Considering it is half elation and half terror. 

In the stillness of their darkened room, it doesn’t take long for Chrom’s thoughts to drift to a foggy place right on the cusp of unconsciousness. He’s seconds from sleep when a sharp wrenching motion next to him jolts him awake again. Bewildered, he rolls onto his side to find that Robin has bolted up in bed.

“...Robin?” he mumbles, blinking his haziness away.

“Shit,” she hisses.

Alarm prickles along his spine. He sits up beside her, his awareness sharpening. “What happened? What’s wrong?” 

“The papers I was working on earlier for the council. I can’t believe I didn’t—” she breaks off, cursing again. “I completely forgot to carry over the costs from the first page. The budget for the ball is all wrong."

Despite how distressed she is, Chrom feels his thumping heart sink into steady relief as her meaning becomes clear. “It’s alright,” he assures her. “Now that you’ve realized your mistake, you can fix it first thing tomorrow. No harm done.”

“No, you don’t understand,” Robin mutters, every word spiked through with agitation. “I have to go correct it now! Gods, what’s wrong with me? I should have realized this earlier; I should have…”

“Robin, wait—” She throws off the covers and slides from the bed, dodging his hand as it grasps feebly after her. “You need to sleep,” he insists. “This can wait until morning.” 

“No, it can’t!” 

Chrom opens his mouth to protest but before he can, she snaps, “There are people on the other end of this, Chrom! They’ll be making the purchases with my calculations—I can’t afford to be making mistakes!” 

His fists bunch in the duvet—voice hardening. “Do you think I don’t know what it’s like to have people relying on me?” 

“Well, if you know, then you’ll understand why I can’t rest until this is fixed,” she fires back, already shoving her arms through her coat sleeves. 

“But rest is exactly what you need,” he argues. “You’re only making mistakes because you’re exhausted; all week you’ve been running yourself into the ground. If you would just get some sleep—”

She whirls on him, eyes burning like hot coals. “Is that it then? You don’t think I can handle it?” 

His jaw clenches tight. “That’s not what I’m saying, and you know it.”

“Then what are you saying?” Robin demands. “Because that sure is what it sounds like to me.” 

“I’m saying you don’t need to take all of this on at once!” he bites back. “And that I don’t…I don’t understand why—” 

“You don’t understand what, Chrom?” 

“I don’t understand why you’re putting yourself through all this for some stupid party!” he yells, all of his frustration boiling over.  “It’s not worth it—it doesn’t even matter!” 

Too late he realizes that Robin has gone deathly still, all the anger in her eyes icing over. 

“...No, I guess you wouldn’t understand, would you?” she mutters. Her fists tremble at her sides—every muscle drawn taut. “Why should you give a damn what the council thinks of me?”

His stomach drops. “Robin, that’s not what this is about at all. Would you just—” 

Desperate to make her understand, Chrom launches himself from the bed, but the moment he steps towards her she recoils so viscerally it freezes him in place. With halting steps, Robin backs away until the doorknob is in her grasp.

“I’m going to my office," she says, lifting her gaze to level him with it—defiance written in every line. "I’m fixing that paperwork, no matter how long it takes. Because no matter how stupid you think it is, this is important to me.”

“Robin—” It comes out halfway between a warning and a plea. 

“Don’t bother waiting up,” she snaps. The door slams behind her. 

Chrom stands motionless after she leaves—watching the slats of moonlight shifting and distorting shape on the floor, his mind churning with frustration. He wishes he could be just plain angry at her. That would be so much easier than whatever this is.

But no, this isn’t his fault. As in sync as they usually are, he can’t read Robin’s mind: it’s not fair for her to expect him to know exactly what she’s thinking and get angry when he doesn’t. And whether she’s ready to admit it or not, her work is obviously taking a toll on her. He’s not wrong for being concerned, and her immediate hostility towards his worries was completely unwarranted. He won’t let her convince him otherwise. And yet…

Chrom collapses onto his pillows, pounding one with his fist and grunting in frustration. He lays there despondently for some time, until finally he sits up in bed and re-lights the lamp on his nightstand. Robin said not to wait up, but he’s going to anyway. Maybe if he only allows himself to sleep as much as she does, she’ll finally realize how negligent she’s being with her own health. It’s a petty plan, but for the moment it’s all he’s got. 

Chrom props himself stubbornly against the headboard, intent on staying up all night if he has to. But as the minutes bleed into an hour and then another, his eyelids grow leaden. Before he knows it, he drifts into a restless sleep.

When Chrom awakens the next morning, it’s to the pulse of a headache, a strange crick in his back, and the bed still empty beside him. He groans and rubs his temples while piecemeal memories creep back into his pounding head. 

Did Robin come back at all? 

He squints through the dawn light and finds the blankets on her side more rumpled than he remembers—though whether that’s from her or his own tossing and turning is hard to say.

Chrom drags himself from bed and dresses dazedly, but while his hands go through the motions, his mind remains stubbornly mired in their argument. Robin's seeming hurt and dogged dedication to the work for the council make no more sense to him in the light of morning. 

Gods, wasn’t it only a week ago that he sent her running from the room in a panic? They never used to have this much conflict between them. The thought stirs up phantom fears he thought he'd banished: that if they ever tried their hands at a relationship, and if it were to go poorly, that it might wind up costing them their friendship too.

No, Chrom decides, not a second after he's contemplated it, Robin and I would never let that happen. Their friendship can overcome any opposition; the recent stress and long work hours have just made them both snappy. But it’s not near enough to sever their bond. Nothing is. 

They’re just going to have to talk through things. Again. And preferably sooner rather than later. Sitting through wedding planning with Maribelle will be miserable if things between them are as icy as they were last night. And he can’t imagine that sort of tension would be conducive to investigating their lead with Lord Ambrose, either. 

Luckily for Chrom, Frederick left a copy of Robin’s schedule for the day, and that means he can determine exactly where to go to head her off. With some dismay he notes that up until their wedding planning, her morning is occupied by a meeting with Lady Cecily—presumably to review some of the work Robin was completing so frantically the night before. Not wanting to further incense her, he opts to wait just outside for the meeting to conclude. A few servants cast curious looks his way—likely wondering why the prince is pacing furiously outside a meeting room when he has however many other dozens of duties to attend to, but no matter how many strange looks he receives, Chrom can't seem to rein it in.

When the door finally opens, he's surprised to hear trills of laughter coming from within. Robin strides out, a faint smile painted across her face, only for it to fall away the second her gaze settles on him. It's like watching a plug pulled; every drop of emotion drained away. He’d expected her to still be angry with him, but at present she seems too exhausted to even manage that. 

Chrom swallows around the lump in his throat, suddenly unsure of what to say. “Er...hi,” he manages. 

“...Hi.” Robin measures him with weary eyes before stepping forward, silently leading the way to Maribelle’s rooms and Chrom falls into pace alongside her.

The tension that steeps the silence between them is a physical thing, chafing him with every over-loud step they take down the hall. Words flutter in his throat and fail him three times before he succeeds in making them come out. 

“Robin, about last night—” he begins, at the same time she says:

“Can we call a truce?”

Chrom breaks off, baffled. “A…a truce?” 

“Yes,” she sighs. “I…I know I was short with you. And I know we need to talk about what happened but…I’m so tired, Chrom,” she admits, her gaze dropping to their synchronized steps. “Please, can we just get through the day first? I don’t have the energy to argue right now.” 

Chrom takes a long breath. His instinct is to hash this out as soon as possible, to bury the hatchet and ensure they can move forward with no lingering bitterness between them.

But Robin did just admit that she’s tired—if nothing else, that seems like important progress towards getting them back on the same page. And at the moment, she looks like a strong wind could knock her over if it were determined enough. Maybe it is better to wait to talk until they have more time alone and she’s a little more rested. 

“...Yeah,” he agrees, finally. “Yeah, we can do that. As long as we are still going to talk about it.” 

“We will,” she says, with a wavery smile, “and soon. I promise.” 

Chrom returns it, slipping his hand against the small of her back, and to his relief, she leans closer, sinking into his side. All the tension he’d been carrying eases at the contact; they’re going to be fine. He knows they will. 

“S-so, how are you feeling about this meeting we’re walking into?” he asks, trying to keep any lingering tension at bay with conversation.

Robin huffs out a brittle laugh. “I’m just hoping we can get it over with quickly. Although, it would be just like Maribelle to hold us hostage as long as possible now that we’ve finally agreed to start the planning.”

Chrom chuckles softly. “If it comes to it, I’m sure we can invent some excuse to duck out of there.”

“Mmm, my thoughts exac—” 

Robin freezes mid-step. Chrom stutters to a halt beside her and watches as she pats the pockets of her tactician’s coat, mumbling under her breath. Her eyelids fall closed and her head droops forward. “Damn it.”

“What’s wrong?”

“My journal,” she sighs. “I forgot it in my meeting with Lady Cecily. Gods, when did I get to be so scatter-brained?”

Chrom bites back the first words that spring to his lips—about how she probably wouldn’t have forgotten it if she wasn’t too sleep-deprived to think straight. Truce, he reminds himself. He can press her about it later. For now, there’s the matter of Robin’s journal, and the fact that she looks about ready to cry just from the thought of having to backtrack to retrieve it—as if every extra step she must take will whittle away her remaining strength for facing the day. 

“...I’ll get it for you,” he offers. 

Robin blinks up at him and it seems like it takes a second before the words register. “Are you sure? I can—”

“I’m sure,” he interrupts. “You go on ahead to Maribelle, I’ll be right behind you.” 

“...Okay,” she relents, seeming too relieved to argue further. “See you there.” 

Sending her off with one last squeeze, Chrom turns on his heel and loops back to the meeting room. He shoves the door open without preamble, completely forgetting it could still be occupied, and sends a petite, dark-haired woman within leaping half a foot into the air. 

“Lord Chrom!” she yelps, and as she turns, he recognizes Lady Cecily. She must have hung back after her meeting with Robin. “N-naga above! You scared me halfway to my grave.”

“Sorry. I didn’t think to knock,” Chrom says, sheepishly suppressing a smile. Lady Cecily is normally so composed; he’d never have guessed that she spooks so easily. “Robin forgot her journal, so I came to grab it for her.” 

“Ah…of course,” Lady Cecily says, voice still a little shaky. She takes a breath, quickly pulling herself together, and then slides the journal across the table with a bow of her head. “Apologies that you had to trouble yourself, Your Highness. I only just noticed that your lady left it behind or else I would have brought it to her myself.” 

“It’s no trouble,” Chrom replies, taking the journal with a dismissive wave and already rounding back towards the door.

“A-actually, milord, are you busy at the moment?” Lady Cecily calls. “There was…something I wished to speak with you about.”

Chrom pauses, glancing between her and the door. He likes Lady Cecily well enough, but he doesn’t want to keep Robin waiting. And the last thing he needs is another lecture from Maribelle about his tardiness.

“Is it urgent?” he asks at last. “I was on my way to my first wedding planning meeting, but if it’s important, I can spare a moment.” Despite himself, his face still warms on the word ‘wedding’. 

“…Wedding planning? I see.” Lady Cecily deliberates for a moment before her face clears and she gives a tiny shake of her head. “No, it’s not an urgent matter. And I wouldn’t wish to hold you up. Perhaps another time.”

“Alright,” Chrom agrees, with a relieved smile. “Well, I’ll be off then.”

He doesn’t realize until he’s out the door that he had his own topic he meant to broach with Lady Cecily—about whatever work the council has been giving Robin that doesn’t pertain directly to arrangements for the ball. Then again, he wouldn’t want Robin to feel like he was going behind her back by speaking with the council woman about it without first having told her of his intention to do so. Things between them seem better this morning, but he’d still rather tread lightly where the topic of Robin’s work is concerned—at least until they’ve talked through things in full. And he can always ask Lady Cecily about it after the next council meeting. 

Chrom hurries through the remaining halls and knocks once on Maribellle’s door before pushing it open.

“Sorry for the delay,” he apologizes. “I just had to—”

Chrom stops short as he registers the room’s occupants. “Lissa…? What are you doing here? And where’s Robin?”

“Wow, good to see you too, big brother,” Lissa says, with a roll of her eyes. “I’m here to help with the wedding planning, duh!”

“And Robin?” he repeats. He scans the room over again, as if he could have missed her the first time, but it’s just his sister, her best friend and a small mountain of fabric swatches heaped on the table between them.

Lissa shrugs. “We’re still waiting on her,” she answers. 

Anxiety itches at the back of Chrom’s throat. “Robin isn’t here yet?” 

Lissa shoots an exasperated look at Maribelle—one that says, ‘can you believe what I have to deal with all the time?’ 

“Yeah,” Lissa huffs, “that’s what I just said. Yeesh, Chrom, would it kill you to pay attention?” 

He shakes his head. “I heard you the first time, but Robin and I were walking here together. She forgot some of her things at her last meeting, so I went back to grab them. She should have arrived before me.”

“Perhaps she simply needed to use the powder room,” Maribelle suggests. “I’m sure she’ll be along momentarily. Regardless, we best get started.” 

Chrom fidgets in the doorway a moment before pushing back against his frayed nerves and nodding. “Yeah…you’re probably right.”

He crosses the room and plops down beside Lissa. He’s just frazzled from everything that’s happened recently. All too clearly, he can imagine Robin teasing him for it when she arrives. Hopefully, whatever Maribelle and Lissa have planned can distract him until then. 

“So, what exactly am I supposed to be doing?” Chrom asks. 

Maribelle makes a sweeping gesture to the fabric samples on the table between them. “I’m so glad you asked, milord. First and foremost, we must settle upon the wedding’s color palette, as it shall be paramount for all other decor-related decisions. Now, did you have a particular vision in mind?” 

“Color palette?” Chrom scratches his cheek. “Er, well I like blue? And Robin likes purple.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific,” Maribelle tuts.

“Yeah, there’s like a bajillion different shades of both of those here,” Lissa chimes in. “Like—okay, which of these do you like best?” She snatches a square of periwinkle silk and holds it up next to a swatch of indigo velvet—right in front of his face.

Chrom shrugs helplessly. “I don’t know. They’re both nice.”

“But which one is nicer?” Lissa presses, shoving them closer.

“I don’t know,” he repeats, groaning as he pushes Lissa back out of his space. “Does it really matter? It’ll look fine either way.”

Lissa’s face pinches up in exaggerated outrage, but whatever reply she is going to make is cut short. The door to Maribelle’s room flies open and bangs against the wall—nearly sending an ornamental teapot clattering off its shelf. All three of them flinch, heads whipping towards the palace servant who stands red-faced and breathless in the doorframe. 

“Good heavens! What is the meaning of all this?!” Maribelle exclaims.

“Milady Maribelle! A-and Princess Lissa!” the man gasps. “Please come at once, we need a healer right away!”

Lissa and Maribelle rocket out of their seats, the latter rushing to retrieve her staff from a chest along the wall. 

“What’s going on?” Chrom demands. The servant’s eyes focus on Chrom and his face pales. All at once Chrom’s earlier worries come roaring back to life. 

“Y-your Highness! We’d have come to you first, but we didn’t know where to find you, a-and given the urgency of the matter at hand, we thought it best to—” 

“Enough—just tell me what’s happened!” Chrom’s voice is thread-bare with mounting panic. 

“I-it’s your fiancée,” the man stammers. “Lady Robin has collapsed!”

Chapter Text

Collapsed.

The word ricochets through Chrom’s mind, painted in a hundred horrific casts. Robin collapsed. Robin needs a healer. In a blink, Maribelle’s room becomes the battlefield; blistering sun and golden, cragged stone blurring in and out of focus as his feet pound against it. Falchion, a vain, white-knuckled weight in his palm. His sister, a broken heap before him. For one paralyzing moment, he feels utterly helpless. Then determination scythes his fear to ribbons. 

“Bring me to Robin!” Chrom commands. 

The servant snaps to action, whirling back the way he came, and Chrom is right on his heels—Lissa and Maribelle racing after him.

Their footsteps make an echo chamber of the hall, muting everything else, and Chrom’s world narrows: there is only the corridor in front of him and his rampaging heart. They turn a corner and suddenly the hallway teems with the panic-pitched voices of dithering servants. 

“Get back!” Chrom snaps, barreling through them. 

The servants scatter apart to reveal Robin crumpled on the floor—eyes closed and face ashen. Chrom skids to her side just as his knees buckle. Desperately, his fingers search out the pulse at her wrist, every second until he finds it an agony. 

There. It’s rapid and weak—a feeble flutter, barely discernible beneath his own crashing heart. But it doesn’t matter: Robin’s alive. Now that he’s looking closer, he can see her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. 

“Gods, Robin…” Chrom exhales in a shaky rush of relief, but the feeling is short lived. “Someone, tell me what happened!” 

“I wish that I could say, Your Highness. I was in my office when I heard the commotion.” 

The speaker’s voice chills him—a trail of cold oil slinking down his back. Chrom’s eyes fly up to the man crouched at Robin’s other side, and meet the dim, gray gaze of Lord Ambrose. A surge of Chrom’s panic curdles into fury. 

“What are you doing here?” he demands. “What have you done to Robin?!” 

“I…I beg your pardon?” the duke sputters, his thin lips flapping like the waterless mouth of a fish. “I was—I was merely attempting to offer my assistance!”

Lord Ambrose makes the mistake of reaching towards her, but Chrom strikes his hand back.

“Don’t you dare touch her!” he seethes. “I don’t want you anywhere near her, you—”

Just then, Robin groans softly, reclaiming Chrom’s sole attention. Her eyelids shiver open, dim recognition flickering across her face. 

“…C-Chrom?” she mumbles. 

“Robin!” One of his hands finds hers and grips tight. “I’m here, Robin. I’ve got you.”

The words don’t seem to register. She looks up at him, her dark eyes glassy. “What are you—ow.” She winces. “My head…” 

Her hand drifts to the back of her skull and emerges again stained red. A bead of blood trickles down the seam of her gloves.

“Oh…” Robin breathes. She watches the droplet gem against the leather with curious apathy. “That’s…probably not good.”

Chrom’s chest billows with fresh terror, but the shock of the blood brings his years of military training whirring back to life, commanding his locked muscles to move. He slides an arm beneath Robin’s knees and another around her shoulders, cradling her against his chest. 

“Lissa!” he shouts. 

“I’m right here, Chrom,” she says, immediately at his side. “We need to get her somewhere we can examine her properly.”

“The royal chambers are nearest,” Maribelle adds. She stands just to the side, ushering the lingering servants out of the hallway to clear their path. Chrom nods to them both.  

“Then that’s where we’ll go.”

He spares one last withering glare for Lord Ambrose as they depart—moving as fast as he dares to while trying not to jostle Robin’s head. It’s frightening how light she is in his arms; she feels so small and fragile, nothing like the capable warrior he knows her to be. 

Keeping pace at his side, Maribelle’s staff illuminates with a brief flash of pearly light. Robin’s brow unfurrows—tension fleeing the lines of her face. 

“There, now. That should ease any discomfort she’s in,” Maribelle murmurs, and Chrom hopes she can see the gratitude in his eyes despite the grimace twisting his features. 

They beeline for the royal wing, and the guards must feel the urgency radiating off them, because they leap aside as the group rounds the corner. Lissa dives forward to yank the door open, and Chrom crosses the room swiftly to lower Robin onto the bed. She stirs as he lays her head on the pillow, lips parting around the beginning of words. 

“Chrom,” she breathes, “I—”

“Pardon me, milord, but I must insist you step aside,” Maribelle asserts, bustling past him with her staff in hand. Chrom stumbles back only for Lissa to hook an elbow around his and reel him back to the door. 

“H-hey, wait!” he protests, his alarm mounting with every step he’s pulled further from Robin. “Lissa, what are you—”

“Chrom, I love you,” Lissa interjects, “but if we let you stay, you’re just gonna hover and get in our way. Wait outside, okay?” 

“But I—”

“Look, standing there freaking out isn’t going to help Robin get better any quicker,” Lissa chides. “I promise, I’ll come get you as soon as she’s settled. But you gotta let us work first.” 

Without waiting for a response, Lissa shoves him the rest of the way out the door and closes it in his face. Chrom seizes the doorknob, but it’s no use—it’s already locked. 

Groaning, he slams a fist against the wall, rattling a near-by painting frame. The last thing he wants is to be stranded alone with his anxieties. No sooner has the frame stilled, though, than he realizes this sort of behavior is exactly why Lissa doesn’t want him in there. He sinks against the wall, breath quivering and fists balled at his sides while he tries to battle his emotions back under control.

Gods, how useless can I be? 

Not for the first time, Chrom wishes desperately that he’d inherited his sisters’ aptitude for white magic. But no, it’s never been healing that comes naturally to him—only hurting. And now Robin is in there—weak and injured—and he can do nothing at all to help. 

Guilt consumes him. He never should have left her side. If he’d just stayed with her, this wouldn’t have happened. 

Part of him knows it's not a reasonable demand to place on himself—he can’t be with Robin every second of every day. But in the moment, logic doesn't stop it from feeling true. That something would have happened to her the very moment they separated feels like a confirmation of all his insufficiencies. 

Did she faint? Did someone hurt her? It's killing him not knowing. And he doesn’t understand what she was doing so near Lord Ambrose’s office, either. While it’s not far from Maribelle’s room, Robin would have had to veer off path to get there. So why would she be—

Chrom shakes his head. It’s useless speculating. He’ll ask Robin what happened when she’s feeling well enough to tell him herself. Which she will be. Soon. He has to believe that. The memory of her blood darkened gloves is seared into his eyes, but he’s seen Lissa and Maribelle heal people who have much more lethal looking injuries. It was Robin’s weak pulse which worries him most. 

Chrom lets his eyes fall closed, willing time itself to hurry ahead—knowing every moment until he can be at Robin’s side and see for himself that she is okay will be its own tiny torture. He doesn’t know if it’s been mere minutes or much longer when the door to his room finally squeals open.

“Chrom? You still here?”

He whips his head up at the sound of his sister's voice. Lissa spies him crouched against the wall and shuffles out of the room. The door doesn’t even have a chance to swing closed before Chrom is interrogating her.

“Lissa, what happened? Is Robin alright? Is she going to be okay?”

Lissa nods, muted weariness written across her face. “Yeah, she’s gonna be just fine. Maribelle and I got her all patched up, now she just needs to rest.”

Chrom’s body floods with dizzy relief. He jumps to his feet, only to catch himself against the wall when the sudden shift in posture brings a wave of vertigo with it.

“Hey, woah, watch it!” Lissa exclaims, her hand snapping out to steady him. “The last thing we need is you collapsing too!”

“Sorry, sorry,” he apologizes hurriedly, “I was just so afraid, and—” he breaks off, lost for words. Usually, he tries so hard to put on a brave front around Lissa, but Robin’s collapse splintered his composure to pieces and it’s all he can do to keep himself on both feet and breathing evenly. 

Lissa pats his shoulder, her smile softer than he can remember seeing it in a long time. “There, there, big brother. I get it. It’s gonna be alright.”

“Please, Lissa, can I see her?”

Lissa thinks if over a beat then nods. “Yeah, as long as you’re—” but Chrom doesn’t let her finish. He hoists the door open, half running in his eagerness. 

Inside, the curtains are drawn closed across the windows and balcony doors, and at first he can’t see much of anything. The moment his eyes adjust enough to find Robin, though, everything else ceases to exist. The sight of her ignites something in him—a protectiveness that flares fiercely in the hollow of his chest. Chrom rushes to her side, spurred on by the feeble smile she offers him. 

“Hi, Chrom,” she says. So simple, and yet hearing those words from her is like that first gasp of air after surfacing from deep underwater.

Chrom falls to his knees beside the bed and envelopes her in his arms, and when Robin sinks into him willingly, he allows himself to hug her closer still; taking deep, soothing inhalations of the lavender and honey scent of her hair.

“You don’t know how worried I was,” he mumbles, lips buried against the crook of her neck.

Robin gives a brittle laugh, absently stroking his back. “I think you’re giving me a pretty good idea.” 

Chrom pulls back just enough to search her face. Her complexion is wan and she’s avoiding meeting his gaze, so he lifts her chin, guiding her to look at him. The circles beneath her eyes are even more pronounced in the room’s low light; shadow colored and darker than her irises. He traces each with his thumb before pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. Robin’s breath hitches from the contact and it makes him want to kiss her mouth too.

“What happened?” he asks, instead. Immediately, Robin’s weak smile collapses in on itself.

“Well, darling, are you going to tell him or shall I?” Maribelle drawls.

Her voice catches Chrom by surprise—twice over. In truth, he’d forgotten he wasn’t there with Robin alone—a fact which should be concerning, given that he just kissed her. At the moment, though, he’s more focused on the surprising sharpness of Maribelle’s tone—every syllable drenched in disapproval.

“…I’ll tell him,” Robin answers, eyes still looking anywhere but at Chrom. She huffs in a preparatory breath. “I…I fainted and hit my head,” she admits softly before rushing on ahead, “but it wasn’t anything serious—just a little bump and scrape.”

“Fainted?” Chrom echoes. “From…from exhaustion?”

Robin swallows. “Y-yes.”

“Now, do be sure you give him the whole picture, dear,” Maribelle chimes in, voice stern. “It wasn’t only exhaustion that caused your collapse. You were famished and dreadfully dehydrated, as well.” 

Robin cringes while Chrom looks between them both with rapidly amplifying concern. His heart feels like it’s tying itself in a knot. “Robin, when was the last time you ate?”

She chews at her lip for long enough that it seems necessary to prompt her again. “Robin?”

“I’m…I’m trying to remember,” she mumbles.

Maribelle clucks her tongue. “If it takes you that long to recall, then the answer is quite clearly ‘not recently enough’.” She shuffles around the bedside table, staff still in hand, and shoots Chrom an expectant look—at which point he realizes he’s squarely in her way. The notion of not being near Robin right now is unbearable, though, so he lifts himself over her and settles on her opposite side so Maribelle can access her more easily. 

Maribelle’s staff glows emerald, eyes scrunched in concentration as she performs a spell that Chrom recognizes from the many scrapes and scuffs they’d gotten into during their travels with the Shepherds: she’s taking Robin’s vitals. When she’s finished, Maribelle’s lips pucker in distaste and she pours a glass of water from a pitcher on the bedside table. “Tsk. Your resting heart rate is still much too high. Drink this.”

Robin accepts the glass obediently, gulping down every drop. With the glass empty, Maribelle sets it aside before turning her accusatory gaze back upon her patient.

“Now, Robin, darling, if you were anyone else, perhaps I’d place some of the blame for your condition on that fiancé of yours, as well. He has a duty to ensure you’re well taken care of, after all,” she says, her eyes sliding briefly to Chrom. “However, all too clearly I can recall the plates of food His Highness would bring to you when you couldn’t be dragged from the strategy tent during that horrid war campaign. Had I not known already that he was sweet on you, I dare say his commitment to making certain you didn’t wither away would have made it abundantly clear.”

Chrom quashes his instinct to protest, settling instead for squeezing Robin’s hand. Normally, Maribelle’s words would embarrass him more, but with his thoughts snagged on Robin’s collapse, the sentiment feels distant and divorced from the rest of him.

“I did try to tell her she was over doing it,” he says. Robin winces beside him.

“Of that I have no doubt,” Maribelle replies. “Alas, what’s done is done. Fortunately, while white magic shan’t be of much help, the treatment for exhaustion is very simple. As such, I’m sentencing you to bed rest for the remainder of the day, Robin. And I do mean rest,” she tacks on pointedly. “That means no tomfoolery for the two of you—you shall both keep your hands decidedly to yourselves.”

Now, Chrom reddens. “M-Maribelle! We wouldn’t—” 

“Darling Lissa will come by this evening to see how your recovery is progressing,” she continues, paying him no mind. “Assuming you’re improving appropriately, you may resume light social activity tomorrow, though I’ll be present myself to ensure you’re not over doing it. And you aren’t to attempt work on any official assignments from the council for the next three days.”

Robin, who has been largely quiet up until this point, jerks her head up in a panic. “What?! Three whole days? Maribelle, you can’t be serious!”

“And yet I most certainly am."

“I can’t afford to stop working for that long!” Robin protests. “There’s so much I still need to do, and—”

“Well, then you should have made more of an effort to pace yourself prior to causing such a fuss,” Maribelle retorts, with a haughty toss of her hair. “As is stands, I have little faith in your ability to engage with your work in moderation, so it’s to be no work at all until I’m certain you’ve made a full recovery. Healer’s orders.”

“Ugh.” Robin slumps against the bed frame, petulant. Chrom is so grateful that he half contemplates embracing Maribelle on the spot. 

“Now, now. You wouldn’t wish to appear unappreciative of the care Lissa and I have just provided, would you?” Maribelle asks, one eyebrow arched in challenge.

“No…I wouldn’t,” Robin sighs. “Thank you for looking after me, Maribelle.”

“There, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Maribelle purrs. “Milord, I trust that you’ll see to it my instructions are followed to the letter?” 

“You have my word,” Chrom assures her. Robin shoots a look of betrayal his way, but he is utterly unaffected. 

With a satisfied nod, Maribelle smooths the non-existent wrinkles from her blouse and skirt. “Well, in that case, I shall take my leave,” she announces. “But do be sure to get some sleep, Robin, dear. We simply cannot have your complexion looking so frightful for your introduction to high society.” 

Robin grumbles something under her breath that Chrom doesn’t catch. He’s a little surprised Maribelle’s going so soon, but she has always been shrewd—perhaps she can sense how eager he is to speak with Robin privately.

“Thank you for your help,” he calls, as Maribelle makes her way to the door. She dips into a curtsy in acknowledgment before gliding out of the room. 

With Maribelle gone, quiet settles between the two of them, itchy and raw-edged as a scab. Chrom turns Robin’s hand over in his own, tracing her life-line where it makes a narrow canyon of her palm. His mind paints over her bare skin with the image of her blood-stained gloves and he suppresses a shudder.

“I’m sorry,” Robin blurts, the words cleaving the silence. “I’m sorry for worrying you. And for causing all this trouble. I never meant to—”

“I know,” Chrom says gently. “I know you didn’t. But Robin—”

She plows ahead anyway, eyes scrunched shut. “No, I…I should have listened to you when you said I was overdoing it. I should have trusted you, but I…gods,” she groans. “I really am sorry, Chrom. I was awful and snappish to you when you were just trying to protect me from my own hubris.”

“I don’t hold it against you,” he says. 

“Well, you should,” she insists, shaking her head. “I was an ass.” 

Chrom cracks a smile despite himself. “Would you like for me to be angry with you?”

“No. Yes. Maybe?” Robin sighs. “I don’t know. I might feel less guilty if you were.” 

Chrom shakes his head. “Apologies, then, but I don’t think I have it in me at the moment.” And it’s true—all the aggravation he felt the night before has been sapped away, replaced instead by numb relief. His thumb glides over Robin’s skin; dips to her wrist’s pulse point just to feel the comforting thump of her heart. “But…if you want to absolve yourself, then you could start by telling me the truth,” he suggests. 

For a flash, Robin’s eyes widen—something frantic burning in her gaze, before they ease just as abruptly into placid understanding.  “…You want to know why I was so upset last night,” she guesses. “And why this was so important to me.”

Chrom nods. “I know that something I said hurt you, but I don’t understand why. All I’m asking for is your honesty.”

“Right,” Robin says, “and I owe you that much, at least. Especially because it wasn’t you I was upset with at all. It’s just—” She groans suddenly, hiding her face in her free hand. “Gods, this is all going to sound so ridiculous.” 

“If it’s your feelings, it’s not ridiculous, Robin,” he assures her. He can tell she’s still hesitant, though, so he slips his arm around her waist, drawing her against his shoulder. They’re alone, and strictly speaking, there’s no justification for such affection. But holding her feels right: he’s not going to allow himself to overthink it. “Whatever it is, you can tell me.” 

Robin blinks up at him, startled for a moment before she relinquishes any misgivings and settles against him. 

“Okay. Alright, then…” Her throat bobs as she swallows. “Do…do you remember how I was working on those taxation records when you visited me yesterday?”

Chrom nods, so she continues. “Well, it was just like you said then: originally, I was only supposed to be helping with preparations for the ball. But a day or two after I started my assignments for the council, Lady Idris came to me while I was working.” Robin moistens her lips, expression dipping into a frown. “She said that if I was truly committed to helping out, she had some other work I could try my hand at. Obviously, I knew she was trying to take advantage of me. But she was so snide about it—she was clearly only offering because she was certain I couldn’t handle it.

“So…I told her I’d do it. And I did. I completed every form she gave me. And it took twice as long as it should have, because I wanted to be sure they were all perfect. I turned them in and figured I’d shown her, and that would be the end of it. But…I guess that was naive,” Robin admits. “Because the next day, she had a whole stack of forms for me, and so did a handful of other council members. I think she realized she couldn’t break me with the type of work, so they were all determined to do it with the amount, instead. I knew what was happening—I knew they would just keep piling more assignments on me—as much as it took to see me fail. But I thought…if I could prove them wrong…if I could just show them I’m capable of more than they believed, t-then maybe…” 

She breaks off with a quivering laugh, and Chrom works to press all of his vehemence into a tiny cinder in his chest to keep from interrupting. Robin’s eyes glitter knowingly.

“I know what you want to say: that I should have told you, and you would have made them stop. I know that. But…I couldn’t do it, Chrom. Asking you to swoop in and save me would have been the same as admitting defeat. And…I wanted to prove I could handle this myself.

“It was a fools errand, of course. Nothing I did would change their minds. But I…I felt like I had to try. That’s why I was so upset when you told me I was overdoing it: I knew you were right, but I couldn’t bear the thought of giving up and accepting it was too much for me. And maybe that’s because I wanted to prove it to myself too,” she says softly. “That someone like me—someone with no rank or social status, someone Plegian—that I could still…”

When Robin chokes off, Chrom squeezes her fingers, gently encouraging. “That you could still…?”

Shakily, Robin gathers her breath before meeting his eyes. “I wanted to prove that I could still be worthy of all this. Everything the council thinks you’re entrusting me with: the power and influence. And…of standing beside you, too,” she admits. “As your tactician, o-or anything else. I wanted to prove that I’m not just here because I was in the right place at the right time—even if some days it does feel that way.” 

“Robin….” Chrom shakes his head, a small smile unfolding across his face even as his heart aches for her. “I take back what I said before: that is ridiculous.” 

Hurt flashes in her eyes, but before it can take root, he hurries to add, “It’s ridiculous because there’s nothing you need to prove to me, or anyone else—not when you’ve already done so a thousand times over. If anything, it’s the council members who should be vying for your approval.”

Robin huffs and elbows him in the rib. “Well, there were certainly more delicate ways you could have said that…but I appreciate the sentiment, all the same.”

“Alright, then let me try again,” he offers, working to catch her eyes. “You’ve amazed me every day since I’ve met you, Robin. And I’ve known you’re more than worthy of me for a long time now. Just knowing you makes me want to be better, and being at your side makes me believe that I can be.”

With each word, a steady blush blossoms across her cheeks. Chrom brings a hand to her flushed skin—brushes aside a lock of hair, and marvels at the glimmering droplets clinging to her pale eyelashes.

“…Are you crying?” he asks in wonder.

“Shut up,” Robin grouses, scrubbing at her face. “I’m sleep-deprived and delirious.”

Chrom laughs and kisses the top of her head—thrilled when her breath hitches again. 

She’s going to know you love her, some part of his mind warns him. 

Let her, then, he thinks back just as heatedly. He hardly has the energy to keep fighting this; and he’ll lay his heart as bare as need be if it can offer her even a twinge of comfort. 

Beneath his finger pads, Robin’s pulse beats strong and even—a sharp contrast to when he found her in the hall. The memory hooks his thoughts on an earlier question. 

“Robin, there is one thing I still don’t understand. What were you doing outside Lord Ambrose’s office? It’s not on the way to Maribelle’s room.”

Robin slaps a hand to her forehead. “Gods, in all the commotion, I nearly forgot! When I was on my way to Maribelle’s, I saw Lady Penelope lurking near the entrance to that wing. She looked like…well, like she didn’t want to be seen.”

Chrom’s eyes widen. “Lady Idris’s daughter? Do you think she was there to meet with Lord Ambrose? That the two of them could be—” 

“I don’t know. Naturally, I followed her hoping to find out what she was up to. But then I got lightheaded and…” Robin gives a rueful sigh. “Well, you know the rest.”

Her words unearth a shard of suspicion in him—digging into his thoughts with sharp edges. “You said there were several council members that came to you with extra work after Lady Idris did,” Chrom recalls. “Was Lord Ambrose one of them?”

“He was,” Robin answers. “Though, there were plenty of others as well.”

Chrom's mind races ahead. It seems so obvious, suddenly. If there were multiple council members loading the extra work on Robin that lead to her collapse, why couldn’t two or more have collaborated to leave her the threat as well? Maybe the extra work wasn’t as overtly malicious as a dead rat left in her room, but it was an attempt to sabotage Robin, all the same. In all his worrying over the perpetrator, he’s not sure why he never considered the possibility before.

And who’s to say they’ll stop with this? If Chrom doesn’t intervene, he has no doubt one or more of the council members will try something else—find another way. He can’t keep standing back and waiting for the next card to fall; this has already gone on long enough. 

He needs answers. He needs proof he can leverage against the council so they have no choice but to stop their vicious crusade against Robin. Or, better yet, so he can see them stripped of their titles and cast from the ranks of the Noble League altogether. To wait even another day, another hour, would be too long. Not when it’s already taking a toll on Robin’s health.

“Chrom? What’s wrong?” Robin murmurs, her voice anchoring him back at her side. “You’re not blaming yourself for what happened, are you? Because it was my own fault for not listening to you.” 

He shakes himself from his forming plans and tries to soften his expression. He can't let her know what he's thinking. Fortunately, Robin’s presence has always been the surest way to coax his features into a smile. 

“I’m alright,” he assures her, “just worried about you. We shouldn’t be talking when you need your rest.” 

And that much is true. In the wake of their discussion, he’d almost forgotten about how exhausted she still must be.

“Hmm…” Robin cocks an eyebrow, suspicious for a moment, before she seems to let it go. “I suppose a nap does sound pretty nice. Honestly, I’m not sure I could resist if I wanted to.” She stretches then casts a questioning look at his arm, still draped around her. A lovely blush springs to her cheeks, sending his heart cartwheeling. “Were you…planning to stay?”

“Just until you fall asleep. Er, if that’s alright,” Chrom adds hastily. He's not sure why he feels so nervous suddenly. They’ve been sharing a bed for more than a week now—this isn’t anything new. 

Except in a way, it is: this time, they aren’t stuck in the bed together for the sake of deceiving anyone. Still, with Robin tucked so comfortably against him, he can’t bring himself to regret offering. 

“You don’t have work to do?” Robin prompts around a yawn. 

Yes, but… “I doubt you’ll be awake much longer,” he replies with a teasing smile. 

As if to prove his point, Robin yawns again and, gods help him, actually snuggles into his side. She settles her head on his chest and he hopes desperately that the drumming of his heart won’t disturb her. 

“Oh, be honest,” she mumbles, “you’re only staying to make sure I don’t get up and start trying to work again.”

“Well, I did give Maribelle my word,” he says, chuckling, “but…no. That’s not the only reason.” 

“Mmm?” Robin’s eyes battle their way open for just a second before sinking shut again, already succumbing to the siren song of sleep. “Issthere…‘nother reason?” 

Chrom strokes her hair, gentle as moonlight. “I just like being at your side, Robin,” he confesses. “You’re my best friend, after all, and I—” 

The even pull of Robin’s deepening breathing breaks him off: she’s sound asleep. 

Chrom closes his eyes; allows himself a moment to savor the steady sureness of her heart. The way each of her warm exhalations kisses the base of his throat. He’d stay forever, if he could. But the only thing more important to him than being with her is making certain she never has to push herself like this again. 

Gingerly, Chrom eases Robin from where she rests against his chest to lie on the mattress and pillows of their bed. 

“…And I love you,” he finishes, softer than a whisper. “I swear to you, Robin, I will make this right.” 

“You sure you wanna do this?” Gaius prods. “It’s not too late to back out.” 

“Please, Gaius. Just get on with it,” Chrom urges him. He steals another glance down the hall, but so far they haven’t seen a soul. “The sooner we’re in, the sooner we can be out.” 

Gaius shrugs, crouching down in front of the office door’s keyhole. “Alright, Blue. Your wish is my command. But just so it’s on the record, I don’t think this is your brightest idea. Whole thing seems like a rush job to me. And it ain’t gonna look good if we’re caught.”

“Well, then we won’t get caught,” Chrom snaps. He doesn’t want to hear this right now, especially not from Gaius of all people.

When Chrom glances down, though, he's immediately snagged on the sharp edge of Gaius’s stare. Instantly, his tone catches up to him and he sighs. 

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be short with you. But believe me when I say that this can’t wait. Not any longer.” His voice drops, low and serious. “You should have seen her, Gaius. When I found Robin in the hallway, for a second I thought that she…”

Gaius nods tightly. “Yeah, the whole palace staff has been buzzing about that. I know Bubbles loves work almost as much as I love sugar, but it sounds like she finally took it too far.” He withdraws what looks like a long crooked pin from his belt and angles it into the keyhole while he continues. “Look, I get why you’re worried, Blue. Honest, I do. We all know how much you love her. I just don’t think Bubbles would be pleased if she knew you were doing this without her.”

“…I know,” Chrom admits quietly. “But Robin’s well-being is more important than her approval. If you’re not willing to help me, I can—”

“Aw, don’t give me that. I’m not about to leave you hanging now. Not when you’d be lost without me.” Gaius slips a wink in at the end—playing at nonchalant, but Chrom sees the words for what they really are.

He covers a chuckle. “That I would. Thank you, Gaius. You’re a true friend.”

The praise rolls right over Gaius's head, all his attention trained on shimmying the lock pick. “Crivens, you’re a slippery little bugger, aren’t you?” he mutters under his breath. “I told you these palace locks were a pain to—”

A soft click from the latch interrupts. Gaius smirks, nudging the door open, and just like that, they’re in. Eager to get started, Chrom sweeps into the room, but Gaius catches him by the shoulder. 

“Hey, make sure you take a look around first,” he advises, shutting the door firmly behind them. “Gotta keep everything just how it was when we got here.”

“Right,” Chrom acknowledges, “good thinking.” 

He scans the room over, working to commit it to memory. The layout is similar to his own office space, though it’s unsurprisingly smaller. A desk sits centered in front of the window, where dark silk curtains are drawn aside to reveal the flat, blue backdrop of a cloudless sky. The desk itself is austere and immaculate, bare of any trinkets or decor. Instead, the duke’s personal touches are confined to the plaques hung above the fireplace mantle—each announcing a different accolade. Ceiling high bookcases blanket the walls, each stuffed to bursting with encyclopedic sized volumes. Chrom glances at the titles on the shelf nearest him: A Complete History of Ylissean Common Law, 3rd Edition, and The Coastal Almanac: A Comprehensive Guide to Growing Crops in High Salinity Soil—books he’d sooner bang his head against than willfully read. 

“Alright, let’s get to it,” Gaius says, when he’s finished surveying the room himself. “Remember, we’ve got a quarter hour—tops. Any idea what we’re looking for?” 

“I’m not sure, exactly,” Chrom admits. “Anything that seems suspicious. Or anything related to Robin.”

Gaius nods. “I’ll poke around in the fireplace. See if his lordship has been burning any dirty little secrets…” 

“Then I’ll start with his desk.”

Chrom scours the drawers, finding nothing but spare ink and quills in the first and a pile of paperwork in the second. He pages through it, trying to be mindful in his search. Systematic. But as far as he can tell, none of it is out of the ordinary. When he reaches the third drawer, the handle won’t budge.

“This one’s locked,” he calls. “Gaius, can you—”

Gaius swings over to his side, only to take one look at the lock and shake his head. “Sorry, that’s a no-go, Blue. A lock like that would take more time than we have to pick.”

Frustration makes a sinkhole of Chrom’s stomach. “But that means it's just the place to hide something important.”

“Look, I don’t know what to tell you,” Gaius says with a shrug. “If we had more time, I could do it. But we don’t. Maybe the duke keeps the key hidden somewhere in here.” 

Chrom groans but resigns himself to searching. It’s not behind the curtains, or under the desk; he lifts the plaques off the wall one by one, checking the back of each to no avail. Every second that ticks by takes a toll on his composure. It might not even be here at all…

Thinking that way is no help, though. Chrom taps his foot impatiently, eyes sweeping over the room again. Where would someone hide a key? Assuming Lord Ambrose uses the drawer regularly, it can’t be anywhere overly inconvenient. 

Chrom refocuses on the bookcase nearest the desk. For someone who keeps so many books, it certainly doesn’t look like the duke reads them regularly: a film of dust blankets their spines and the lacquered wood of each shelf. 

Or most of them, anyway. A disruption in the dust pattern draws his eye—where one volume must have been removed from the bookcase more recently. The spine is deep jade and title-less—trimmed with golden embossing. Chrom slides the book out, tracing the divots in the dust. He thumbs the corner; the book falls open and there’s a flash of dull bronze as something clatters to the floor. Chrom stoops to retrieve a weathered key with an unusually hooked bit and wards. 

“I found it!” he announces. A smile splits his face—he dares to think Robin would be proud of him. 

“Hey, not bad, Blue,” Gaius commends, glancing up from his own work by the fireplace. “I think I might’ve found something too.”

Chrom steps closer as Gaius proffers a soot-tinged scrap of parchment. The first word is cut off, but what’s legible reads ‘—ofit Margins on Valmese Imports’. 

“Profit Margins?” Chrom surmises. “Why would Lord Ambrose be burning these?”

“Dunno, but from the amount of ash here, it wasn’t the only page that got torched,” Gaius replies. His words raise goosebumps on the back of Chrom’s neck. “I’ll check the waste basket and see if there’s anything there. Keep it moving, though, we’ve only got five minutes.”

Jamming the key into the lock, Chrom yanks the drawer open. He sucks in a sharp breath as he peers inside, but it contains nothing except another large stack of paperwork. Disappointment throbs through him with each heart beat. 

Honestly, what was I expecting to find? A bottle of rat poison?  He doubts the duke would hang onto anything so blatantly incriminating. And while it may just be more paperwork, the fact that these documents were kept behind lock and key means they warrant investigating. 

Chrom skims over the first few pages, but there’s nothing notable—just dry, financial minutia pertaining to the duke’s territory. A few more pages of the same and he feels his hope dip further: maybe he could find something meaningful here if he combed through every page, but he doesn’t even know what he’s looking for. And they’re low on time as it is. 

He’s about to take his search elsewhere when the crinkled corner of one parchment leaf catches his attention. It’s wedged half way down the stack, but the corner doesn’t align with the others, as if it was shoved there in a hurry. Chrom tugs it loose and flattens it on the desk, letting his eyes roam over the page. Whoever completed it must have done so carelessly, because several of the numbers are crossed out and re-written above. His gaze wanders down to the signature at the bottom, then fastens there. Doubles back. 

“Gaius…” he breathes. “Gaius! I found something.” 

“Hm? What’ve you got there?” He bounces to his feet and squints at the paper in Chrom’s hand. “‘Summed Expenses for the Deil Agricultural Foundation’? Can’t say it sounds riveting.”

“No, no, look at the signature.”

Gaius’s eyes drop to where Robin’s name is looped in her trademark, gnarled script at the bottom of the page. 

“This must be one of the forms Robin completed for Lord Ambrose,” Chrom continues. “She wrote in the first set of numbers on here too; I’d recognize her handwriting anywhere.”

Gaius eyes Robin’s name a moment more, then sweeps back to the numbers above. “Why’d someone cross out all her work then? Wouldn’t be like Bubbles to make so many mistakes.”

“No, it wouldn’t,” Chrom agrees. Robin’s words from earlier toll in his mind: ‘it took twice as long as it should have, because I wanted to be sure they were all perfect’.

Chrom grabs the ink bottle and quill at the corner of the desk, and lacking blank parchment, he pins his cape to the wooden surface with a fist and scribbles over the fabric. His hand trembles, and the ink bleeds through, but he can’t make himself care. It’ll have to do.

“Blue, do I even want to know what you’re doing right now?” 

“Checking the calculations,” Chrom replies distractedly. The math is second nature to him at this point: for the first time, he’s grateful for all the paperwork he’s done in the last few months. Chrom hurriedly copies a few more lines down before returning to the values printed on the form. His numbers all match Robin’s. 

“I don’t understand…” he mutters. “Why would someone cross them out if they’re correct?” 

His intuition gnashes at him: something is definitely wrong here. He turns back to the document stack, paging through again, this time checking specifically for any other forms completed by Robin. He does a double-take when he finds a second copy of the form he was just looking at in the stack again. It has the same title 'Summed Expenses for the Deil Agricultural Foundation'—but this time without the numbers crossed out.

Chrom glances between them, baffled. The only set of handwriting on this copy is Robin’s…but all the numbers entered on it match the altered set on the original—not her initial, accurate calculations. In fact, now that he’s looking between them, he realizes these numbers aren’t just wrong, the second set of values are all higher. 

Chrom lays the sheets side by side, eyes drawn again to Robin’s signature at the bottom of each. They look nearly identical. No, not nearly…they’re a perfect match. As if one of them was—

Understanding spears him like a violent lightning strike. 

“That bastard,” Chrom spits. “Gaius…I think Lord Ambrose is trying to frame Robin.”  

Chapter Text

As Chrom stares down at the forged signature, the pieces snap together with the same sickening crack as bones breaking.

The council never intended to test Robin’s competence; even her exhaustion and collapse weren’t their true aim. No, Lord Ambrose and his co-conspirators intended something far more malicious. They’ve always been willing to do whatever it takes to ensure Robin will never sit beside him on the throne, even if that means committing forgery.

Or worse…treason.

The altered numbers on the form paint a damning picture—one that Robin’s reputation may never recover from if it comes to light. The realization mangles itself within him into a lashing, white-out rage. 

Chrom’s heartbeat builds to a violent ricochet inside his skull. His blood is on fire; boiling him from the inside out. He can’t think. Not over the shrill screaming of all of his instincts—shrieking at him that as long as these documents still exist, they can be used to hurt Robin and he cannot allow that to happen.

“Wh—what the hell are you doing?!” Gaius demands, but Chrom barely hears him over the tearing of parchment. He shreds both the forms—turns them to tatters in his hands—then wrenches the office window open and looses the pieces on the breeze. The scraps whistle away on the wind, irretrievable even as Gaius scrambles over to the sill and stares out after them.

But it’s not enough. Watching those tiny parchment petals be carried away does nothing to extinguish the burning. It doesn’t unfurl the stranglehold his anger has on his head, his lungs, his heart—

There could still be more forgeries. And Robin won’t be safe until he’s destroyed all of them. 

Chrom whirls back to the desk, grabbing wildly at the remaining forms. “Scour the rest of the office!” he orders. “We’re not leaving until we’ve turned the whole place over. If the duke has more forms hidden here then—”

“Blue, have you lost your damn mind?!” Gaius cries. “Those papers were the only proof we had and you just turned them into confetti!”

“We found forged forms in his office, Gaius!” Chrom snaps. “Are two witnesses not proof enough?”

Gaius grits his teeth, shaking his head. “Did you forget that no one is supposed to know you were in here? You can’t testify to finding the papers here if—”

“We don’t have time to argue!” Chrom interrupts, yanking one of the drawers so hard it comes crashing off the rail. “Robin is in danger! I can’t allow him to hurt her again, I—”

The office door’s lock clicks. Gaius spits out a vibrant string of curse words as the handle turns.

Lord Ambrose pushes open the door. Fresh fury erupts behind Chrom’s ribs, tunneling his vision the moment his eyes lock on the man’s smarmy face. The duke gets the door half-way closed before he looks up and registers his office’s occupants.

“Good gods!” he exclaims, alarm and outrage warring for dominance on his face. “What in Naga’s name are you—”

“You!” Chrom snarls. He shoots across the office, dragging the door closed just to shove the duke back against it with a white knuckle grip on his coat’s lapels “You’ll pay for this!”

“Wh-what is the meaning of all this?!” the duke sputters. His gaze bounces wildly from Chrom, to his desk, to Gaius and then back again. “Unhand me at once! I don’t—i-if this is about your fiancée’s collapse, then I already told you—”

“Don’t play dumb!” Chrom growls, his hold on the duke tightening. “We found the forms you forged. We know you were planning to frame Robin!”

“Th-the forms?” Ambrose stammers, and Chrom feels a vindictive thrill watching the duke’s pasty skin pale further. “N-no, wait! You have the wrong idea altogether! If you would release me, then I can explain—”

“You have the gall to deny it? I saw the evidence with my own eyes!” Chrom snaps. “I could have you thrown in the dungeons this minute!”

“I didn’t doctor those pages!” Ambrose bellows. He jerks around, trying to struggle free from Chrom’s hold, but he’s no match for Chrom’s strength. “Listen to me, boy: it is Ladies Idris and Penelope who are planning to frame your fiancée, not I!”

“Liar,” Chrom spits, pushing the duke harder against the door. “You honestly expect me to believe that you had nothing to do with this?!”

“I’m telling the truth! And you’d realize it if you had sense enough to listen!” Lord Ambrose roars. “I recovered those forms from the duchess’s daughter! I’ll swear it to Naga herself; I’ll swear it under truth serum if I must!”

Of all the things the Duke has said so far, this is the first to give Chrom pause. “Truth serum?” he echoes, eyes narrowing. “I hope you’re prepared to be called on your bluff.”

“It’s not a bluff,” the duke hisses. “Now, if you’re prepared to stop behaving like such a blasted fool—”

The last frayed ends of Chrom’s composure rend apart. He winds a fist back—

—only for two hands to clamp around it and wrench it away before he can connect with the duke’s jaw.

Chrom whirls to find Gaius has crossed to his side, and that he’s now using all his body weight in a shaky attempt to restrain Chrom’s arm.

“Blue, you might want to think this one through,” he cautions; wincing when Chrom tries to shake him off.

“Let go of me, Gaius! Whose side are you on?”

“Yours! I’m just saying we should hear him out.” When he sees the scowl on Chrom’s face, Gaius rushes ahead. “Look, if it turns out he’s lying scum, then you can still throw him in the dungeons. Or do worse for all I care. But at the very least, I bet he can tell us who else was in on this. If you wanna keep Bubbles safe, we need to know how deep this thing runs. And clocking him in the jaw isn’t going to make him more likely to talk.”

Chrom takes a jagged breath. What Gaius is saying makes sense: they need to root out everyone who had a hand in this plot. But as it stands, he can’t look at Ambrose without recalling the ashen terror on Robin’s face when they found that rat—or the night-dark shadows under her eyes when he left her to rest an hour earlier. His fists start to shake with the memory; he wants the man in front of him to pay for what he did to her, and for what he was trying to do. He wants to hurt him for it. 

“Chrom, you gotta cool it,” Gaius urges, and Chrom is so taken aback by Gaius using his name that it slices through the furious, crimson haze staining his vision. Gaius releases his fist and clamps a hand on his shoulder instead, gently shaking him. “Come on, what would Bubbles say?”

His heart hitches at the mention of Robin—only for a moment, but it’s enough. Of course Gaius would know exactly how to get through to him. Robin would never endorse this sort of blind tirade, especially not when there is sensitive information on the line.

Chrom exhales sharply through his nose in a bid for control, before turning his attention back to Lord Ambrose. The duke’s slate colored eyes stare back, unwavering; his nostrils flared. He looks defiant—proud. It’s not the face of a man who is cowering after being caught red-handed.

Chrom unballs his fist and lets it fall to his side, though he keeps the duke pinned to the door, same as before. “Talk,” he commands.

“Perhaps I would be more amenable to conversation if I were no longer being so crassly manhandled.”

“You’re in no position to bargain,” Chrom growls, eyes narrowed. “You’ll talk here or in a cell: your choice.”

A vein throbs along Ambrose’s forehead. His lips curl back in contempt, but he does as he’s been ordered. “As you wish, Your Highness. The papers you found—they were financial records from my territory, correct? The expenses for the Deil Agricultural Foundation.” Chrom nods tightly, so he continues. 

“I admit it was I who gave those forms to your fiancée to complete. But on Naga’s breath and fang I swear that my involvement ended there. When your lady returned the forms to me…well, to be frank, I was astounded,” Ambrose grumbles. “I’d had my doubts that a mere commoner would possess the education needed to parse all that jargon, let alone perform the necessary calculations. But it seemed I stood corrected.”

Triumphant pride flares bright in Chrom’s heart, though it dims quickly as the duke goes on.

“Once I was satisfied with her capabilities I saw no need to test your fiancée with any further assignments. I put the forms away and thought little of them until today, after her collapse. When I returned to my office afterwards, I found Lady Penelope waiting for me. In the commotion, I can only presume I left the door unlocked—a mistake I’m sure I have not made since.” 

Ambrose mutters the last portion, a dagger-sharp glower aimed Gaius’s way, but Chrom barely notices—he’s much too occupied with the mention of Lady Penelope. If nothing else, her presence in Ambrose’s office would be in keeping with Robin’s sighting of her just before she collapsed.

“What did she want?” Chrom presses.

“Bah, she fed me some drivel about her mother requesting a meeting. Barely spoke with me a minute before taking her leave. I knew something was amiss, particularly because of what Lady Idris said to me after the council last convened.” The duke pauses, weighing Chrom’s mounting curiosity and squirming against his hold. “Perhaps Your Highness might reconsider if we could continue this discussion more civilly?”

Chrom grinds his jaw, but shoots a quick glance Gaius’s way to gauge his opinion. He nods without looking away from the duke.

“It’s okay Blue, I don’t think he’s going anywhere.”

Reluctantly, Chrom releases Lord Ambrose who makes a big show of straightening out his suit coat, grousing all the while.

“Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” he mutters. Agitated, Chrom grasps habitually at Falchion’s hilt, only realizing after the fact it could be perceived as a threat. The duke stares warily at his fist before hurrying on ahead.

“Ahem. Yes, well, after the last council meeting, Lady Idris approached me, inquiring about my feelings in regards to Your Highness’s…unorthodox choice for a spouse. I was skeptical of her capacity to serve in such a role and said as much. It was Idris who suggested that those of us with doubts ought to provide your fiancée with our own tests of her competence. ‘Let’s see for ourselves what she’s capable of’, she said.

“I was amenable to the suggestion, though I’ll have Your Highness know I was far from the only one. It was right as we were dispersing that the duchess asked if I thought ‘something ought to be done’,” Ambrose recounts. “I asked what she had in mind, but perhaps something in my demeanor alerted her to my disapproval, because she excused herself without answering. I pushed the incident from my mind, but for her daughter to then appear in my office, with such a shoddy excuse?” The duke shakes his head, austere features taut in a scowl. “I didn’t trust it—not in the slightest. I searched my desk, and that’s when I discovered that the work Lady Robin completed for me had been replaced with counterfeits.”

Chrom’s heart beats a ragged rhythm in his chest—his mind flying back to his own encounter with the duchess’s daughter shortly after her arrival at the castle.

“Blue, buddy, you’re looking real pale over there,” Gaius says, placing a steadying hand on his shoulder again. “What’s the matter?”

“I just remembered. Lady Penelope, she…a guard stopped her outside my office last week,” Chrom replies, grimacing. “She said that she was there to see me, but she was insisting on being let through even after she learned I wasn’t there. I didn’t know what to make of it at the time, but now I wonder if—”

“The council’s administrative work is stored there, is it not?” Ambrose interjects. “It would not surprise me if she planned to search it for more of your fiancée’s work to replace. It would make a damning case if the prince himself was unwittingly harboring evidence that could be used to indict his betrothed.” Grumbling under his breath, he adds, “Perhaps having had such an experience yourself you’ll now realize my word can be trusted.”

“We’ll see about that,” Gaius says with a dismissive wave of his hand. “For now, keep talking. What happened next?”

The duke huffs but continues. “Naturally, I chased down Lady Penelope and demanded to know why she’d gone through my things, though I did not reveal that I knew the specifics of what she’d done. I simply acted as though I knew her to be guilty of some unknown meddling. She denied everything, and threw a fit, demanding the guards escort me away, but…” a smug smile spreads across the Duke’s face, “…in the scuffle, I managed to recover one of the original forms. Lady Penelope must not yet have had a chance to dispose of them. I believe Your Highness will find that paper is the key to unraveling their scheming.”

Nausea swells in Chrom’s stomach, surging up his throat before he swallows against it. “J—just one form?”

“Yes, that’s how I knew immediately what papers you must have found. But one is all that is necessary,” the duke replies, ignorant to the way his words ignite Chrom’s nerves. “As you saw for yourself, I now have both Lady Robin’s original calculations as well as the altered ones, written in what I strongly suspect is either Lady Idris or her daughter’s hand. As I can testify to retrieving it from her, they should be all the proof needed of Lady Idris’s attempted sabotage.”

Chrom’s heart rate skitters higher, racing like a rabbit’s. “N-no, t-that can’t be…there are more. There has to be more.” His voice comes out small and shaken. The duke doesn’t even seem to hear him as he continues.

“I returned to my office, and as the data on the remaining forms was unusable for anything except the duchess’s planned incrimination, I set them burning in this very fireplace. Let their charred remains serve as evidence of my—”

“N-no!” Chrom cries out, eyes wide and frantic. “No, gods, you burned them?! Why would you—”

“What does it matter? You should be thanking me!” the duke bellows. “Why, I have single-handedly delivered to you all the proof you need. And what thanks has it gotten me? Threats of violence and creases in my coat, that’s what!”

“It’s gone!” Chrom chokes out. “The form—it’s gone.”

Ambrose narrows his eyes. “What do you mean ‘gone’?”

“When Gaius and I found it, I thought—I knew it could be used to hurt Robin, a-and—”

“—He shredded it,” Gaius finishes. Even his normally unrattleable countenance is ashen. “He destroyed it as soon as we found it.”

The duke’s eyes bulge out of their sockets. “You did what ? What were you thinking?! That was our only chance to—”

“No!” Chrom shouts, with mounting desperation. “I don’t believe you! There have to be more forms here. You’re lying to cover them up! You’ll say anything to pin this on someone else, but I won’t let you get away with—”

“Still you accuse me?” The duke’s face pulses red in indignation. “I’ve done nothing but attempt to protect your fiancée from false charges, and—”

“You expect me to believe you would try and protect Robin?” Chrom snaps. “I saw how you spoke to her at the council meeting. You hate her! You hate her because she’s Plegian, and your family was—”

He falters as the anger on Lord Ambrose’s face turns glacial—eyes dark and cold as a blizzard-choked sky.

“…You dare to speak of my family? You know nothing of me,” the duke seethes. His fists shake at his sides. “Yes, it was Plegians who raided my territory and destroyed my home, just as it was a family of Plegian immigrants who granted me safe passage that very same night."

Chrom's throat constricts. "It was?"

Gravely, Ambrose nods. "They took me in—a total stranger—when they barely had the food to make the trip themselves. I owe that family my life. And here you hear of one tragedy I endured and assume you can glean from it my entire world view?”

Chrom’s blood runs cold. “I…I didn’t—”

“No, of course you didn’t. You have no idea just how ignorant you are,” the duke snaps. “You think you are so righteous. Sweeping in here, ready to point your finger and play the hero. Well, I have seen enough of the world to know there are wicked people in all walks of life—you are not the first man war taught that lesson to. And most despicable of all are those who brand others as the villains without stopping to question the justice of their own actions. Men like your father.”

The words hit Chrom like a gut punch, leaving him woozy and winded. Men like my father…and men like me.

Everything crashes down on him at once. He was wrong about everything: wrong about Lord Ambrose and wrong about destroying the form. There was only one way to prove Robin’s innocence, and now it’s gone and it’s all his fault. Gods, how could he be so blind? So foolish? Why hadn’t he ever stopped to think? He stumbles against the wall; vision fuzzing around the edges.

Gaius scrambles forward to steady him, glare trained on Lord Ambrose all the while.

“Hey, now, hold on a minute,” he interjects. “Maybe Blue wasn’t in the right about everything here, but don’t go acting all high and mighty. You still went behind his back by pushing extra work onto B—er, Robin. And if you really weren’t involved, you should’ve come forward and told someone after you caught that councilwoman interfering. But you didn’t. What were we supposed to think when we found those forms sitting in your office?”

The question prompts Lord Ambrose to finally tear his scathing stare away from Chrom, sniffing disdainfully as he crosses to his desk. No longer pinned by the duke’s fury, Chrom’s thoughts slowly start shuddering forward again, even as remorse still drenches him to his core.

“As I said earlier, I gave the lady only so much work as was necessary to personally ascertain her abilities. As far as I am aware, that is no crime,” Lord Ambrose replies coldly.

“Not by itself. But that extra work is the whole reason she collapsed earlier,” Gaius presses.

“Then I unwittingly contributed to the lady’s exhaustion! But I was no more responsible than any other member of the council,” the duke snaps. His fingers flutter about the desk, restoring order to the strewn sheets of parchment. “As for why I did not come forward with this information, I think His Highness will recall he was rather quick to accuse me just after her collapse,” he continues, and Chrom flinches at the reminder. “It was clear he already did not trust me, nor did I trust him to handle such a delicate situation tactfully. I planned to bring forward the evidence myself when Lady Idris moved forward with her plans. After this disastrous turn of events, I should think it quite clear my distrust was not unjustified.”

Chrom holds his breath. Lord Ambrose’s words still spear him with shame, but this time a feeble spark of determination underlies it. Because the duke is right: the duchess hasn’t brought forth her accusations yet. Which means there may still be time to fix this. Chrom may have been wrong about everything, but he knows the truth now. And that means the path forward is finally becoming clear. At his side, Gaius cocks an eyebrow.

“Right. Well, I sure hope you’re telling the truth. Cause it’ll be easy enough to make sure your story checks out.”

The duke’s eyes narrow. “Have I not done enough to prove myself already? I knew what form you’d found in my office: is that not evidence enough that there was only one like it? His Highness’s own encounter with Lady Penelope should attest to the truth of her involvement, and the ash in my fireplace should confirm the rest. If, still, you do not believe me, then I am prepared to—”

“No,” Chrom interjects, and he calls upon every shred of composure and dignity he has left to force himself to raise his head and meet the duke’s eyes. “I believe you.”

A beat of charged silence passes, then Gaius clears his throat.

“You sure that’s wise, Blue? Might not be a bad idea to detain him just til we can make sure—”

Chrom is already shaking his head before Gaius can finish.

“I’m sure,” he replies. To the duke he says, “You’ve given us valuable information, but it’s only right we take it from here. We’ve troubled you enough.” He doesn’t really have it in him to smile at the moment, but he gives Gaius the most assuring expression he can muster. “Gaius, you go on ahead. I’ll just be another moment.”

Gaius glances warily over his shoulder before shrugging. He offers a casual salute and slips out the door and down the hall, the office left silent in the wake of his departure. Chrom turns back to the duke and finds his steely glare fixed on him once again—fingers tensed to claws on his desk chair; chin raised in proud disdain.

Chrom unravels his own fists and takes a breath. It’s not lost on him that Lord Ambrose was abusing his power in pushing that extra work onto Robin—just as Gaius said. In truth, anger still simmers in the low of his gut at the thought. He does not particularly like the duke, and it would be easy to give in to his own vindictiveness and see him punished for speaking out of turn.

It would be—he has no doubt it’s what his father would have done. But the fact remains that Chrom stormed into this man’s office and threatened him for things he did not do; Lord Ambrose’s shortcomings don’t make that any less wrong. Which means the only thing Chrom can do now is the one thing his father never would.

“Well, out with it,” the duke goads. “If you’re to have me thrown in the cells then I’d ask you to get on with it.”

“No,” says Chrom. He drags his eyes up to meet the duke's and takes a shuddering breath. “I…I can see why you might think I would. I am young and rash. Anger has always ranked too highly among my weaknesses. But I’m not so prideful that I won’t admit when I’ve made a mistake."

Solemnly, Chrom bows his head. "I was so eager to have someone to blame that I jumped to believing the worst of you. I acted hastily and misjudged your character, and for that…I’m sorry. I know an apology alone can do little to make it right, but know that you have it, all the same. And I hope you’ll believe me when I say it was never my intention to re-open old wounds.”

Lord Ambrose scoffs, but when Chrom looks up, he could swear he catches a flash of something vulnerable on the duke’s face—a lonesomeness he’s quick to mask as he looks away. He turns his back to Chrom—eyes trained on the blaring blue of the sky as he replies. “…If that is all, Your Highness, then I would like to be left in peace.”

Chrom straightens and sees himself to the door without another word.

“Gaius!” Chrom calls. Gaius glances up at him from where he’s slouched against the wall, waiting further down the wing’s hallway.

“Well, what now?” Gaius prompts.

Chrom heaves a sigh as he arrives at his side. “I think I owe you an apology. I never should have dragged you into this.”

Gaius shakes his head in quick dismissal. “Hey, enough already. I’ve been in much stickier situations than this one. And besides, you’re not the only one who cares about looking out for Bubbles.”

Some of the tension constricting Chrom’s chest eases minutely—his next breath coming a fraction easier than those before it. “Right. Thank you, Gaius. I admit I’m grateful I won’t be facing this alone. But without those forms to prove Lady Idris’s meddling, I…I don’t know what to do.” His voice nearly breaks with the admission.

“Look, the way I see it, we’ve got a few options,” Gaius says. “Our best bet is probably to look into this councilwoman directly. I can do some poking around—see if she hasn’t been covering her tracks properly. If we’re lucky, that could be all we need.”

Chrom nods sullenly. He’s certain Lady Idris must know how severe the consequences of framing Robin could be. Now that they’ve seen how deep this plot runs, he can’t imagine she wouldn’t go to great lengths to eliminate anything incriminating. Which means it almost certainly won’t be that easy. Still, he supposes they can hope. “And what should I do?”

Gaius purses his lips. “About that…”

“Let me guess: you want me to stay out of it and wait for Lady Idris to make another move.” When Gaius nods, Chrom groans. “There must be something I can do in the meantime.”

“Look, I can talk to some of my people—make sure we have eyes on her to clue us in if she tries anything again. But right now, we’ve gotta play it cool. As long as we don’t tip her off that we’re onto her, odds are that she’ll try and plant more evidence.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

Gaius grimaces. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

Chrom’s eyes fall again, shame and regret pricking at him like a hundred needles. If he’d only stopped and thought things through they would already have everything they needed to put Lady Idris away. But no—he let his emotions get the better of him, just like he always does. And now there is a real and terrifying chance Robin will have to pay the price.

A hand claps him on the shoulder and he looks up to see Gaius giving him a wry smile.

“Hey, what’s done is done, Blue. No sense beating yourself up about it. That council lady hasn’t moved forward with her accusations yet, right? So she must still be waiting on something”

Hesitantly, Chrom nods. “There’s still a week before the next council meeting. I can only assume she plans to do it then.”

“Exactly. So we just gotta turn up something before then.”

“I hope you’re right,” Chrom sighs. Absently, he massages his temple, pushing back against a fast-brewing headache. “Gods…” he mutters, “how am I going to tell Robin?”

Gaius gives a long hum in contemplation. “Can’t tell you the answer to that one, Blue. That’s for you to decide. Normally, I’d say to just rip the bandage off and tell her. But if my future wife was sick in bed, the last thing I’d want to do is give her something else to worry about.”

Unease bubbles in the low of Chrom’s gut. “You…you think I should lie to her?”

“Not lie. You’d just be waiting a little longer to clue her in,” Gaius amends. “Better to make sure she’s in the right head-space to handle it. Besides, you know how Bubbles is. Soon as she hears something’s up, she’s gonna want in on it too.”

“That’s true…” Chrom admits. It’s far too easy to imagine Robin abandoning all attempts at bed-rest in the name of trying to solve this herself. Even if he could talk her out of getting involved, he can’t imagine hearing about it would be very conducive to relaxing and catching up on sleep.

Chrom’s hands drift to Falchion’s scabbard, fretfully clutching at the hilt. “I hate keeping secrets from her,” he mumbles. “But if we can fix this on our own, then…”

…Then it would mean Robin could recover properly without all this extra stress. It would mean he was finally able to do something to help take care of her. Protect her. And she has already been hyper-sensitive to the council’s opinions—what if hearing about their attempted sabotage sends her spiraling? That’s the last thing Chrom wants.

When Chrom doesn’t complete the thought, Gaius’s eyes gleam, fox-like and knowing. “Like I said, Blue: it’s up to you. But if you want to give it a few more days to see if we can nab that council woman first, I wouldn’t blame you. Then at least you’d be bringing her some good news for a change.”

Chrom nods. “Thank you, Gaius. I’ll give it some thought.”

They split up after that—Chrom set on stumbling through the rest of his day but only half conscious of the motions he’s going through. Only when the sky outside his office window darkens to the color of just-ripe mulberries does he finally admit to himself that he cannot put off facing Robin for any longer.

He paces outside the bed chamber door, gathering his courage in fitful bursts only to falter again as soon as he reaches for the handle. A part of him hopes Robin’s exhaustion will have prompted her to retire early and that she’s already asleep…but the honey colored light spilling out from beneath the door marks the possibility as an unlikely one.

Admittedly, his stomach still riots at the thought of keeping secrets from her. But, he keeps reminding himself, not telling her right now isn't the same as not telling her at all.

He’ll explain everything once he and Gaius have something to show for their work—and if it’s getting too close to the council meeting without any progress, then he’ll tell her everything anyway. Robin deserves his honesty and the full truth—no matter how bad a picture it will paint of him. But tonight? Tonight she needs to rest. And Chrom refuses to let his blundering become another obstacle standing between her and a full night’s sleep.

He squares his shoulders in preparation only to realize that if he goes in there looking so tense, Robin will immediately know something is wrong. Muscle by muscle, he eases his posture—reassures himself this is the right thing to do—and grips the handle. No sense in putting it off any longer.

The door swings open, the light within briefly blinding compared to the darkness of the hallway.

“Robin?” Chrom calls softly.

A yelp travels from the far side of the room that draws his adjusting eyes to the bed. There’s a strange flurry of movement, as Robin twists around frantically, shuffling pillows behind her.

“C-Chrom! You’re back earlier than I expected. Er, is your work for the day already done?”

An over-wide smile is stretched across her face, both hands folded behind her back—she’s clearly flustered, and just as obviously trying to pretend she’s not. The reaction is just odd enough to push the guilt he’s harboring temporarily to the outskirts of his mind.

 “…Yes, I’m all finished,” he replies haltingly. Crossing further into the bed chambers, Chrom eyes her suspiciously. “Robin…you weren’t doing work just now, were you?”

“No!” she answers, over-quickly. His eyes narrow. “Er, well—not work, exactly…”

“Gods, Robin,” he groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. He dared to believe that her collapse that morning had finally driven home the importance of not pushing herself, but apparently that had been overly optimistic. “Didn’t you hear Maribelle? You’re supposed to be on bed rest.”

“Well, I’m in bed, aren’t I?” Robin says, playing at lighthearted. She backtracks as soon as she registers his stormy expression. “Look, Chrom, you don’t need to worry, alright? I wasn’t doing paperwork for the council or anything like that. And I promise I slept all morning, so—”

“Let me see it.”

Robin’s words stall out. “Wh-what?”

“Let me see it,” he repeats. “You said it’s not work for the council but I want to see for myself.”

“C-can’t you just take my word for it?” she counters. She’s very shifty all of a sudden, and when he steps closer, her eyes dart around to look everywhere but at him.

Chrom settles beside her on the edge of the bed, measuring her reaction as he does. She shifts her legs to make room and he’s briefly distracted by the realization she’s wearing a nightgown now, the dress’s fabric rucked up to just above her knees. The sliver of skin there magnetizes his eyes for a moment before he remembers himself and refocuses on the faint pout she’s wearing instead.

“Robin, you know I trust you unequivocally,” he says. “But ‘taking your word for it’ is exactly how you wound up collapsing this morning.”

She winces. “Okay, I deserved that one.”

“You did,” he agrees soberly. “Which is why I have to ensure the truth myself.”

He reaches for the pillow behind her, but before he can grab it, Robin makes a high pitched squawking sound and throws herself atop it as a human shield.

“Chrom, stop!” she protests, when he continues to strain for it. “You can’t look!”

“Why not?” he presses. “If it’s not work for the council then why are you hiding it from me?”

“B-because it’s…” Red rushes into her cheeks. “…I-it’s a present, okay? And it’s not finished yet, s-so…”

Chrom blinks at her, mystified. “A…present?”

She nods without making eye contact. “…For your birthday.”

“Oh.” His face burns, no doubt as bright as hers now. “You’re…making me something for my birthday?”

Robin laughs, incredulous. “Yes? Of course I am, Chrom.” Her posture relaxes as she registers his fading suspicion. “I mean, after everything you’ve done for me, I think this is the least I can do.”

A grin splits his face. Robin had only been with the Shepherds a few weeks at the time of his last birthday. They’d been on the road at the time, and, understandably, she hadn’t known about it at all until the day had already come and gone. 

But this year she’s making something for him. It’s a testament to the bond they’ve forged—a sign of just how close they’ve grown. The thought leaves him brimming over with radiant warmth.

“Can I see it?” he asks, breathless with anticipation.

“No, obviously,” Robin answers, without even pausing to consider it. “It’s not finished yet. And besides, it’s supposed to be a surprise.”

Chrom flops down on the bed beside her, despondent. “Oh, come on. Just one peek?”

“No! And don’t you dare try those puppy eyes with me,” she says, screwing her own eyes shut and effectively rendering his pleading expression useless. “Is it really so hard to wait until your birthday?”

“You know patience isn’t my strength.”

Luckily for him, with her eyes closed, Robin can’t see him shuffling closer to the pillows, slipping them to the side to steal a glimpse of the—

“Chrom!” she exclaims. Somehow, she must sense the movement, because Robin’s eyes snap open, and she bats his arm away instants before he reveals whatever she has hidden. “Gods, you’re ridiculous,” she huffs, once he’s been successfully fended off. “It’s only two more weeks.”

“I may never live to see the day,” he says mournfully. “The curiosity will kill me first.”

Robin snorts. “Right. I’ve seen you survive countless enemy soldiers and whole hordes of risen. But I’m sure two weeks of waiting will do you in.”

“You know me well, then.”

She laughs at that, bright and bell-like, and Chrom can’t help but chuckle along too. 

“You know,” he adds, after a moment’s consideration, “even if you weren’t doing work for the council, you still should have been resting.”

“I told you, I already rested all day,” she replies. “Can you really blame me for not wanting to die of boredom?”

“Now who’s being dramatic?” 

She laughs again at that, and gods, he aches with the yearning to spend the rest of his days coaxing that sound from her. Chrom rolls onto his side to find Robin has already shifted to face him too. Her amber eyes are aglow with what he dares to think—hope—might be affection. Tentatively he shifts nearer, his heartbeat climbing steadily when she makes no move to draw back.

“Still, though…” he continues. “You may never learn to take breaks if there aren’t consequences, so…perhaps in penance I’ll just take a peek.”

He lunges for the pillow, but Robin throws herself in front of it and all he manages is to bowl her over instead. She squeals before shoving him back, which rapidly devolves into tussling when he refuses to back down.

“Chrom—!” she protests between breathless laughter. “Knock it off already!”

“Alright, alright, have it your way.” 

He pretends to yield, letting Robin push him back until her center of balance is tipped perilously forward, then grins wildly as he shifts all his weight at once, using the momentum to roll on top of her. Robin squeaks in surprise as he smirks down at her.

The intimacy of their positions hits him all at once. 

Robin’s hair is mussed, strands of silver coming loose from her twin-tails and splayed across their pillows. Their bodies are bridged where each of his hands holds one of her wrists against the mattress. His knees bracket her hips.

Robin must come to the same realization. Her chest, which was still heaving with lingering laughs, goes abruptly still as she holds her breath. She flexes her wrist, just enough to test his grip, and instinctively Chrom presses down harder. Her eyes dart questioningly across his face, and for an instant he could swear they drift to his mouth. He swallows—hard—and watches her gaze trace the movement as it ripples through the muscles of his neck.

He parts his lips to speak, but no words will come to him, and it’s hard to think around the foolish, love-drunk desire to lower his mouth to hers. To kiss her until both of them forget everything except how it feels to be twined together.

But they are utterly alone. He would have no excuse for such behavior; none except that he’s desperately in love with her, and he knows that’s not a truth he can risk revealing. But Robin’s lips look so soft; her eyes as dark and warm as summer midnight, and just maybe, if he were to kiss her—

Slam! The door smacks against the wall with the force of a ballista shot.

“Hiya, Robin!” Lissa’s voice calls. “I’m here to—eek!!” 

Chrom rolls off Robin in time with Lissa’s piercing shriek and the metallic clatter of her staff hitting the floor.

“Eww! Ugh, what is wrong with you two?!” she cries, throwing one hand over her eyes. “Please, please tell me you’re both dressed.”

Chrom’s whole body is molten. Gods, if Lissa had arrived any later, then he might have—he can’t think about it right now. He can’t even bring himself to meet Robin’s eyes.

“L-Lissa! What are you doing here?” he snaps. “Would it kill you to knock?”

“I’m here to check on Robin!” she yells back, one hand still clamped over her face as she staggers through the door. “Didn’t Maribelle tell you I was coming?”

Her words stir something in the recesses of his mind. “Er, now that you mention it…”

“Yeah!” Lissa declares, vindicated. She scrambles around, retrieving her staff from the floor, before standing with a huff and sticking her tongue out at him. “Yeesh, Chrom! I’m just trying to do my job!”

“Well you still could’ve knocked first,” he fires back.

“And you could have locked the door!”

“Alright, you two, enough,” Robin interrupts, though he can't help but notice she's pink in the face too. “We all learned a lesson on privacy today. Now, Lissa, what do you need to check?”

Chastened, Lissa sets to work performing her examination while Chrom slumps beside Robin on the bed like a scolded dog. He’s more annoyed about being walked in on than he probably should be, especially when it prevented him from doing something very, very reckless. If anything, he should be grateful.

But Robin didn’t tell me to get off her, his mind supplies stubbornly. She could have, but she gave no indication she wanted him to stop. And now he’ll never know what would have happened. 

Eventually, Robin takes pity on him and begins petting and playing with his hair, which appeases him considerably. He curls closer and shuts his eyes, losing himself in the soothing ministrations…

…At least until Lissa shoves him in the side.

“Move, you big lug. I need to check Robin’s pulse.”

“No,” he grumbles, burrowing closer. “You can check while I’m lying here.”

“But I can’t reach!”

“Then figure it out.”

“Ugh, you’re such a pain,” Lissa complains, and he can hear the eye-roll in her voice. There’s some shuffling as she moves around and then the soft hum of her staff, its glow lightening the darkness behind his closed eyelids. Chrom smirks, victorious—evidently she was able to find a work around, despite all her protests. 

Lissa must notice though, because he receives a flick to his forehead a moment later. “Gosh Robin, I can’t believe you’re willing to put up with this for your whole life.”

Robin just laughs and rakes her fingers through Chrom’s hair again. “Oh, I don’t know Lissa. I think it’s kind of cute.” 

Cute. Chrom adjusts the way his face is resting against her to hide his growing blush and grin. Robin thinks he’s cute.

“And besides,” she continues, a smirk audible in her tone, “if I wasn’t willing to put up with Chrom’s brattiness what makes you think I’d have any patience for yours?”

“Wow, rude. Do you want my help or not?” Lissa huffs, at the same time that Chrom pries his eyes open, gazing up at Robin forlornly.

“You think I’m a brat?”

She laughs again. “Let’s just say you bring it out in each other.”

He opens his mouth, fully prepared to argue, but before he can, Robin guides his head back to lay against her, tangling her fingers in his hair again. Her nails scratch gently at his scalp and he makes the executive decision to let it go. 

He tunes out most of what’s said after that, surrendering instead to the comfort Robin’s touch brings. After a day rife with so many emotional trials, it’s sorely needed. 

The sense of ease doesn’t last long—as soon as he allows his mind to wander, he’s back in Lord Ambrose’s office; unable to rid himself of the imprint left from watching the parchment he shredded be claimed by the castle turrets and sky. He’s lucky that worries over Robin’s work made for such an effective distraction, because now that things have settled, guilt makes a pit of his stomach all over again.

It just doesn’t sit right with him—Robin deserves to know about this plot against her. Yet even as he recognizes that, it’s hard to argue with the part of him that’s desperate to shield her from it. He knows she isn’t unfamiliar with the two-faced dealings of court politics, but that doesn’t make it any less his fault for dragging her into all of it. He owes it to her to fix things without troubling her any more than he already has. After everything he has asked of her, it's the very least he can do.

Breath by breath, Chrom focuses on the soft warmth of Robin’s fingers and forces his body to relax again. He’s made his choice—he cannot waver now. And besides, he reminds himself, as Robin’s gentle petting further eases his breathing, I don’t need to keep this secret forever. I’ve hidden my feelings for her for much longer.

He just has to wait a few more days. For Robin’s sake, he can do it.

He can’t do it.

Chrom awoke the next morning with Robin’s back curled against his chest, every line and bend of their bodies parallel, and his arms hugged snuggly around her waist. It came with the usual torrent of emotions—the tenderness and wistful longing. The aching affection and terrible hope…

…And then guilt dragged him into its fierce undertow. Somehow the intimacy of it—of knowing Robin was at ease enough in his presence to sleep curled within his arms—had made the thought of keeping secrets from her all the more unbearable. Chrom had fished flyaway strands of her hair from his mouth and wrested himself away—hurrying through his morning routine and fleeing to his office before Robin roused at all. He spent all morning falling behind on his work before checking in with Gaius to see if he'd made any progress and receiving an update that was nothing but discouraging.

And now? It’s only noon, and already the guilt is gnawing through him like a wolf with its limb caught in a hunting trap. Enduring the day like this is out of the question—he has to tell her.

He’s not completely at peace with the decision; it won’t give Robin as much time to recover as he’d hoped for, and he’s still worried that knowing about Lady Idris's plot will saddle her with more stress than she needs. But he also knows there are few things Robin hates more than being blindsided…and at least now she can face the news after she’s had a day to rest and a good night’s sleep.

After learning that Robin has another etiquette lesson scheduled for the day, Chrom finds himself navigating the halls to Maribelle’s room for the second morning in a row. He wasn’t personally required for this one, and Maribelle probably won’t be particularly appreciative of the interruption, but he’s prepared to face her ire if he must. Right now his only priority is clearing his conscience by telling Robin the truth.

Chrom strides right through the door to Maribelle’s chambers only to freeze in the entryway. He must have been more distracted than he realized because he completely failed to pick up on any of the tell-tale signs that she had company. Much more company than just Robin. The room hums with chatter and the clinking of tea china—every sitting space occupied with floridly-dressed strangers.

Not strangers, he realizes a second later. All these primped and powdered faces are ones he recognizes from high society events. Chrom blinks between the many nobles, befuddled. The scene before him looks a lot more like a tea party than an etiquette lesson.

His gaze sweeps past the array of pastel gowns and lace trimmed suit coats until he finally spots Robin, tucked away in a back-corner. A chess board is laid out on the tiny table between her and her opponent. He’s a man Chrom can’t remember meeting before—with curly, dark hair and dressed in a jade suit, trimmed with gold.

He looks handsome—at least from Chrom’s current distance. The thought is chased immediately by a sizzle of irritation. He does his best to stamp it down, but it’s hard when Robin brings a hand to her mouth to cover a giggle a moment later. His chest clenches tight—muscles tensing with it. Jealousy over Robin’s attention is nothing new to him, but no amount of familiarity has made him feel any less ugly for harboring it. Nor is it any easier to banish.

“Ah, Lord Chrom!” Maribelle’s voice calls him back to himself and he quickly locates her perched at the head of the longest table. “I didn’t realize you would be joining us today. Shall I pour you a cup of tea?”

Chrom shakes his head when she brandishes a rose-painted teapot his way. “No need—I’m afraid I can’t stay long. Actually, Maribelle, could I have a word?”

“But of course.” She stands, brushing out her skirts, while Chrom does his best to ignore the swell of whispers that accompanies more of the nobles noticing his arrival.

“What can I do for you, milord?” she asks, once she’s at his side.

“Er, well…what is all this?” Chrom asks. “I thought Robin was just meeting with you for another etiquette lesson.”

“Why, that’s precisely what this is!” Maribelle replies. “She’s been doing so splendidly with her lessons, I thought it time we moved onto the practical portion. If she’s ever to fit in amongst the noble court then we must begin ingratiating her to its members, after all.”

“I see.” Unconsciously, Chrom’s eyes drift back to Robin, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth as he watches the man she’s sitting with lean a little further across the table. “I’m glad her lessons are going so well. It’s just…isn’t Robin supposed to be resting?”

Maribelle huffs. “As you’ll recall, she’s cleared for light socialization so long as it’s under my exacting supervision.”

“This is light socialization?” Chrom mutters.

“What was that? Do speak up, milord.”

“Er, nothing. Never mind,” he replies hurriedly. “Who’s that man Robin’s talking to, then? I haven’t seen him around the palace before.”

“Ah, that would be Lord Dorian,” Maribelle answers. “He’s the Baron of Rainesfaire; I’m afraid he doesn’t make it to Ylisstol very often, what with his territory being so dreadfully remote. Although as I recall, he has family amongst the nobility in western Ylisse as well. Why, several years back, there were rumors that his mother was once involved with the late Duke of Adria and—”

“Right. Thank you Maribelle, that’s very helpful,” Chrom cuts in before his eyes start to glaze over.

Maribelle arches an eyebrow and he’s dimly aware of her tracking his attention to where it’s still fixed on Robin and the baron on the other side of the room.

“She was so nervous before the other guests arrived,” Maribelle muses. “Of course, I told her she had nothing to fret over—my instruction has been exceptionally thorough. But it’s wonderful to see them getting along so swimmingly, isn’t it?”

A warm twinge filters through Chrom’s annoyance. If this baron is helping Robin feel more welcome amongst the nobility then perhaps he owes the man some gratitude after all.

“You really ought to introduce yourself, milord,” Maribelle continues.

Chrom shakes his head. “It looks like they’re in the middle of a game—I shouldn’t interrupt. I can always come back—” As he watches, the baron reaches across the chess table, tucking a strand of Robin’s hair behind her ear. Chrom’s spine goes rigid, fists balling automatically at his sides. “On second thought, I think I will introduce myself.”

If Maribelle says anything in reply, he doesn’t hear it—all his focus tuned solely to Robin and closing the distance between them as fast as possible.

She’s seated with her back to him, so she doesn’t notice him approaching. The baron doesn’t notice him either, Chrom notes with some annoyance, as his eyes don’t stray from Robin’s face for even a second. Chrom lays a hand on her shoulder.

“Hello, my love,” he says. The words come out much more stiffly than he intended for them to. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything?”

Robin jolts in surprise, but her face splits into a smile the moment she glances up at him.

“Oh, Chrom! I didn’t realize you were here,” she exclaims. She places her hand atop his, offering a quick squeeze, but when she goes to withdraw it, he snatches it up and threads their fingers together instead. “I’ve just been so focused on this match…”

“Yes, I can tell,” Chrom agrees, hoping the tight edge to his voice isn’t too obvious. He turns his attention to the baron then, extending his other hand. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Chrom.”

“Dorian, Baron of Rainesfaire.” They shake and, infuriatingly, Lord Dorian doesn’t so much as wince from the vice grip Chrom subjects his hand to. “A pleasure to finally meet you, Your Highness.” His voice is low and smooth, and though the tone is amiable enough his eyes still barely flicker from Robin when he speaks. “Lady Robin and I have been having the most engaging conversation. I must say, for all I’d heard about the brilliance of Ylisse’s chief tactician, it’s another thing altogether to experience it myself.”

Chrom clenches his jaw in time with Robin’s cheeks brightening.

“Oh please, don’t think you can flatter me into going easy on you,” she says, with a dismissive wave of her hand. To Chrom she adds, “As soon as I heard Lord Dorian was a fan of chess, I couldn’t resist challenging him to a match. I’m so glad Maribelle had a chess set in her room.”

Chrom nods minutely but can’t stop himself from slipping into a worried frown. “Robin, is it really okay to be doing this right now? I know Maribelle said she’d make an exception for socializing, but you still need your rest.”

Robin laughs, silvery and carefree. The sound makes his heart skip, even if he’s not sure what about his concern for her well-being she finds so funny. “It’s just a few games of chess, Chrom. That’s more leisure than work.”

“Ah, I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Lord Dorian interrupts. “I don’t wish to boast, but I am rather adept when it comes to games such as these. At the very least I hope not to go down without a fight.”

“So you agree that playing with you is mentally taxing?” Chrom interjects. Despite the point he’s trying to make, he glances to where the captured pieces lay, hoping to see that the baron is overselling himself. Much to his annoyance, it appears to be an even match so far.  

Robin gives a good-natured roll of her eyes. “You worry too much. I’m not going to keel over while deciding which pawn to move. Besides, with Virion away traveling, I’ve been itching for an opponent for weeks now.”

“You could have asked me to play with you,” Chrom counters.

“I could, but you’re always so busy. I don’t want to trouble you over playing a game with me you don’t particularly enjoy.”

“I enjoy playing if it’s with you,” he insists. “I cherish all our time together, Robin.”

Robin cocks an eyebrow at him, dubious, but the flustered little laugh it pulls from her makes the over-honesty of the admission worth it. “Anyway,” she says, “was there something you needed me for, Chrom? Or were you just hoping to join us for tea?”

Gods, he’d completely forgotten why he came here in the first place. Guilt crashes down on him all over again—worse when he thinks of the anxiety his news will beset her with. Letting Robin down is hard to stomach on the best of days, but the thought of crushing her cheer right now—when that competitive glimmer is making her eyes burn like golden fire, and she’s finally starting to relax—is almost unbearable. The words he came to say to her feel like a jagged axe blade in his throat.

“R-right…” he starts, “Er, there was something I wanted to talk to you about…” Robin blinks up at him, curious, and Chrom makes a split second decision. “But it can wait until later.”

Robin hums in contemplation. “Are you sure?”

He nods. The timing isn’t right—it wouldn’t do to make a scene by pulling her away for such a serious conversation in front of so many judgmental eyes—especially not when Maribelle wanted this to be Robin’s debut into high society. He can't imagine dropping this news on her only to send her back in here to feign a smile and make frivolous small-talk. He’ll just have to endure the weight of the secret for a few more hours.

“Just promise to come find me when you’re finished here,” Chrom says at last.

“Okay, it’s a deal,” Robin agrees, then pauses, nibbling absently at her lip the way she only does when she’s nervous. “I…actually had something I wanted to talk to you about too. Later, though,” she clarifies quietly, a faint pink dusting her skin. “When we’re alone.”

Chrom’s heart patters despite himself. What could she be planning to say? He eyes the red of her cheeks and chewed lip; the color there daring a foolish corner of his heart to hope that his longest kept secret might be one she's keeping too. He can only pray she’ll still want to tell him after hearing how horribly he bungled things with the council.

“Well, in that case, I admit I’m rather eager to resume our match,” Lord Dorian says, and, damn that man, actually winks at her. Winks in that way only people like Gaius can, where it’s so seamless Chrom almost wonders if he imagined it. His pride smarts—as far as anyone here knows, he and Robin are engaged. Yet this baron would still behave this brazenly in front of him?

“So kind of you to stop by, Your Highness,” Lord Dorian continues dismissively. “Lady Robin, I believe it’s your move.”

Robin starts to turn away from Chrom, attention drawn back to the chess board, and something surges within him—at once petty and protective. He catches her cheek with one hand, guiding her to face him again while curling a finger under her chin.

“Wh—” Robin starts, but the word is lost as he brings his mouth to hers in a stinging kiss. Robin’s lips barely brush against his at first, clearly just expecting a quick peck, but he holds her there a moment more, kissing her tenderly before he pulls fully away.

“See you later, love,” he says, and this time the giddiness that buoys his heart from kissing her is enough to keep the diminutive from coming out so clumsily. Pointedly, Chrom tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, then grazes her temple with his lips for good measure. He’s glad the baron has nowhere to look but at them.

“Um. R-right,” Robin stammers. “See you then…love.” She’s flushing much deeper than she did from anything Lord Dorian said to her, and though he knows he’s being juvenile, Chrom tallies that as another point in his favor.

Appeased now that he’s made his point, he turns to retreat to the door and nearly crashes directly into someone.

“A-ah, Maribelle!” he exclaims. She gives an ill-tempered harrumph as he staggers back and regains his balance. “I was just about to—er, wait did you see that?”

Her eyes narrow. “I’m afraid whether or not I observed your lack of decorum is hardly the most pressing matter at hand, milord.”

She definitely saw, Chrom bemoans before his thoughts catch up to the rest of her words. “The most pressing matter? What do you mean?”

“Sir Frederick is at the door to collect you—it seems you’re needed at once. Both of you,” she adds, lifting her chin in Robin’s direction.

“What? Me as well?” Robin asks, before exchanging a perplexed glance with Chrom. “Apologies, Lord Dorian, but we’ll have to finish our match some other time.”

Robin stands and takes Chrom’s proffered hand, and he can’t help the small zing of satisfaction he feels, even if it’s tempered with worry. Hurriedly, Maribelle leads them past the still chattering table of tea guests to where Chrom spies Frederick waiting in the doorway. The knight is unusually fidgety, one foot tapping out a restless rhythm that immediately sets Chrom on edge.

“Frederick, what’s all this about?” he asks, as soon as they’re close enough not to be overheard.

Frederick inclines his head in a brief bow. “Apologies for interrupting, milord, but I’m afraid you must both come at once. Lady Robin is being summoned before the Ylissean Noble League.”

“What?!” Chrom demands as Robin pales beside him. “No, that can’t be! The council isn’t set to meet for another week.”

“That’s correct, milord. But under emergent circumstances where a threat to the Halidom is deemed imminent, dukes and duchesses may exercise the right to call an emergency meeting,” Frederick explains, a grim shadow crossing his features. “It would seem the Duchess of Lefcandith saw fit to do just that.”

“A…a threat to the Halidom?” Robin echoes shakily. 

Gravely, Frederick bows his head, the gesture both an apology and a confirmation, and Chrom’s heart plummets with it.

They’re out of time.

Chapter Text

Chrom and Robin fight to match Frederick’s fevered pace as he winds through the corridors. A fitful silence has seized them since they left Maribelle’s room, punctured only by their frenzied steps and the howling thoughts reverberating in Chrom’s head.

He was a fool to trust that Lady Idris would wait until the next council meeting to make her move. But in all his inexperience, he didn’t even know that dukes and duchesses could call for an emergency convening of the Noble League. He thought he still had time to fix everything—he thought it wasn’t too late.

And now it’s like he’s being buried alive, like every one of his mistakes is earth packed down overhead—and he made enough in the last day alone to smother him.

I should have listened to Robin. I never should have gone to that office without her, he berates himself. It’s agony knowing that if he hadn’t—if he’d just done nothing at all—then Lord Ambrose would have everything he needed to disprove Lady Idris’s claims.

But because of Chrom, they have nothing. No defense against the duchess’s ambush. Gods, Robin is the one person in the world he is most desperate to protect, and he can’t even—

“Frederick, do you know what this is about?” Robin asks. Her voice punches a singular window through Chrom’s suffocating panic. She’s half breathless from trying to keep up with both his and Frederick’s longer strides and Chrom has just enough presence of mind to slow slightly and adjust his hold on her hand to help guide her along.

“I’m sorry, milady. I know only that the duchess called an emergency meeting and that I was to fetch you both immediately. Would that I could tell you more.”

He hasn’t even finished speaking before Robin’s eyes flicker to Chrom, registering the tension that rippled through him from Frederick’s response.

“…Chrom?” she murmurs, searching his face. “Do you know something about this?”

Seven hells, he feels wretched. He swallows, unable to meet her eyes.

“Chrom?” she prompts again, more urgently. “If you know something, then—”

“I…I wanted to tell you, Robin. You have to believe me,” he says weakly. “I was trying to, but there wasn’t—”

“Why, there you are, Your Highness. I’m so relieved you’ve arrived at last.”

Lady Idris’s grating voice snaps Chrom’s head forward. She strides towards them from the end of the hall, her over-red mouth carefully constructed into a shape designed to look severe. It’s the grimace of someone trying very hard to keep from grinning instead.

The sight of her buffets Chrom with more emotions than he can hold. Panic. Dread. Fresh, vibrant fury. He’s so angry—his whole body feels like a detonation. This woman’s scheming has hurt Robin so much already, and the worst is yet to come.

…But the memory of when his rage last backfired is still raw. He cannot—will not—let that feeling swallow him again, even if that leaves nothing but a crippling sense of powerlessness to take its place.

The duchess’s eyes flick between Robin and him, scathing and appraising at once. “Please come along. The rest of the League has already assembled. I’m afraid there are matters of grave importance to discuss.”

Her voice drips sugary venom on the word ‘grave’, and gods, he can’t bear the thought of putting Robin through this. He can’t bring himself to enter that room. Because as soon as he does everything is going to come crashing down, and—

Robin squeezes his hand.

He looks to her—to the flinty glimmer in her eyes and the dauntless set to her jaw as she meets his gaze steadily. She doesn’t say a word, but he can read the assurance written on her face: that he will not be facing the waiting council alone—he has Robin right beside him. That thought alone is enough to make him braver.

Chrom straightens his posture, returning the squeeze to her hand, and speaks the promise aloud for her. “Together,” he says softly. Robin nods her agreement.

Hand in hand, they follow Lady Idris to the end of the hall, where Frederick takes up a post outside the door.

The tension inside the room is palpable. Just as Lady Idris said, the council has already gathered, and the meeting space crawls with their uneasy muttering and the nervous shuffling of papers. Instinctively, Chrom searches out Lord Ambrose and finds him rigid in his chair. The duke spares Chrom only a fleeting glance as he passes, but if he was hoping to see any inkling of reassurance there, he does not receive it. Every line of Ambrose’s expression is as stony as his cold, gray eyes. Chrom’s conviction wavers again before firming. He doubts he can count on the duke to stick his neck out and vouch for Robin’s innocence…which means they’ll just have to find another way.

“Lady Idris, what’s the meaning of all this?” The Duke of Themis blusters as Chrom and Robin take their seats at the head of the table. “This is all highly irregular.”

“Patience, Lord Antoine. All will be revealed momentarily,” the duchess replies. “As I’m sure you are aware, we could not begin without His Highness present.”

Chrom fidgets in his chair. He’s abruptly aware that he doesn’t know any of the proper procedures for an emergency council meeting—including how to open it. As if he needed another reminder of how grossly under-prepared for this he is. Before he can stumble through trying to invent something on the spot, Lady Idris clears her throat.

“It is on this, the 16th day of the 5th month in our Halidom’s 997th year that I, Idris, Duchess of Lefcandith saw fit to call for an emergency audience before the Ylissean Noble League. When last we met, we discussed how best to assess the capabilities of Prince Chrom’s chosen betrothed,” she announces. Her eyes slither to Robin at his side. “As I am sure all the League recalls, she was tasked with assisting with preparations for the upcoming ball.”

Robin nods uneasily as the rest of the council turn to look at her. “I was, yes. But I was under the impression the League wouldn’t be reviewing my performance until the next scheduled meeting. There are still a few forms I haven’t—”

“That’s quite enough from you,” Lady Idris hisses. “What nerve you have, speaking out of turn after what you’ve done.”

Chrom bristles, clutching Robin’s hand tightly as her eyes stretch wide. With the duchess’s words, the last foolish flicker of hope he was nursing snuffs out; it’s clear they were called here for exactly the reason he feared.

“…Please, Lady Idris,” says Lady Cecily. “I think I speak for all the council when I say you have kept us in suspense quite long enough. What is it that Lady Robin has done?”

Idris contorts her face into an exaggeratedly sorrowful pout, “Very well then. It is my sincere regret to inform the League that the lady in question has performed her duty to the council with gross inadequacy. I have here before me a plethora of completed documents which plainly evidence just how inept she is.”

She spreads the stack of parchment sitting before her across the table, passing pages to each of the council members. Chrom snatches one up, pulse pounding in his ears. The form is marred by a smattering of crossed out numbers with corrected values written beside them—undoubtedly another forgery. Frantically, he combs it over for some sort of flaw, anything he could use to prove it illegitimate, but nothing about the fake copy gives it away.

Robin’s hand quakes in his. Chrom chances a glimpse at her, and finds her off-focus eyes locked on the paper in front of them, her lips twitching. The sight leaves him with a cavernous ache where his heart should be.

“As I am sure the council can see,” Idris continues, “these are no minor errors. Why, I’d go as far as to say that these calculations were botched so egregiously that the forms have been rendered completely unusable.”

“I…I apologize, Lady Idris but I’m having a hard time conceiving of all this,” the Duke of Themis interrupts. He offers Robin a kindly smile before continuing, “My daughter is a friend of Lady Robin’s, you see. I’ve heard many stories speaking to her skill and intellect. It strikes me as improbable that she would make so many errors.”

“And yet the evidence that she did is right before your eyes, Lord Antoine.” Idris’s eyes are frostbite cold as they meet the duke’s. “How do you propose to explain that?”

He clears his throat uncomfortably. “Ah, y-yes, well, I merely meant that perhaps she was not instructed adequately on how to complete them. I should think with a little more practice—”  

“Lord Antoine is right,” Chrom interjects, leaping at the opening. “Robin is the smartest person I know. There were countless times during the war campaign when she proved her abilities worthy of my trust—it will take much more than some mistakes on paperwork to shake that.” He pauses, narrowing his eyes. “That is, if it’s even true that Robin made these errors in the first place.”

Muttering swells around him, the members of the League clearly disquieted by his response—all except for Lady Idris, who retains a chilly calm.

“Are you accusing me of something, Your Highness?” she asks.

“I’m not accusing you of anything,” Chrom answers. He would damn well like to, but he knows he doesn’t have the evidence to back it up. He needs to tread carefully. “I just think the council should be cautious in basing its assessment of Robin’s performance entirely on a single member’s report, especially when it’s no secret that you don’t approve of my decision to marry her.”

He catches Lady Idris’s gaze, and her acid-colored eyes corrode straight through him. There is knowing there—knowing, but not fear. Her face splits into a pitying smile, and all at once, he’s flooded with a sickening sense of foreboding. Somehow, his defense of Robin must have played right into her hands.

“But of course, Your Highness,” says Lady Idris. “It’s only natural that your love for this woman would lead you to question the credence of my claim. Why, I’d never be so foolish as to believe you’d trust my word alone over hers—regardless of how much proof I brought forward.” She pauses, shaking her head in mock disappointment. “That’s precisely why, when I first discovered your lady’s work to be so lacking, I sought out my fellow members of the council to inquire if they had observed the same.”

Chrom’s blood ices over. “Wh-what do you—”

“Would those among our ranks who found errors in the work Lady Robin completed for them now come forward?” Idris calls.

In horror, Chrom watches as four hands raise around the table: the Marquesses of Dawnscale and Samsooth, and the Earl of Highever…but it is the trembling hand of the Duke of Menedy that Chrom cannot tear his eyes from.

“Lord Sigmund?!” he demands, voice awash with furious shock. After everything Robin did for Ricken during the war—assisting with his training, ensuring he returned home alive—he can’t believe that his father would—

“I’m s-sorry, Your Highness,” the duke stammers, cowering behind his hands. “I wish to believe only the best of Lady Robin, I swear that I do! But the numbers on the p-papers, they just don’t add up. I’m sure it must all just be a h-horrible misunderstanding…”

Shakily, he pushes the forms in front of him forward on the table to reveal they’re covered in red, just like the others. The sight ties Chrom's insides into knots: Lady Idris must have planted forgeries in Lord Sigmund’s office—just as she did with Lord Ambrose. And in doing so, she sowed seeds of doubt within even a council member who previously had every reason to believe in Robin’s talents and credibility.

But maybe it’s not too late to change his mind. If Lord Ambrose would attest to the forms in his office being taken and replaced, Ricken’s father might realize the same occurred with his own. Chrom tries desperately to catch Ambrose’s eyes, a silent plea etched into his face, but the duke’s gaze flickers to him for only a moment before he pointedly looks away again.

Belatedly, Chrom realizes that while he was scrambling to make sense of Lord Sigmund’s seeming betrayal, the two marquesses and the earl have splayed their own forged forms out on the table. He doesn’t know—can’t know—if they, too, were tricked. Either way, the council table is now plastered with marked-up sheaves of parchment, each adorned with Robin’s copied signature at the bottom. Horror claws at his chest; there’s far more of them than he imagined—the result of what must be hours upon hours spent ruining and recreating Robin’s work.

“Now, I trust the scale of this problem has been made clear?” Lady Idris asks. “Because of the would-be queen’s failure to properly complete the work entrusted to her, nearly half among our rank have been put a whole week behind with our work. And that’s not all.” She pauses, relishing in the rapt attention of the League before flourishing one manicured hand towards the Duke of Themis. “I believe it is high time we return to a matter Lord Antoine broached earlier.”

The duke jolts, startled by the direct address. “T-that I did, Lady Idris?”

“Indeed,” she purrs. “Perhaps it was naive for the council to expect so much of someone of this woman’s ilk, but as both Lord Antoine and Prince Chrom so kindly reminded the council, the lady in question is not generally known to be lacking intelligence.” She turns back to Robin, eyes bright and vicious, though her voice never strays from sycophantically sweet. “It prompts the question: Is she merely unlearned? Or is there something more sinister at play?”

“S-sinister?” echoes the Duke of Themis.

“Precisely so. For as I was reviewing the lady’s work, I could not help but notice that the early documents she turned in were error free. In fact, it was only after she established herself as seemingly capable that mistakes began to crop up. At first I believed she had just become careless with her work…but then I realized it was only those forms dealing with finances which contained such extensive errors.”

Idris runs a long, lacquered nail beneath a line of numbers on the form in front of her. “In fact, a close inspection reveals inflated budgeting requests, taxation sums falling short—why, everywhere one turns, precious gold seems to be disappearing. It’s all terribly concerning," the duchess's  eyes sidle to Chrom, her voice oozing condescension as she continues, "but perhaps you would be able to shed some light on the matter, Your Highness? Surely you must be as shocked by this revelation as the rest of us—or else I can scarcely imagine you would ever see fit to make this woman Ylisse’s queen consort.”

Whispers pulse around the table, swelling until they press into the walls, displacing all the air. Chrom can barely breathe. His body trembles with a hideous amalgam of rage and despair, all while Lady Idris watches Robin and him like a viper staring down the helpless creature it plans to make its next meal.

Because they are helpless. They’re utterly trapped.

If he defends Robin, he knows exactly how Lady Idris will spin it: She’ll make him out to be lovesick and deluded, utterly blind to reason and rational thought—even in the face of overwhelming, decisive evidence. She’ll undercut his authority, cast doubt on his judgment, and annihilate every shred of the council members’ respect that Chrom has fought so hard to earn these last four months.

And it still may not be enough. It will still be his word alone against five members of the council. He has no proof of Robin’s innocence nor of Lady Idris’s meddling, and no one to corroborate his story; there’s a very real chance he will be throwing away his respect and reputation and that it will all be entirely futile in the end, but…

Damn it, he has to try.

He can’t just sit there and let Robin be slandered and framed in front of him. If the League buys into Idris’s accusations that Robin was embezzling the council’s funds, then the consequences would reach far beyond his being barred from marrying her. She could be tried as a criminal. Chrom’s fists quiver, clenched on the arms of his chair—he will never allow that to happen. No matter what it costs him.

A brush of fingers against his arm stops him short. Robin holds tight to him, her eyes lit from within; fear tempered by smoldering determination.

She doesn’t want him to do it—she must know what he's risking and the odds stacked against them. It’s just like her to see straight to the heart of his intentions…and to want to protect him even as he’s trying to do the same for her.

But Chrom has already made up his mind.

He shakes his head at her, summoning a rueful smile, then gathers his breath and clears his throat.

“I—”

“Pardon the interruption, Lady Idris. I’m afraid I’m just a bit confused.”

Startled, Chrom whips towards the voice’s source: Lady Cecily. She offers him a thin smile as she continues.

“It’s just…if you recall, the council appointed me to review all of Lady Robin’s work expressly to ensure something like this wouldn’t happen.”

Gods, that’s right. How could he forget? Lady Cecily looked over all the forms Robin turned in; surely she should be able to attest to them being completed correctly.

But Lady Idris already knew that, he realizes an instant later. Somehow, she must have planned for it. Sure enough, when he looks back at the duchess, her smile is pitying.

“Ah, yes. I imagine you saw no such errors when reviewing her work, Lady Cecily? I can understand why you must be so…befuddled. Alas, none of the forms here pertain to the ball preparations,” she explains, waving a hand at the forms on the table. “You see, a few of us senior council members saw fit to evaluate the Lady’s mettle ourselves—just to see how she performed unsupervised. And I’m ever so glad we did, for I’m sure it is precisely because she believed that her work wouldn’t be reviewed thoroughly that she dared to tamper in the first place.

"Of course, it was utterly foolish of her to believe such a thing. But I suppose she simply couldn’t contain her greed. Or perhaps,” Lady Idris says with a pointed look at Chrom, “she’s grown accustomed to receiving the blind trust of others.”

More muttering crescendos around the table.

Lady Cecily frowns. “I understand the forms in front of us aren’t the forms pertaining to the ball, Lady Idris. But even so, I—”

“Unless, of course, you’re saying that you looked over all of the forms the council asked the lady to complete?” Idris interrupts, arching an eyebrow in challenge. “Though, I must say, I’d be aghast to learn as much. The papers we have here prove this woman to be negligent at best and treacherous at worst. If you were to tell us that you personally approved these forms to be turned in—why, Lady Cecily, we would have no choice but to assume that either you were complicit in this plot or extremely careless in your supervision.”

Lady Cecily pauses for a long moment, gaze unblinkingly meeting that of the other councilwoman. To call the threat in Lady Idris’s words even thinly veiled would be crediting it with too much discretion. Her warning to Lady Cecily is crystal clear: Absolve yourself now or take the fall together. Chrom holds his breath as he watches the two stare each other down. Lady Cecily’s hands are clasped so tightly in front of her that the bones look ready to burst through her skin.

“I would never be complicit in such a thing,” she says finally. “And I will admit that, outside the preparations for the ball, I was only able to glance over Lady Robin’s additional work for the council.”

Chrom wilts in his chair, the tiny budding sense of relief he’d indulged in thoroughly trampled.

“…But despite that, I firmly believe that none of the forms Lady Robin brought me contain such gross miscalculations,” Lady Cecily continues. His head snaps back up in surprise.

“Do you now?” asks Lady Idris, her smile and voice both saber-sharp. “Well, I’m certain your belief is firmly misplaced. You say you ‘glanced them over’, Lady Cecily?”

Lady Cecily ducks her eyes. “W-well, there were too many for me to check every calculation individually. But I did—”

“Then you cannot truly attest to ensuring their accuracy at all, can you?” Idris interjects. “And yet you would have us believe that you have the authority to claim none of the numbers were faulty? Based on…what exactly? On nothing but a precursory glance? Why should we place any stock in your fleeting impressions when proof of this woman’s failings is printed indisputably in ink before our very—”

“Excuse me, Lady Idris.”  

At the sound of Robin’s voice, Chrom’s eyes fly back to her in alarm. There is a stillness about her that seems almost unnatural, but her voice doesn’t tremble as she goes on. “I think that you’re misunderstanding what Lady Cecily is trying to say. Perhaps you should let her finish.”

Lady Idris draws her shoulders up, indignant. “What did I say about speaking out of turn, you—”

“—She wasn’t talking about the forms you brought here today,” Robin continues, raising her voice over the duchess's but still retaining that same eerie calm. “She was talking about the copies she has in her office.”

“What’s this nonsense?” Idris snaps. “What copies?”

It hits him all at once.

Chrom sucks in a sharp breath as Robin’s words rush back to him—their meaning illuminated in a way they weren’t before. All those nights when she was awake long past the setting moon and rose again before dawn broke… all that time, could she have been—

He turns to her, astounded. “Robin…when you said that completing the work for the council took twice as long as it should have—”

“It wasn’t hyperbole, no,” she replies. A triumphant grin breaks across her face when Chrom’s eyes meet hers—one that quells his fear and sets his pulse racing for a different reason altogether. “I thought it might be prudent to have a second set of all the work I did for the council. You know, just in case something were to happen to the originals. You can never be too careful.”

Lady Idris’s smile warps further into a rictus with every word Robin speaks until finally she erupts into shrill laughter.

“How utterly preposterous!” she snarls. “You’re…you’re claiming there is a duplicate of every form? That you rewrote every one of them by hand? I will not be made to listen to such bold-faced lying for a moment longer!”

“It’s true,” Lady Cecily says. “Lady Robin provided me with a duplicate of every document she completed for the council—I have them stored in my office. As I said before, I have not yet had the time to review the accuracy of every calculation, but she expressly requested that I ensure that the work on each of the copies was identical to the one she was submitting.” She frowns as she goes on, “I admit, I thought it a rather odd request at the time, but it would seem the copies will see their use after all.”

“No, that’s…no! Why it’s—it’s not possible!” Idris hisses. “There were too many documents—the amount of time it would take to complete all of them once, let alone to rewrite the whole thing from scratch…it couldn’t be done! No one would—”

“And yet it was, and I did,” Robin replies, brisk and unwavering and so, so brilliant. “After all, a good tactician always prepares for every eventuality.”

“Gods, I love you,” Chrom breathes. Too late he realizes that he said that out loud, but it doesn’t matter—Robin beams at him and the warmth in her eyes makes his heart sprout wings.

Across the table, Lady Idris’s face races towards the same scarlet hue as her hair. “No—NO! You’re lying!” she spits. “This is—this is all some desperate ruse! You know that you’ve been found out, and you’ll spew whatever deranged nonsense you need to try and conceal it! But I will not stand for this, I—”

“Please, Lady Idris,” Lord Antoine chides. “This behavior is most unbecoming for a woman of your status.”

“If you don’t wish to take our word for it then I can fetch the forms from my office so you may see for yourself,” Lady Cecily offers. “It will only take a moment—”

“SHUT UP!” Idris shrieks—stunning the rest of the council into silence. She whirls on Robin, her eyes feral with rage. “You insolent girl! You think you can trick me? You are nothing, do you hear me?!”

“That’s enough, Lady Idris!” Chrom snaps. “I won’t allow you to speak to Robin that way!”

“Stop defending her!” Idris screams, stamping her foot. “That woman is a criminal!”

“A criminal?!" Chrom fires back. "The only criminal here is you!”

“Chrom is right,” Robin asserts, her eyes narrowed. “Lady Cecily has the papers that prove I never made the mistakes printed on the forms Lady Idris brought here today, which raises the question of how my original work came to be altered in the first place.”

“L-Lady Idris…” the Duke of Menedy stammers, dabbing at his forehead with a handkerchief. “What’s the meaning of all this? S-surely you didn’t…I mean, you wouldn’t have…”

“…I may be able to shed some light on the matter,” says Lord Ambrose.

“Quiet, Ambrose!” Idris barks. “You’ll be silent if you know what’s good for you—”

“Only yesterday, I found Lady Idris’s daughter lurking inside my office,” he continues coldly. “Once she’d gone, I noticed that my desk had been tampered with, and when I inspected the papers within, I realized some of the work Lady Robin completed for me had been replaced. The council has my apologies that I did not speak sooner, but without proof to corroborate my claim I feared my testimony would be dismissed.”

Lord Sigmund’s face has gone pale, his hands trembling where they grip the table. “Then…then you mean to say Lady Idris deceived us?”

All eyes turn to the duchess. A vein throbs by her eye; her chest heaves with rapid shallow breaths. “No…no…” she protests, voice rising in pitch. “No, no, no, no, NO! Don’t listen to them—don’t listen to any of them!”

She’s screaming by the end, slamming her fists against the table like a tantrum-crazed toddler. Chrom’s lips curl back in disgust.

“She’s—she’s hexing all of you! She’s corrupting your minds with her dark magic! She's going to destroy this halidom from the inside!" Idris rants, gesturing wildly to the rest of the council.

"I said that's enough!" Chrom barks.

“He's already in her clutches! She's seducing him with her evil sorcery!" she howls. "Don’t you see?! No prince with a shred of sanity would choose some no-name Grimleal peasant as his bride!”

Chrom leaps out of his seat at the same time the door to the council room bursts open. Frederick rushes in with a pair of guards right on his heels.

“I apologize for the delay, milord. I fetched these guardsmen as soon as I heard the shouting begin.”

“Take Lady Idris into custody,” Chrom commands.

Immediately, the guards surge forward, restraining each of the duchess’s arms as she’s dragged from her chair.

“NO! Unhand me at once!” Idris screeches. “This is lunacy! I’ve done nothing wrong! NOTHING! It’s that wicked Grimleal girl you want, not me!”

“Good gods, woman. Give it a rest…” Lord Antoine mutters. When Chrom looks around the council table, he sees the same repulsion he feels mirrored on every face.

Lady Idris is beyond words. Her hair has toppled loose as she continues writhing in the guards’ grip, emitting one long, wordless shriek. As they drag her towards the door, her manic eyes land on Robin, and she’s seized with one last savage burst of clarity.

“You! You think you can get away with this? That you can take everything from me?!” she spits out, every word jagged and ugly. “You will never belong here! I’ll make you pay for this, you dirty, Plegian witch!”

“What did you just say?!” Chrom demands, voice low and dangerous, but he already knows the answer: it was the exact words written in the threat Robin was left.

The duchess does not answer; all her words have devolved again into incoherent screaming. Revolted, Chrom looks away. “…Get her out of my sight.”

“Yes, sir!” 

The guards obey at once, hoisting the struggling duchess out of the room, her shrill shouting muffled as the door swings shut behind her. In the silence that remains, Chrom's heartbeat feels over-loud. With concentrated effort, he untenses his muscles and shakes off his shock. Gently, he lays a hand on Robin’s shoulder.

“Robin?” he murmurs.

She says nothing, her eyes far away. Concerned, he leans closer and cups her cheek in his hand. “Hey, are you—”

The touch galvanizes her. Robin offers a strained smile before drawing Chrom’s hand away from her face to clasp it in her own instead.

“Well…I hope that’s the last we’ll have to deal with her,” she says quietly.

Chrom wheezes out a laugh as he settles back in his chair, allowing numb relief to wash through him with her words. Lady Idris has been dealt with—she won’t be able to hurt Robin anymore. The nightmare is finally over.

“A shameful display, that,” mutters the Duke of Menedy. “I never imagined the woman was capable of such deception.”

His voice beckons Chrom to turn his attention back to the rest of council, nearly all of whom look highly disquieted by the duchess’s breakdown. As his eyes sweep the table again, they catch on the multitude of forged forms still littering its surface—dozens of forms, which Robin never should  have been responsible for completing in the first place. A fraction of the repugnance he felt earlier contorts his gut again.

 “…Yes, Lady Idris’s behavior was appalling,” Chrom agrees frostily. “How fortunate for her plan that so many of you were willing to abuse your power by giving Robin that extra work in the first place.”

With his words, a chill rolls through the League members. A number of them pale or begin to squirm in their seats.

“Chrom…” Robin starts. “It’s alright. You really don’t have to—"

“No, Robin,” he interrupts, cold stare never wavering from the council members. “I really, really do.”

In the conversation that follows, Chrom gives the council members who saddled Robin with extra work a thorough dressing down, complete with a detailed outline of the consequences if they ever try to take advantage of her again, as well as orders to present her with a formal statement of apology in the coming days. Despite her initial protests, he’s certain that Robin looks quietly grateful by the end. 

There are logistics to muddle through after that, though it all feels secondary now that Robin’s safety and reputation are secured. The details of Lady Idris’s detention must be ironed out, and directives must be given for a full search of her personal belongings and rooms. Chrom sends a squadron of palace guards to detain Lady Penelope for questioning, and he entrusts the royal intelligence officers with investigating the other council members who brought forward forgeries. Under normal circumstances he would be eager to spearhead the efforts himself, but at present, he wants to do little other than attend to Robin directly.

She takes the helm on as much of the task delegation as he does, slipping seamlessly into the role of strategist as they settle on the finer details of how to proceed. She is unquestionably in her element like this—Chrom radiates pride at the awed blinks and occasional open mouthed gaping he spies on the remaining council members’ faces as they watch her work. If any of them had lingering doubts about her competence, they’re now firmly laid to rest.

Still, beneath Robin’s seemingly unflappable composure, Chrom can’t dispel the sense that she’s more shaken than she’s letting on. It’s something in the set of her shoulders, in the tuck of her chin. Every contour of her body is braced for some anticipated peril. He’s desperate to check in with her, but with so many eyes and ears around them, he can do little more than offer his hand in hers or the steadying pressure of his palm at the small of her back.

Much to his chagrin, even after departing the council room, they’re not left in peace. The head of the palace guard trails after them as they wind through the corridors, bombarding Chrom with inquiries about what to do next. It’s not until they’re right on the threshold of the royal chambers that Chrom is finally able to chase them off with a reminder that his fiancée is under orders from Maribelle to be resting and an assurance that he trusts the Guard and Frederick to handle matters in his stead.

The guard vanishes around the corner, hasty and apologetic, and at long last he and Robin are free to slip into the much-coveted privacy of the royal chambers. No sooner has the door shut behind them than Chrom snags her around the waist and crushes her against his chest in a tight embrace.

“Are you alright?” he murmurs.

Robin gives a startled laugh—muffled from the way her mouth is mashed up against his shoulder. He loosens his hold enough that she can peel herself back to speak properly, but no more than that.

“…Truthfully, I’ve been better,” she admits.

“Gods, of course you have. That was a stupid question.” He traces a hand soothingly along the curve of her spine, sighing into her hair. “I’m so sorry. You shouldn’t have had to endure that. Or to hear—” he breaks off, shaking his head to banish the echoes of every nasty, derisive thing the duchess said. “I promise you, Robin. That woman is going to pay for what she did.”

She nods. “I know.”

“And she can’t hurt you anymore.”

“I know she can’t. Thank you, Chrom.”

She offers a quivering smile and in the same moment he realizes Robin isn’t actually returning his embrace at all—her arms hang limply at her sides. He releases her at once, shuffling back.  

“Er, s-sorry. I just thought…” he trails off, a blush burning his cheeks. He thought what, exactly? That maybe his arms could offer Robin the same comfort he always finds in hers? It's a foolish sentiment.

Robin shakes her head, dismissing the apology. “Don’t worry about it,” she says, already retreating further into their room. She settles at the vanity to begin combing out her hair and Chrom wanders after her, heart still buzzing with an unbridled swarm of unrest and wonder.

“It really is over now, isn’t it? And it was all thanks to you, Robin,” he marvels. “I mean, blazes, you were incredible in there—three steps ahead of everyone else the whole time. The duchess never saw it coming.” He grins at the memory of Lady Idris’s abject outrage. “Every time I think I can’t be more impressed by you, you manage to surprise me.”

The praise doesn’t coax a smile from her the way he hoped it might. Instead, Robin frowns, fingers twiddling with a loose thread on her tactician’s coat.

“Actually, Chrom, I wanted to ask you about that,” she says, turning in the seat to face him. “When the duchess pulled out all those marked up papers, you didn’t really seem…well, surprised.”

Chrom stiffens. Gods, with all the revelations during that meeting, he completely forgot that he hadn’t been able to warn Robin about his foreknowledge.

“I—er, I didn’t?” he stammers out, after too long a pause.

“No. I mean, you seemed horrified, definitely. But not surprised,” Robin clarifies. She lays aside the brush as her eyes roam over him. Chrom has never been good at deception to begin with, but pinned by Robin’s bright, incisive gaze he’s certain he’s never been more transparent.

“Chrom…” she begins again, “what exactly were you planning to say to me before that meeting?”

He tells her. All of it. About recruiting Gaius to his cause, and infiltrating Lord Ambrose’s office. When Chrom reaches the part where he destroyed the evidence, he can scarcely bear to look at her—terrified of the condemnation he might find in her face. Relaying how he lost his temper and accused the duke feels even worse.

“I’m sorry, Robin,” he murmurs, when he reaches the end of the story. “I shouldn’t have kept it a secret from you. You have every right to be angry with me. And I swear that I intended to tell you. The only reason I didn’t say anything sooner was…w-well…”

Robin sighs, her eyes drooped shut. “Let me guess: the reason you didn’t tell me was that you were worried it would interrupt my rest and that I would want to get involved.”

“…Yes,” Chrom admits. “You hadn’t slept properly in days, and you were finally taking a break. I didn’t want to ruin that. And…truthfully, I was hoping that Gaius and I would be able to fix it without having to trouble you over it.”

Robin smiles contritely. “Then I suppose I can’t really be angry with you, can I? Not when it was my own fault for pushing myself to the point of collapse. Of course you didn’t feel like you could trust me not to overdo it after that.”

Chrom shakes his head. “It wasn’t a matter of trust. After everything you’d already been through that day I…I just wanted to do something to ease your burden,” he confesses. “Though, in the end, it seems I only made it worse.”

“Can you promise me something?” Robin asks. She presses on before he can answer. “I don’t want you taking risks like that on my behalf, Chrom. Breaking into a council member’s office, being prepared to completely throw away your reputation by vouching for me without evidence…you shouldn’t be doing any of that, and definitely not for me. You need to look out for yourself first.”

Her eyes shimmer with a brightness he knows all too well; her gaze turned glassy with guilt.

“Robin…” Chrom murmurs, laying a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry, but you know I can’t promise that. You’re too important to me. If there is anything I can do to protect you, I’m always going to try.”

“I knew you’d say that,” she grumbles. Robin stands and moves out from under his hand and over to the bed, where she plops down to begin unfastening her boots. “It’s just…do you remember what I said right after you told me that you’d announced to the council we were courting?”

Chrom rubs the back of his neck sheepishly as he tries to recall. “Er, not precisely,” he admits. He remembers that it smarted—that dwelling on it hurt enough that he had worked hard to purge it from his mind during the happier weeks since. “I remember that…well, you weren’t particularly pleased.”

“I told you there probably wasn’t a single name that you could have told the council that would have been worse than mine. And that pretending to court me was only going to make your life exponentially harder.” Robin smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Maybe now you’ll finally see that I was right.”

Chrom’s hackles rise—offended on her behalf even by her own scathing assessment. He crosses the room to settle beside her on the bed. “That’s not true, Robin. Regardless of what preferences the council may have held for who I court, there’s still no one else I’d rather have at my side to face all of this with. I couldn’t ask for a better partner. And anyway,” he adds, offering a reassuring squeeze to her hand, “the worst is behind us now.”

“I certainly hope so…” she murmurs. She shifts away again, kicking her boots off as she does and he lets his hand fall to the mattress between them instead. “What about Lord Ambrose?” she prompts abruptly. “You’re sure we can trust him?”

“Yes,” Chrom answers. “You saw how he vouched for you in the council room. And when Gaius and I spoke with him, it was clear how much distaste he had for the duchess’s interference. He was furious that I’d assumed he was involved. I don’t think he could have faked that.”

Seeing Robin’s doubtful expression Chrom adds, “I know you think I’m overly quick to trust others, but believe me, Robin. The man was sincere. He offered to swear it under truth serum, if necessary.”

Robin cocks a brow. “‘Swear it under truth serum’? Is that some sort of Ylissean turn of phrase?”

“No. Have you never—” Chrom starts to ask, but then recalls that all of Robin’s memories date back to just over a year prior.  It’s easy to forget that unless a topic is broached directly in conversation or covered in one of her books, she really has no way of knowing about it.

“Truth serum exists. Though it might not work quite the way you’re thinking,” he explains. “It doesn’t force a person to speak every thought in their head, but even a few drops is enough to compel them to answer any question they’re asked honestly.”

“That sounds…extremely useful,” Robin mutters. “Almost too useful, actually. Why have I never heard of it before?”

“Probably because it’s extremely difficult to make,” Chrom replies. “I don’t know all the specifics, but the ingredients come from all over this continent and the next—given how long Ylisse’s relations with Plegia have been strained, that’s a hard barrier to overcome.”

“Have you ever seen it used?”

Chrom nods. “Truth serum is usually reserved for trying those suspected of committing serious crimes, but…yes. A few times. It’s a strange thing to witness.” Thoughtfully he adds, “Most of what Ylisse has is stored in the vault here in the castle, though I’ve heard that each of the major noble houses has retained a small supply as well.”

“Serious crimes…” Robin muses, sinking back against the pillows. “What does that entail?”

“Treason, mostly,” Chrom answers, then jolts slightly as he makes the connection. “Ah! Are you wondering…?”

Robin shrugs. “It was just a thought. I’m not sure how much point there would be in using it on someone who you already know is guilty. Although, if we could get Lady Idris to confess to leaving the rat too, then you might be able to get me out of your hair a lot sooner.”

Chrom turns sharply towards her. “What do you mean?”

“Well, if I don’t need to worry about threats and people breaking into my room, there’s no reason for me to keep staying here, is there?” she reminds him.

Chrom swallows tightly. She’s right, loathe as he is to admit it. He’s grown so accustomed to Robin living with him that he lost sight of the only reason they made the arrangement in the first place. And while there’s nothing he wants more than the assurance of her safety, his stomach cramps with dread when he considers how gapingly empty the bed will feel without her.

Unbidden, Chrom flashes back to the memory of waking beside her that morning. Of his nose buried against the nape of her neck—the scent of sun-warmed parchment and dried lavender enfolding him with every breath. How small and snug Robin felt tucked against his chest. He doesn’t want to lose that.

“W-won’t that seem strange?” he points out. “I mean, Gaius was surprised we weren’t already staying together. If we stopped now, it might drum up suspicion.”

“…You may be right,” Robin allows, after a moment’s consideration. “I suppose we can wait until we have more information to determine the best way to proceed.”

“Right. No need to rush into a decision,” Chrom agrees, hoping he doesn’t sound too obviously relieved. Robin hums noncommittally—suddenly, her thoughts seem far away. He wants to anchor her back with him again.

Tentatively, he shifts to sit beside her on the pillows and brushes gloved fingers along her temple, delicately tucking her hair back.

“And besides, I know our schedules haven’t always been perfectly aligned, but it’s been…nice, getting to spend this extra time with you,” he confesses quietly. “Like old times.”

Robin cocks an eyebrow, a ghost of a true smile curving her lips. “‘Old times’, hmm? I’m not sure that sharing the most luxurious bed in the castle bears a whole lot of resemblance to our misadventures during the war campaign.”

Chrom chuckles. “Maybe not.” He strokes Robin’s hair again—lets his fingers linger against the warm skin of her cheek, while his other hand traces lazy infinity loops over the pulse of her wrist. “I suppose I just missed having you be the last person I spoke with every night before sleeping.”

Robin’s eyes flit to him uncertainly, and she gives a tiny nervous laugh before staring intently at the bed covers instead. She doesn’t draw away, but she doesn’t seem at ease. Chrom pulls his hands back into his lap.

He knows his feelings for her are completely out of check right now, all his restraint weakened from oscillating between fear and fierce affection for her so many times in the last two days. In the past she hasn’t seemed bothered by this sort of touchiness, but if something is different tonight, he doesn’t want to push her.

He peeks at Robin sidelong, his gaze fixing on the way she’s wringing her hands—like she’s trying to work herself up to something. In a flash, Chrom is reminded of their talk at the tea party and her blushing admission that she had something she needed to tell him.

“Robin…” he prompts gently, “you said earlier there was something you wanted to talk about?”

It’s subtle, but she definitely tenses, the motion of her hands stuttering for just an instant.

“T-there was, but…” Robin trails off, slumping into the pillows. “I’m just…I’m so tired, Chrom. Do you think maybe we can wait to talk more until tomorrow?”

Gods, of course she would be. She was supposed to spend the day resting and instead, she was trapped in that council meeting for hours—made to defend herself when her character came under fire. He shouldn’t have even pushed her to talk this much.

Vigorously, Chrom nods. “Of course, Robin. Whatever you need.”

She offers a flash of a smile before sinking further into the mattress and pillows. “I know it’s early but I think I might sleep for a little while, if that’s alright.”

Chrom nods and pushes himself from the bed. “In that case, I’ll leave you to rest.”  

With that assurance, he draws the curtains shut, letting soothing shadows sweep through the room. Robin worms her way under the blankets as he watches on with ferocious tenderness. Even though it’s been weeks, he’s still enamored with the sight of her in his bed—tiny and precious and safe.

A florid tinge rises in his cheeks when he recalls how he’d blurted an admission of his love for her during the council meeting. He had the cover of the eyes and ears around them, at least, but he can’t help but wonder if Robin could tell his words were more than a part of their act.

Tomorrow, he tells himself. Tomorrow is a new day—one where Robin will be free from the crippling workload the council hoisted on her, and from conniving duchess’s accusations of treason. A new day where he will find out what Robin has been so nervous about telling him and the two of them can move forward together.

Chrom is summoned to the dungeons early the next morning.

It doesn’t come as a surprise, exactly, but plodding down the tightly coiled stairs into the castle’s musty bowels makes for a strange start to his day—especially when he awoke in such high spirits. Torches cast eerie shadows on the stone as he descends, a distant, persistent dripping the only sound that accompanies his echoing footsteps. Goosebumps pepper the skin of his exposed arm.

“She hasn’t started talking yet,” the guard informs him, with a wayward glance at the cell behind her. “But I think she’ll come around when she sees how much we’ve dug up already.”

Chrom nods. Based on the guard’s report, the investigation into Lady Idris—or rather, just Idris, now that her title has been stripped from her—yielded more than enough evidence to ensure the outcome for the trial. Since her confinement, several servants also came forward testifying that Idris had accessed the press that is used for printing various government documents…and subsequently threatened them to keep quiet about it. All together it should make for a damning case.

From her probable list of offenses, the only one that the Guard has yet to find tied to her by physical proof is the dead rat that was left in Robin's room. But, as Chrom reminds himself, that’s not overly surprising. Unlike the forged documents, weeks have passed since Robin was left that threatening message. If there was ever evidence that the ex-duchess was responsible, she has had ample time and opportunity to dispose of it. Despite everything else that's already been uncovered, Idris has continued to adamantly deny every accusation.

It’s surreal looking through the bars and seeing her huddled there now.

The dungeon cells are not inhumane, but they are sparse—certainly not the lavish furnishings a noble woman would be accustomed to. She looks almost humorously incongruent, sitting upon a straw mattress in her fine, silken dress. Stray pieces of hay have embedded themselves in her once immaculately arranged hair.

“Well,” Chrom prompts coldly. “Do you have anything to say for yourself? Any remorse at all?”

Idris’s scowl deepens. “What have I to feel remorse for?” she spits, without turning to look at him. “All I’ve done is attempt to expose the truth before you soil the holy bloodline by breeding with that wretched harlot. The people of the halidom should be thanking me.”

Chrom glowers, clenching tight to Falchion’s hilt, but he steps away from the bars without another word. He will not give this woman the satisfaction of baiting him again.

He despises her, and there’s a cruel, gnarled corner of him that wants to see her life turned into torture. But Chrom is not a tyrant, and that is not the legacy his sister entrusted to him. Lady Idris will receive a fair trial and be punished accordingly. When her fate is sealed and she looks upon herself after she has lost everything…maybe she’ll finally realize she was brought there by no fault but her own.

Chrom schools his breathing and turns his attention back to the guard.

“Please ensure that all evidence of the former Lady Idris’s crimes is kept under constant watch. And inform your superior officer that I will be by later to look over everything that has been found myself.”

“Of course, Your Highness. I believe the Head of Guard already knows to expect you. He and Sir Frederick were both of the belief that you will be pleased with the progress that’s been made.”

Chrom thanks the guard for her diligence and begins his trek back up the stairs, his anger and bitterness fading along with the lightening shadows.

It’s a profound relief knowing that the investigation into Lady Idris has already turned up so much after a single day—knowing the woman’s trial will proceed without complications has granted him some much needed peace of mind. He’s certain Robin will share his feelings, and given her vestigial misgivings from the night before, Chrom wants to ensure she hears the good news as soon as possible.

…And it doesn’t hurt that the lack of information regarding the rat means he can assure Robin she need not consider returning to her own bed chambers any time soon. Directly after leaving the dungeon, Chrom sets out to do just that.

He stops by Robin's office first where the servant there, Greta, informs him that Robin left early to attend to some business in the library. Chrom heads there next, navigating the shelves with easy confidence and wasting no time as he winds his way back to Robin’s usual spot—her favorite both for the cozy privacy it offers and the abundance of natural light.

He rounds the last shelf, pausing for just a moment to admire Robin once she comes into view. The honey colored sunshine of late morning makes her warm skin glow and turns her silver hair to gold. She looks so at home here—her posture comfortable and easy in a way he rarely sees it these days. The sight leaves him unbearably fond, especially when he notices the cute way her nose is scrunched up from concentrating on her book. Chuckling to himself, Chrom opens his mouth to call out to her—

“Lady Robin!”

—but someone else beats him to it.

Robin looks up from her book and smiles across the table. “Hello, Lord Dorian.”

“I hope I haven’t kept you waiting for long,” the baron says as he pulls out the chair across from her.

Instinctively, Chrom ducks behind the bookshelf before either of them realize he’s there. He’s not sure why he does it—why he feels the need to hide at all—only that the sight of Lord Dorian wedged beside Robin at the tiny table fills his mouth with a foul taste. This little corner of the library is a safe haven for Robin; surely it is too precious and personal for some baron she’s just met to have any business intruding on it.  

Chrom hesitates, warring with whether he should interrupt them now or leave and come back later. He’s not trying to eavesdrop, but while he’s struggling to make up his mind, Robin’s voice drifts to him from around the dusty books at his back.

“—m sorry about our match being interrupted yesterday,” she apologizes. “It was such a close one too. I hate to think we’ll never know how it would have ended.”

“Think nothing of it,” Lord Dorian replies airily. “Actually, I do recall the positions of all the pieces, if you want to resume from where we left off. But I’m not opposed to a fresh start either.”

“You memorized every piece’s position?” Robin asks, obvious awe in her voice. “That’s incredible.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t go quite that far,” he says with a low chuckle. “I merely have a good memory for those matters in which I’ve a personal investment.”

Chrom’s expression sours into a scowl. Of course you do, he thinks bitterly. He’d much prefer that this baron was not quite so personally invested in getting to know Robin. He tunes back into the conversation just in time to catch Robin’s next question, her voice overlaid with the faint clack of what he assumes is the placement of chess pieces.

“—mind me asking, did you hear anything about why we had to be called away?”

A pause in which only the pieces make any noise. Chrom strains his ears.

 “…There are a few vague rumors circulating,” Lord Dorian finally replies.

“Ah. I wondered as much,” Robin says. “I’m surprised you still wanted to resume our match then, considering.”

“Whatever for? From what I heard, the fault belongs entirely to that vile duchess. You, Lady Robin, are the very last person deserving of anyone’s scorn.”

Robin gives a startled laugh. “It sounds to me like you know more about what happened than you’re letting on.”

“…As I said, I’ve only heard rumors. And ridiculous ones at that,” Lord Dorian dismisses. “The very idea that anyone would accuse you of incompetence is completely outlandish. One need only speak to you a moment to recognize that you’re both deeply duty-driven and highly intelligent.”

Chrom grits his teeth in begrudging agreement. She is, of course—the baron is absolutely right. But it’s not fair that the words flow so smoothly from Lord Dorian’s lips when Chrom’s own attempts to reassure Robin always come out as a fumbling mess.

“O-oh,” Robin says, and Chrom resents how he knows just from the tremble in her voice that she must be blushing. She clears her throat. “Well…thank you, Lord Dorian. That’s very kind of you to say.”

“It’s hardly a kindness when it’s the truth. And you may just call me Dorian, if you wish.”

Another pause. Chrom grips the shelf so hard he loses feeling in his fingers. He can’t take this—he needs to know what’s happening. Cautiously, he edges towards the end of the bookcase and risks a quick peek around.

“…Are you sure?” Robin asks hesitantly. “I mean, is that…proper?”

Chrom can’t see her face from this angle, but he can see all too clearly when Lord Dorian laughs and lays his hand over Robin’s on the table.

“You do the same with Lady Maribelle, do you not? Think of it as my way of expressing my sincere desire to get to know you better. And,” he says, giving her hand a squeeze, “if it wouldn’t make you uncomfortable, I’d be delighted if I could call you ‘Robin’ as well.”

Chrom launches himself back down the rows of bookshelves, so desperate to get away he forgets all about being quiet. It doesn’t matter—he can’t bear to look or listen a single second longer.

He doesn’t stop to catch his breath until he’s put dozens more shelves-worth of distance between them, but no matter how far his feet carry him it still doesn’t feel like enough. His ears ring with the sound of Lord Dorian saying Robin’s name; he can still see the baron touching her when he closes his eyes.

Chrom groans. He knows he shouldn’t feel so threatened by this. His bond with Robin is incomparable; it’s the kind you only find once in a hundred life times. She wouldn’t replace him so easily.

But that’s just it, isn’t it? She wouldn’t replace him as her best friend…but much as the last few weeks have made it easy to forget, Chrom has no claim to her heart.

Envy wriggles under his skin and compresses his chest, leaving him clammy and claustrophobic. This feeling is more than mere jealousy over watching someone else coax smiles and laughter from Robin’s lips. For all his failings, Chrom knows he draws plenty of those from her too…even if lately he seems to bring her more troubles than anything.

But this…this merciless burn inside him goes beyond just envy. This feeling is shame.

Gods, how many months has he spent quietly pining after Robin’s affections, too terrified to voice his feelings for fear of facing rejection? How many times has he second guessed his words or had to clumsily backtrack because he came too close to revealing the truth of his love for her?

To now have to look on silently as this man is so forward and physical, right after meeting her? Even when she is, to all the baron’s knowledge, supposed to be engaged to someone else? 

Chrom has never felt so pathetic in his entire life.

And what if he’s already missed his chance? What if he is forced to watch as Robin comes to love someone else? Someone smart, like she is…someone who could offer her the security and comfort of status and money but without the burden of ruling? And without the scathing political scrutiny…

Chrom is not narcissistic enough to trick himself into believing that there isn’t anyone better suited for her—someone who would be able to give her a happier, simpler life. In fact, he’s agonizingly aware of just how unworthy he is.

But he knows he would love her. Deeply and devotedly, forever. He knows he would have no reservations in giving her the whole of his heart.

And when he thinks of waking beside her—of the perfect way she fits into his arms; of the little fragments of hope she has given him every time he makes her breath hitch or her heart race; and of every one of the gentle, heated kisses they’ve shared…it’s not so hard to believe she could return his feelings.

…At least up until he remembers that there was none of that comfortable intimacy last night. Last night, there was a palpable distance between them—and he doesn’t know why. It could have been nerves over whatever it is she has yet to tell him…or just lingering anxiety about the encounter with the council. Yet another part of him can’t help but wonder if it might not have been something else…if she was withdrawing because she’d met Lord Dorian earlier that very day, and already she felt a flicker of interest in him that made Chrom’s own touchiness unwanted in a way it hadn’t been before.

He shakes his head, adamantly attempting to dislodge that thought. Robin and Lord Dorian only just met. Surely, Robin wouldn’t fall for him so quickly.

But that doesn’t mean she couldn’t, eventually, given more time. And if Chrom says nothing, then…

Breath by breath, Chrom battles his frayed nerves back under control, staring at the titles on the book spines in front of him until a glimmer of clarity returns and they no longer blur together.

No more, he decides. No more watching wistfully and hiding behind half truths; it’s long past time he conquered the cowardice that has plagued him for so long. He needs to show Robin how he feels—now, before the chance is gone forever and he’s forced to spend the rest of his life wondering what they could have had if only he’d been braver.

No sooner has he resolved to go through with it than fear ensnares him with its poisonous tendrils, reminding him of all the reasons he was once so certain his feelings weren’t returned. But it doesn’t matter—by now, he knows the threats it whispers by heart, and the prospect of losing her to someone else is much more frightening.  

There’s just the question of how, then. How, after all this time, to be bolder. To lay his heart a little more bare, so that Robin may choose to accept or reject it, as she sees fit.

Inspiration surges through him the next moment. The details are hazy, and it will take a little arranging, but it’s an idea, at least. One that, with any luck, he can bring to fruition before the night’s end.

Once Chrom has resolved to go through with his plan, it’s impossible to resist jumping in head first—and all the while, the intensity and magnitude of his affections seem to grow more unwieldy. He pays a long overdue visit to the Shepherds' garrison and speaks with Sumia and Olivia (both of whose advice he trusts when it comes to delicate matters, like those of the heart). With their help, a plan starts to take shape. All that’s left is to ensure Robin’s attendance.

He finds her tucked away in the gardens—beneath the very same pergola that Frederick arranged for them to have their first tea party under, all those weeks ago. The scene has changed since then, the air now fresh with the scent of grass clippings instead of pollen-sodden and sweet. The wisteria is past peak bloom, too, what few petals remain now shriveled to tiny, pale dollops and braided through with lush leaves. Robin takes shelter in the shade, scribbling furiously away in her journal, immune to any and all the movement around her.

As Chrom approaches her, anticipation and apprehension alike twine like vines throughout his chest—root themselves between his ribs. He’s trembly, and giddy, and terrified and he can’t hold it all in another minute.

“Robin!” Chrom calls, as he arrives beside her. “There you are!”

She snaps the journal closed, looking up in surprise. “Oh, hi, Chrom. What brings you—woah!”

Robin breaks off when he scoops up her hand and hoists her to her feet. Before her fingers can fall away, he tangles them together with his own.

“Come on,” he says, tugging her down the garden path. Obligingly, Robin falls into step beside him, a curious cast to her face.

“Where are we going, exactly?”

“Wherever you want,” he answers with a grin. Truthfully, they don’t really need to go anywhere; he’s simply much too worked up to stand still. “I just wanted to see you.”

Robin chuckles. “Someone seems to be in a good mood today.”

“That depends.”

Robin cocks her head to the side, the ‘On what?’ implicit in the gesture. Before the words reach her lips, Chrom blurts, “Are you busy this evening?”

She hums, contemplative. “Not particularly. I’m still barred from resuming my work, but there was a new book Sumia lent me that I was hoping to start on. I was thinking I might—”

“Well, the book will have to wait,” Chrom interrupts, the bubbly storm of nerves in his stomach getting the better of him. He swings around to stand before her, eagerly taking Robin’s other hand into his as well, so their arms make a loose ring between them.

“Let me take you out tonight,” he says.

Surprise flashes across Robin’s face. “Wh…what?”

“Olivia told me that there’s a dance troupe performing in the city square this evening,” he explains. “I’d like to take you, Robin, if you’re willing. It’s been so long since we got to do something together, just the two of us. Something other than work or etiquette lessons, I mean. A-and if you’d like, we—”

“Chrom—”

“—could get dinner beside the river beforehand. If we time it right, we can be there to watch the sun set over the water. I thought we could—”

“Chrom!”

Her tone brings his enthusiastic rambling to an abrupt halt. Robin’s lips press together in a troubled frown.

“Do you remember how I said there was…s-something I wanted to talk to you about?” she asks. And is that a tremble in her voice? Is she nervous?

“Yes, I remember,” Chrom replies. He takes a deep breath, working to rein himself in. Her expression startled him initially, but hearing her voice shake, he wonders if she couldn’t just be fizzling with the same anxious vulnerability that he is.

Chrom shifts his weight between his feet, restless for her to go on. Whatever it is Robin’s trying to say, she’s clearly having a hard time finding the words. His breath catches in his throat, knotted up with hope.

“Go ahead, Robin,” he says. He squeezes her hands tighter and offers a soft smile as encouragement. “Whatever it is, you can tell me.”

Robin’s eyes flicker up to his, uncertain, until finally she nods. “…Right. Okay then.” She sucks in a breath, and Chrom holds his too. “Chrom…” she says slowly, “we need to decide how we’re going to break up.”

A beat of silence, in which he doesn’t quite register the words she just said. Then the besotted bubble surrounding him bursts.

“H-how we're going to…” he stammers weakly. “No, I…w-what do you mean?”

“Exactly what I said,” Robin answers firmly. “The ball where you’re supposed to announce your engagement is only a week and a half away. We need to figure out how we’re going to end this, to make it seem convincing.”

“But that’s—” Chrom’s thoughts are all arriving too slowly in his head, as if each one is slogging through mud to get there. “That doesn't mean it has to be right now. There’s still—we still have time, and—”

“Not if we want it to be believable,” Robin says. Her hands go limp, dropping out of his hold, and with the loss of her touch, his heart crashes down too. “I mean, just think about it, Chrom. It’s going to be suspicious if we go from lovestruck to broken up in a matter of days. If we’re going to convince anyone, then we need to ease out of the courtship gradually. There’s not enough time left to delay it any longer. Honestly, we should have started even sooner.” She drifts further from him, crossing her arms tightly over her midsection before she adds, “And…given that, I don’t think it would be wise for us to be seen going out somewhere together. Especially not alone.”

Chrom’s voice comes out fractured. “I-is that what you want?”

Robin’s eyes fall to where a patch of moss pushes through the stone path, either unable or unwilling to meet his any longer. “…I think it’s the right choice. The best one,” she says softly. “Especially since we want everyone to believe that it was an amicable ending. That we’re only breaking up because…because trying out this relationship made us realize how much better off we are as friends.”

Each word is a splinter, gouging him open.

It’s as if he didn’t realize how high he was floating until gravity took effect and brought him plummeting back down. ‘How much better off we are as friends…’. Robin phrased it like it’s an undeniable fact—something both of them know to be true. It can’t be a coincidence that she brought this up right as he was daring to let his true feelings for her bleed through.

No, it’s not a coincidence. It’s a rejection.

A brutally gentle rejection, one that still maintains a veil of reasonable doubt he can shield himself with. Leave it to Robin to treat even his unwanted affections with such delicacy. He’s grateful, even as the realization ruptures him open further; he loves her even for how she breaks his heart.

Belatedly, he realizes that Robin is awaiting some kind of reply. That he’s supposed to say something to her, at least. Chrom shoves down his hurt and scrambles for a coherent response. He will not burden Robin with guilt over his wounded feelings; it isn’t her fault that she does not love him.

His heart stagnates—pinned on that thought. She doesn’t love me.

“Ah. R-right—I understand,” he chokes out. Despite his best efforts, Robin stares back at him with obvious concern.

“Chrom…” she begins gently, and he has to close his eyes because she’s so beautiful, always, but even more so when she says his name—when she’s worrying over him. And he’s afraid looking at her any longer will only rip him open more.

She doesn’t love me. She doesn’t love me…

“It’s alright, Robin,” he says, but the lie sits like sludge in his throat. “But if we’re…if we’re not meant to be seen alone together, then perhaps I sh-should…”

The rest of the words won’t come out. Robin says something and he tries to hear her, to listen, but his heart beat is a cacophony, hammering out the same words, again and again.

She doesn’t love me, she doesn’t love me, she doesn’t love me, she doesn’t—

“S-sorry,” Chrom stammers. “We’ll talk about it later, alright?”

He squeezes her shoulder in reassurance and winces out a smile, then pushes his feet down the path—leaving Robin and his foolish delusions that he could have a life with her behind.

“Rrragh!”

With a ferocious shout, Chrom lunges forward, slashing at the wooden man in front of him. His sword shears straight through and a splintering sound tears through the night as one of its limbs is sent flying. It lands with a dusty thud several meters away. Chrom stares unseeingly after it for only a moment before launching himself at the dummy again.

Despite the cool night air, sweat marches down his neck, trailing chilly fingers against his hot skin. The moon has not yet crested in the sky, but this is already the third training dummy that he’s broken beyond repair. There will be more before the night ends, he’s sure. Hours still lie ahead before he can safely return to his room without running the risk that Robin will be awake…and waiting to continue their conversation from the garden.

He flinches at the reminder and swings his sword harder. All week he has been avoiding her—not that she has made it particularly hard to. Their version of “easing out” of the fake relationship is turning out a lot more abrupt than she probably intended. But gods, what is he supposed to do? He can’t stomach making her play make-believe as a couple now that she’s rejected him.

Chrom came down to the training grounds hoping that he could hack his way into a numb exhaustion, but his efforts have been met with minimal success: his muscles burn from weeks of neglecting his training, but the growing soreness hasn’t quelled his riotous thoughts.

No matter what he does, he can’t seem to stop remembering. Can’t stop it even though every scene his mind dredges up is a new wound. Chrom has never thought of himself as a masochist, but he’s learned a lot of new things about himself in the months since losing his sister…

…Like the fact that he’s more of a vain, hope-blinded fool than he ever thought possible.

Chrom falls back on his haunches, leg muscles coiled tight. He propels himself forward chaining together another barrage of slices—wishing he could use the training sword to slash through his memories instead.

But he can’t. With each hit, fissured images push into his head and blaze a bonfire in his body and he is helpless to banish them. Robin’s giddy giggles when he twirled her through the air. Her head on his shoulder, the sleeping castle grounds yawning beneath the star-dappled balcony. Crisp, cool sheets overlaying the warm tangle of their limbs. Every dazzling press of his mouth to her skin and her lips to his…a feeling he’ll likely never know again.

And then his mind drags him even further back. Those first weeks after his sister’s death are usually too raw for his waking mind to revisit willingly, but it brings him there now. To Robin hauling him by hand through the blood and mud of the mid-mire. Refusing to leave him behind even when he begged her to. Holding tight to him when his body shook with silent sobs. He’d let himself start to believe that she could love him back then too—despite the fact he'd never been less deserving of it.

Chrom brings back the sword to thrust into the training dummy’s gut and with the motion, his mind thrusts him back to his last battle: to bronze sunlight on the ramparts; and the rank scent of rust as the sand drank up the last blood the mad king’s heart would ever pump.

He remembers standing over Gangrel’s corpse—those crazed, unseeing eyes staring back. There was a heavy emptiness in his chest—an absence that still had weight. And he remembers asking himself what it was all for…if all the death changed anything.

And then a hand on his shoulder.

“We can go home now,” Robin said—an answer to his unspoken question.

Chrom summoned a specter smile. Were it anyone else, he would have simply agreed. But this was Robin, and he didn’t need to pretend with her.

“I wonder if it will even feel like home now,” he admitted quietly.

“It will,” she answered, certain in a way he hadn’t heard her in a long time. He clung to every syllable as she went on, “Maybe not right away, but…it will with time. Because you’ll have your Shepherds with you.” She smiled wryly, squeezing his shoulder. “And your other half.”

Warmth welled inside him; she was right—so long as he had his friends, he would never truly be facing anything alone. He’d told Gangrel as much at the battle’s onset mere hours earlier, so he wasn't sure how he’d managed to nearly lose sight of it again since.

Chrom turned to Robin, spellbound by how the dying desert sun ignited her silver hair and amber eyes alike into dazzling, golden fire. With the promise of peace stretching before him, it was harder than ever to ignore his heart’s pleas to keep her close. To hold her near and never let go.

…He could do it right then. He’d faced so many fears already that day, what was one more? All it would take was telling her, and if Robin felt the same, it would mean he could be hers, forever. Chrom scoured himself for courage, trying to form words that would be soft enough—ardent enough—around the sand and grit in his mouth.

“I've…I’ve been thinking a lot lately, about everything,” he began. “And about you, Robin.”

Her hand fell away from his shoulder as she peered up at him, puzzled. “…About me?”

Chrom nodded, smiling softly at her. “In many ways, you're the best fighter I've ever known...and the best friend.” One deep breath to quiet his rampaging heart. “You’ve grown to be very dear to me, and I…I wonder if you think of me as more than your leader?”

Surprise flickered across Robin’s face before it phased into a cautious smile. “Of course I do, Chrom,” she answered. “You’re my best friend too.”

He waited—breath bated—to see if she would continue; for the hint of an ‘and—’ where she might allude to him being something more, as well. But Robin’s eyes looked far away suddenly, staring past him to the sea of copper dunes.

Perhaps he hadn’t been direct enough. He’d just have to say it more plainly.

“You know, I don’t envy you the challenges ahead,” Robin admitted.

Chrom’s confession hitched in his throat, suddenly uncertain. “What do you mean?”

“I’m not going to sugar coat it, Chrom. The war may be won, but rebuilding the Halidom isn’t going to be easy. Gods know I wouldn’t want that responsibility, and I wouldn’t have wished it on you either, but…” she trailed off, shaking her head before smiling. “But I know you can do it, and I want you to know I’ll stay by your side every step of the way. As your friend, I’ll do everything I can to support you.”

A petulant protest nearly burst past his lips: I don’t want you to support me as my friend. I want more than that—

—But as soon as he thought those words, he was horrified with himself.

Of course he wanted Robin’s support as his friend. The friendship she gave him was one of the most precious things in his life. How greedy was he to ask for more?

And…hadn’t she just told him she wouldn’t choose that? That she would never want the life and burden that being with him would beset her with? His heart shriveled as he weighed her words. She’d said it kindly, but the message was clear: Robin did not want to marry him. Her friendship was as much as she could offer and Chrom would remind himself as many times as he had to that it was more than enough.

He’d held staunchly to that belief in the months since—even if the conversation had hurt too much for him to stomach recalling it directly most of the time. It’s only now that he’s been rejected again that he can’t seem to stop himself from reliving it from a hundred hideous angles.

He never should have let himself lose sight of her words from back then. He spent so many months schooling himself to be content with their friendship only for this accursed fake relationship to taunt him with fantasies fulfilled and pump him full of hope all over again. It shouldn’t hurt worse this time—not when he already went through the loss and resignation of her rejection and figured out how to pick himself back up after.

But gods, it does. It does hurt worse. Robin doesn’t love him—has never loved him—and a week’s time has made the thought no less of an agony.

He really is a fool.

Grunting with effort, Chrom darts forward, slashing wildly at his wooden foe. The blunted sword cuts straight through the dummy’s neck—beheading it with a gruesome flourish.

“Yeesh, Chrom. What did that training dummy ever do to you?”

Chrom whirls around, startled.

“Lissa!” he exclaims, as his eyes land on his little sister. She marches across the grounds towards him, eyes bright with purpose. “What are you doing here? Did you come to train as well?”

Lissa rolls her eyes. “Yeah, right. Unlike you, I don’t miss all the fighting.”

Chrom frowns and sheaths his training sword. “Well, then what brings you to the training grounds?”

She comes to a standstill just beside him, crossing her arms over her chest. “I’m here to check on you, actually,” she replies.

“M-me?” he stammers, cringing internally. Damn, have I really been that transparent? “Er, what for?”

“Oh, come off it, Chrom,” Lissa huffs. “It’s obvious you’ve been in a foul mood the last few days—everyone can tell. And even if everyone else couldn’t, I’d still be able to.”

“I’m not in a foul mood…” he mumbles, scuffing a boot in the dirt.

“Yeah, you are. You’re all sulky and snappy and I’m not gonna leave until I figure out why.” Lissa plops down on a crate along the nearest wall, patting the spot beside her. Though, from the way she’s glaring, it’s more of a demand than an invitation. She waits for him to shuffle over and reluctantly take a seat before continuing. “So, tell me what’s going on. Did you and Robin fight?”

“W-what? No!" he answers quickly. "I mean—w-why would you think that?”

Lissa’s eyes narrow. “Ya know, this’ll be over a lot faster if you quit trying to deny everything.”

Chrom fidgets with the handle of his training sword, mulling over her words. Surprisingly, a part of him really does want to confide in Lissa. And maybe he can. After all, if everyone is supposed to think his relationship with Robin is fizzling out, telling Lissa that he and Robin are having problems might work to their advantage.

Gods, he hates that even when he’s aching for comfort, there’s a part of him that’s still thinking about his damn role.

“…We didn’t fight, exactly,” he says at last, with a sullen shrug. “But…things haven’t been great.”

Lissa nods. “Yeah, I get it. I mean—you both must have been really stressed after all that stupid stuff with the council. They were so awful to her!” She slams a fist down in her lap for emphasis before continuing more softly. “But…if that’s what’s got you down, I’m actually kinda relieved. Cause that means you and Robin just need to talk it out, and then everything will be okay again.”

Chrom’s chest constricts. “It’s not that simple, Lissa.”

“Sure it is!” she insists. “Every couple has rocky patches sometimes, but what matters is that you guys are crazy for each other! So—”

“She’s not,” he interrupts.

Lissa blinks back at him, confused. “She’s not what?”

“Robin. She’s not crazy about me,” he grits out. “She…she doesn’t even…”

Lissa sticks her hands on her hips. “Chrom, that’s ridiculous! I mean, come on—”

“It’s not! It’s the truth—”

“Anyone with eyes can see how much Robin loves you, so you’ve just gotta—”

“She doesn’t!” he snaps. “She doesn’t love me—she never did! She’s been faking it all this time, and I was supposed to be too, b-but I—er…”

Too late he realizes what he’s said. A chilling silence follows as he frantically wracks his head for some way to backtrack. Lissa has gone deathly still.

“Chrom.” She says his name like it’s a threat and he shudders involuntarily. “You need to explain what you’re talking about. Right now.”

It all comes spilling out after that. Frederick’s warning about the council; Robin’s suggested solution; his blunder at the meeting, and their plan for how to fix it. Lissa says nothing while he speaks, though her face progresses through a wide range of contortions until finally, when he finishes by telling her about Robin’s rejection, it goes oddly blank.

He falls silent, as Lissa takes a long, slow breath. “Chrom, I’m warning you. You better keep that training sword away from me."

Chrom buffers. He glances down at the sword, then up at his sister again. “Er…okay. But what does that have to do with—”

“—Because right now,” Lissa continues, “I really feel like I could kill you.”

“Wh-what?!” His face flushes with indignation…and a trace of hurt. “You push me into telling you why I’m upset and this is how you react?”

“Um, yeah, it is actually!” she exclaims, immediately just as worked up as he is. “For one, I just found out my brother has been lying to me for a whole month. I thought Robin was going to be part of our family, Chrom! I thought…I thought I was going to have a sister-in-law. Do you have any idea how much that meant to me? After…a-after—”

Lissa breaks off, blinking rapidly. Guilt crushes him at the sight.

“Gods, Lissa, I—I’m so sorry,” he stammers. He barely knows what to say; anger he was prepared for, but Lissa’s sadness blindsided him completely. “I didn’t even think about how that would feel for you. I…I should have—”

“Yeah, you should have!” she fumes, swiping furiously at her eyes. “But you didn’t! Instead, you lied and put me through all of this over what’s gotta be the stupidest problem in the whole world!”

Chrom bristles. “Lissa, I understand that I hurt you and I truly am sorry. But the last thing I need is you making light of my problems when I already feel—ow!” He breaks off when she snatches the training sword and thwaps him on the shoulder with it—hard.

“I wasn’t finished yet, doofus!” she huffs. “I’m so mad at you! At both of you! This is just as much Robin’s fault as yours. I can’t believe how dumb you both are!”

“Hey!” he protests. “You can say what you want about me, but Robin is not dumb!”

Lissa shakes her head, sending her pigtails flapping wildly. “Not about books and tactics stuff, sure. But about feelings? Robin’s as much of a blockhead as you are, Chrom. She has to be, or else you guys wouldn’t have spent the last month lying to all your friends and family, and pretending to be in a relationship—”

“Lissa!” he shushes her. “Keep your voice down!”

“—when it’s obvious to everyone that you both have feelings for each other!” she rants. “I don’t care how close your friendship is! No one suggests faking a courtship with someone they’re not interested in!”

“You’re wrong about that,” Chrom tells her, eyes falling to his feet. “My feelings may have been real, but for Robin it was—ow! Lissa, give that back!” he shouts when she brandishes the training sword to jab him again.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve, Chrom! I’ve seen you guys kissing and doing…whatever gross stuff you were doing in your bed. And you’re really gonna try and tell me that Robin’s not just as mushy about you as you are about her?”

“The k-kissing wasn’t—that was just a one time thing!” he insists, flushing red. “It was only because you were suspicious and we needed to convince you. And we weren’t doing anything when you walked in—I swear it.”

“Uhuh. Whose idea was the kissing, then?” Lissa demands. The look she gives him is withering.

Chrom swallows. “W-well, it was Robin’s, but—”

“And to share your bed?” she presses.

“…A-also Robin’s, but that was just—”

“And gee, let me think, wasn’t the whole suggestion to fake a relationship in the first place also Robin’s idea?”

“Y-yes,” he stammers, increasingly flustered, “but…but none of that matters, Lissa!”

“How can you say that?” she fires back. “How can you say it doesn’t matter that she—”

“Because she still turned me down!” he snaps.

In the quiet that follows, Chrom takes a ragged breath, hands fisted where they lie against his knees. “It doesn't matter how much of it was her idea, alright? Because it doesn’t change the fact that when I tried to tell her how I felt, she…she didn’t even want to…” His voice cracks horribly over the last word and he has to look away.

Lissa sighs, letting the training sword droop down to her side again.

“Chrom…” she says, and though her voice is still firm it has none of the harshness from moments before, “did you ever actually tell Robin that you’re in love with her? Like…did you actually say the words ‘I’m in love with you’ directly to her face?”

“I…no,” he admits quietly. “I was going to, that night I asked her to dinner. But she never gave me the chance.” He hangs his head, staring dejectedly at his feet. “Still, I can’t imagine she doesn’t know. You’ve made it abundantly clear that I’ve hardly been subtle.”

“Yeah, and I also made it clear that Robin’s a total blockhead when it comes to other people’s feelings,” Lissa says. There’s a touch at his shoulder and he winces at first, thinking it’s the training sword again, but it’s just his sister’s hand, offering a reassuring pat.

“Look, I’m not gonna pretend I know everything going through Robin’s head, but…don’t you think that she could just be scared?”

“…Scared?” Chrom chances an uncertain glance Lissa’s way. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that you’re the future exalt, Chrom! That’s…kind of a lot of pressure. And it’s not like the council gave her a warm and fuzzy welcome, either.”

Chrom frowns. “I already told her I don’t care what the council thinks.”

“Okay, but what about Robin?” Lissa emphasizes. “Does she care?”

“She—”

—shouldn’t, Chrom starts to say, but that’s not really an answer to the question. And in truth, he knows she does. Robin told him outright that was why she pushed herself so hard with all that work. She said she was desperate to prove herself to the council, no matter how impossible it might be.

When he remains silent, Lissa presses on. “I know you don’t think that stuff is important, but Robin gets way more hung up on logistics and court stuff. Knowing her, she’s probably all worked up that being with you would cause you a whole bunch of problems. Or…I dunno, maybe she’s worried that she would be a bad queen.”

Again, Chrom starts to protest, to insist that the idea of Robin making a bad queen is absurd, but then another memory fragment flashes through his mind—one from when he and Robin were walking back to her room after the first council meeting they attended together. He told her he thought she would be well suited to it: to ruling, and diplomacy, and court politics. And Robin adamantly denied it.  

Chrom’s heart rate starts to pick up as he flicks through memories of all the times Robin insisted she wouldn't be right for the role of queen consort. Could Lissa be right? Could the real reason Robin is pushing him away have nothing to do with not loving him?

…But if it doesn’t, does it even make a difference?

“What if…what if she loves me but not enough to want to be with me?” he asks, speaking the fear aloud as it swells up in him. “If Robin chooses to spend her life with me, it would mean choosing all the burdens and pressure that comes along with it. Maybe I’m not—m-maybe it’s not enough to make it worth it.”

Lissa shrugs. “I dunno, Chrom. I don’t think anyone could tell you that except for Robin.”

“And what about our friendship?” he presses. “What if telling her how I feel ruins it?”

Lissa snorts. “Okay, well that’s a load of crap. Aren’t you guys always going on about how you’re two parts of a bigger person—”

“Two halves of a greater whole,” he corrects.

“Ugh, yeah. That,” says Lissa, rolling her eyes. “If your bond with Robin is really as strong as you’re always yelling about, then you loving her shouldn’t ruin that. You’re not the first person to ever fall in love with one of your friends, you know.”

Chrom fidgets, trying to figure out how to explain that it’s precisely because his friendship with Robin is so incomparably intense that he’s been afraid to risk damaging it with unrequited feelings. It just doesn’t seem worth the gamble to impress his affection for her more overtly when she’s already shot him down twice.

Lissa watches him war with his words for another moment before sighing and bumping his shoulder with her own.

“Chrom, I can stand here all night telling you that I think Robin loves you, but there’s no way to know for sure unless you talk to her about it. And yeah, there’s always gonna be a chance things could go wrong. But NOT telling her how you feel could hurt your friendship too. And considering you’re out here hacking heads off training dummies in the middle of the night, I kinda think you’re already there.”

Chrom straightens up abruptly. “I…I’ve never thought about it like that,” he admits.

She makes a fair point, though. 

Every time in the last month that he was afraid he’d given away too much of his feelings for Robin, he would cope by withdrawing and avoiding her. They’ve had much more conflict in the last month than the entire remaining duration of their friendship…but maybe it wasn’t pretending to be together that caused that conflict at all. Maybe it was because he’s been floundering to keep the truth from her the whole time. And because the strain of hiding his feelings has resulted in a thousand, tiny fracture lines in their friendship.

“Gods, Lissa…” he breathes. “You’re right. You’re completely right.”

“Well, duh. Of course I am.”

Chrom shoots to his feet, suddenly unable to hold still a second longer. “All this time, I never realized that keeping this a secret might be doing more harm than good. But you’re right, I haven’t been protecting my bond with Robin at all. I need to—Gods…what—what do I do?” he asks, suddenly seized by panic as his thoughts fly further ahead. “The ball is in two days. The council wants me to announce my engagement, but if I tell them Robin and I are no longer together, th-then—”

“Hey, do you love her or what?” Lissa goads.

He doesn’t waver when he answers, “More than anything.”

“Well, then go and do something about it!” she exclaims. “Two days is plenty of time to make Robin feel super duper loved and tell her how you feel.”

“Alright…” he murmurs, already running through scenarios in his head. Chrom nods, resolutely. “Alright. I’ll try. Hey, and Lissa?” On a whim, he crosses back to her and drops to his knees beside the crate she’s sitting on, pulling her into a tight hug. “Thank you. You’re a good sister, and I’m lucky to have you.”

Lissa gives a little disdainful huff but hugs him back fiercely all the same.

“Yeah, well maybe next time you’ll remember you can just talk to me about things. Seriously Chrom, you don’t have to try and shoulder everything alone. I…I know it used to drive you crazy when Emm would do that, so…don’t put me through it all over again, okay?”

A lump forms in his throat as he pulls away. “You’re right. I’m sorry, Lissa. For worrying you, and for not telling you the truth from the beginning. You deserve better from me.”

“Yeah, I do,” Lissa agrees, but she gives him a wry grin while she says it. “You know, there is a way you could make it up to me…”

“Just say the word and I’ll see it done.”

Lissa’s smile turns mischievous. “Great. 'Cause if you marry Robin, and I still get to have her as a sister-in-law, then I guess I’ll have no choice but to forgive you both.”

Chrom chuckles and ruffles her hair. “Well, I can’t promise you that she’ll agree. But at the very least, I swear to you that I’ll tell Robin I want to spend the rest of my life with her.”

“Gods, you’re so corny,” Lissa complains good-naturedly. “But alright, Chrom. It’s a deal. And you better believe I’m holding you to it!”

“I know you are,” he says, pushing back to his feet. “In that case, I had better get going. I’ll just, er…”

He trails off as his eyes drift to the hacked up carcasses of the training dummies splayed haphazardly across the grounds.

Lissa sighs as she hops up too. “Just go. I’ll clean it up. But you owe me, you big dolt.”

Chrom grins at her, half sheepish and half appreciative, then jets off back towards the castle. Butterflies batter his chest with every step. In a way, he’s right back where he was a week ago, when he last planned to make his feelings for Robin known. But this time he’s not going to be discouraged. This time, he’s going to lay his heart bare to her no matter what. And if Robin still rejects him, at least he won’t have to spend the rest of his life wondering what would have happened if he’d told her the truth. He'll be able to move forward, content with the knowledge that he did all he could—and use that new sense of peace to work on forging their friendship more strongly than ever before. 

After all, his bond with Robin has already survived a war, the death of his sister, his crowning as Ylisse’s ruler, and a political conspiracy. Chrom has to believe that his love for her will not be the thing to shatter it.

Chapter Text

Chrom half runs back to his rooms, his heartbeat racing along with him. With each step, a hundred fragmented declarations jumble around in his mind—brilliant and broken as stained glass. He sifts through the shards madly, searching out some combination that will be able to properly elucidate to Robin what she means to him. Something, anything, he can say to make her understand the outpouring of devotion and adoration he feels for her.

By the time he reaches the door, he still hasn’t found anything near good enough…but he knows himself, and if he waits until he stumbles upon the right words, he’ll be waiting forever. For all that Robin teases him about his over-honest declarations, speech has never been his preferred means of self-expression—he much prefers actions. At this point, all he can do is tell Robin he loves her, simple and true, and pray that she’ll be willing to let him kiss her until she believes it.

Still jeweled with perspiration, Chrom swipes hastily at his forehead with the back of his wrist then pushes open the door without ceremony before he has the chance to freeze up with nerves. His lungs seize with anticipation, nearly choking his voice, but he forces himself to push through.

“...Robin?” he calls softly. No response.

Closing the door behind him, Chrom strides inside. A feeble fire languishes in the hearth—more than mere embers, but clearly not tended to in some time. His footsteps slow as he crosses the threshold, peering into the washroom in the half-hearted hope that Robin is in there somewhere and just didn’t hear him in the midst of readying herself for bed.

It’s not overly unusual for her to still be out when he arrives back for the night—certainly not this week, with both of them avidly endeavoring to spend as little time in their shared quarters as possible. It’s remarkably hard to avoid someone you’re living with, but they’ve both made a damned good effort at it.

The note on the bedside table isn’t typical, though. In fact, Robin hasn’t left him one since that first morning he awoke without her some weeks back. As soon as he registers its presence, Chrom snatches it up, eyes skimming over the familiar print.

Chrom,

Decided to stay in my room tonight to clear my head—hopefully you can do the same. Maybe the space will be good for us. We’ll talk tomorrow, alright?

Robin

Chrom’s chest twinges painfully when he reaches the end. It’s hard to discern how much of what's written is sincere and how much is intended as a stage prop, but either way, this message is notably bereft of the tender valediction she signed the last one with. Suddenly the bedroom feels drafty and lonesome in a way it hadn’t moments before.

Chrom blows out a gusty sigh as his eyes settle back on the message’s second line— ‘Maybe the space will be good for us’. What is he supposed to make of that when they’ve barely seen each other the whole week? He can’t speak for Robin, but from his viewpoint, more space is the last thing they need.

Glancing around his chambers again, he can see now that some of Robin’s personal effects have gone with her too—her desk is now covered in a reasonable number of books instead of the precarious towers he’s come to find so endearing. She’s already started extricating herself, then—disentangling their lives in anticipation of his announcement to the council that their courtship has fallen through. Chrom’s fingers tighten around the parchment, crinkling the edges. Gods, he should have said something sooner, before it got to this point.

He has half a mind to march himself to her room that very minute—especially given that if Lissa is right about how Robin feels for him, then they need never sleep apart again. He would do it without a moment’s hesitation if his own wishes were all that mattered…

But her note gives him pause. He can’t ignore the possibility that Robin really does want this extra space to clear her head. And beyond that, storming into her room and shaking her awake probably wouldn’t make for an especially romantic confession.

Chrom tumbles back onto the mattress with a groan, but even the silken sheets can’t soothe the impatience itching at his skin. Robin’s note implies that she plans to speak with him tomorrow…but with the ball nearly upon them, he can scarcely imagine when they’ll be able to carve out time alone. He already knows his schedule for the next day is packed with meetings; and in the evening, he has that damn dinner to attend.

Chrom bolts upright again on the bed. Of course. The dinner party.

It’s customary that all grand celebrations at the palace are preceded by a smaller soirée the night before so that members of the nobility have the opportunity to speak at length, without the interruption of music and merriment. Normally, Chrom detests those dinners; pinned to one seat at a dining table, there is little salvation from the nobility’s nosy inquiries and expectant demands for favors.

But as his supposed fiancée, Robin will be expected to attend as well—will be seated right at his side, in fact. Which means that grating as the dinner will no doubt be, it could also serve as the perfect opportunity. Surely at some point before parting ways for the night, he can find a moment to privately take Robin aside and tell her that he loves her.

It does mean he’ll be cutting things close, though. Especially given that, if Robin turns him down, he’ll have less than 24 hours to inform the council that his engagement is called off and to make the appropriate adjustments for the ball.

…Gods, he really hopes it won’t come to that.

Chrom looks over Robin’s note one more time before placing it carefully on the nightstand. His fingers trail over the inky loops of her name and he chuckles wryly to himself.

“You’re not making this easy, Robin. You know that?” he murmurs.

In all likelihood, he has a very restless night lying ahead of him, but he can endure one more night’s worth of waiting if he must—will endure it, for her sake. And when next he crawls into bed, be that alone or with her at his side, at least Robin will finally know the truth.

Sure enough, from the moment he’s roused, Chrom is granted only a few blinks at the sooty, pre-dawn sky outside his windows before Frederick is shepherding him to the first of many meetings. The day passes erratically, time seeming to gallop forward when he’s anxious and then stalling out again when his nerves shift to excitement instead.

The best and worst part of the day comes when he does catch a glimpse of Robin…only to find she is not alone. Chrom is out speaking to the coachmen about managing the carriages to and from the castle the next evening when a horse pulls up along the eastward side of the stables, just in his periphery. To his surprise, it’s Robin who is riding atop it. She is red-cheeked and wind-blown and beautiful and he is already abandoning his plans of waiting until the evening and constructing a shoddy excuse to step away from the coachman when he registers Lord Dorian swinging out of the saddle behind her.

As he watches on, the baron offers his hand and Robin takes it, dismounting with ease. Chrom can’t help but notice that she’s dressed in her regular tactician garb, and somehow that makes him feel even worse than if she were decked out in finery—it speaks to a growing level of comfort with Lord Dorian’s company that he selfishly wishes wasn’t there. He’s irked by the idea that during the week Chrom spent avoiding her, the two of them have already grown so familiar.

If his resolve was any weaker, Chrom might take the encounter as a sign that he’d be better off keeping quiet about his feelings after all. But this time he is not to be swayed. He will tell Robin he loves her, and she can decide for herself with whom her affections lie.

Finally, evening arrives and it’s time to make his way to Maribelle’s room—the noblewoman having offered some weeks back to help Robin get ready for the dinner.

Despite the fact Chrom’s been awaiting this moment all day, a fresh flood of apprehension threatens to drown him as he arrives outside the door. He’s hardly spent any time with Robin at all since her seeming rejection of him in the garden, and though he did make a plan for how to approach his interactions with her throughout the evening, it suddenly seems ill-formed as wet clay.

Still, all it takes is reminding himself that Robin is on the other side of the door to spur him on. Even if all else fails, he’ll still get to spend the evening with her, and that knowledge alone is enough to bring his fist stuttering forward against the wood.

The door swings open almost instantaneously—as if whoever is inside anticipated his knock coming at that precise moment. Though, from Robin’s stretched wide eyes she hardly looks expectant.

“C-chrom?” she stammers. “I—I didn’t realize you were meeting us here.”

His heart spasms at the sight of her. In thinking through how the evening would play out, he’d foolishly forgotten to fortify himself for the fact that Robin would, in fact, be dressed for a party. And it’s clear Maribelle has outdone herself.

Robin’s hair has been styled into an elaborate braid and dotted with tiny, crystal-tipped pins—even lit only by the dim hallway sconces, it looks like plaited starlight. The long, lavender dress she’s wearing practically glows against her warm-toned skin, embroidered ivy vines spanning the bodice and climbing the shoulder opposite that which her hair is draped over. After a week of only the most fleeting glimpses of her, her beauty is almost too much for him to bear.

“Robin,” he croaks, “y-you look…”

She glances down at herself, shuffling the dress skirt around sheepishly. “Ah. Yes, well, I tried to tell Maribelle that I might not even be attending the dinner tonight, but she was having none of it.”

Her words give him enough pause to re-ground himself, shaking off some of his entrancement. “Wait, why wouldn’t you be attending?”

Robin casts her gaze behind her where Chrom belatedly registers Maribelle and Sumia fluttering about within the room, fussing over each other’s hair and dress skirts. Robin frowns to herself then tugs at the door. For one awful second Chrom thinks she’s about to shut it in his face, but instead she sidles out, pulling it nearly shut behind her.

“Well, I wasn’t sure if you’d told the council already. You know, about everything falling through,” Robin explains. “And we haven’t seen much of each other this week. Which I know was part of the plan, but…I just thought you might prefer to spend this dinner apart too.” Her voice is hushed and fervid, but even spoken gently the words elicit a pang from behind Chrom’s ribs. “Have you told the council?” she presses.

“Er…no, not yet,” he admits, rubbing his neck.

There’s a long pause during which Robin’s expression very clearly seems to ask “why not?” and he flounders for what he can afford to give away.

He just wants to tell her, now; has never felt so close to bursting from biting back his feelings. Especially given that she seems to have convinced herself that he’s put distance between them because he no longer desires her company…rather than that he desires it far too much. The diffident cast of Robin’s eyes is further confirmation of what he realized from speaking to Lissa: avoiding Robin has only been straining their friendship—not protecting it.

But they’re not truly alone right now; the risk of Maribelle and Sumia waltzing through the door is a very tangible one. They’re also expected at the dinner party within mere minutes…and foisting his feelings upon Robin with no guarantee of the time or privacy to talk through them would be disastrous. Which means, for the time being, Chrom will have to settle for being less direct.

“I’m sorry, Robin. I should have talked to you about all of this before now,” he admits, finally. “I understand why we couldn’t be seen together this last week but truthfully, I…I miss you. And selfish as it is, I don’t want to endure another of these dinners without you at my side. That is, if you’re still willing to attend with me?” he asks, looking at her hopefully.

Robin audibly sucks in a breath. Her gaze is prying as it meets his; it’s clear she’s trying to glean something from his expression. Perhaps she’s just shocked to hear him speaking to her so levelly now when their last conversation was so fraught. Which, Chrom supposes, is fair. From Robin’s perspective, his attitude must seem as if it’s done a complete 180 with little explanation as to why. He conjures up a tentative smile as reassurance but it just makes her eyebrows stitch tighter together.

“W-well, you know I’m always happy to support you, Chrom,” she says haltingly. “And I’d be lying if I said I haven’t missed you too. It just seems like this is cutting things awfully close. And I wouldn’t want to give the nobles there the wrong idea. But…” she trails off, nibbling her lip before firming suddenly. “Actually, maybe this is for the best. This way the council can see us together without any of the pretenses. And then they won’t be so surprised when they hear that the engagement is called off.” With a hesitant smile of her own, she adds, “And that means we don’t have to concern ourselves with fooling anyone tonight. We can just enjoy each other’s company how we normally would.”

Chrom nods. He anticipated that would be Robin’s thought process going into this—luckily, he already decided how best to handle himself in response.

“Right,” he agrees. “There’s no need for any pretending tonight,” and only once he has finished saying as much does he step forward and press a feather light kiss to the crown of her head.

Robin’s spine straightens, suddenly still as stone. “Wh-what was that for—”

“Robin!” the bright soprano of Sumia’s voice calls, as the door swings open, “Are you all ready to—oh! Hello, Captain! I didn’t hear you arrive!”

“Hello, Sumia. It’s good to see you,” Chrom replies.

“Sorry to keep you waiting! We would have been ready earlier, but somehow I managed to get the lacing on my dress all tangled up,” she explains mournfully.

“It’s no trouble at all,” he assures her. “Besides, I’ve had Robin to keep me company.”

Sumia giggles, petal pink lips upturned in a knowing smile. “Oh, of course! I guess I should be apologizing for interrupting you two instead.”

“You weren’t interrupting anything,” Robin says briskly, finally seeming to recover from her surprise. “I take it Maribelle is ready as well?”

“But of course, darling,” Maribelle answers, appearing beside Sumia in the doorway. “Now come along, elsewise we shall be in danger of arriving simply ‘late’ rather than fashionably so.”

They make their way to the formal dining hall, Sumia and Maribelle chattering away while Chrom does his best to follow along. They’re just coming upon the carved double doors that mark the entrance to the dining hall when a high-pitched squeal brings all four of them grinding to a halt.

“Maribelle! There you are!”

There’s a brief streak of gold and a rather unladylike “oof” from Maribelle before Lissa comes into focus—her dainty arms flung around Maribelle’s neck and a wide grin on her face.

“Now, Lissa, my treasure, what have I told you about maintaining propriety at these sorts of events?” Maribelle fusses, though her cheeks have turned pinker than the silk of her gown.

“Sorry!” Lissa says. “I’m just so happy to see you! Ooo, you guys too!” she says to Sumia and Robin. “You both look so pretty!”

“Any greeting for your brother?” Chrom asks half-heartedly.

“Nope!” Lissa chirps, then launches herself at Robin next, hugging her tight. As Robin staggers back laughing, Lissa catches Chrom’s eye over her shoulder.

“Did you tell her yet?” she mouths, one eyebrow raised expectantly.

Chrom shakes his head and mouths back, “After.”

Lissa’s expression briefly sours into a scowl before settling instead on begrudging acceptance. She nods once, then pries herself from Robin’s grip to hug Sumia next. At that moment, the double doors swing open, a pair of guards bowing low to Chrom as they take their post to each side of the door.

“Good evening, Your Highness.”

Chrom nods curtly, his dread for these dinner parties flaring back up in full force now that he’s faced with the prospect of having to go inside. He peers beyond the entryway at the dining table within, where candelabras refract off of crystal wine goblets and the gaudy jewelry of the many nobles crammed elbow to elbow at the table. This dinner is going to be hell.

Robin chuckles, bumping him with her shoulder. “Just think of it this way: It can’t possibly be as bad as the Shepherd’s mess tent when Vaike’s on kitchen duty.” Laughter twinkles in her eyes like stardust and he can’t help but crack a smile too.

“It will certainly taste better. Though, in my experience, these types of dinners require just as much bravery,” he says, and Robin’s responding laughter gives him the courage to offer her his arm. “Shall we?”

No sooner has he extended the offer than her laughter putters out. Robin’s eyes flicker up to his, curious but guarded. A pause drags between them—Chrom almost retracts his arm and offers an apology in its place—but then she curls her hand delicately around the vertex of his elbow and his fear thaws away again.

“Yes,” Robin says, with a minute nod, “let’s.”

Dinner is, against all odds, worse than Chrom thought it would be.

At least during the balls, dance partners are changed frequently enough that he can’t be forced to endure the company of any particular lord or lady for very long. Here, he has no such luck. These dinners were bad enough before he was the reigning ruler of the realm, but now that Chrom actually has the power to grant all the court members’ outlandish requests, they’re near unbearable.

Still, though the groveling is worse than ever before, it’s not the true culprit for why the night is turning out to be so miserable. No, the real reason is sitting a mere two seats down from him, on Robin’s right side.

Lord Dorian lounges beside her, his chair shifted much too close to Robin’s for Chrom’s liking. The baron has been talking her ear off all night, and Robin seems to be all too happy a participant. Which…Chrom can’t really blame her for, given what miserable conversation partners most of the dinner guests are. Still, after confessing to how much he missed her the last week, he was hoping to have more of her company for himself.

Chrom stabs sulkily at his venison, wondering who exactly had the say in this seating arrangement and decided it would be appropriate to put his fiancée beside a man who has absolutely no qualms flirting with her. Right on cue, Lord Dorian leans closer to whisper something in Robin’s ear. She laughs in response and Chrom glowers, draining the remaining wine in his goblet in one long swig.

“What do you think, Lord Chrom?”

Chrom jolts, coming back to himself in time to see Lady Cecily blinking expectantly at him from across the table. He scrambles internally, trying to recall what the last topic of conversation was. Something about establishing a new temple in Ylisstol?

“A-ah, yes,” Chrom replies. “That, er…sounds great to me.”

Lissa snorts. Sumia drops her fork in surprise. Several of the nobles around Chrom give him looks ranging from confusion to flat out alarm.

Lady Cecily clears her throat. “Perhaps you didn’t hear me correctly, your highness. I asked what your thoughts were regarding the Ylissean citizens who lost their homes during the war?”

Chrom flushes to his hair roots. “O-oh. Right, it’s…horrible, obviously. Er…”

“Chrom, you should tell them about the reconstruction program you just approved for those villages on the border,” Robin chirps, with a gentle nudge to his arm. “I think it’s quite brilliant.”

“Right!” he exclaims, latching onto the lead-in with obvious relief. “Since there are so many soldiers looking for work following the war, the idea is that we could employ them to construct temporary housing in the parts of Ylisse most heavily affected—”

Soon, the focus shifts away from him again as the conversation moves along to other topics. Chrom breathes out a sigh.

“Thank you for that,” he murmurs to Robin, shooting her an appreciative smile. She grins back, but right as she parts her lips to speak, Lord Dorian places a hand on her arm, dragging her into another conversation.

Chrom huffs out another sigh, though this one is far more ill-tempered, and resigns himself to spending the dinner in a futile chase with the peas on his plate. It’s some time later, while he’s listening absently to Lord Cyrus bragging about his family’s vineyards (again) when a motion at his side captures his attention. He turns to see Robin swaying slightly as she gets to her feet, Lord Dorian rising with her.

“Robin?” Chrom prompts, looking between them with concern. “What’s going on?”

“Just getting some air,” she replies blithely. “Lord Dorian offered to come with me. I’ll only be a minute.”

She stumbles as she steps back from the table and instinctively Chrom’s hand shoots out to stabilize her. Annoyingly, the baron does the same on her other side.

“Sorry,” she says with a sheepish huff. “I’m not used to walking in these damn shoes.”

Robin pats Chrom on the shoulder once in thanks before picking her way more carefully to the edge of the room and out into the hallway beyond. She’s watching her feet much more closely now, but even though she’s steady again, Lord Dorian doesn’t move the hand he has braced against the small of her back.

Chrom’s frown deepens as they walk away. He glances back at Robin’s half-filled goblet, where a thin ring of sediment still clings to the crystal. Is that her second glass of wine? Third?

It’s a rarity for her to drink in the first place—on the road with the Shepherds, she always insisted she needed to have her full wits about her—which means he doesn’t have much frame of reference for how well she holds her liquor. Mind you, Robin seemed perfectly coherent when she left a moment ago. But if she drank enough that she’s off balance…

Chrom shakes his head, trying to quiet his worries. No doubt he’s being overprotective. He has no reason to believe the baron has ill intentions anyway—as forward as his overtures towards Robin have been, they’ve hardly seemed nefarious. Chrom would be a horrible hypocrite to think ill of someone just for being interested in her.

And even if the man were to make an unwanted pass at her, Robin hardly needs Chrom there to handle it. He knows she’s more than capable of looking out for herself. Yes, he’s certain he has nothing to worry about.

…Yet that niggling feeling won’t go away. Something feels wrong.

It’s wholly possible he’s just being paranoid, but the last time he ignored his intuition when it was nagging him like this, Robin wound up fainting and hitting her head. If something like that were to happen again—

Chrom shoots to his feet—so abruptly that Lissa nearly sloshes her drink into her lap on his other side.

“Chrom!” she exclaims. “Hey, what gives?”

“Is everything quite alright, Your Highness?” Lord Antoine asks. Chrom turns to see all the nobles at their corner of the table watching him curiously.

“Er, yes. Everything’s fine, I...sincerest apologies,” he mutters, already stepping away from the table. “I just remembered something I have to do.”

He doesn’t have time to concoct a better excuse than that and shoots Lissa a vague pleading look before hurrying out of the dining room. In all likelihood the nobles present will not be pleased by him stepping out during the dinner being held in his honor, but he’ll deal with the consequences later.

Chrom skids into the hall, glancing in both directions, but there’s no sign of Robin or Lord Dorian. He sets off in the direction of the nearest courtyard as quickly as he can without breaking into a flat out run. If Robin needs air, that’s the most likely place she’ll have gone, and all his dithering gave them a good two minutes head start.

Chrom swivels around a corner, veering down the narrow cloisters that serve as a vestibule out to the courtyard. As soon as he makes the turn, the muffled chatter from the dining room is muted completely—drowned by the scraping chirps of katydids and the rustling creak of branches. None of the castle’s daytime ruckus is present now; it’s deserted. If not for the breeze funneling through the openings between pillars, looking out at the night-steeped courtyard might feel like walking along an endless panoramic painting.

Chrom slows his steps as voices drift up from the grounds below, echoing indistinctly on the rib-vaulted ceiling. He can tell just from the tenor and cadence that one of them is Robin’s, but he’s not close enough to hear what she’s saying yet. Tentatively, Chrom edges further along the passage, not wanting to barge in if it turns out his worries were unfounded after all.

Gradually the voices take clearer shape. Chrom pauses, squinting between the pillars again, and—there. Robin and Lord Dorian are sitting on the edge of a large granite fountain sequestered against the courtyard’s inner perimeter.

“—said you had how much?” Lord Dorian asks—the first clear words Chrom has been able to make out.

“Just one glass and four sips of a second,” Robin replies.

The baron chuckles. “Well, that’s a rather precise answer. Are you…”

Lord Dorian’s voice trails lower, masked by the sound of the fountain’s streaming water. Chrom misses whatever it is that he says next, but he can only assume they’re discussing how much Robin drank at dinner. A glass isn’t much—that she would be so affected by it doesn’t sit well with him. Frowning, Chrom picks his way closer, pausing where a tall willow’s branches make a reedy curtain in front of one of the cloister’s openings. Hopefully from here he’ll be able to see without being seen.

Gods, just thinking that makes him feel like some kind of pervert. But, he reminds himself, this is only in the name of keeping Robin safe. The stairs down to the courtyard are just a few feet to his right—if Robin needs him he’ll be able to reach her in seconds. And he’s only going to listen long enough to ensure nothing is amiss. Once he’s made certain she’s not in any danger, he’ll return to the dinner party…even if the thought of leaving Robin in a starlit courtyard with a handsome suitor causes him no small amount of agony.

Chrom strains his ears, picking back up on the thread of their conversation.

“—lly don’t think I’m drunk. And yes, I know that’s exactly what a drunk person would say, but I mean it,” Robin insists. “My thoughts are perfectly clear. I’m just…strangely warm. And a little off balance.”

“Is the air helping at all?” Lord Dorian asks.

“Not as much as I hoped it would,” she sighs. “Regardless, we should probably be heading back soon.”

“There’s no rush. It’s such a lovely night; it’d be a shame not to savor it.”

Robin hums in thought. “I suppose another minute wouldn’t hurt. Still, I’m surprised at you, Lord Dorian. There’s a lot of important people in there; shouldn’t you be worried about making a good impression on them? I thought that was the whole point of these events.”

The baron tuts his disapproval. “As I’ve said before, there’s no need for such formalities between us. I’d much prefer you just call me Dorian.” He pauses, shifting closer to Robin on the fountain ledge. “And, while your assessment of these parties certainly isn’t wrong…it’s not their impressions of me I’m concerned with.”

Chrom goes rigid. From what he can see of Robin’s silhouette, she tenses too, but it’s difficult to make out anything about her expression through the leaves.

“There you go with that flattery again,” she says, tacking on a laugh. “You know, now that I think about it, I did tell Chrom I’d only be a minute, so we should really—”

Before Chrom can feel any sort of relief, Lord Dorian plucks Robin’s hand from where it lies between them. Her words putter out as he brings her fingers to his lips and presses a lingering kiss to her knuckles.

“It has been delightful getting to know you this last week, Robin,” Dorian says, voice low and sultry. “Don’t you agree?”

“I—I have enjoyed getting to know you, yes,” Robin answers, and though she pulls her hand away, hearing those words from her makes Chrom feel like he inhaled ice water.

“Though, I’ll admit,” she adds, “I’m confused about why you’ve gone out of your way to spend so much time with me.”

Lord Dorian chuckles softly. “In that case, perhaps I can provide some clarity.”

It happens faster than Chrom can process. Lord Dorian cups Robin’s cheek, turns her to face him, and leans in—

—But right before their lips meet, Robin’s hands shoot up between them, her palms splayed against Dorian’s chest, pushing him away.

“What are you doing?” she asks sharply.

Lord Dorian shifts back, leaning out of Robin’s space again. “I’d thought perhaps you might allow me to kiss you.”

“Well, I won’t,” Robin snaps.

Relief floods Chrom’s heart—swift and dizzying.

She won’t. Robin is turning him down.

Still, despite the weight off his chest and the baron’s seeming retreat, Chrom’s muscles stay coiled tight. If Lord Dorian makes any attempt to disregard the boundary Robin just set, then Chrom is ready to intervene. He clutches absently at his side and feels his fist close around air, wishing he had Falchion.

“…Then you have my apologies for overstepping, Robin,” Dorian says. “I suppose I’m just surprised to find I’ve been rebuffed. Do I truly repulse you so?”

“No, it’s not that,” Robin answers immediately. “You’re good-looking, and like I said before, I’ve enjoyed your company this last week. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to let you kiss me.”

“Why not?” he presses. “Why won’t you even entertain the idea?”

“Because of Chrom,” she says.

Air abandons Chrom’s lungs. He takes a shuddering gasp and if there were not a breeze whistling through the courtyard at that precise moment he’s certain the sound would have given him away.

Because of me?

It takes three frenzied beats of his heart before sense catches up to him and he remembers Robin’s reply is probably still part of their act.

…But they’re supposed to be calling the relationship off after tonight; wouldn’t it be counter productive to give Lord Dorian such an answer right before they break up? If everything Robin is saying and doing is still part of the original plan, then wouldn’t saying that Chrom is the reason she won’t kiss him ultimately just create more questions?

Gods, he wishes he could see her expression—if he could, maybe he’d be able to scour the truth from within her eyes. He’s so tangled up in Robin’s maybe confession he barely catches what Lord Dorian says next.

“Come now, Robin. There’s no need to put on airs. I spent nearly this whole last week with you and I find it very hard to believe your heart is truly in your engagement to the prince—no matter how smitten he may be with you. Besides, I’m not so foolish as to ask you to choose me in his place.”

Robin stiffens—a statue perched on the fountain’s granite ledge. “Then what exactly are you asking?”

“I’m not asking anything of you at all. Merely suggesting that you and I could pursue our passions in secret, and there would be no need for you to give up the power you’ll gain by marrying the prince. He would never need to know,” Lord Dorian murmurs. His voice is like velvet; suddenly that venison Chrom ate is no longer agreeing with his stomach. “I’m sure you’re more than capable of keeping a secret from him, if need be.”

A beat of quiet passes and then Robin lets out an airy laugh.

“Is that so?” she asks pleasantly. “And tell me Lord Dorian, why would I do that? To give you something to blackmail me with later?”

Lord Dorian sputters. “W-what? I—I would never! Robin, you misunderstand. I assure you my desire to be with you is quite sincere—”

“Right,” she says, a dagger sharp edge to her voice now, “I’m sure you’d sincerely love to have leverage over me, especially after I’m married to Chrom.”

“No, that’s not it at all,” Dorian insists. He reaches for her hand again but Robin doesn’t let him take it. “Please, Robin. All this time we spent together this last week, I…I’m falling for you. More so every day. If you’ll only allow me to explain—”

“No thank you, Lord Dorian,” Robin says frostily. “And, frankly, if you think I’m the type of person who would agree to something like that, then you don’t know me at all. Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s long past time to return to the party.”

She shoots to her feet, but Lord Dorian rises with her.

“Robin, wait!” he pleads. “Do you honestly expect me to believe you feel nothing for me?”

“No, I don’t!” Robin snaps. “In fact, I think it’s pretty obvious that I feel plenty of disgust!”

“I don’t believe you,” Lord Dorian insists, but Robin ignores him, spinning on her heel. Desperately, he lunges forward, catching her by the arm. “Robin, please, I need to know: Do you truly—”

“Don’t touch me!” Robin shouts, whirling back on him.

A colossal splash rings through the courtyard. Chrom lurches forward, swiping aside the willow branches to reveal the scene below: where Lord Dorian flails in the fountain while Robin watches on, paralyzed.

“Oh, gods…!” she squeaks. She stumbles back towards the steps—

—and then looks directly at Chrom.

“C-Chrom?!” Robin gapes up at him. “What are you—”

A sputtering noise comes from the fountain followed by more graceless splashing as Lord Dorian works to right himself. Robin’s eyes dart back to look at the baron for just an instant before she swivels back around and vaults up the stairs.

Just as she reaches the top, she nearly trips on the skirt of her dress and Chrom stumbles forward to catch her. She crashes into his chest, clutching his arms to steady herself.

“Robin?” Lord Dorian calls. “Where did you—” he breaks into a fit of watery coughs.

“Let’s go!” Robin hisses. “Hurry!” She tugs urgently at Chrom’s arm and together they rush further along the cloisters.

They haven’t made it far when the rhythmic slap of footsteps begins to build from down the passage—Lord Dorian must be right on their tail. Chrom catches Robin by the arm, skidding to a stop.

“This way,” he says, beckoning her down a nearby set of stairs. “It leads to the hedge maze. He won’t be able to follow us there.”

Nodding, Robin surges forward, their footsteps softening from the clack of cobblestone to the softer crunch of gravel as they hurry down the garden path. Dozens of glass lanterns dangle from the trees lining the way, no doubt hung up in preparation for the ball tomorrow. They sway and flicker from the rush of air as the two of them whip past.

As soon as they turn the first corner in the maze, the light from the gardens is blotted out, swallowed instead by the hedge’s shadows and deepening the night surrounding them from cobalt to indigo. Robin stumbles again, and they slow their pace, Chrom weaving through the familiar turns to guide them to the maze’s central clearing, where a large topiary shaped like the first exalt stands watch with the Falchion and Fire Emblem in hand. A wrought-iron bench is tucked in each corner and Chrom leads them to the nearest one.

“We should be safe here, if you want to catch your breath,” he says, gesturing to the bench.

He turns back to Robin, but instead of taking the proffered seat she advances on him with narrowed eyes. Chrom takes a stumbling step away only to find a dense wall of foliage pressed against his back.

“Well?” Robin prompts sharply. “Start talking.”

“T-talking?”

“Yes, Chrom,” she huffs. “How much of that did you hear?”

He swallows. Despite having nearly a whole head’s worth of height over her, she really can be intimidating when she wants to be. Still, no matter how much dread he has at the thought of incurring her temper, he knows he can’t lie about this.

“Er…I got there just before you suggested going back to the party,” he answers.

Robin winces. “And dare I ask what you were doing there in the first place?”

Now it’s his turn to wince. He drops his eyes in shame. “Well, it was just…when you were leaving the dinner table, I thought I saw you stumbling. I wasn’t sure how much you’d had to drink, and I was worried—” he lets the thought hang there, suddenly unsure of how to complete it.

Robin pinches the bridge of her nose. “I’m not drunk, Chrom,” she grumbles.

“R-right. And I see that now,” he assures her. Sheepishly, he runs a hand through his hair, trying to put words to his tangled thoughts. “I…I’m sorry for following you, Robin. And for eavesdropping. I swear to you, I was planning to leave as soon as I was sure you were alright. But then Lord Dorian—I saw him try to kiss you, and I just…” Chrom frowns, still unsettled by the memory of the baron’s behavior.

“…I wouldn’t have been able to forgive myself if something had happened,” he finishes. “But I hope you’ll believe me when I say it was never my intention to invade your privacy. And I really am sorry.”

He meets Robin’s gaze steadily, praying she’ll see his sincerity and trying very hard not to notice how she looks even more beautiful now with her hair coming undone and her cheeks flushed from running.

All at once, the spitfire leaves her eyes, her posture softening from hostile to resigned. “Alright…” she says. “I believe you.”

“Y-you do?”

“I do,” Robin confirms. She takes a step away from him, sinking back onto the garden bench and heaving a sigh. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. I still don’t appreciate being listened in on, and I’d thank you not to do it again. But I know your heart was in the right place.” Softer, she adds, “It always is.”

Something that’s warm and shivery at once flutters in Chrom’s chest. Something like hope.

“Thank you, Robin,” he murmurs. “And for what it’s worth, I promise not to make a habit of it.”

She smiles at him fleetingly before her eyes fall to where she’s wringing her hands in her lap. “Well, as much as I appreciate that, it’s not as if your worries were entirely off base. Lord Dorian’s intentions weren’t exactly noble.”

The glumness in her voice leaves Chrom aching. He knows that pain: the sting of having believed someone cares about you, only to learn that all that really mattered to them was what you could give them; and the slimy itch left behind once you realize you were being used. As a prince, he’s gone through it more times than he can count. He’d hoped Robin’s first taste of it wouldn’t have come quite so soon.

Gingerly, Chrom eases himself onto the bench beside her. “I’m sorry, Robin,” he says softly. He lays a hand atop hers to still their wringing. “I…I know you enjoyed his company. But it’s the baron’s loss, for not caring to get to know you for you.”

Robin gives a wavering laugh, then twists her hand to squeeze his. “Thank you for saying that, Chrom. But you don’t need to worry about my feelings. I’m…very fortunate to have a lot of people who care about me—thanks to you.” She shoots him a shy smile before shaking her head and sighing. “Besides, I should have known better than to go off with Lord Dorian alone like that. It was just driving me crazy that I couldn’t pin down what he was after. I guess I’m too curious for my own good.”

Chrom blinks at her. “Wait, you…you mean you suspected he had an ulterior motive from the beginning?”

“Of course,” Robin says, seemingly confused by his confusion. “I mean, he had to be after something. Why else would a nobleman take so much interest in me?”

Chrom just stares at her, astonished. Why else?

When he first met Robin, he’d been taken in immediately. By her wit and intelligence; by how refreshing it was to find someone who was so honest and direct with him; who wasn’t afraid to tease him. And the more he got to know her, the more he found to be impressed by: her shrewdness, her selflessness, her work ethic—she blew him away.

Those feelings had bloomed first into a deep admiration and eventually he’d come to recognize they were much more. That his bond with Robin was his lifeline—that she made him better and braver simply because he was determined to build a world where she would always be safe and happy.

And yet Robin can’t conceive of a single reason Lord Dorian may have sincerely wanted to get to know her?

“…Well, nobleman or not, I can think of countless reasons anyone would be interested in you, Robin,” Chrom says. “Still, I…I admit that selfishly I’m relieved to hear that’s the reason you were spending so much time with him.”

“Selfishly?” Robin asks, brows furrowing. “What do you mean?”

“Er…”

Suddenly Chrom is hyper-aware of just where he is—and who he is with. Tucked beneath a blanket of stars within a fortress of foliage, there is no one to overhear their conversation but the crooning crickets. It’s exactly the chance that he’s been waiting for: there could be no better opportunity to tell her how he feels.

This is it. As soon as he thinks the words, his palms start to sweat.

He just needs to be honest. He can do that—if anything his problem is usually that he’s too candid. He’s just not used to being so forthcoming about this. But he promised Lissa—he promised himself, for that matter. He can’t let this opportunity pass him by.

“…Chrom?” Robin prompts again and he jolts as he realizes how long he’s taken to respond. He has to wrack his brain for a moment just to remember what the last thing he said was.

“Right! Er, I just meant that…that I’m relieved because…” He drags his clammy palms on his dress pants to dry them but it doesn’t do any good with gloves on. Just tell her the truth, he urges himself. You can lead into it from there.

“Well, because I was…jealous,” he admits.

“Wait, what?” Robin exclaims, staring at him incredulously. “You were jealous? Of…of Lord Dorian?”

Chrom rubs the back of his neck self-consciously. “Is that so hard to believe?”

“I mean—frankly, yes,” she says. “Or at least it is to me.”

“Well!” Chrom protests, “You told me that we couldn’t be seen alone together anymore. And then I come to find out you’re spending all your time with Lord Dorian instead, and it just felt like…like I was being replaced.”

“Chrom—” Robin starts, but suddenly he can’t seem to staunch his words at all.

“And it wasn’t just that,” he says, pressing ahead. “He’s a better chess player than I am too. And it's…it’s not like he’s bad looking, either. S-so—”

Robin makes a sound somewhere between a snort and a scoff, sending heat rushing into his cheeks.

“What?” Chrom huffs, feeling increasingly defensive. “What’s so funny about that?”

“It’s not that it’s funny—it’s just ridiculous that you think I choose my friends based on their chess skills and how good-looking they are,” Robin replies. “Not to mention how ironic it is that you would feel threatened by what Lord Dorian looks like when I’m so much more attracted to you.”

Chrom freezes.

Robin is—did she just say—

The sound of the crickets has grown deafening in the quiet that follows Robin’s words. Chrom’s eyes refocus on her, beseeching an explanation, only to find that all the color has leached from her face.

“S-sorry, I—I don’t know why I just said that,” she stammers, after much too long a pause. “Gods, why did I just say that?”

“Er…I don’t know,” Chrom replies. He laughs nervously even as he feels his heart sink with near crippling disappointment. “Is…is that not how you really feel, then?”

As soon as he stops speaking, Robin’s answer comes spilling out in a swift-flowing stream, “No, it’s exactly how I feel. You’re the most handsome man I’ve ever met, I’ve never been more attracted to anyone than—”

Robin clamps both hands over her mouth, forcibly holding her jaw shut and muffling the rest of her words. Her eyes are wild—alight with the frantic desperation of a trapped animal.

“R-Robin?!” Chrom exclaims, growing more alarmed by the second. “Blazes, what’s going —”

Robin claps a hand over his mouth.

“Stop! Don’t say another word!” she pleads, and her voice is so splintered with panic that he’s immediately stunned silent.

“Something is wrong,” she mutters. “Something is very, very wrong. I don’t—why can’t I—”

He can see the exact instant something clicks into place in her head: the precise moment her near hysteric terror is replaced with a calmer sort of fear. Robin’s hand slides away from his mouth and he jumps at the opportunity.

“Robin, you’re scaring me. Please, tell me what’s going on.”

She swallows, but doesn’t look at him. “Chrom, I…I need you to do something for me.”

The words are hardly out of her mouth before he’s nodding his assent. “Anything,” he says.

“Okay.” Robin nods too, stabilizing herself with a deep breath. “This is going to sound strange but, I…I need you to bring me to the infirmary. And I need you to not say anything while you do it.”

Chrom’s eyes widen, his heartbeat careening. “The—the infirmary? Why?! Are you hurt?”

“I’m not hurt, but I think someone at the dinner put something in my dr—” Robin slaps a hand over her mouth but it’s too late. “Chrom!” she snaps, “I just said not to say anything!”

“Wh—i-in your—you can’t expect me to stay quiet after you say something like that!” he protests. “Robin, please, what’s—”

Robin lunges forward, trying to cover his mouth again, but he’s ready this time and wrestles her hand away. “Damn it, Robin! Why won’t you let me talk?!”

“Because I think I drank truth serum!”

Chrom’s body goes slack—his muscles reacting to the shock before he's even made sense of her words.

Truth serum? She thinks that she—

Numb disbelief, fraught fear, and horrible, horrible hope crash into him all at once. Robin thinks she drank truth serum. His mind ricochets between questions faster than they could ever be answered. How? Why? Who would want to do that to her? And if Robin drank truth serum, does that mean that everything she’s said—every answer she’s given him—

“Chrom!” she pleads. “Chrom, listen to me!”

He forces his eyes back onto her even as the high walls of the hedges continue tipping and distorting around him.

“Look, if…if I’m right about this, then it means I can’t control what I’m saying right now. Or at least not if I’m asked a direct question. I…I can’t—” she chokes off for a moment before shaking her head and trying again. “Please, Chrom. I need you to swear that you won’t ask me anything until we’ve figured out how to fix this. Promise me you won’t put me in that position.”

Robin stares up at him, desperation written in every line of her face.

She’s terrified, he realizes. Anyone would be if they’d had something put in their drink—but no, this goes beyond that. The fear in her eyes is directed at him. Despite all the secrets they’ve shared, Robin is scared out of her wits that this truth serum will force her to reveal something to him that she is dead-set on keeping hidden.

…And there is only one secret he can imagine that would be. Because there’s also only one secret Chrom has ever worked so hard to guard from her.

She loves me. Robin is in love with me.

He feels vain, almost, for thinking it with such certainty, but it’s not vanity if it’s the truth. There’s no question anymore: Robin loves him…

…But she doesn’t want him to know.

In fact, from the look in her eyes, she’d do damn near anything to keep him from finding out. The question is why. Is it because she thinks he doesn’t love her too? Or is it exactly what he told Lissa he was afraid of—that she loves him, but not enough to make being with him worth it, and she fears that if he finds out, it will only make everything more painful for them both, and—

Chrom sucks in a sharp breath, cleaving that thought there.

This is hardly the time. As groundbreaking as this epiphany about Robin’s feelings is, he cannot lose sight of what matters most: someone slipped truth serum into Robin’s drink. Before he can think any more about what all of this means for him, he needs to focus on getting her to a healer.

He needs to find the person who did this.

“…I promise,” he finally says, and the relief on Robin’s face is instantaneous.

“Thank you,” she breathes. He squeezes her hand once in reassurance, longing to do so much more.

“Now, let’s get you to the infirmary,” he says.

He pushes to his feet, but before Robin can do the same, Chrom bends and hooks an arm under her knees, sweeping her up and against his chest.

“Wh—Chrom!” Robin exclaims. She kicks her legs out, flailing in surprise, and he adjusts slightly to make sure he has a sturdy hold on her. “What are you doing?!”

“I’m carrying you to the infirmary.”

“I—I said bring me to the infirmary, not carry me!”

Chrom shakes his head, careful to keep her feet from knocking into the bushes as he winds back through the maze. “Robin, you’ve been stumbling all night. Whatever was in your drink, it’s affecting your balance too. I won't risk you falling and hitting your head again.”

“I'm not going to! I can walk just fine,” she grumbles, kicking a leg out again. “Chrom, someone’s going to see us!”

Chrom fixes her with his sternest expression, usually reserved for when the Shepherds’ antics get out of hand. “If you’re going to be difficult, I’ll throw you over my shoulder instead.”

“…You wouldn’t dare,” Robin says, but the way she suddenly stills her squirming betrays that she’s not so sure.

“Try me,” he counters.

Robin chews at her lip, clearly biting back a retort. Ultimately she must decide it’s not worth it and she lapses into silence. Her face is burning and Chrom has the hazy thought that it’s probably because of him—because she’s in his arms. Because she likes being held by him.

A delirious chuckle rattles his chest and when Robin glances up at him in concern, it just makes him laugh harder—his nerves feel stretched to the point of snapping. He barely registers the castle corridors; it’s like he’s moving through some bizarre fantasy landscape that has not yet decided whether it should take the form of a dream or a nightmare.

As they near the entrance to the infirmary, though, it’s fear that settles again at the forefront of his mind. He shoves the door open with his shoulder with enough force that the healer waiting within scrambles immediately to their feet.

“Libra!” Chrom exclaims in relief and recognition. “Thank the gods you’re here. We need your help.”

“Prince Chrom! And Robin!” Libra hurries forward, assisting Chrom with lowering Robin onto a cot. “Whatever happened?”

“Robin—”

“I think someone put truth serum in my drink at the dinner party,” Robin replies, then immediately grimaces. “I can’t stop myself from answering any question I’m asked.”

“T-truth serum…” Libra stammers, but he recovers quickly. “I see. If it’s truth serum you drank, I fear I’m hardly an expert.”

“Well, then find someone who is,” Chrom orders impatiently. He doesn’t mean to be quite so short but all the stress of the night is getting to him; they need answers and they need them now. Luckily, Libra takes it in stride.

“Of course, sire. I’ll have someone summoned at once.”

“Wait!” Robin calls. “Would it be possible to get Miriel or Stahl? I’d…rather only be around people I can trust while I’m like this.”

“A sound suggestion,” Libra replies. “In that case, I’ll send for one of them immediately.”

“Frederick, as well,” Chrom adds. “I need him to ensure that everyone at the party is searched.”

He knows it’s a long shot; by now the perpetrator will have had more than enough time to dispose of whatever vessel the serum was one contained in. But he’ll be damned if he isn’t going to at least try to find the person responsible.

As Chrom watches Libra hurry off to summon a messenger, a sick sense of foreboding scrapes him raw inside. He’d gotten so comfortable with the idea that the rat and threat had been left by Lady Idris—that the risks to Robin’s well-being were finally eliminated. But Lady Idris is behind bars now, and Robin still isn’t safe. How deep does this run? How many people in this castle have it out for her?

A tug on his sleeve interrupts his thoughts.

“Chrom…do you think Lord Dorian was the one who did this?” Robin asks quietly. “I mean, it can’t just be a coincidence that I was alone with him when it started taking effect, can it? And he would have had access to my drink, sitting next to me.”

Chrom hedges. It’s certainly tempting to blame Lord Dorian—and in some ways it seems like the easiest explanation. But if his aim was truly to seduce Robin, then truth serum wouldn’t accomplish anything for him that alcohol couldn’t already do better. Sickening as the thought may be, it’s still undeniably true. And even beyond that, there’s a much bigger hole in that theory.

“...It did cross my mind,” Chrom answers, finally. “But Lord Dorian is only a baron; that’s not a high enough rank to be granted a supply of truth serum. He would have had to get it some other way.”

“Or had help from someone else,” Robin suggests. “Though, honestly, I can’t see what good it would have done him anyway, given what he seemed to be after. He would have been better off just getting me drunk.”

Even though it’s an echo of exactly his own thoughts, Chrom can’t keep himself from scowling and gripping her hand a little tighter.

Robin’s brow furrows as she continues thinking over the possibilities. “What rank do you have to be, then?” she asks suddenly. “To be given a supply of truth serum, I mean.”

“A duke or a duchess,” Chrom says. “But even then, it’s usually kept locked away on their estate.”

Before Robin can reply, Libra returns with a large staff strapped to his side and pushing a clattering cart of medical instruments.

“The messenger has been sent. Miriel and Frederick should be on their way momentarily,” Libra assures them. “In the meantime, please allow me to check your vitals, Robin.”

The next half hour passes in a haze.

Miriel arrives toting strangely shaped bottles of stranger looking substances and soon the infirmary is filled with the astringent scent of chemicals. Chrom is deep in conversation with Frederick for most of it, but even if he could watch, he’s certain he wouldn’t have the faintest idea what she was doing.

His instructions to Frederick are firm and to the point: detain and search every guest and palace staff member present at the dinner without revealing the truth of what happened to Robin. Without physical evidence or some sort of proof of means and motive, the Guard will not lawfully be able to hold anyone overnight, but at the very least it may intimidate the perpetrator.

Once Frederick has departed with his directions, Chrom settles again in the seat beside Robin’s cot, clutching her hand. He tries once or twice to offer quiet words of encouragement, but all Robin’s attention is hyperfocused on Miriel’s work and eventually he lapses into silence while they await her verdict.

Finally, Miriel announces that she’s on the last step. They watch as Libra passes her one of the many vials now littering the surface of the workstation. With painstaking precision, she draws the fluid into a syringe and deposits a single drop into a half-filled test tube.

The reaction is instantaneous: The moment the drop makes contact, the solution begins to fizz and turns a shocking shade of magenta. Gingerly, Miriel places the tube back on its rack.

“Well, Robin, it would seem your hypothesis has proven correct.” Miriel removes her spectacles, placing them in the breast pocket of her robe before finally turning her eyes upon them. “Unfortunately, there is little we can do at present. Truth serum does not have an antidote—you will have to wait for your body to metabolize it naturally.”

“How long will that take?” Chrom asks, stealing a glance at Robin beside him. Her expression is shockingly impassive.

“It’s difficult to give a precise answer without knowledge of the dosage she was administered,” Miriel replies. “But by my estimates it should be no later than tomorrow morning.”

Chrom grimaces. Tomorrow morning? The window of time that he’ll have to speak to Robin about his feelings keeps constricting tighter and tighter.

Miriel’s announcement hangs in the air, only the faint, bubbling of the chemicals filling the quiet while each of them process what all of this means. Robin breaks the silence first.

“Gods, I just…I can’t make any sense of it. If truth serum is so difficult to get a hold of, why would someone go to the trouble of using it on me?”

“Perhaps as sabotage,” Libra suggests.

“That was my first thought,” Robin says with a sigh, “But just forcing me to embarrass myself at a dinner party doesn’t seem like motive enough to use such a valuable resource, let alone risk the consequences if they were caught. Besides,” she adds, “if they wanted me out of the picture, then why not just poison me?”

Chrom flinches. “Don’t say that!”

“Well, think about it,” she insists. “They already went to the trouble of slipping something in my drink, so—”

“Robin’s point is a sound one,” Miriel interjects. She drums her fingers against the worktable in contemplation before continuing, “Perhaps something else was placed in the drink as well. The truth serum could be meant only as a ruse—intended to redirect our attention from a larger threat.”

“Yes, I did consider that,” Robin says, still unnervingly calm. “It seems like a rather extreme deflection tactic given how valuable truth serum is, but I suppose we can’t entirely rule it out without doing further tests.”

“Then why are we just waiting around?” Chrom demands. “If Robin could be poisoned, then–”

“Peace, Lord Chrom. I can provide you all with some assurance on that front,” Libra says, soothingly. “I was fearful of as much when you first arrived and I collected a sample of Robin’s blood in order to run the necessary tests. I’ve found no trace of any of the poisons accessible in Ylisse.”

The fear strangling Chrom’s chest abates considerably, though an inkling remains. “What if it’s a poison from somewhere else?”

Miriel and Libra exchange glances.

“Such a possibility is exceedingly small—” Miriel starts.

“—But perhaps it would be wise to keep Robin overnight for medical observation, just to make certain,” Libra concludes.

Chrom takes a trembling breath. He looks to Robin, propped in the cot beside him and deeply engrossed in thought. She’s still dressed in her gown from the party—still glittering and ethereal and thoroughly out of place amidst the austere furnishings of the infirmary. Guilt scythes through him, savage and sudden. She’s here because of me…

“...I’m going to cancel the ball,” Chrom says, speaking the decision aloud as he makes it.

“You’re what?” Robin whirls on him so fast her braid nearly whips him in the face. “Absolutely not.”

“Robin, you might have been poisoned,” he argues. “And even if you weren’t, someone still wanted to harm you. Until we know who did this—”

“Miriel, Libra, could we have a minute?” Robin interrupts, raising her voice. The two of them exchange glances again then move further into the infirmary, closing the doors to the adjoining office to give them privacy.

Robin waits until they’re fully alone to fix Chrom under the unmitigated intensity of her gaze. Gods, looking into her eyes always makes him feel like he’s being shorn open but now that he knows she loves him it’s nearly unendurable. Though, the way she’s looking at him right now could hardly be called loving—

“Chrom, let me be clear,” Robin says grimly, rattling him from his thoughts. “After everything we’ve gone through these past five weeks, if you cancel the ball over this, then I will never forgive you.”

Chrom sputters, taken aback. “How can you—”

‘—say that?’ he nearly demands, but Robin’s glare stops him short and he catches himself just before the words come out. Recalling his promise, Chrom takes a deep breath and forces himself to slow down. He needs to choose his words more carefully.

“...Robin, please,” he says, starting again. “You have to understand where I’m coming from. I just want to keep you safe.”

“I know you do. And normally I’m grateful for that. But I’m not going to let your obsession with my safety sabotage everything we’ve worked for.”

Chrom winces. ‘Obsession’ is a little harsh, but…

“Look,” she insists, before he can formulate a response, “Security for the ball will be much tighter than it was at the party tonight. I know, because I made all the arrangements for it myself when I was helping the council with preparations. We’re taking every possible precaution, Chrom—I made sure of it.”

When he remains quiet, Robin makes a small sound of frustration. “Please, Chrom. I need you to trust me.”

Gods, of course she’d bring trust into it—she’s not playing fair at all. Robin always knows exactly what to appeal to in order to convince him of anything. Somehow, it’s both maddening and exhilarating to be known like that. Chrom clenches his fists more tightly.

“I do trust you, Robin. You know that I do, but—”

“But nothing,” she interrupts. “What happened tonight doesn’t mean I’ll be in any more danger tomorrow than I ever was. In fact, all it did was put us on our guard. Now I know not to take risks.”

“You have a point…” he admits haltingly. “But—”

“And you forget that this decision is bigger than just me. There’s no sense in angering the council, and disappointing the people of Ylisse, and sending home all these nobles who traveled here from every corner of the halidom just because I drank truth serum, of all things.”

Chrom bites back a groan. He can feel his conviction wavering even as his fear burns as bright as ever. But Robin makes a good point: the safety measures and security for the ball will far outstrip anything in place for this dinner tonight; and if Robin herself arranged them, then he knows they will be iron-clad.

And it’s not as if he’s powerless to protect her either. If it turns out Robin is willing to be with him, then he can spend all of the ball with her at his side. And if she turns him down…well, at that point, she likely wouldn’t want to attend the ball at all. Which means as long as Chrom confesses to her before then—

“...Alright,” he says at last. “I’ll agree on one condition.”

“And that is?”

“I…I need to talk to you tomorrow. In my room,” Chrom answers. “And it has to be before the ball.”

Robin quirks a brow. “Chrom, I’m not sure that’s such a good idea. If anyone sees me going to your room alone so close to when the courtship is being called off, it will create a lot of questions.”

She’s right, of course—the circumstances are hardly ideal. If he had his way, he would profess his love to her at this very moment. But he can’t—not while she’s under the influence of truth serum. And not when he’s already promised not to put her in a situation where she may be compelled to reveal more than she wants to.

So instead, he says, “That’s my condition, Robin. Give me your word and I promise I’ll let the ball proceed as planned.”

Robin chews at her lip. “Then can I at least ask what this is about?”

“No,” he says simply.

Robin sighs, scrunching her eyes closed as she mulls on the decision. Chrom can’t help but notice the faint quiver of her lips—a hint of that same trembling fear that overcame her in the gardens. Something tells him she may already have her suspicions.

“...Fine,” she says at last. “You have my word. I guess that will be as good a time as any for me to give you your birthday present.”

Chrom exhales a breath it feels like he’s been holding for the entire night. “Then I’ll look forward to it.”

A knock sounds on the door.

“Robin,” Libra calls, “With your permission, we’d like to run a few more tests.”

“You should go,” she murmurs. “Maybe Frederick will have had more luck than we expected. And regardless, you’ll need your rest for tomorrow. I’ll have Libra send for you if anything changes.”

Chrom nearly protests—between the empty bed and worries over her well-being, he’s not going to be able to sleep anyway—but something tells him that’s the last thing Robin would want to hear right now.

“Alright,” he agrees, reluctantly pushing to his feet. “Then I…I suppose I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yes, I won’t forget,” she promises. She looks just as glumly resigned as he feels, though he suspects it’s for the exact opposite reason.

Miriel and Libra emerge from the office and Chrom carefully quashes the instinct to kiss Robin goodbye. Still, he doesn’t quite have it in him to deny himself completely, and he settles for a firm squeeze of her shoulder before seeing himself to the door. Alone in the hallway outside the infirmary, he allows himself a long, pitiful groan.

Another twenty four hours have come and gone since he spoke with Lissa. As if he didn’t have enough reason to want retribution against whoever put that truth serum in Robin’s drink, their actions have inadvertently kept him from being able to confess his feelings to her as well. Egotistical as it is, it’s starting to feel like every force in the cosmos is collaborating to keep him quiet—Robin among them.

But she loves me, Chrom reminds himself, the raw wonder of that thought no less spellbinding with repetition. Robin is in love with him and she gave her word that they can talk in private before the ball tomorrow. Which means as far as he’s concerned, the forces of the universe can all be damned: One way or another, she is going to have to confront the fact that he is in love with her too.

Chapter Text

Chrom is reasonably certain that Robin is trying to kill him.

He heaves a hefty sigh as he stares out at the sun-stained fields from his balcony. As he watches, a lone pegasus slices across the blood colored sky, then touches down in the paddocks. The rider is too far off to identify, but he imagines for a moment that it may be one of his friends—Sumia or Cordelia, perhaps—then remembers they’d be in the midst of preparations for the ball. The ball…the start of which seems imminent from the way the horizon threatens to swallow the sun.

Which brings him back to his theory: Robin is trying to kill him. She’s going to kill him, and her alibi will be beyond reproach…because as it happens, her continued absence is precisely why he feels like he’s dying. It’s the perfect crime—honestly, he’d expect no less of her.

After having left her in the infirmary the night before, Chrom sought out Frederick to ask after his investigation. To his disappointment, it had yielded nothing but some very ill-tempered nobles; it seemed none of the dinner guests particularly appreciated having their person searched for undisclosed reasons…his sister included.

“Chrom, what gives?” Lissa demanded, stomping over to him and Frederick. Apparently, she’d hung back after the others were dismissed just to chew him out. “You disappeared in the middle of dinner—I had to make up some story about how you have chronic indigestion and were holed up over a chamber pot. And then Frederick shows up and says none of us are allowed to leave and that he’s gotta search our things! He wouldn’t even tell me why!”

“As I said before, you have my sincerest apologies, milady,” Frederick said, bowing deeply. “I was only carrying out milord’s orders to the letter.”

“Right. Sorry about that Lissa,” Chrom said. It spoke to just how distracted and worried he was that he couldn’t even drum up some annoyance over her explanation for his dinner absence. “I left because I was worried about Robin. For good reason, unfortunately.”

“Wait, did something happen to Robin?” Lissa asked. Immediately her irritation fell away. “Is she okay?”

“She should be fine now; Libra and Miriel are looking after her. But someone—” Chrom glanced around, conscious of the possibility of being overheard, but the other guests had all departed already. “Someone put truth serum in her drink.”

Lissa’s eyes went wide as dinner plates. “Truth serum?” she hissed. “Like…actual truth serum? Why would someone want to give that to Robin?”

Chrom shook his head gravely. “We haven’t the faintest idea.”

Lissa pondered that, lips pushed out in a troubled pout, before abruptly snapping her fingers. “Wait a sec! If Robin drank truth serum, then did you get to talk to her about—”

Chrom coughed sharply, flashing a warning glance towards Frederick. Lissa clamped her mouth shut before replacing it instead with her most sugary smile.

“Hey, Frederick!” she chirped. “Can you go see if there’s any pie left over in the kitchen? I’m still hungry!”

Frederick’s brows furrowed. “Milady, you know it’s not healthy to eat more than your given serving of dessert. And I’m quite certain I saw you take a second slice at the dinner table already.”

“Oh, come on! Tomorrow is Chrom’s birthday—it’s a special occasion!” she insisted. “And besides, strawberry is my favorite. Pretty please?”

Shaking his head in disapproval, Frederick set off to the kitchens to do as he’d been instructed. As soon as he was out of earshot, Lissa turned back to Chrom.

“Well?”

“I was about to tell Robin how I felt when she realized what was going on,” he answered. “And then she…she made me promise not to ask her anything while she couldn’t control her answers. By then, we had other things to worry about too.”

Lissa’s frown deepened. “Then you still haven’t told her?”

“Not yet,” he sighed. “But Robin promised that we could talk before the ball tomorrow. I’m going to tell her then.”

“Chrom!” Lissa protested. “That’s not a lot of time!”

“Believe me, I know. But what other choice do I have?”

Lissa deflated with a frustrated huff. “Ugh, I don’t get it! Why would someone give Robin truth serum? Emm only ever used that stuff in emergencies. Like…like when someone’s life was on the line or something!”

“I know. But not everyone is as principled as Emm was,” Chrom reminded her grimly. “Still, whoever they are, they must have had a strong motivation for it. It scares me that I don’t know what it could be. I don’t even know what I should be trying to protect Robin from,” he admitted quietly.

Lissa patted his arm. “Hey, you’re not protecting Robin all by yourself, remember? If anyone tries something, they’re gonna have to go through me, and Frederick and all the rest of the Shepherds too. We’ll all be looking out for her. So stop stressing so much, okay?”

“Thank you, Lissa,” he said, giving her shoulder a quick squeeze in return. The thought did set his heart at ease.

“Besides, if I were you, I’d be a lot more worried about confessing to Robin in time. The council is gonna be real mad if you call things off last minute. And I’m gonna be real mad if you wimp out.”

“I won’t,” Chrom vowed. “I’m going to tell her tomorrow.”

Lissa narrowed her eyes at him, obviously doubtful.

“I mean it, Lissa,” he insisted. “I was ready to tell her tonight, I just…I didn’t get the chance. But Robin promised me she’d come to my room so we could talk before the ball. She’ll be there, I know it. And I’m going to tell her then.”

Oh, how he’s eating his words now. Chrom had dared to hope Robin might put him out of his misery by visiting him early in the morning, but the day has stretched on with no sign of her.

He sighs again, drumming his fingers arrhythmically against the balcony railing. He hasn’t been able to leave his room all day for fear that Robin will stop by the exact moment he steps out. Restless as he’s been, he thought the fresh air might do something to soothe him, but it only served as a new backdrop for him to brood against.

He’s getting antsy. More than antsy—every one of his muscles has turned twitchy with impatience, his heart included. Thus far, he’s kept his half of the agreement with Robin, but at this point the ball’s start is so near he’s not sure it would even be possible to call it off.

She really is trying to kill him.

Glumly, Chrom supposes he shouldn’t be surprised, though. Especially given Robin’s expression when he told her his condition for letting the party go ahead as planned. He knows how much she’s dreading this conversation—knows that if Robin had her way, they’d leave all of this unsaid. But even though he would normally prioritize Robin’s wants over anything else, this is one matter on which he simply will not yield.

As far as he’s concerned there’s no getting around it: The two of them are in love with each other…and if they’re ever going to move forward from this, then they need to talk about it.

The creak of a door rips Chrom from his thoughts. By now he’s been waiting so long that he’s half afraid his desperate mind is just conjuring the sound. Still, his heart hiccups hopefully.

“Chrom?” a soft voice calls from within his chambers—and he knows there’s no risk that he’s imagining it anymore. The sound of his name in Robin’s voice is inimitable.

A smile splits Chrom’s face, all frustration he felt over being made to wait instantly forgiven in light of the fact that she’s here. “Robin!” he calls back. “I’m on the balcony.”

Shuffling steps, and then Robin appears from around the corner, aglow with the light of the dying sun.

She’s a vision—and a disarmingly intimate one at that. Robin dons her usual tactician’s coat, but beneath it she wears only a darkly colored shift and corset. It’s not that it’s unprecedented—she’s been in Chrom’s room in only her nightgown, after all—but that doesn’t stop the sight of her from undoing him completely.

Chrom swallows, shoving away the fleeting thought that Robin may be hoping to kill him with her appearance instead of by making him wait. When she notices his staring, she tugs at the front of her coat, pulling it closed self-consciously.

“Er, sorry, I know this isn’t ideal,” she apologizes. “It was a nightmare trying to find a chance to slip away without anyone noticing—I didn’t have time to change. But don’t worry, I made sure no one saw me on my way here.”

Chrom almost laughs—whether or not she was seen coming to his room isn't exactly his primary concern at the moment.

“I-it’s alright, I don’t mind,” he says, once he’s finally gathered his wits enough to speak. “I’m just happy to see you, Robin—what you’re wearing hardly matters.”

Her posture eases a little at that, and she takes a tentative step to join him on the balcony, though she’s careful to leave space between them. It reminds him of that night some weeks back, when they came out to this same spot to talk about why she fled the room after seeing him in only a towel.

…Actually, Robin’s embarrassment over that whole ordeal makes a lot more sense in retrospect. Chrom’s cheeks warm, and he quickly shakes that thought away. He can’t afford to get side-tracked.

“You’re feeling better, then?” he prompts.

Robin nods. “Mhm. The truth potion wore off early this morning, just like Miriel said it would.”

“And no reason to suspect there was anything else in your drink?”

“No,” she agrees. “Nothing else. Just the—the serum.”

Robin falls quiet after that, fidgeting with her hands. The motion draws Chrom’s eyes to the small, rectangular parcel she’s holding, adorned with a blue ribbon. In his distraction over her appearance, he must have overlooked it previously.

“Is that for me?” he asks. All at once his curiosity from when he first learned of his birthday present comes surging back with a vengeance.

Robin chuckles—her face splitting into the first smile he’s seen from her since she arrived. “I don’t know, Chrom. Do you know anyone else who has a birthday today?”

Chrom gives a small huff, unwilling to dignify her teasing with a response. “May I, then?”

For just a second, Robin’s grip on the gift tightens, hesitant.

“It’s actually from all of us. All the Shepherds, I mean. I’m just the one who put it together, because—w-well, you’ll see.” She hands it off, a pinkness rising in her cheeks not unlike the blushing sky. “Happy Birthday, Chrom. I really hope you like it.”

“I already know I will,” Chrom assures her. Too eager for any preamble, he yanks on the ribbon and shreds through the parchment, letting the pieces fall to his feet.

It’s a book. Chrom already suspected as much from the shape and weight, but why Robin has given him this particular book remains to be seen. He turns it over in his hand, curious—more so when he sees there’s no title printed on the front or the spine. Some sort of journal, perhaps?

“Open it,” Robin says simply.

So, he does. What he sees inside defies all belief.

Each page of the book has tiny ink drawings pasted onto them—only they’re not like any drawings Chrom has ever seen before. He recalls a sketch Robin showed him once, given to her by Libra, and though the level of realism was extremely impressive, it was nothing like what he’s looking at now.

The drawings in this book look as if Chrom is staring through a miniature window into a moment frozen in time. And not just any moments, either. They’re startlingly familiar ones.

On the right page, Nowi sits balanced on Gregor’s shoulders, the both of them donning matching sweaters. In the picture beneath, Lissa grins wildly, a frog in hand, while an unsuspecting Lon'qu scowls at the campfire nearby. There’s Frederick and Stahl chopping vegetables together; Sully, Vaike and Gaius downing ale in a pub in northern Ylisse; Sumia braiding flowers into a very bashful Cordelia’s hair, their pegasi grazing in the background. And, perhaps most unbelievably, Chrom himself: hunched over a map in the strategy tent with a furrowed brow and Robin at his side.

Chrom glances between her and the miniature picture of the two of them with wonder. “What—h-how did you…?”

“Do you remember when Anna told us about that tome that belongs to her cousin on the coast? A snapshot tome, she called it.”

Chrom nods, his eyes fixing again on the book’s pages as he does. It’s so strange seeing himself from outside his own body—and not in the stiff, calculated posing of a portrait. “You wanted to know more about it,” he recalls. “You were curious how a tome like that could—oh!” Chrom breaks off as the pieces begin to fit together. “You mean that’s how you made these drawings? Anna gave you the tome?”

“Close. She didn’t give it to me, exactly,” Robin explains. “She offered to sell it to me, but the price would have emptied the Shepherds’ coffers completely. So, I made one.”

“You made a tome?” Chrom echoes. “From scratch?”

“Well, I had seen the original as a reference, of course. And it did take a few tries. I suspect Anna’s cousin’s copy probably works better than mine does, as well—”

“But you made it,” he emphasizes again, and Robin grins at his obvious awe.

“I did. And once I had one, it was easy enough to teach the other mages in the Shepherds how to use it. We took turns to make sure we got pictures of everyone…all without you noticing, of course,” Robin says, a hint of smugness creeping into her voice by the end.

Chrom shakes his head in astonishment. He turns a page and another half dozen pictures of his friends greet him. “Then…then you put all the pictures together in this book? Is that what I nearly caught you doing the other day?”

“Well, not quite all of them,” Robin says. “A lot of the pictures came out blurry, and Tharja took way too many of me, but…yes, I did put them together. I wanted to make sure you had a way to look through them easily.”

“And you went to all that trouble just for my birthday?” Chrom asks softly.

The question turns Robin bashful, her smirk fading into a shyer smile. “You’re very hard to get gifts for, do you know that? There’s not really anything that you couldn’t buy for yourself if you wanted. I knew I’d have to make something, but I’m not particularly handy, and…” Robin’s expression softens further, eyes twinkling. “And then I was thinking about how it’s people and your connections with them that you value most. You’re always saying that your bonds give you strength, so I thought, maybe if I could give you something that embodied that…”

A lump forms in Chrom’s throat. His dear, precious friends, all working in secret to put this together for him…and Robin at the head of it all. The thought fills him with a warmth beyond words.

“Thank you, Robin. I—I hardly know what to say,” he murmurs. Chrom runs his thumb along the edge of the page, marveling at it all over again. He’ll have to give his thanks to the rest of his Shepherds too. “This is the most wonderful gift I’ve ever received.”

Robin chuckles, but there’s no hiding how pleased she is. “That’s laying it on a bit thick, don’t you think?”

“Not at all,” Chrom says, shaking his head. “It’s entirely true. I love it, really.”

His words have a strange effect. Robin’s eyes drop to her feet, the unfiltered warmth they shone with just a moment ago packaged neatly away again.

“There is one other thing I came to give you as well,” she says, the faintest quaver audible in her voice. “Though, it hardly counts as a present when it already belongs to you.”

Chrom tilts his head, quizzical but encouraging. Slowly, Robin withdraws her fist from her pocket and raises it for Chrom to see. A thin golden chain is curled within her fingers, a smaller metal band dangling from it below.

“…My family ring,” he realizes. The ring sways lazily at the necklace’s vertex, refracting the sunset off each tiny sapphire.

“Yes.” Robin smiles again, though it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Thank you for entrusting it to me, Chrom. But I…I think it’s past time that I return this to you.”

She holds her hand out expectantly as Chrom stares on.

So, this is her plan, then. She’s hoping that by giving him the ring back she can close off this avenue without ever having to speak of it—she probably thinks that the very act of returning it to him says all that’s needed.

When Chrom fails to react, Robin extends her hand further.

“Well, go on,” she urges and if he didn’t know her so well, he might miss the pleading edge to it—that she’s practically begging him to take the hint.

But he’s not going to be so easily dissuaded.

Chrom takes a breath, drawing from the deepest wells of his courage. Then, he reaches a hand out. Relief flickers on Robin’s face, but instead of taking the ring, he closes his hand over her fist.

It’s now or never.

“Robin…” he says quietly, “I don’t want it back.”

For a few harrowing heartbeats Robin just stares at him, her expression somewhere between bemused and expectant. Like she’s waiting for him to announce that he’s kidding. Instead Chrom holds his ground, meeting her eyes steadily. Robin croaks out a disbelieving chuckle.

“Chrom, that’s not…that doesn’t make any sense. I mean, you said that…that this ring is for—”

Robin breaks off as he turns her wrist. Without releasing his hold, Chrom catches the chain in his other hand before carefully unraveling Robin’s grip on it. She lets it go, eyes transfixed by the shimmer of gold against his gloves. Gingerly, Chrom slips the chain free so only the ring remains.

“I said this ring is for the person I want to spend my life with,” he finishes for her, then he presses the metal band into her palm. “And it is.”

Silence, total and complete.

A strange sense of peace washes over him while a menagerie of emotions play out on Robin’s face.

“I—I don’t…” she starts, and Chrom almost laughs because he has seen her slay monsters and kings, and never has she looked so utterly daunted.

“Robin…” he murmurs again, and though he fights back the laugh, there’s no concealing the tenderness steeped through every sound in her name. Something about it—the gentleness—must finally make her realize what all of this is. What he’s doing. Robin stiffens suddenly, jerking her hand away from him only to realize she still has the ring and abort the action just as abruptly.

“Chrom, wait,” she pleads. “H-hold on. You can’t just…you can’t. We can’t. So don’t—don’t make me…”

She trails off, looking around frantically—everywhere but at him. Assessing for an escape route, no doubt, he realizes. It’s so predictably Robin that he can’t help but find it endearing.

“Robin, I need to tell you,” he says, voice firm and soft at once. “No matter what comes to pass after, I can’t let this go unsaid.”

He can see her scrounging for a protest, but even if she could put one together, he knows it would soar right over him. The confession he’s fought so long against freeing rises on his tongue, and this time there’s no stopping it.

“Robin…” Chrom starts again.

“W-wait—”

“I’m in love with you.”

As soon as the words are out, Chrom holds his breath. Robin makes a strange, choked-off sound and falls quiet, and he waits expectantly for everything to feel different.

But the planet doesn’t start spinning backwards on its axis, and the sky isn’t shattering to pieces. He told Robin he loves her, and everything seems miraculously unchanged…aside, that is, from Robin’s increasingly ragged breathing.

Concerned, Chrom ventures one step closer. Robin doesn’t even notice, her eyes still clamped shut. He places a steadying hand on her shoulder, and she tenses but doesn’t draw away.

“Er, hey…” he murmurs. “What’s—”

“You’re not supposed to,” she whispers.

His brow furrows. “I’m not supposed to…?”

“Love me,” she says. “You’re not supposed to, and—and what’s more, I don’t understand why you’re telling me any of this.”

Chrom frowns.

He imagined a lot of ways Robin might react—everything from kissing him passionately to throwing the ring in his face—and while this response is certainly better than that last possibility, he’s also not really sure what to make of it.

“Well, I…I do,” he says finally, trying to re-ground himself. “Whether I’m supposed to or not, I do love you, Robin. Though I’m not sure who it is you think gets to decide whether or not I’m supposed to feel that way. But I—”

“No?” she cuts in, her voice suddenly hard. “How about anyone with an ounce of common sense?”

Hurt bubbles up from the pit of his stomach, but Chrom pushes past it. “If this is about the council—”

“Of course it’s about the council!” she cries. “It’s about the council, and the people of Ylisse, and—and everyone, Chrom! It’s about everyone!”

“But what about you, Robin?” he presses. “How you feel is the only thing that matters to me.”

“You can’t just not care about it!” she snaps, sharp enough that he reflexively winces. Robin mumbles a curse, massaging her temple the way she does when she needs to dissuade an oncoming headache.

“I—I’m sorry. Truly,” she says, softer. “If I’d known that this whole pretend courtship was going to make you feel this way, then I never would have suggested it. The last thing I ever wanted was to hurt you. But Chrom, even if this isn’t what you want to hear, you know it’s for the best. Believe me. What you’re feeling right now…it’s not worth what it would cost you. And with a little more time—”

“That’s what you’re concerned with?” he cuts in. “What it would cost me?”

His conversation with Lissa echoes in his head again. ‘Knowing Robin, she’s probably all worked up that being with you would cause you a whole bunch of problems.’

But if that’s Robin’s only reservation for being with him…

“...Yes?” Robin answers hesitantly, seemingly thrown by the question. “Of course that’s my concern. You’re a prince, Chrom. And I’m…it’s better if you just wait for these feelings to pass. It’ll be easier from here on out too. Pretending to be together must have brought up a lot of confusing—”

“I’m not confused about my feelings,” Chrom interrupts. “And I didn’t just start feeling this way about you either. This isn’t—” he breaks off, frustrated with Robin for not understanding and with himself for not knowing how to make her. “This isn’t some sort of passing infatuation,” he starts again. “I’m in love with you, Robin. You’re the most important person in my life.”

Saying it a second time affects him differently—sunders something in him. The dam he built around his heart to keep all his unfiltered adoration from rushing directly out of his mouth is crumbling now, washing the last of his bashfulness away.

And Robin must know what’s coming too.

“Chrom, just—just hold on a second, alright?” she entreats. “I don’t think you should—”

“No.” He holds up a hand, stopping her. “I’ve come this far already. Let me say my piece.”

Robin’s eyes go wide, but even as he registers her shock, he can’t staunch the flow of his words.

“Do you remember back when all of this started? When we were trying to decide what to tell our friends when they asked about our courting? I said that I would tell them I’d loved you from the very moment I laid eyes on you. Well, that was the truth. For as long as I’ve known you, I’ve been falling more deeply in love with you, Robin. But for all our talk of being the best of friends and having no secrets between us, there was a part of me that knew you were keeping me at arm’s length. I thought it must be because you didn’t love me as I did you. And then…then these last few weeks changed everything,” he says, with a bittersweet smile. “Because suddenly that distance was gone. And I couldn’t help but wonder if…if perhaps I wasn’t so alone in my feelings after all.”

“Chrom—” she chokes.

“And I want you to know I would never ask anything of you that you’re not willing to give,” he assures her, plowing ahead. “Our friendship is far too precious for that. No matter what you feel towards me, or what you decide you want, I swear to abide by it. Blazes, if you don’t love me, then—then I promise I’ll never speak of any of this again,” he vows. “And I’m not ignorant to what being with me would ask of you, either. I know it’s a heavy burden to bear. But I couldn’t go through with this without—I couldn’t live with the thought of not knowing. Not asking if you would be willing to choose me when I’m ready to spend the rest of my life choosing you. And—”

“Chrom!” Robin exclaims, and this time, Chrom sees tears beading at the corners of her eyes. He clamps his mouth shut—the sight dowsing him with doubt.

“Oh, gods. I…I’m sorry Robin,” he stammers. It’s so rare for her to cry…maybe he really has pushed her too far. “I was just—I just wanted you to understand how I feel. I never meant to upset you—”

“Well, it’s a little late for that, isn’t it?” she huffs, trying doggedly to blink the tears away. “Gods, why do you…why do you have to make everything so much harder?”

Tentatively, Chrom steps closer, half expecting her to recoil. She doesn’t though—in fact, when he brushes his knuckles against the curve of her cheek she rolls forward on her toes, leaning ever so slightly into his touch. It’s subtle—she may not even know that she’s doing it—like they’re joined by a thousand invisible strings, drawing them unconsciously into each other’s orbit. And yet that minute shift in her posture is enough to fortify him again; to bring his revelation from the garden back with the same certainty that a lightning bolt promises thunder.

“You know…” he says quietly, “for all that I’ve said about my feelings, you still haven’t told me how you feel about me.”

“That’s because you’re not—you’re not listening!” Robin protests, each word shaky and broken. But when Chrom settles his other hand at her waist she leans into that too. “How I feel isn’t…it’s not a factor in any of this. No matter how much I wish it could be.”

“Robin, can you do something for me?” he murmurs. When she doesn’t reply, he tips her chin up, imploring her to look at him. Her amber eyes have turned glassy from unshed tears—knowing they’re his doing is a spear to his heart, but he smiles through it, determined to be steady and certain for her when she is not.

“Can you pretend for just one second that you’re not speaking to…to the Prince of Ylisse? Please. I just want your answer, to me. I want you to tell me the truth, however painful it might be.”

Robin doesn’t reply, but there’s a glimmer of something like a concession in her eyes. All that’s left is to ask.

Chrom holds her gaze intently. “Are you in love with me?”

Quiet swells between them.

And then Robin says, simply, “Yes.”

Chrom sucks in a breath. He knew, of course. But it’s different hearing it; and a part of him still expected her to deny it outright.

But she didn’t. All this time spent aching and agonizing over his feelings for her when the rapturous truth is that Robin is in love with him too.

But that alone isn’t enough.

“And if you could have whatever you wanted,” Chrom continues, willing away the tremor in his voice, “if no one else had any say in it, th-then…would you want to be with me?”

“…Yes,” she admits again, a tear finally spilling over as she speaks.

That answer is much more treacherous than the first.

Hope burgeons inside him faster than he can cull it. Already his heart is beating a dangerous rhythm, but there’s still one more question he needs to ask. To be certain. He forces himself to keep speaking even though these last words are the hardest.

“Would you still choose it even though it would come with the burden of ruling?” he asks. His voice is just a breath above a whisper. “It…it would saddle you with a position and duties you’ve never wanted. I know that. But would being together—being with me—would it still be worth it to you, Robin? Despite all of that?”

Robin blinks at him. Her features contort with confusion. “Of course it would be,” she sniffles. “You’re…you’re worth anything to me. Everything. B-but I—”

That’s all he needed to hear.

Chrom surges forward, closing the last of the meager space between them and crushing his lips to hers. Robin’s words die, and he never gets the chance to worry that he’s out of line—that she doesn’t want this—because she flings her arms around his neck, kissing him in a way that betrays every one of her arguments. She’s still crying; stray tears trailing between their mouths, making the kiss salty and wet. But it doesn’t matter. Chrom tangles his fingers into her hair and pours every bitten-back confession into the kiss—feels them burning on Robin’s lips too—all while his heartbeat chants that this is real, real, real.

When he finally pulls back, it’s only just far enough to pant two words against her mouth: “Marry me.”

Robin’s ragged breath hitches. Her eyes snap open, stunned. “Wh…what?” she stammers.

“Marry me,” he says again, voice firm. “I love you, Robin. Irrevocably. If you love me too, then—”

“Chrom, don’t.” Robin’s eyes darken, tortured with desire, before she squeezes them shut again. The motion pushes out another pair of tears. “Please, don’t ask that. You know I can’t—”

Chrom kisses her again—harder. As if it’s an argument, a plea and a promise all at once. As if a kiss alone could be enough to convince her. He caresses her jaw, coaxing her lips apart to lick into her mouth and she doesn’t fight him—not on this. Instead, Robin reciprocates with a bodily shudder and by twining her tongue with his, and he knows he’s meant to spend the rest of his life memorizing the taste of her.

Chrom presses nearer, trapping the fingertips he has curled around her waist between Robin and something solid. Foggily, he realizes they must have maneuvered all the way back against the wall because Robin is pinned against it now. Still, she urges him closer, bent on banishing every sliver of space between their bodies. Her hip bone presses against his thigh—her breasts against his ribs.

He feels dizzy. Dizzy from her kisses, her body, the enormity of his love for her. Chrom releases her lips, but only for the sake of trailing more kisses along her temple.

“Robin…” he rasps. He’s never heard his voice sound like that before—husky and raw. He presses his lips to her forehead once, definitive, then leans his own against it. “Marry me. Please.”

“I…I want to,” she admits. Her breath fans over his mouth; the words soft as the flap of a butterfly’s wings. “Believe me, Chrom. I’ve never wanted anything more. But that’s exactly why this is so hard. Because no matter how much I want to, I can’t—”

“Don’t say that you can’t,” he interrupts fiercely. “Either you want to or you don’t, but ‘can’t’ doesn’t factor into it. If you truly believe you could be happy with me, then that’s the only thing that matters.”

“But it’s not! That’s not how this works!” Robin cries, an edge of hysteria creeping into her voice. “We’re—we’re talking in circles here! I wish that our feelings could be all that matters! Of course I do. I wish it so much that I’ve made stupid decisions for months now. But just stop and think for a minute,” she pleads. “Everything that’s happened these last few weeks…the rat, and the forgeries, and the truth serum—”

“You’re looking at it all wrong,” Chrom says. “The only thing these last few weeks proved is that it doesn’t make any difference who doesn’t approve of our being together. Because there’s nothing they can do to stop us. They tried, and you outmaneuvered them, Robin—brilliantly. No one else could have done what you did.”

“Because no one else would have to!” Fresh tears spring to her eyes again; she sounds so abjectly miserable that it momentarily stuns him quiet. With visible effort, Robin re-centers herself—sucks in a rattling breath.

“Look,” she says, “I hate to give that awful woman credit for anything, but…Lady Idris was right. I’m never going to belong here, Chrom. Not really. It’s one thing for me to be your tactician, but this…what you’re asking, this is something else entirely.”

“That’s not true!” he says vehemently. “Lady Idris doesn’t know a damn thing! You do belong here, Robin. You belong at my side. Are you really going to trust her word over mine?”

“It’s not about trust. It’s about protection. I love you, Chrom,” she says, and it’s so strange to hear Robin’s voice aching with that same wistfulness he’s so familiar with. “I love you more than anything. And it’s because I love you that I can’t let you make a choice that would turn your life into a living hell. Even if that choice is me.”

“Don’t I get any say in this?” he counters. “Robin, I already know the road won’t be easy. But who I want to be with is my choice: You don’t get to decide whether or not you’re worth it to me…whether or not it’s worth breaking my heart now just to avoid possibly inconveniencing me some day in the future. Whatever may be ahead, I know we can weather it—we’ve proved as much already.”

Robin remains silent, but the fact she has no immediate rebuttal is telling within itself. He presses on, spurred to rash candor.

“Robin, listen to me. I know you think I haven’t thought this through, but I have. I’ve thought about it for months now and the decision I come to is always the same. Especially since…since I lost Emm. My sister always followed her heart, and I think she would want the same for me. I know she would. Emm would want me to marry someone I love—and someone who loves me in return. And unless my memory is mistaken, you told me you wanted the same for me too.”

Chrom takes a breath, cradling Robin’s cheek to guide her gaze back to his. She’s quiet—hanging on to his every word.

“Perhaps I’m being selfish. But the council members’ opinions are never going to matter as much to me as what’s in my heart. And the person in my heart is you, Robin,” he continues, soft and fervent. “When I think of my future, you’re the one I see by my side. There has never been anyone else. So, if you truly mean it when you say you love me, then…gods, Robin. If it takes sitting up with you every night and reminding you of all the reasons that I will never regret choosing you, then I’ll do it. Whatever it takes to convince you. But please, just give us the chance to be happy. I know we can figure out the rest.”

Finally, he falls silent, his gaze beseeching. Robin’s tears have slowed, but her eyes are still puffy and her eyelashes cling together in wet clumps. She’s beautiful. Chrom is nearly overcome by how ferociously he wishes that he could kiss her and promise to never make her cry like this again, but he bites the words back—waiting her out.

After an interminable time, Robin drops her gaze and bows her head.

“...Well. This is hardly fair,” she says, giving a feeble little sniffle. “I mean…gods, Chrom. What am I possibly supposed to say to all of that?”

She glances up—only for a moment, but it’s enough for Chrom to see the shaky smile fighting its way onto her face. His pulse picks up.

“I only said how I feel,” he tells her. Then, more shyly, “And…you could say that you’ll marry me.”

Robin gives a watery laugh. “You are so unbelievably stubborn, do you know that?”

That wasn’t a no, he thinks recklessly. “Only about things that are important to me.”

“Now, that’s patently untrue. You’re stubborn about everything,” Robin protests. “It’s horrible. You’re exhausting, and…and completely impossible to reason with, a-and…I…”

There’s one last tear coalescing in the smile-creased corner of her eye, but Chrom doesn’t give it a chance to fall. He swipes it away with his thumb, then kisses right beside it. Another quavery laugh fights its way out of her and he knows, suddenly. Just like he did with the truth serum.

Hovering close, Chrom drags his nose down the slope of her cheek until their lips are but a hair’s breadth apart. “Robin,” he murmurs again, “will you marry me?”

She just breathes. In through her nose, out through her mouth. The pull and rush of air rhythmic against his skin. Robin keeps on breathing for a small eternity and Chrom doesn’t want to rush her; knows he can’t rush this…

…But his hope-ridden heart can only take so much. “Robin—” he starts again.

“Yes.”

Chrom’s throat closes off. “W-wait. ‘Yes’ as in—”

“Yes,” Robin says again. “Yes.”

Her voice cracks in a half-sob, but to Chrom, that word sounds how sunshine feels.

“Yes…” he breathes; stunned, still, despite his certainty. “You—you will? You really mean it?”

“Mhm,” she manages. Robin draws back slightly but it’s just to scrub at her eyes. A smile breaks across her face as she looks shyly up at him. “I will. I’ll marry you.”

“You’ll marry me,” Chrom echoes, trying to make the words sound real. “You…you love me, and you’ll marry me. We’re going to be—”

They’re going to spend their lives together. Have a family together. The most important person in his life is choosing him too, because she thinks he’s worth it. All at once it’s too much. It’s perfect.

A grin splits Chrom’s face, laughter fizzing through his whole body and spilling past his lips. “You’ll marry me!” he exclaims again, booming and exultant, and if words were ever enough for what he’s feeling they aren’t anymore.

Giddy, he snags Robin around the waist and sweeps her into the air, twirling her around. She squawks at first, then laughs too, and before he can properly put her down, Robin uses the extra height to take him by the shoulders and drag him into a kiss.

The fierceness of it leaves him breathless. One of her hands slides to the base of his neck and she tugs a little at his hair to get him to tilt his head back. Chrom’s mouth falls open in a hushed gasp, but before he can think to be embarrassed Robin licks along his bottom lip and deepens the kiss. Chrom kisses her back just as fervidly—abandoning every notion of self-restraint. Robin loves him; and he doesn’t need to hide how desperately he wants her. Not anymore.

And Robin must be feeling much the same. She swipes her tongue along the back of Chrom’s teeth—hands tethering them together. He’s starting to wonder if he shouldn’t just carry her back to their bed when Robin jerks back from him, wide-eyed.

“The ring!” she exclaims.

Chrom blinks at her. “The…the ring? Oh!”

The engagement ring. He was so caught up in convincing and kissing her that he completely forgot about it. Hastily, he releases Robin and pats his pockets only to find them empty. “Er, d-do you—”

“Got it!” Robin declares, unveiling it from within her coat with obvious relief. “Gods. Can you imagine what a disaster that would’ve been?”

“We’d have found it eventually,” Chrom assures her with a chuckle. “May I, then?”

Wordlessly, Robin offers her hand. He takes it, along with the ring, then edges his fingers under her glove, pressing her wrist to his lips once it’s revealed to him. Robin’s cheeks flare pink and the sight is so lovely that he’s immediately determined to deepen her blush further. He kisses her palm too, then her knuckles, before finally sliding the ring over her fourth finger.

“It fits,” he remarks, a little dreamily. It still feels as if he’s play-acting inside the most wonderful fantasy. When he looks at Robin’s face, though, her blush and all the rest of her color has drained away. “I-is something wrong?”

Robin swallows audibly, eyes locked where the crest of the exalted family glimmers against her skin. “No, it’s just it’s…starting to hit me suddenly. That I’m—I’m going to be…”

“My wife?” Chrom supplies, heart hitching on the word.

“Your wife, yes,” a shaky smile steals across her face before vanishing again, “but also the…the queen consort of Ylisse.”

“Ah.”

The tipsy cheer infecting him simmers down as he watches worry lines carve themselves into Robin’s face.

“Gods, we’re—we’re supposed to announce it tonight. To all those people,” she whispers. A clammy sheen springs to her skin. “To the whole Halidom. I…I can’t—”

“Easy, Robin.” Chrom wraps an arm around her waist, steadying her before she starts to sway on her feet. “Do you want to sit down?”

Robin makes some sort of vague grunt, which he figures is probably the closest thing to a confirmation he’s going to get. Swiftly, Chrom leads her to the sofa in the drawing room, settling her carefully against the cushions. Robin clutches at his hand when he stands to move away, and he offers a reassuring squeeze.

“I’ll be right back,” he promises.

Chrom returns to the balcony, carefully retrieving his present and closing the doors behind him. They were talking for so long the wine-red gloaming purpled into the beginnings of night, and he strikes a match to light a lamp before settling again at Robin’s side.

Robin slouches against him, head on his shoulder—trying hard to breathe evenly. Tentatively, Chrom skims his fingers down the silvery locks of one of her twin-tails, hoping the touch is comforting. It’s strange to be doing this without pretenses. Strange, and yet startlingly easy. Touching her now doesn’t feel so different from the performative displays of affection that their fake courtship required. Maybe because neither of us was ever pretending…

“Do you want to talk about it?” he suggests, after a time.

Robin stays quiet, but he doesn’t press her. It’s a thinking silence, he knows. She’s trying to order her words.

“I don’t…” she starts but her voice gets swallowed up, and she has to begin again. “I don’t know if it’s right for me to agree to this. I don’t know if I can…if I can do or be…everything that Ylisse is going to need me to.”

“You can,” Chrom assures her.

“There’s so many ways everything could go wrong,” she insists. “So many ways I could mess it all up.”

“Robin, that’s not—” he starts, but he can tell she’s too lost in imagined catastrophes to hear him. “Robin…my love?” he tries instead, and that cracks through—same as it did in her office weeks earlier. “Listen to me, alright?”

Eyes never leaving his, Robin gives a quailing nod.

“Tormenting yourself with every worst case scenario won’t help anything,” Chrom tells her. “And you don’t have to be a perfect ruler right away. Gods know I’m not—I doubt I ever will be. But you can do this, Robin. We don’t need to prepare for what happens if you can’t. Do you know how I know that?”

“Because you think I can do anything,” she answers at once.

Chrom shakes his head, fighting a smile. “That’s true, but no. I know because you’ve already started,” he says. “Just look at the last month alone. You proved that you can do the council’s work—more of it than should have ever been asked of you. And you navigated those League meetings expertly. Even all that talk at the dinner party last night was proof—you were the one who helped me save face. You knew exactly what to say to get things on track again.”

“You really believe that,” Robin says—not so much a question as an astonished observation.

“I do,” Chrom assures her, all the same. “You’re more prepared for this than you realize. And you won’t be alone in any of it, either. We can learn together. If you fall, I'll be there to pull you back up,” he says, echoing her words to him in Ferox so many moons ago. He’s carried them closely in his heart since then—he only hopes they will bring her the same sense of inner peace.

The quirk of Robin’s lips tells him she recognizes them, at the very least. “Using my own words against me, I see. Hardly the most honorable tactic.”

“I’m not above a little dishonor if it helps to ease your worries,” Chrom replies, grinning. “Besides, I mean them just as sincerely as when you said them to me.”

“Well, that does reassure me…” Robin admits. She mulls on it another moment before racing tirelessly to her next worry. “But what about the people of Ylisse? Do you really think…I mean, are you sure they’ll be willing to accept me?”

“The people of Ylisse already love you. You helped end the war and bring their families home safely. You’re a hero to them, Robin,” Chrom reminds her. “And I…I actually think Ylisse’s people may be grateful to have someone on the throne who hasn’t always lived as royalty. Emmeryn did a lot to mend their trust, but I know the scars left from my father’s rule haven’t healed completely.”

“And the fact that I’m Plegian?” she presses.

“…There will always be some naysayers,” Chrom admits. “But not everyone in Ylisse is as close-minded as that. Have more faith in them.”

Robin lets out a trembling laugh. “I’m afraid having faith doesn’t come quite as easily to me as it does you, but…alright. I’ll try. And I know you’re right that I shouldn’t assume the worst of them.” She sits up suddenly, drawing Chrom’s hand into her lap. “Thank you…my love. Thank you for being so patient with me.”

My love. Gods, he can see why the endearment affected her now. Just knowing he’s hers turns his heart feather light and bubbly. Chrom also suspects this is the first time that he’s ever been praised for his patience; but, he supposes, he’s always had spades more of it for Robin than he ever has for anything else.

Robin huffs out a little frustrated sigh as she continues. “Gods, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. We’re engaged! This is supposed to be a happy time. But instead of celebrating, all I’m doing is fretting.”

“It’s alright, Robin. We’ll have time to be happy; the whole rest of our lives,” Chrom says, squeezing her hand. “And I promised you, didn’t I? I’ll convince you as many times as I need to that you’re the person I want beside me.”

“I suppose you did, didn’t you?” she muses. Robin’s soft smile turns sly. “And what if I said the words weren’t enough and that I still needed more reassurance? Would that involve kissing me senseless again?”

Chrom swallows heavily. He was aware, already, of everywhere their bodies were touching—how close they were sitting. But Robin’s half-lidded eyes make every inch of their brushing skin burn all the more brilliantly.

“W-well, it…it seemed to be effective the first time,” he stammers, flushed to his ears.

“Mmm, is that so? Well, I thought I was feeling reassured, but suddenly I think I’m going to require more convincing after all,” she says, voice low with feigned severity. “In fact, something tells me I’m going to need convincing every day from now on.” She smirks. “And night.”

“Seven hells, Robin,” Chrom breathes and then falls forward to kiss her. Robin laughs, bright and euphoric, and Chrom thinks she tastes even more lovely like this—smiling against his lips.

It’s hitting him all again. That this—kissing Robin—this is something he can do now. Because Robin loves him. Robin wants to be his. The thought brings a heady heat with it, and Chrom leans over her more, nudging her shoulder.

Sharp as ever, Robin takes the hint, shifting to lay on her back and tugging Chrom along with her. At first, he’s careful about it—cautious to keep himself suspended slightly out of fear of squishing her much smaller frame with his own—but Robin isn’t having any of that. She pulls him closer with a dissatisfied huff, arching to press their bodies flush. He gasps as her hips slot against his, all concerns about crushing her wiped away by how good and right it feels to have her under him.

“I love you,” he breathes between kisses, just because he can. Because he can’t even remember how he ever kept from professing it to her every minute.

“I love you too,” Robin murmurs back. Then she nibbles at his lower lip and suddenly they’re kissing too hard to speak anymore.

A year’s worth of yearning crashes through him, longing to find release through her hands and mouth. Robin’s fingers dance along the back of his thigh and it’s killing him a little; it’s too much and not enough at once. Emboldened, Chrom dots kisses along her jawline, one hand spanning the lacing on her corset; the other clutching her hip. Robin rocks up, grinding herself against him, and gods, how can she be so soft and solid at once? A low groan rumbles from Chrom’s throat—even with layers of clothing between them the pressure is electric.

“R-Robin…” he asks breathlessly, “are we—?”

“I want to. Gods, I want to,” she pants, which is a good enough answer for him. Chrom rushes to kiss her again only to find her finger pressed to his lips instead. “Hold on. I was going to say that even though I want to, we…we should probably stop for now. The ball will be starting soon.”

“We can be late…” he suggests, and since she seems determined to deny him her mouth at present, he dips his head to chain kisses down her neck instead. Her heartbeat thrums beneath his lips. It’s intoxicating; he can’t imagine how he ever lived without it. Curious, Chrom sucks gently at her pulse point and Robin makes this sound—this soft, breathy whimper. Suddenly his skin is much too hot, and his pants are much too tight.

“C-Chrom,” she chides, cupping his cheek to guide him away. “As wonderful as that feels, we definitely cannot be late. Have you forgotten we have an announcement to make?”

“The announcement isn’t right at the beginning.”

“No, it’s not,” she acknowledges. “But it’s still your birthday ball, and you have to be there to make your grand entrance. You wouldn’t want to sabotage all my careful planning, would you?”

Yes, if it means I get to kiss you more, he almost says, but he knows that’s not actually true. Robin has worked so hard on the arrangements these past weeks; he would never dream of undermining that. Especially when this ball going smoothly could help prove to her that she’s as good at all of this as he knows her to be.

Chrom retreats, chastened. He must not be subtle in how he’s wearing his disappointment, because Robin chuckles and presses a kiss to his cheek.

“Hey, no need for that,” she says. “Just think of it this way: now we have something to look forward to after the ball ends.”

“Alright,” he agrees, cheeks burning and happily doomed to think of nothing but that for the rest of the night. “I am looking forward to the announcement,” he admits shyly. “I…I want all of Ylisse to know how I feel about you.”

Robin reddens to match him, a flustered smile gracing her face before her eyes go wide.

“Oh, gods. I need to go get ready. Properly ready, I mean,” she says, gesturing to her shift and corset before shooting to her feet. “I’ve been gone for ages; those poor servants are probably having a conniption.”

Chrom rises with her, tailing her as she darts towards the door.

Just before grabbing the handle, Robin turns back, raking her eyes over him as if taking note for the first time that he’s even less ball-ready than she is. “Will you be able to get dressed in time?”

“I’ll be fine,” Chrom says. “Frederick will make sure of it.”

“Right. Then I’ll see you—”

She breaks off, glancing down at where Chrom’s hand just instinctively grabbed hers. He didn’t even think about doing it—his muscles acting in their own silent plea. Robin tilts her head at him inquisitively, but he just clings tighter, uncertain how to give voice to the fear that engulfed him so suddenly. The fear that the moment she leaves this room, all the pressure and anxiety will press back in, and she’ll decide he’s not worth it after all.

He runs his finger along the seam where his family ring meets her skin trying to memorize how it looks and feels there. Robin was so set on returning it to him—on turning him down. What if—

“Chrom,” Robin says softly. “I’m not going to change my mind about you.”

His eyes fly to hers. It’s not the first time he’s wondered if Robin can read his mind, nor the first time he’s been grateful for it. She laughs softly—like she heard that thought too, then turns back to face him fully.

“Look, I…I tried to fight this for a long time. Completely futilely, I might add. But it was never a question of whether or not I wanted you enough or loved you enough to want to be with you. It was always…” she frowns, wetting her lips. “…I didn’t think I could ever be worth what I’d cost you. I never believed you would want to choose me, because why would you when—well, I won’t rehash that now.

“The point I’m trying to make is that marrying you is going to make me so selfishly and impossibly happy that it doesn’t even feel like it should be allowed. But I see now that you’re right: there’s no sense in re-breaking my own heart if I don’t have to, and definitely not if that means breaking yours with it.”

“You’re certain?” he asks softly, still half afraid of the answer.

“I am,” she replies. Her voice is firm—definitive; but it’s the unguarded affection spilling from Robin’s eyes that truly assuages him. “The reason I needed to be talked into saying yes is because I knew that doing so meant making you a promise. I wanted to be sure I’d be able to keep it. And I am sure. I’m sure about you.”

She knits their fingers together palm-to-palm, squeezing his hand tightly. “I…I won’t lie and say I’m not afraid anymore. In that regard, you’ll have to be patient with me a little while longer. But you’re more than worth a little fear, Chrom. I love you. And I want to marry you. So, for as long as you still want me too—”

“Always,” he says. “I’ll always want you, Robin.”

Her smile is dazzling. “Then I’ll always be yours.”

Overcome, Chrom leans forward and captures her lips in a tender kiss. Robin returns it just as sweetly, dropping one more at the corner of his mouth before they pull apart.

“Now, are you going to let me go finish getting ready?” she teases. “Or do you want all of Ylisse to see me half-dressed when we announce our engagement?”

“N-no, I don’t want that,” Chrom stammers. He’d much rather have this view of Robin all to himself.

Robin smirks like she knows exactly where the rest of that line of thought went, then pushes onto her tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek. “Alright. Then I’ll see you later?”

“Right. Later,” he agrees.

Chrom watches, completely smitten, as Robin scampers down the hallway. She pauses just before turning the corner, looking back to smile at him one last time and drawing a quiet, longing sigh from him. Only when she’s fully out of sight does he finally close the door.

Chrom leans back against the wood, already missing her terribly. Every second before he can have her in his arms again is bound to feel an eternity—especially with the promise of more blooming between them at the ball’s end. In the very room he’s standing in, no less.

Robin’s eyes coruscate in his mind, autumn’s aureate leaves afire with sunshine. He can still feel every shape her mouth made against his; a phantasm echo of her kiss. Blazes. He never imagined that having Robin could make him want her even more.

Shaking his head at himself, Chrom crosses back to the sofa and grabs his birthday present from the table. He clutches it to his chest. Later, he’ll have to look through all the pages—relish every picture of his friends—but for now he just needs something physical to ground him. Something to serve as a reminder that everything that happened here tonight was more than a heavenly fantasy.

Still, beneath all of his ecstasy, his fear endures—dark brambles encroaching on this new and fragile paradise. They still don’t know who gave Robin that truth serum or what they might have hoped to achieve in doing so. His hold on the book tightens to a vice grip. He can’t help but worry that anyone desperate enough to resort to such means is bound to try something again. Likely soon.

But it’s as Chrom assured himself the night before: He will be at Robin’s side for the ball’s entirety; he can see to it himself that no harm comes her way.

With that pledge in mind, he pushes those anxieties back into a dusty corner of his consciousness. Robin said it herself earlier: today is supposed to be a happy time. A time for celebrating. The person he spent the last year catastrophically in love with—the person who holds his undying devotion, his other half—has chosen him too.

And by the night’s end, his engagement to Robin will be official; and all of Ylisse will finally know what she means to him.

Chapter Text

Chrom fidgets with the embroidery on the cuff of his suit-coat, his other hand drifting up to run restlessly through his hair.

“Milord, I must insist that you refrain,” Frederick huffs, catching Chrom’s wrist just before it can undo his half successful attempts to tame Chrom’s bangs.

At present, the two of them are sequestered at the back of the mezzanine overlooking the ballroom—too far from the balustrade to get a good look at the mass of twirling guests below. Chrom has spent the last quarter hour here awaiting the musical refrain that’s to serve as his entrance cue. Normally his twitchiness over this type of event would be due to nerves, but tonight it’s more from eagerness than anything else. Robin is waiting for him somewhere down there in that thicket of finery; until he is at her side again, he will be able to think of little else.

Chrom lets his hand drop back to his side and shoots Frederick a sheepish smile. “Apologies, my friend. My mind is in other places.”

“I noticed as much.” Frederick narrows his eyes in thoughtful scrutiny long enough that Chrom starts to feel a prickle of self-consciousness.

“...Something the matter?” he prompts.

“Not at all, milord,” Frederick replies. “I was merely thinking that you seem…different today.”

“Different?” Chrom repeats, and he has to consciously stamp down another impulse to re-tousle his hair. “Different how?”

“Less burdened, milord. It is as if some invisible weight has lifted from you. When we spoke last night, the same could not be said. Could it be that you’ve made progress in uncovering the culprit behind the truth serum?”

Chrom blinks, taken aback. For all his efforts to seem guilelessly happy in his relationship this last month, his feigning must have failed to capture the magnitude of joy that actually being with Robin has brought him. He didn’t think the difference would be so obvious—though, in fairness, not everyone attends to his demeanor as closely as Frederick does.

“No progress yet. You’d have heard about it already if there was. But…you’re right, Frederick. I do feel different,” Chrom admits, smiling to himself. “I’m starting to believe that I really will be able to do all of this.”

Frederick raises an eyebrow. “‘All of this’? I’m not certain I follow.”

“Ruling,” Chrom says simply. “These last few months, I’ve kept waiting for it all to fall apart. I’ve been so certain I’d ruin everything Emm worked so hard to build. But now I’m…I’m hopeful, Frederick. I may not yet be the man Ylisse needs me to be, but it’s not my burden to bear alone anymore.”

Even just uttering such a truth—here, softly in the shadowed mezzanine, with no one but his retainer to hear it—is heartening in a way Chrom never imagined. He knows Robin would have striven to support him even if they weren’t engaged, but it’s different knowing they’ll be ruling together. A true partnership. And the prospect of getting to tell the world that it’s Robin who will be his partner has unchained something inside him that has been bound for a long time.

“I’m pleased to hear it, milord,” Frederick replies warmly, and that’s still something Chrom isn’t quite used to—seeing his normally austere knight speak in a way that’s so fuzzy-edged and soft. “Though I’d have it on the record that were you alone, I still never harbored any doubts in your capabilities to rule justly.”

“Justly, perhaps,” Chrom allows, leaving off his own qualification to that statement. Skillfully, less so. “But even if I could have managed alone, having Robin with me will ease the way.” He pauses, his thoughts flickering back to Frederick’s question about the truth serum, that same stubborn sense of foreboding prickling along the back of Chrom’s neck. “Can I trust that you’ll look out for her tonight?”

Frederick puffs up in obvious offense. “It is always my foremost duty to ensure the safety and well-being of the royal family, milord.”

“Ha, so it is,” Chrom says, relaxing again. “Thank you, Frederick.”

And he means it, truly. Frederick has looked out for him throughout every step of his rocky start to ruling, and in light of his new engagement to Robin, Chrom sees now that he owes his knight more than he’s ever realized. It was Frederick who warned him about the council springing an engagement on him—Frederick who afforded Chrom the chance to go to Robin for advice. If he hadn’t, if Chrom had walked into that council meeting blind, he almost certainly wouldn’t have thought to lie and say he was courting someone…let alone to claim it was Robin.

And that was the catalyst for all of this. Without their fake relationship, Chrom never would have had the chance to prove to her that their being together was a real possibility. It’s entirely possible that the life he now gets to look forward to sharing with her wouldn’t be his at all.

Emotion wells in his chest and spills over, driving Chrom forward to clasp a hand on Frederick’s shoulder. “I know I might not always remember to express my appreciation, but I hope you know that I’m truly grateful for all that you do for me.”

Frederick’s eyes widen then warm, but before he can reply, the bright plucking of a harp sweeps through the ballroom.

“Ah, that would be my cue.” Chrom pats his side, ensuring Falchion is secure in its ceremonial scabbard as he makes for the stairs. “Oh, and Frederick? It would ease my mind to know that you’ll try to enjoy yourself tonight, as well.”

Frederick recovers rapidly and bows his head. “If that is an order, then I shall endeavor to do so, milord. Now, go. It is best not to keep your lady waiting.”

Chrom grins and gets into position on the landing, his heart taking flight with the knowledge that Robin really is his now, just as he is hers.

A hush has fallen across the ballroom, the music idling in shimmery suspense. For added drama, Robin arranged some sort of magical rigging that allows every candle and sconce in the ballroom to be dimmed on command; the floor below has been submerged in shadow, only those lights that line the stairs flared to full brightness.

Chrom huffs in a bracing breath and begins his descent. At this point in his life, he should probably be accustomed to his mere presence being treated as an event, but he still feels a splash of embarrassment over the applause that accompanies his arrival. There’s no time to dwell on it, though. He strains his eyes, searching the darkened dance floor for—

There.

Once he finds Robin, nothing else matters. It’s an exercise in restraint that he doesn’t just drop all pretense of dignity and run to her flat out. Still, he can’t help but quicken his pace. Everything aside from her drifts off focus, the candle-lit steps blurring beneath him to diaphanous stardust. When he reaches her at last, Chrom stutters to a halt.

Robin is bewitching. Her gown is a gradient of rich blue to silvered white, beaded and twinkling beneath the chandeliers. It looks like it was spun from galaxies; cosmos held captive in its glimmering skirts. Her hair spills over each shoulder in silky, starshine ringlets.

“Robin,” he breathes, too unmoored to form anything with his voice aside from her name. Even blinking feels as if it hides her from his eyes for too long.

“Your highness,” Robin replies primly, dipping into a curtsy. The movement makes the constellations on her dress ripple—a night sky reflected in a lake’s mirror. “…Chrom,” she adds, softer; that utterance intended for his ears alone, and gods, has she always said his name like that? So warmly? How could he have ever doubted that she loved him?

“Would you care to dance?” he asks, remembering himself at last.

Robin smiles and his attention is drawn at once to the dusky, pink pigment tinting her lips—as if he needed any more motivation for his eyes to linger on her mouth.

She takes his hand, just as she always has. Like he knows, now, that she always will. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Gently, Chrom guides her to the center of the dance floor, a susurrus of whispers and swishing dress skirts left in their wake as the crowd disperses. It’s only when his hand settles at Robin’s waist that he realizes how much tension is molded into her muscles—that beneath her easy, practiced facade, she is on the verge of coming apart.

Chrom draws her closer, letting his breath wash over the shell of her ear. “It’s alright, love. Just like we practiced.”

Robin’s breath catches then whispers free again. She fixes her eyes on him—striking, infinite eyes, limned in silver and the unfathomable trust they hold for him. Then the song begins in earnest and together, they take the first steps of the dance.

The movements come to him smoothly enough—though Chrom is immediately grateful for all the practice Maribelle forced on him. It’s surprisingly hard to focus on his feet when every brush of Robin’s body feels like the night is taunting him with promises yet unkept. Far too much of his concentration is being allotted to resisting the impulse to drag Robin in for a kiss, disapproving onlookers be damned.

“You know, it’s strange,” she muses. Her voice wedges through his trance and he forces himself to focus on the words she’s saying instead of the shapes her lips make when she speaks. “For all those practice sessions with Maribelle, I never thought I would actually have to do this in front of people. I’m glad I never shirked my lessons.”

Chrom chuckles, about to express that he was just thinking the same when something occurs to him. “Is that really true?”

“Hmm?”

“You really never suspected that I loved you?” he clarifies. “And that we would end up together?”

“Ah.” Robin’s eyes fall to her shoes, suddenly shy. He twirls her out on the next swell of the strings, and when she spins back in, he could swear they’re pressed more closely than ever. He swallows, mindful to keep from letting his hand drift too low or too high, and wonders if dancing with someone you’re desperately in love with couldn’t be considered its own form of torture.

“Well…I suppose it’s not as simple as to say I never had any inkling,” she says at last. “Though I certainly didn’t in the beginning.”

“Really?” Chrom asks, genuinely surprised. “I didn’t think I was ever very good at hiding it.”

“Maybe not,” she admits, laughter twinkling in her eyes. “But you were so insistent that you weren’t interested in courting anyone. It seemed safe to assume that included me.”

Chrom blinks. It never occurred to him that his insistence on a disinterest in courting could be interpreted as a disinterest in her.

“Robin, I only said I wasn’t interested in courting because…well, because I wasn’t interested in courting anyone I thought wanted to court me. I thought you’d never accept. And I didn’t want anyone else.”

Before Robin can reply, the music crescendos again and Chrom leads her through a choreographed set of spins, twisting her beneath his raised arm.

“W-well, yes. I know that now,” she says once her hand is settled on his shoulder again. He can’t tell if the flush in her cheeks was brought on from his words or the exertion. “But I didn’t at the time. And the fact you were so mortified whenever we had to pretend to be together didn’t inspire confidence either,” she teases.

Chrom’s brows furrow. “I wasn’t mortified—”

“You absolutely were,” Robin says. “You told me that kissing me would be humiliating.”

“Gods, did I really say that?” Chrom winces when she nods, his ears a scalding red. “I’m so sorry, Robin.”

“It’s alright. Somehow I think I’ll find it in myself to forgive you—especially since you seem to have had a change in heart.” Her eyes shimmer with something tender as she holds his gaze. The whole world has shrunken down to the two of them and the tinkling music. Again he has to consciously stop himself from leaning in.

“Eventually, I did start to wonder if maybe you felt something for me,” she continues softly. “I wouldn’t have gone so far as to presume it was love but…around the time all those nobles were arriving it started to seem like maybe there was something there. Some sort of interest or attraction.”

Chrom’s heart rate picks up, accelerating with the music’s soaring strings—it’s surreal to know she was asking herself exactly the same questions he was back then. “That’s when I started to wonder too,” he admits.

Robin smiles wryly. “I almost said something, actually. I was going to the day after I collapsed. But then after everything that happened during that council meeting…” she trails off, frowning. “I didn’t want to burden you with my feelings when it was more apparent than ever we were in no position to act on them. Lady Idris had made it clear I was too much of a liability.”

As she speaks, Chrom plays the memory of that evening back in his mind’s eye, along with the day that followed. Robin’s bright-cheeked confession that she had something she needed to tell him had seemed so at odds with her demeanor in the garden the next day. Though at the time, he’d been much too devastated to pursue why that might be.

“That’s why you told me we needed to start phasing out the relationship, isn’t it?” he realizes. “And why you were trying to avoid talking to me about it last night.”

“Exactly,” she says. “I didn’t think there was a point anymore; even if you were interested, it wouldn’t have been enough to justify being together. And I never imagined that you felt strongly enough about me to choose this anyway.”

Chrom shakes his head, amused and disbelieving. “Then you sell yourself short, Robin. I can’t even imagine not having strong feelings for you.”

She laughs fondly. “Well, you’ve never been one for feeling things in half-measures.”

Chrom chuckles with her. She’s right of course, but it also goes beyond that. Within hours of their meeting, all his Robin-centered sentiments already seemed to break the scale. It used to frighten him just how vast and endless that pool of emotion could be…but now, loving her as he does, nothing seems more natural.

Chrom lets his thumb stroke small, looping shapes at her waist as they complete another rotation around the ballroom. “I'm surprised. It's hard to believe I figured out your feelings for me before you did mine,” he says, his smile taking on a teasing edge. “I can’t believe I was more observant than you.”

Robin bristles, immediately just as miffed by the comment as he knew she would be. “Oh, please. It hardly comes down to who’s more observant when one of us drank truth serum.”

“But I suspected it before then,” he counters. “The truth serum was just confirmation.”

“It wasn’t an equal playing field." Her grip on him tightens with her determination to make her point. “My loving you was essentially inevitable—of course it wouldn’t be hard to figure out. But the thought that you might love me too defied so many logical leaps—”

“That just sounds like poor sportsmanship,” Chrom interjects, grin widening. “Besides, do you really think I don’t believe loving you was just as inevitable?”

Robin makes a small dissenting sound; something that seems to convey, ‘you can’t possibly mean that’ without speaking. Still, from the pink in her cheeks and her poorly suppressed smile, he suspects his sincerity isn’t wholly lost on her.

At last, the music dwindles, sweet and slow, and Chrom twirls her once more before drawing her in close. Robin clings to him as they lean together into the final dip—the suspense between them palpable. His eyes linger on the rise and fall of her chest and the shallow dive her dress’s neckline takes between her breasts. All the dancing has swept Robin’s hair back and for the first time, he notices the faint bruise at the juncture of her throat and shoulder, left there by his lips.

Gods, what he wouldn’t give to kiss her again. Chrom forces himself to look at her face instead, but it’s hardly any relief when her eyes are so unbearably warm and inviting. He droops forward, resting his forehead against hers in the shivery silence.

A smattering of applause breaks the spell. Around them, other guests begin to filter onto the dance floor, a scattered rainbow of glistening gowns and richly colored suits.

Robin straightens and takes a step back, giving another practiced curtsy. “Your highness.”

“Hold a moment,” Chrom says, re-capturing her hand. “Where do you think you’re going?”

Her face scrunches in confusion. “Somewhere I won’t be in the way? I seem to recall Maribelle saying that the guest of honor is expected to exchange partners for each song. Something about how it’s improper to monopolize your attention.”

“To hell with propriety. You’re going to monopolize my attention no matter how many times I trade partners,” Chrom says blithely. He can tell she’s still wavering, so he lowers his voice and adds, “Please, Robin. I don’t want to part with you yet.”

Robin hesitates for just a heartbeat longer, then shakes her head, smiling to herself. “Fine. One more dance. But I’m drawing the line after that.”

“We’ll see,” Chrom says, grinning. He pulls her in closer—this second song is jauntier than the first, but there’s still plenty to be enjoyed in just having her near.

“I mean it!” she insists, voice laced with laughter. Just as the music picks up, Robin’s eyes narrow in sudden suspicion. “Hold on. Is this really about dancing?”

“What else would it be about?” he asks, working to keep his tone light.

“Oh I don’t know, perhaps the unfounded concern that something bad will happen to me if you’re not glued to my side all night?”

Chrom swallows. It really is incredible how easily she cuts right to the heart of his motivations. “Is it so hard to believe I’d want to spend time together?” he tries anyway.

Robin says nothing to that, managing to maintain her expression of puckered disbelief even as the dance moves them into a series of perky hops and skips.

“…Alright, alright,” he yields, a little sheepish. “It may be a contributing factor.”

“Chrom,” she sighs, sounding somewhere between fond and exasperated. “I told you, there’s nothing to worry about—”

“I know, but—”

“We’ve taken every precaution,” she continues. “No one’s getting in or out without having to pass by members of the Guard.”

“I know, I know,” he says again. “But that won’t keep you safe if the person who wants to harm you already lives in the castle.”

“We don’t even know for sure that anyone does want to harm me,” she reminds him. “And I stationed guards out of uniform here in the ballroom too. They’ll be keeping an eye out for anything unusual. Besides,” she adds, “if someone were to actually try and attack me I’m more than capable of defending myself.”

“But you’re unarmed, Robin,” he argues. “I have Falchion here, at least, but you—”

“I’m not unarmed.”

Her words give him pause. Chrom looks her up and down on the next lift, as if the weapon in question might have materialized on her at some point during their dance without him noticing, but nothing about her fluttering gown looks capable of lethal violence.

“…You’re not?” he asks uncertainly.

“I’m not,” she confirms.

“Then where—”

“I have a dagger tucked into my right garter,” Robin says, matter-of-fact.

Chrom stumbles over his feet on the next turn. “A-ah, you’re—you’re wearing garters.”

He should probably be making more of an attempt to mask how affected he is by this information, but it’s hard to do that when he’s been plunged suddenly into thoughts of lifting Robin’s dress skirts and revealing ribboned stockings hugging her legs. When he’s busy envisioning stroking along the seam where lace meets the bare skin of her thighs…

The smirk on Robin’s face pulls him back to himself and he swallows around his suddenly parched throat. “Er…sorry. That’s—obviously not the point.”

“Mm, true,” she agrees, perhaps a little too innocently. “The point of the garters is just to give me somewhere I can safely keep my weapon concealed.”

“Right.”

“And to hold up my stockings, of course,” she adds. “But that’s it.”

Chrom nods vigorously then drops his hands to her waist for another lift. Her dress swirls with the motion and he is adamantly not going to keep thinking about what is underneath it, especially since Robin’s made it quite clear that would be inappropriate given the—

“And when I put them on earlier,” Robin continues, “I definitely wasn’t thinking about you taking them off me tonight.”

Chrom’s thoughts screech to a halt.

“Th-that’s—” he stammers. He can hardly form words when it feels like he’s melting out of his suit. “I-I, er—”

“Ah! Looks like the song is over. See you later, love,” Robin says cheerily. “Meet me out on the balcony if you need a break.” She stretches up to kiss his flushed cheek and before he can recover enough to protest her leaving, she’s drifting away.

“Robin, wait—!” he calls weakly and he wonders if he’s just imagining what sounds suspiciously like a delighted cackle as she vanishes amidst the other party guests.

Chrom heaves a shaking sigh, struggling to collect himself. His palms feel sticky and his face is still burning, but beneath it all, he’s incandescently pleased that Robin admitted to thinking such a thing. That she wants him to want her. He hardly needs to bother with dancing anymore when that thought alone is enough to leave him happily adrift for the remainder of the night.

But of course he isn’t so lucky. Chrom is all too aware that none of the nobility attending these parties care particularly about how he’d like to spend them, and it’s mere seconds before a nobleman cuts into his blissful fantasizing and swoops in to lead him through the next dance.

Freeing himself proves harder than he expected. It was probably naive to hope that his dance with Robin would have deterred the courtiers in attendance, but hope he had. Instead, their grabs at him seem more desperate than ever—too many hands tugging him every which way the instant he’s no longer taken.

As another song draws to a close, Chrom bows his head in the general direction of the decorously frilled dress swallowing his most recent partner. This has to be his dozenth consecutive dance and he’s more than a little out of breath.

Still, he’s not going to miss an opportunity to escape, and the second she drops his hand, Chrom begins edging his way to the ballroom’s periphery, moving as quickly as he can without drawing attention. The door that leads out to the balcony isn’t much farther, and if he can just make it a few more steps—

A hand hooks around his elbow, swinging him back around.

“There you are, your highness!” exclaims a man dressed from head to toe in a suit of deep, burgundy velvet. Chrom can’t recall who he is beyond the fact that he’s the Earl of Somewhere or Other. “You simply must permit my daughter to share the next dance with you. She’s been waiting so patiently all night.”

The daughter in question is pushed gracelessly against his chest. She blinks up at Chrom with pale, petrified eyes; she looks like she’d rather swallow her own tongue than dance with him.

“Apologies, but you’ll have to excuse me. I was just going to step out for a moment,” Chrom explains, peeling the young woman off of him and shuffling wistfully towards the doors.

“Come now! This next song is a favorite of yours, isn’t it Desiree?” the earl booms. He elbows his daughter, whose thin, trembling lips seem to suggest she has never cared for any song ever in her entire life. “You wouldn’t leave my poor daughter without a partner for her favorite song, would you, Lord Chrom?”

Chrom glances uneasily between them. “Er…”

“If it’s a partner you need, I’ll gladly offer my service.”

The new voice catches him by surprise. Chrom turns to find Gaius of all people at his side. His hair is swept back and he’s donned a dark suit with gold accents. He cleans up surprisingly well.

“And who, pray tell, are you?” the earl harrumphs.

“The name’s Gaius, and let’s just say I’m an invaluable asset to the royal family. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” He dips his head in a bow then drops a kiss on Lady Desiree’s hand. “So, how about that dance? I promise I don’t scowl as much as his highness here.”

The lady flushes pink and gives a timid nod of agreement while the earl gears up to protest.

“I got this, Blue,” Gaius whispers, tossing him a wink. “You’ve earned a breather.”

Chrom is too relieved to argue. He mouths a thank you at Gaius and pauses only to swipe two glasses of champagne from a passing tray before gratefully fleeing the scene. As he steps outside at last, a wave of dew-cool night washes over him—welcome succor from the cloying perfume and sweat he left behind. The doors swing shut after him, muffling the music to a watery hum. Light spills out in a pool of honeyed gold across the marbled ground.

“Chrom! Over here,” Robin’s voice calls.

It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust enough to spy her near the balustrade and when he does, he has to catch his breath all over again. She looks like she’s been sculpted from moonlight.

“Robin! There you are,” he breathes, crossing towards her. Just the sight of her soothes his aching head and feet.

She beams and accepts the glass he offers her, clinking it against his. “I’m glad you made it. I wasn’t sure you’d manage to escape.”

“It was a near thing,” he says grimly, leaning wearily against the balustrade beside her. “If Gaius hadn’t intervened, I’d still be in there. I’m in his debt.”

“His debt, hm? Are you telling me you don’t enjoy having your feet stepped on by Ylissean nobles from every corner of the halidom?”

“Not quite.” Chrom chuckles. “I’d much rather have my feet stepped on by you.”

His words coax a blush from her just like he hoped they would. She’s almost unbearably lovely—veiled in starlight, with her cheeks abloom and that tiny crescent moon smile.

“And what about you, Robin?” he asks softly. “Have you been enjoying your first ball?”

“I have, actually!” she says, looking rather pleased with herself. “I’ve already checked off almost everything on my list.”

Chrom raises an eyebrow. “Your list?”

“I made a checklist of all the quintessential ball experiences so I could be sure not to miss out on anything,” she explains. “You know: dance until your feet hurt, drink too much champagne, wear a completely impractical dress—all of that.”

“Thorough as ever,” he teases. “Though, for all the balls I’ve attended, I can’t say I’ve ever managed that last one.”

Robin grins. “Don’t be discouraged—there’s always next time.”

They laugh together, the sound small and bright in the vast, crystalline darkness. He steals another look at Robin and finds her face is tipped skyward, features suddenly pensive.

“Inviting you out here was the last item I had left, actually. ‘Steal away to the balcony with the prince’,” she recites, her voice disarmingly fragile. “It really does sound like a fairytale when you put it that way.”

Chrom sips contemplatively at his champagne, the tart taste of citrus tickling the back of his throat. “A fairytale, huh?”

He’s never felt like something out of a fairytale before—as far as princes go, he doesn’t think he’s particularly good at playing the part. He’s rash and brusque; quicker to solve problems by drawing his sword than by drawing up a treaty. He always seems to say too much, to say the wrong thing…

…But Robin knows all of that. Robin knows every crevice of his soul; every failing, secret or otherwise. And she thinks being with him is a fairytale anyway.

The words he spoke to Frederick earlier come back to him again: how he’s never known how to be the person Ylisse needs him to be. It’s more than just having Robin with him that’s given him hope about that, he realizes; Robin loving him is enough to make him believe maybe one day he could be.

“…You know, when I made that list, I didn’t think I’d have many opportunities like this,” she confesses. “It’s strange thinking this will be a normal part of my life now.”

Chrom swallows, his throat suddenly too full. “Robin—”

“Not bad strange,” she clarifies quickly. “It’s just…different. I’ve never really seen myself as the type for dressing up in gowns. You said yourself that I’m nothing like the ladies you know from court. That I’m not…what was it? Perfumed and pretty?” She laughs when she sees the way he winces at the reminder.

“I still feel like a prize fool for phrasing it that way,” he says thickly. “Nothing could be further from the truth. You—I-I mean…”

“Chrom, it’s okay, really. You don’t have to—”

“But I want to,” he says. It’s another sentiment he’s thought endlessly but never allowed himself to speak aloud. Suddenly, it feels imperative to do just that.

“…You’re beautiful, Robin,” he manages at last. “And I don’t just mean tonight, a-although especially tonight.”

A blush brightens her cheeks. “Oh. W-well, thank you, Chrom.” Robin fidgets, twirling her champagne glass by its flute. “…I suppose I needn’t tell you I feel the same way about you. Not when that damn truth serum already made it abundantly clear.”

He laughs, even as a thrill runs through him at the memory. To think it was a compulsion to tell the truth that cajoled those words from her.

“I wouldn’t mind hearing you say it again,” he murmurs. “How did you put it? The most handsome man you’ve ever—”

“Yes, yes, I think we both remember just fine,” she huffs, but she gives him a smile that’s half shy, half indulgent and bumps his hip as she says it. “Anyway, what I was trying to say is that as ill-suited as I am for all of this,” she gestures to her gown and the ball bubbling on behind them, “I don’t want you to think I have any regrets about it. No matter how different things will be from now on, it’s worth it if it means being with you. Because I love you, Chrom.”

She says it so steadily—like an incantation she’s invoked so many times she knows it by heart.

“Thank you,” he whispers, once he can manage to speak. “I love you too, Robin. So much.”

Suddenly his persistence in denying himself her touch seems both insurmountable and unnecessary. Still breathless, Chrom moves to embrace her and Robin nestles right against his chest, hugging him back tightly. He still can’t believe he gets to do this now—that he can hold her without any need to pass it off as performative. It makes him so happy that it’s frightening. It’s uncontainable.

Overcome, Chrom kisses her forehead, her temple, her cheek; each press of his lips slow and lingering. Her skin is still dewy from dancing, glistening under the light of the moon, and he would very much like to lower his mouth to hers—to kiss her until her lip color is smeared irreparably…

…But a shifting of the shadows stops him short. The balcony door creaks, and with it, the music booms louder for a moment.

“Chrom! There you are! Maribelle’s dad wants to know when you’ll be ready to—”

Chrom whirls at the voice until his eyes find Lissa, silhouetted against the ballroom’s candlelight. She blinks back at him in surprise, taking stock of his and Robin’s huddled intimacy before her lips stretch into a cat-like grin. “Well look at that! Nice to see everything worked out.”

“Lissa!” Chrom exclaims, breaking into a smile of his own. Here, finally, is someone who knows just what Robin’s acceptance of his proposal today means to him. Chrom bounds forward and grasps both of Lissa’s hands to pull her into a bone-crunching hug.

Lissa squawks indignantly. “Chrom, you’re gonna wrinkle my dress!”

“Sorry, sorry,” he says. “I’m just grateful. I couldn’t have done it without your pestering.” He heeds her complaints and releases her then, but not before pressing a kiss to the top of her head. Lissa squirms away, her nose wrinkled in mock disgust.

“Ugh! You big sap,” she grouses, but her eyes soften noticeably as she takes in the radiant way he’s still smiling. “Well, I don’t wanna say I told you so, but I totally did.”

“Uh, sorry to interrupt, but…”

Synchronized, Chrom and Lissa both pivot at the sound of Robin’s voice. She’s looking on at the two of them with an expression equal parts puzzled and amused. “What exactly was Lissa right about?”

“Oh! Just about how stupid it was that you two were pretending to be together when you were both obviously into each other,” Lissa answers cheerfully. “That’s all!”

Robin goes rigid, eyes flitting about in a furious panic. “W-what? I—I don’t…I mean, that’s not—”

Ah. He probably should have mentioned that during his confession earlier.

Chrom scratches his neck. “I, er—I meant to tell you, Robin. I told Lissa the truth a few nights ago when I needed help sorting out what to do about my feelings.”

“Did you, now?” Robin asks tersely. “That would have been nice to know.”

“It’s okay! I promise I’m not gonna tell anyone,” Lissa vows before Chrom can stammer his way through a proper apology. “And maybe once you see how good I am at keeping your secret you’ll actually start to trust me.”

Robin winces at the obvious bite to her words. “S-sorry about that, Lissa. We were just trying to take the necessary precautions. It was nothing personal.”

“Aww don’t worry about it, Robin!” Lissa replies, but though she’s smiling, her eyes simmer with a sinister sheen. “I won’t be mad forever. Besides, I’ll have plenty of chances to get you back for this once you’re part of the family!”

“Right,” Robin says through a strained smile. “That’s not ominous at all…”

“Anyway!” Lissa says, chipper as ever, “I’m just here to remind you guys that it’s almost time for the announcement.”

“Already?” Chrom asks. He must have been out on the balcony for longer than he realized. “Right. Thank you, Lissa. Just give us a moment and we’ll be right in.”

“Mmkay! Just don’t take too long or Maribelle will chew your head off.”

With her threat hanging in the air, Lissa bounces back into the ballroom leaving him and Robin alone again.

Chrom drifts to her side, eyes flitting between her clenched fists and the tight line of her lips.

“I’m sorry, my love,” he murmurs. He ducks his head, scattering apologetic kisses into her hair and along her temple. “I should have told you about Lissa before. It completely slipped my mind.”

“It’s alright,” Robin sighs, leaning into his chest. “There’s been a lot happening. I can hardly blame you for forgetting, given the circumstances. And I can’t say I don’t understand why she’s angry…” She turns her eyes his way, a glimmer of subdued humor alight within them. “It was just Lissa, right? There isn’t anyone else whose wrath I’ll have to contend with?”

“No one,” Chrom promises. “And for what it’s worth, I don’t think she’s actually angry. Er…well, maybe a little. But it’s nothing we can’t handle.”

“Very reassuring,” Robin says dryly. She reaches for her champagne glass and drains what remains of it in one long gulp. “Well, I suppose we might as well go make some other people angry while we’re at it.”

He nearly asks her what she’s talking about before recalling why Lissa came looking for them.

“We’re doing no such thing,” he says firmly. “The people of Ylisse are going to love you, Robin.”

“We’ll see…” She gives him a brittle smile. “I did mean what I said before about wanting this. I’m not going to back out now. But I can’t say I’m looking forward to this part.”

“Robin…” Chrom trails off, searching himself for a way to reassure her when he knows just how deeply this fear is rooted—knows that it’s guided her words and actions for months.

“…I’ll be right there with you,” he settles on.

Robin’s smile warms to something less cynical. “I know you will,” she murmurs. “Thank you.” And for once, it feels like he’s managed to say the right thing.

Chrom keeps a tight grip on her hand as they re-enter the ballroom. Compared to the dampened serenity of the balcony, the music is cacophonous; the chandeliers blinding. The physical contact is as much for his own comfort as it is hers.

“Lord Chrom, Lady Robin!”

Willing his eyes to adjust, Chrom squints ahead until he’s able to locate Lady Cecily gliding towards them. Her gown is a delicate billow of sage and gold and he has the peculiar thought that it looks like something Emm would have worn. In fact, as the council woman strides towards him, he can almost see his sister beside her—gilded and gossamer, her ethereal grace warming the room—but then he blinks and there’s no trace of the image except the bittersweet burn in his chest.

Gods, what he wouldn’t give to have been able to share his joy tonight with her…

“I’m so glad I’ve found you,” Lady Cecily says, her voice bringing him back to himself. “It’s nearly time for the announcement. Are you both prepared?”

Chrom gives Robin’s hand an encouraging squeeze and tries to put enough surety into his voice for the both of them. “We are.”

“Wonderful. Then please allow me to escort you.”

With graceful haste, Lady Cecily leads them through the ballroom, their destination a set of stairs on the room’s far end. From there, they’ll be able to access the wall walk along the castle’s perimeter and the balcony overlooking the city that they’re to make the announcement from. Already Chrom can imagine Ylisstol’s streets aglow with celebration—the eager sea of faces gathered from every corner of the capital to hear their proclamation, and the eruption of cheers when they hear that the woman they already see as a war hero is to be their queen. How strange that after weeks of dreading this moment he can hardly contain his excitement now.

They veer along the congested edge of the dance floor, around clots of dancing partners twirling in time with a sweeping ballad. Chrom swerves to avoid a servant carrying a tray of wine glasses right as another attendee stumbles forward with his own glass in hand.

The dancers jostle nearer. The man missteps and crashes into the servant, knocking him back. A shattering sound splinters through the music.

Chrom whips around to find broken glass littering the floor and Robin paralyzed in place. She blinks down in horror at her dress…the entire front of which is now soaked through with wine.

“Oh gods…” he breathes. “Robin, are you—”

“This cannot be happening,” she says flatly. A nervous laugh bubbles out of her. “Please tell me this isn’t happening.”

“Oh dear,” Lady Cecily mutters.

The servant squeaks in alarm as his eyes land on Robin’s gown. He lunges towards her, handkerchief in hand. “I’m t-terribly sorry, milady!” he stutters, dabbing frantically at the wine still dribbling along her collarbone. “So, so terribly sorry. That man crashed right into me, I lost my hold on the tray, and—and—” Belatedly, the servant registers Chrom beside her and pales. “Your highness, please! I meant no slight—”

“There, now. It was an honest mistake,” Lady Cecily cuts in gently. “Why don’t you have a seat just over here and we can get this sorted.” She casts a troubled look over her shoulder then guides the man away. Robin hasn’t moved an inch, still staring transfixed at her ruined gown.

“Gods…what are we going to do?” she asks hoarsely. Her eyes are wide and wild when they finally meet Chrom’s—panic rapidly displacing her shock.

“I-it’s alright, Robin,” he assures her, wishing he sounded more certain. “It’s just a stain. I’m sure from a distance it’ll hardly be notice—”

“Hardly be noticeable? It’s all over me!” she cries, gesturing frantically down at herself. “Chrom, I—I can’t be introduced as the future queen of Ylisse looking like—like—”

“Alright, alright, just take a breath,” he reminds her, laying a steadying hand on her shoulder. “I’m sure we can fix this.”

“How?” Robin presses. “How are we possibly going to fix this?”

“Would you accept my gown as a substitute?”

They both turn to discover Lady Cecily has returned to their side, her brows pinched together in concern.

“A substitute?” Robin echoes. “You’re suggesting we trade clothes?”

“We appear to be a fairly similar size,” she explains, gesturing to her own diminutive stature and then to Robin’s. “It might not be a perfect fit, but I imagine it would be an improvement from the current situation, at least.”

“You would be willing to do that?” Chrom asks.

“Of course, your highness. I’m happy to assist the royal family in any way I can.”

Warm gratitude surges through Chrom’s chest. Beside him, Robin looks just as touched by the offer as he feels.

“Thank you, Lady Cecily. I’m in your debt,” she says sincerely, before moving straight into logistics. “We don’t have much time before the announcement, how are we going to change?”

Lady Cecily hardly pauses to think before answering. “You’ll recall my office isn’t far from here. If you’re comfortable doing so, we could make the switch there,” she suggests.

Robin nods. “Right. In that case, we best get going.”

“This way, then,” Lady Cecily says, gesturing for Robin to follow. Chrom moves to join them, only for Lady Cecily to suddenly swivel back again.

“Milord, it might be wisest for you to stay behind to explain what’s happened. Should any other council members come looking for you, you can assure them that Lady Robin will be back momentarily.”

Chrom hesitates, glancing to Robin for confirmation.

“It’s okay, Chrom,” she assures him.

“Alright,” he agrees, then steps forward to press a swift kiss to the top of her head. “Just be quick, then.”

Robin smiles wryly. “I’ll be back before you have time to miss me.”

“I doubt it,” he murmurs, but Robin and Lady Cecily are already too far away to hear him.

Chrom sighs and makes his way to the base of the stairs, grateful he can use the impending announcement as an excuse to decline any more dancing invitations. Still, what a turn for the night to take. As if Robin needed any more cause for stress, he thinks glumly. As far as he’s concerned, the sooner they can be done with this and she can see that her worries are unfounded, the better.

Chrom lets his eyes drift over the jeweled sea of guests in the hopes of picking out more of his Shepherds to serve as a distraction, but even the sight of his friends can only keep him occupied for so long. By the time four songs have drawn to a close he’s more than a little restless and tapping his foot impatiently at a tempo that far exceeds the music.

“Lord Chrom, my father would like to know if you’re ready to make your announcement.”

Chrom tips his head back to see Maribelle floating down the stairs in a cloud of pink ruffles. She looks like a particularly elaborate pastry.

“Ah, hello, Maribelle,” he says. “Not quite yet, I’m afraid. We’re still waiting on Robin.”

“Well, whatever is the hold up? We sent Lady Cecily to collect you both some time ago.”

“Someone spilled wine on Robin’s dress,” he explains, still tapping away with his foot. “Lady Cecily took her to change clothes.”

Maribelle’s mouth falls agape. “Gracious! What sort of ignoramus spills wine all over the future queen?”

Rather than answer, Chrom pushes himself from the stairs, his restlessness escalating from foot tapping to flat out pacing. “I don’t understand what’s taking them so long,” he mutters. “I mean blazes, they’re switching outfits, not sewing her a new dress.”

“Such things take time, milord,” Maribelle assures him. “If you had even a rudimentary knowledge for a lady’s dressing procedures you would know as much.”

Chrom nearly makes some snippy comment about how he has no interest in learning about the many perils of petticoats but decides it’s not worth it for the chewing out he’d receive. Instead he heaves a sigh, straining to rein in his nerves.

“Apologies, Maribelle. I’m just on edge from all the…” he trails off, struggling to generalize all the ups and downs of the last forty-eight hours. “Well, let’s just say there’s been a lot going on.”

“Oh, you needn’t apologize, milord. I imagine anyone would be wound tightly in your position,” she says magnanimously. “Though I confess, I have been rather curious about the cause of your abrupt departure from last night’s dinner. Not to mention the bodily search of all the guests that followed…”

“Ah.” Chrom clears his throat. When Maribelle says she’s ‘been rather curious’ it feels less like she’s making a passing inquiry and more like the lead-in to an interrogation. “That’s—”

“And!” she interjects, “Lest you think otherwise, it has not escaped my attention that you were hardly the only dinner guest to vanish. Robin and Lord Dorian never returned either, and I haven’t caught so much as a glimpse of the baron this whole evening. Rather odd, wouldn’t you say?”

Chrom bristles, his stomach tossing in distaste just from hearing Lord Dorian’s name. “Good,” he grumbles. “He’s not welcome here.”

A spiteful thrill runs through him at the thought of Lord Dorian wallowing alone in some dark corner of the castle. When he refocuses on Maribelle, however, it’s clear she does not share his sentiments.

“What an utterly dreadful thing to say!” she exclaims. “Why shouldn’t he be welcome?”

Chrom blinks at her, dumbfounded. It’s hard to imagine that Maribelle—with her acumen for reading others and a blood-hound’s nose for gossip—wouldn’t have picked up on even a whiff of Lord Dorian’s intentions. As far as he can tell, though, her confusion is genuine.

“…I don’t appreciate the constant passes he makes at Robin,” Chrom answers tightly. “Robin doesn’t either, for that matter.”

To his disbelief, Maribelle has the gall to laugh. “Oh, you needn’t be so distrusting of him, milord. The baron is a consummate flirt but I assure you, he means nothing by it. And what’s more…” she leans closer before whispering conspiratorially, “I rather suspect his interests lay more with your gender than my own.”

It takes a moment for him to understand what she’s trying to get at.

“Wait—you…you don’t think he’s interested in women?” Chrom asks, more confused than ever. “Sorry, Maribelle, but I’m afraid you must be mistaken.”

“Nonsense. I’m never wrong about these things,” she says breezily.

“Well, this time you are. Believe me, he was…definitely interested in Robin last night.”

Maribelle waves a hand, unbothered. “A misunderstanding, I’m sure.”

“He tried to kiss her,” Chrom says testily. “I don’t think there’s much room for misunderstanding.”

Maribelle blinks once. Twice. Doubt flickers across her features. “…Are you quite certain?”

“I saw it with my own eyes.” Chrom shakes his head, trying to banish the too-vivid memory of Lord Dorian perched on that fountain ledge, drawing Robin towards him. His face twists into a scowl as he goes on, “Robin reminded him she was engaged, and he tried to convince her they could keep it a secret from me.”

“Why, that dog!” Maribelle exclaims. She conjures a fan from somewhere within her dress skirts, flapping her face with it furiously. “Lord Chrom, you have my sincerest apologies. If I’d known him to be such a scoundrel I never would have introduced Robin to him. Such a mistake is unforgivable.”

“Er, well I wouldn’t go that far,” Chrom says. He already feels less prickly now that she’s stopped acting like he’s delusional. “From the sound of it, he deceived you too. That's no fault of yours.”

“It most certainly is!” Maribelle declares. “I cannot afford such a lapse in judgment when it comes to assessing a nobleman’s character. Imagine what horrors might have transpired had I introduced him to my dear Lissa!” Maribelle visibly recoils at the thought, fanning herself more vigorously. “Gracious, how terrible. Is Lady Cecily aware of his advances? I can’t imagine she would ever condone such boorish behavior.”

Chrom blinks at her. Lady Cecily?

“Er…not that I know of,” he replies. “Why, do Lord Dorian and Lady Cecily have some kind of history?”

Maribelle scoffs. “If a familial relation constitutes ‘having a history’, then most certainly.”

Chrom stiffens. “Wait. ‘Familial relation’? What are you talking about?”

Maribelle raises an eyebrow. “I told you as much when I made introductions during the tea party, did I not?” Chrom just stares at her wide eyed and uncomprehending until Maribelle gives a pitying sigh. “The late duke of Adria had an affair with Lord Dorian’s mother some twenty years ago. He’s Lady Cecily’s half-brother.”

“Her…her half-brother?” Chrom echoes numbly.

Inexplicable nausea churns his stomach and burns his throat as he scrapes through his memory, but all he can recall from that tea party is his own petty jealousy.

“I don’t remember you saying anything like that,” he finally manages.

“Well, I’m quite certain I made mention of it,” Maribelle snips. She presses on, heedless to how Chrom’s head is wheeling further into chaos with every word. “It’s not a matter they care to draw attention to, as I’m sure you can imagine. It was such a horrible scandal at the time. Naturally, the duke tried to cover it up, but people are wont to talk, aren’t they? Honestly, milord, it would serve you well to keep a finger on the pulse of such—”

“Maribelle, hold on. Just—just give me a moment,” Chrom interrupts. He presses a hand to his pounding forehead while the ballroom swims around him.

Lord Dorian is Lady Cecily’s half brother. Her brother. He’s the brother of Lady Cecily…and Lady Cecily is a duchess.

Chrom’s heart rate lurches upwards, syncopated against the suddenly over-loud music while the rest of him plummets down, down, down.

He’d discounted the possibility that Lord Dorian gave Robin the truth serum largely because he believed the baron wouldn’t have been able to access it. But if Lady Cecily is his sister, then that’s not true at all. It would have been easy for her to supply him with it. In fact, Lady Cecily could have slipped it into Robin’s drink herself.

Lady Cecily, who just dragged Robin off alone after insisting Chrom not come with them. Who disappeared some time ago and hasn’t come back yet, and—

Oh gods.

“Maribelle!” Chrom gasps, grabbing her arm. “I need you to find my sister. Find Frederick. Find any Shepherds you can and send them into the west wing, hurry!”

“W-what?” Maribelle stammers. “Whatever for?”

“Just do it!” he pleads. “And stall the announcement for as long as you can!”

“Stall?” Maribelle blinks back at him, flabbergasted. “Milord, what is the meaning of—”

“There’s no time to explain, I have to go now!”

Chrom launches himself into the throngs of party-goers, deflecting every attendee who makes a grab for his attention, his excuses becoming less and less courteous as he elbows his way frantically through the crowd. There’s too much jostling, too many bodies pressing in on him while he tries to push back against the sudden, suffocating panic.

I could still be wrong, he reminds himself desperately. Lady Cecily defended Robin in front of the whole council. She wouldn’t have done that if she truly intended her harm. It’s completely possible he’s overreacting.

But it’s just too strange. Too strange to think her brother would have cornered Robin alone at the party last night and that she would do the same now. Too strange how immediately she was ready with a suggestion for what to do about Robin’s dress and where they could go. Like she’d already known exactly what would happen. Like she'd planned it.

Chrom grits his teeth and picks up his pace, bowling gracelessly through a gossiping group of elderly noblewomen. The second he’s out of the ballroom and in the adjoining entrance hall, he breaks into a flat-out run. Creeping sweat beads on his neck as he whips down the hallway leading to the west wing. He doesn’t even know if Lady Cecily actually brought Robin where she said she was going to, and if she didn’t, then she could be anywhere. He could be hurtling further away from her by the second.

Blind to his surroundings, Chrom swings around the corner and smashes into something chest-first. There’s a clanging of armor, and as he stumbles back, he realizes it’s someone he crashed into. From the man’s outfit, he must be a member of the Ylissean Royal Guard.

“Thank the gods,” Chrom breathes. “Tell me, have you seen—”

The man clasps Chrom’s shoulder and pushes him roughly back.

“Hold,” he grunts. “We have strict orders not to let anyone pass this way.”

Chrom blinks at him, stunned. “I’m the prince,” he says, shock overtaking the question he meant to ask. “Whatever orders you have, I’m an exception.”

He doesn’t think he imagines the way the guard stiffens. The man gives a little cough, withdrawing his hand to drop into a mechanical bow.

“Apologies, your highness, but we can only ensure your safety if you stay within the areas with assigned patrols. I’m going to have to insist you return to the ballroom.”

By now, Chrom’s disbelief has been replaced entirely with irritation. He opens his mouth to retort, but just as he does, he catches a glimpse of the guard’s face under his helmet visor.

“What’s your name?” he asks, not bothering to veil the suspicion in his tone. “I don’t recall seeing you around before.”

“Davis. I’m a new hire, your highness.”

It sounds rehearsed. Fresh dread twists Chrom’s gut: whoever this man is, he is not an Ylissean guard. Chrom's eyes dart around the hallway, assessing its dimensions. Instinctively, his fingers twitch towards Falchion, but a fight will cost him time. Time he very well might not have. If there’s any hope of convincing this man to let him through, then he has to try.

Squaring his shoulders, Chrom injects all the authority into his voice that he can muster. “I should hope even as a new hire you would understand that your orders come from me. Now, I’ll only say this once more: clear the path and let me thr—”

A flash of movement. On reflex, Chrom leaps aside, just as a blade scrapes the stone where he stood moments before. The guard whirls back to strike again, but Chrom draws Falchion in the same breath. The man curses as his eyes slide over the ancient sword. “Boss never said anything about having to fight the bloody prince.”

Chrom’s heart skips a beat. “What?! What boss? Who are you work—”

The man lunges at him again, but this time Chrom is ready. Metal clangs on metal as he meets the swing with Falchion’s edge, the force of the collision vibrating down to his marrow. With a grunt, he pushes the man back, sidestepping further down the hall only to be forced back again when the guard rushes him.

Chrom deflects another blow—then another, each attack coming right on the tail of the last. His thoughts flicker as wildly as the light off their swords: If an armed man is attacking him within the palace walls, then Robin is likely in even more danger than he feared.

“Why are you doing this?” he demands. He swings at the man’s chest, missing by a hair as he leans back. “Tell me what you’re after!”

The man just grunts before slashing out again, this time targeting Chrom’s flank. He swerves aside just in time, narrowing his eyes. He needs to end this. Now.

With a furious shout, Chrom parries another swipe at his legs then feints towards the man’s shoulder. The counter swing comes right where he expects it. He drops beneath the blade, jabbing forward with his sword as he swivels back around. Falchion lands true, sinking into the meat of the man’s leg. He cries out as he crumples to the floor.

Unyielding, Chrom kicks him onto his back then thrusts Falchion’s bloodied tip against his prone throat. “Where is she?” he demands. “Where is Robin?”

“L-look! I’m just doing my job!” the guard blubbers. “We were told it was for the good of the halidom. I don’t know anything about a Robin; I was just told to keep everyone away!”

‘The good of the halidom’. Bile burns Chrom’s throat. “From where?” he presses. “Where are you supposed to be keeping everyone away from?”

“I-I don’t—”

“Don’t make me ask again!”

The man’s eyes go wild. “T-three halls down, turn left at the end and it’s the second from the last door on the right. But—”

Chrom leaps over him, breaking into a sprint as the man’s voice echoes behind him. “Just give up! There’s more of us—they’ll never let you through!” he shouts.

But the warning just galvanizes him. More men means that Robin is outnumbered. More men means that even if she was able to reach her dagger, she could still be overpowered. Chrom runs harder, each ragged gulp of air lacerating his lungs. He will not lose someone he loves because he arrived too late. Not again.

As he wheels around the next corner, he nearly collides with another impostor guard. Falchion finds his abdomen before he can react, and by the time he has fallen to his knees, Chrom is long past him.

Hold on, Robin, he pleads. Just hold on a little longer. I’m coming.

He’s made it to the end of the third hallway, but there’s no time to feel relief when two more guards are already racing towards him with weapons drawn. Chrom closes the distance as fast as he dares then flattens himself to the wall at the last moment to keep from being surrounded.

They’re fast. He swipes at one, but Falchion squeals through the empty air as his opponent dodges, and he has to jerk to the side to avoid being skewered where he stands. The other guard rams his short spear into the tapestry beside him and yanks it free with a growl.

“Watch it!” the first guard—a woman—hisses. “We don’t get the other half if he’s dead!”

“We can’t spend any of it if we are,” the man snaps back.

A chill rolls through him, vicious as a winter storm. Chrom parries a swing aimed at his thigh and just manages to duck out of the way before the spear punctures his arm. He kicks a leg out catching the woman’s shin, and when she over-corrects on her next swing, he dodges to the side and plunges Falchion into her back. With a gurgling shriek, she falls to the floor. Chrom plants his foot on the woman’s limp body and yanks his sword free, eyes narrowed on the singular opponent still blocking his way.

“S-shit…” the guard mutters. His eyes flick between Falchion’s tip and his fallen partner before he makes a wild jab at Chrom’s stomach. He deflects it with enough force to send the man’s spear flying, then clobbers him over the head with Falchion’s blunt edge just as the spear skitters across the ground.

Chrom’s chest heaves. His throat feels like it’s been screamed raw and no matter how many gasps of air he takes he can’t seem to breathe. One of the arms of his suit is ripped, the fabric blood-darkened from a cut he doesn’t remember receiving. He’s too adrenaline-fraught to feel it.

Just then, shouting echoes from down the hall, drowning the buzz of his pulse in his ears. Four more guards crash around the corner with weapons drawn.

“Damn it,” he curses.

There are too many. Even if he can fight his way through, it will take more time than he has. Every second that ticks by is another in which Robin could be wounded.

Or dying, hisses a frightened, feral corner of his mind.

But what other choice does he have?

Chrom crushes Falchion’s hilt through his sweat soaked glove, bracing for the oncoming attack. Too late he registers there are more footsteps coming from behind him. He whips around, bringing his sword up in a desperate attempt at a block—

—and is met with familiar faces instead.

“Gaius? Frederick!” he exclaims, dizzy with relief. “You’re here!”

“Apologies for the delay, milord,” Frederick says as they skid to a stop beside him. “We came as swiftly as we could.”

“We’ll handle it from here, Blue,” Gaius assures him, eyes narrowed at the fast approaching enemies. “Find Bubbles, go!”

Chrom springs into action, propelling himself as fast as his legs will carry him. Steel blades screech against each other as the three of them collide with the guards. He parries and dodges his way between them, slipping through cracks in their formation as Gaius and Frederick wedge their way in to block the guards’ pursuit.

Just like that he’s through. There is nothing left between him and the door but one last stretch of hallway. Chrom’s feet pummel the ground; the battle din is drowned out by his frenzied prayers to every god he knows that he’s not already too late.

Chrom skids to a stop in front of the second to last door on the right and grasps wildly at the doorknob.

It’s locked.

Fueled by pure desperation, he thrusts Falchion’s blade through the door then slashes downward before kicking through the splintered wood with a furious shout. Outcries erupt around him as he bursts his way in, but he can’t make sense of any of it, can’t process anything he sees or hears until he finds—

“Robin!” he gasps. And in that first second all that matters is that she’s here; she’s alive—

—And then he sees the knife blade against her throat, sees the grimacing face of the man holding it to her skin. Her gown is shredded; her arms bound behind her.

“Chrom,” she croaks. Her eyes meet his from across the room, blazing with fear and relief. “You came.”

“Let her go!” he roars, his vision tunneled onto the dagger at her neck. “Release her now, or I’ll—”

“Take one step closer and I slit her throat!” her captor hisses. “Drop your weapon.”

Chrom freezes—limbs locked with terror. “Don’t. If you hurt her, I’ll—”

“I said drop your weapon! Drop it, or I kill her here and now!”

“Don’t do it, Chrom,” Robin rasps. “He needs me alive for insurance or else you have no reason to spare him. He won’t—”

She breaks off with a strangled sound as the man presses the knife harder to her skin, his grip on her arm bruising.

“Not another word out of you! You think I won’t bloody you up if I have to?” he spits.

“Stop it!” Chrom pleads. “I’ll do it, alright? Just—just don’t hurt her.” Falchion clatters to the ground as he releases it from his trembling hands.

“That’s more like it. Now, kick it aside—further!” the man orders. Chrom goes numbly through the motions, despair engulfing him as he watches Falchion rattle uselessly against a bookshelf on the far wall, his only weapon now completely out of reach.

The grizzled face of Robin’s captor contorts into a sneer aimed somewhere past Chrom’s shoulder.

“He was never supposed to be here—this wasn’t part of the deal,” the man growls.

Chrom hardly hears it. His pulse throbs, his thoughts still a mile behind his body. Only now are details from the scene starting to fill in around him in fractured snatches of sensation. The crunch of splintered wood underfoot, the wind ripping through the gashed glass of the window. Blood dribbles from the freshly broken nose of the man holding Robin hostage; two bodies lay sprawled across the floor, either unconscious or dead, dressed just as the guards were—

—And there’s someone else too. Huddled in the far corner of the room with wide, frightened eyes, is Lady Cecily.

“You…” Chrom snarls, so ferociously she flinches and staggers back from him. “How could you?!”

“P-please, milord, just let me explain,” she insists. “You were never meant to be in any danger—I never wanted to hurt anyone.”

“Then stop this!” Chrom demands. “You hired these people, didn’t you? Tell him to let her go!”

His eyes flick rapidly between the knife at Robin’s throat and Lady Cecily’s trembling figure, terrified each time he looks back that it will be to find Robin bleeding out on the floor.

“You don’t understand!” Lady Cecily cries. “This was the only way I could protect you.”

“Protect me?” His vision flares crimson around the edges. “You think bringing criminals into the castle and holding my fiancée hostage is protecting me?”

“She thinks I was planning to kill you.”

At the sound of her voice, Chrom wrenches back around to face Robin fully. She’s staring at Lady Cecily with an unnerving steadiness.

“That’s what she said before you got here. She thinks that—” Robin grimaces when the knife blade is nudged more insistently against her throat, “—that she has proof.”

“Proof?” Chrom echoes, trying desperately to make sense of it—to make sense of any of this—

“I do have proof!” Lady Cecily bites back; her still shaking voice now hostile and harsh. “I saw it, written in your hand! You’ve been feigning your affection for the prince all this time!”

“What are you talking about?!” Chrom’s heart bangs against the cavity in his chest. “What was written in Robin’s hand?”

“Her plans! Step-by-step plans to make everyone believe she loves you!”

Comprehension smashes into him like the blunt end of an axe.

Robin’s journal. That time he went back to retrieve it…Lady Cecily must have been reading it just before he got there. She must have seen Robin’s notes about faking a relationship with him and thought—

“Please—you have to believe me! I tried everything to bring the truth to light, but I couldn’t—”

“Enough!” Chrom shouts. “You have it all wrong—Robin was never deceiving me!”

“Milord, you don’t understand!” she nearly sobs. “She’s been lying to you from the beginning—”

“I know about the journal!” he cuts in. “What you saw written there…those weren’t Robin’s plans, they were both of ours.”

“W-what?” Lady Cecily’s skin drains to bloodless white. “You…w-what are you saying?”

“Chrom, don’t,” Robin pleads. “You can’t tell her. You can’t trust her—”

“I needed to buy time before being forced into a marriage,” Chrom says, raising his voice over hers in spite of her warning. “Robin agreed to help me by pretending to be in a relationship. What you saw in her journal wasn’t some plot to worm her way into the royal family. It was a plan we made together.”

Lady Cecily wobbles on her feet, steadying herself with a hand against the wall. “I…I don’t understand. Th-then…you’re saying what I saw was—”

“I don’t care whether you understand!” Chrom snaps. “Robin never intended to hurt me—the person you’re trying to have killed is innocent! And if you don’t call this man off now, you’ll be the one with blood on your hands.”

The room falls silent aside from his own jagged breathing, every second cleaving him open. Lady Cecily’s eyes are scrunched closed, her body trembling violently while the dagger blade sits snugly against Robin’s throat.

“…Do as he says,” Lady Cecily orders at last.

Chrom’s heart unclenches; his shoulders slacken in relief. All eyes turn to Robin’s captor, but the man stays stock still.

“Didn’t you hear her? Let Robin go!” Chrom commands.

The man glances between them then lets out a ragged laugh. “Look, it’s real nice that you two worked everything out. But I’m sure you can see this puts me in an unfortunate position…”

"What?" Chrom demands. His pulse echoes in his skull. “What are you saying? ”

“I’m saying that this little lady had a point,” the man growls, tightening his grasp on Robin. “She’s my only insurance. The second I release her, I’m as good as dead. Which means…she’s coming with me.”

“No!” Chrom shouts, reaching unconsciously towards her. “No, you can’t—!”

“Not a step closer, boy!” the man hisses. He presses the dagger harder against Robin’s throat, drawing a small choked sound from her. Blood beads along the blade.

“STOP! Please,” Chrom begs, pinned in place by terror. “If…if you release Robin, then I’ll let you go free. I swear it.”

“I’m not fool enough to think you’d let me leave here alive!” the man retorts. He’s edging back towards the broken window—all at once Chrom realizes he means to use it as his escape.

“W-wait! You don’t have to do this,” Lady Cecily says. “You can take the prince at his word. Whatever the punishment is, I’ll bear it alone, so please–” She takes a feeble step towards him, arm outstretched—

“I said stay back!” the man barks at her, and in that single moment that his attention is diverted, Chrom’s eyes lock with Robin’s.

They move as one. Robin bites down on the man’s wrist and in the same instant Chrom leaps to her side. The man jerks his arm back, yowling in pain. Robin manages to wrench a few inches away, but he’s already turning back, dagger raised and fury in his eyes.

Chrom slams his fist into the man’s jaw, stunning him. He has only seconds—he can’t reach Falchion. Blindly, he plunges a hand into Robin’s shredded skirts, searching for metal. His fingers close on something hard and he yanks it free, then thrusts his arm forward right as the man descends upon them again, and—

The man grunts and staggers back, Robin’s dagger protruding from his chest. With a thunk, the knife he held to her throat tumbles from his slackened grip. He collapses.

“Robin!” Chrom gasps. “Are you hurt?”

In a flash, he snatches up the dropped blade and cuts her binds free. His fingers and eyes run haphazardly over her, scanning for injuries, but nothing jumps out except for the shallow cut across her neck and some bruising on her arms.

“N-no, I’m okay. You got here before—before he could—” Robin’s voice cracks as she falls against his chest, trembling. “S-sorry, I’m just—”

“It’s alright,” Chrom murmurs, wrapping his arms securely around her. “I’ve got you. I’m here now.”

Despite his words, his legs and voice shake too. He sinks to his knees, and Robin comes down with him, both of them clinging tightly to each other. There’s a weak groan from somewhere behind him but it barely registers. Nothing else matters now that she’s safe.

“I’m sorry,” she says hoarsely, the words so fragile and small it’s enough to break his heart. “I’m so sorry, Chrom. I should have—”

“Hush. Enough of that,” he tells her. “We’ll be alright now. E-everything is…”

He trails off when he feels something warm and wet soak through his collar. A teardrop. Gingerly, he raises a hand to Robin’s cheek, intent on brushing the rest away, but when he touches her face he realizes she’s not the one crying at all. Chrom gives a splintered laugh, and another tear slips free. Even without speaking a word, he can see that Robin understands. She pulls back, just enough to thumb his tears away as he’d planned to hers, and he leans hungrily into the touch. Robin's eyes drift to the side of his face…

…Then widen in bone-deep terror.

“CHROM!” she cries out.

Someone screams. Something whizzes past his cheek and smacks into the wall in the same moment something else crashes to the ground behind him. Chrom whips around to see Lady Cecily lying atop the man who held Robin captive, wrestling his arms to the floor.

“What’s going on?” Chrom demands, but the question is interrupted by a thunder of footsteps. Frederick, Gaius and Maribelle burst into the room—palace guards pouring in behind them. “Oh, thank the gods."

His relief is not mirrored on Frederick’s face. “Milord!” he cries, specter pale as he hurries to Chrom’s side. “You must allow us to tend to your injuries at once!”

“I’m fine, Frederick,” Chrom bats him away on instinct, more intent on seeing Robin cared for than the minor cut on his arm. It’s only then that his brain sluggishly informs him of a stinging at his cheek—a stinging that builds to a burn. In a daze, Chrom brings a hand to his skin. The fingers of his glove come away stained scarlet.

“I-I don’t…” he starts, but as the guards gather up their prisoners, Chrom notices there’s no longer a dagger embedded in the man's chest. He blinks and touches his cheek again in belated understanding.

“That could have killed you…” Robin says, her voice quiet and fierce at once. When he searches out her eyes again he finds them smoldering equally with tenderness and agony.

“But it didn’t. I’m alright, Robin,” he assures her. Then, louder for Frederick’s benefit too, “I’m alright. Really. It’s just a scratch.”

The words glaze over her—she doesn’t seem to register them at all. “He could have killed you,” she whispers again. “If he’d gotten a straight shot, that knife would have—my knife would have—”

“Robin…” he tries again, but it’s clear he’s not getting through.

The room hums and pounds with too many voices—too much movement. He can feel Robin closing in on herself more with each passing second—can hear all the fears she harbored screeching at her like buzzards.

Chrom grits his teeth; he knows where this will go if he doesn’t intervene…and they’ve come too far for him to let her lose faith now. The danger he was in tonight; the council’s plotting—as far as he is concerned all of that is secondary. He has never been as unwaveringly certain about anything as he is that he and Robin are meant to be together, and for all his failings, he’s never been lacking in conviction.

With a steadying breath, Chrom pushes back to his feet, drawing Robin up with him. Guards—real ones—still flit about the room, badgering his Shepherds with questions. It’s a small miracle they have not already descended upon him too.

“Frederick?” Chrom calls tiredly.

Immediately, his knight stands at attention. “Yes, milord, what is it that you need?”

“Tell the guards and the council that I’ll deal with all of this tomorrow.”

Frederick’s brow wrinkles. “P-pardon? ‘All of this’?”

“The announcement,” Chrom explains tiredly. “And everyone who’s been taken into custody for questioning. I’ll deal with it in the morning.”

“As you wish,” Frederick replies, though his lips purse when he sees Chrom moving for the door. “Hold a moment, milord. I understand you’ve just been through a great ordeal, but at least allow us to tend to your—”

“Good, I’m glad you understand,” Chrom says shortly, ignoring Frederick’s increasing dismay. “I trust you’ll see to it that we're not disturbed.”

“But—”

“Please, Frederick,” Chrom implores. “It’s been a long night. We need to be alone,” And with that, he slips through the doorway, tugging Robin along with him.

After the chaos of the office, the length of the hallway is almost eerie in its stillness. It's deserted—though vestiges of the fighting are still present in the form of scattered, dark stains and the occasional toppled vase or bust. Beside him, Robin’s eyes trace the same path of destruction. The grim set of her features darkens further; no doubt envisioning the violence that must have led to it.

“Come on,” Chrom urges softly. “Let’s get out of here.”

She follows without protest—but her shoulders are still hunched and he can only imagine the cyclone of guilt and doubt wreaking havoc inside her.

Just like that, the residual fear still pooling in Chrom’s gut bubbles first into anger before hardening into determination. This night was meant to be a celebration—he will not let the memory of it be marred forever.

With increasing urgency, he leads her through the twisting corridors back towards the royal wing. The guards posted outside it do a double take as they approach, and he realizes belatedly that he probably should have heeded Frederick’s objections and stayed back long enough for Maribelle to heal their injuries. They must make for quite a sight with Robin’s clothes torn and his cuts still bleeding, but the guards seem to know better than to ask questions, and they let them pass without comment.

Soul deep relief diffuses through him as he finally reaches the door to their chambers. He barrels straight in, guiding Robin by their joined hands to settle on the drawing room sofa. She hardly seems to notice; her expression remains unfocused and absent right up until the sound of the door latching shut startles her back into awareness.

As she blinks herself back into the present, Chrom crosses back to her in a few long strides. Then he takes her hand, kneels before her and catches her eyes.

“Alright, Robin,” he says, keeping his voice, gaze and grip all adamantly steady. “I promised I would convince you as many times as I have to. So, let’s talk.”

Chapter Text

Robin, as it turns out, is not interested in having a conversation with him about their relationship while he is still actively dripping blood.

This revelation isn’t particularly surprising, but Chrom had been so caught up in wanting to reassure her as soon as possible that he’d failed to consider that such a talk would be better had in fresh, clean clothes. At Robin’s insistence, he collects his nightwear and ducks into the washroom to make himself presentable, leaving her in the bed-chambers to do the same.

Wincing at his reflection, it’s not hard to see why she was so insistent.

A curtain of crimson drips along the length of his cheek bone. He’s had far worse wounds, of course, but blood is worn differently on the battlefield than in a palace’s marbled bathing chambers. Against the backdrop of a pristinely polished tub and shelves of luxuriant bathing sundries, even his relatively minor injuries look gory and gruesome.

It’s no wonder Robin doesn’t want to talk to him while he looks like this, but that’s all the more reason to get himself cleaned up quickly.

Setting to work, Chrom sheds his suit, letting the once lavish clothes fall in a sullied heap on the floor. His eyes drift back to the washroom door—beyond which, Robin is likely changing as well. It’s certainly not the context he’d hoped for their clothes to come off tonight…but then, little about the evening went according to their initial plans.

Chrom shakes his head, casting that line of thought aside. There will be time for that eventually. Right now, making sure Robin feels safe and assuaging her worries is his first priority.

The shock of cold water from splashing his face clean helps to recenter him. After throwing on his night pants, Chrom wets a wash cloth and roots around in the cabinets for the first aid supplies that Frederick always insists he keep on hand. All that remains is figuring out how best to wrap his shoulder.

A knock sounds against the door. “Chrom?”

“Need something?” he calls back, pausing his rummaging to hear Robin's response.

“No, no, I’m fine. I was just going to offer to help bandage your arm…if you’d like.”

Chrom’s eyes flicker down to his bare chest, then back to the first aid supplies. It would certainly ease the process for him…even if the thought also makes him strangely self-conscious. He brings a hand absently to his ear, feeling the phantom prickle of his long since healed cut; it was a lot easier to believe that she wanted him when they were tangled together on the couch.

Shaking off his nerves, Chrom creaks open the door—just enough to ensure she can see what she’s volunteering for. “A-are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure,” Robin replies, looking more puzzled than anything. “Why would I offer if I wasn’t?”

He hesitates another beat, but compared to her near hysteria the last time, Robin seems wholly unphased by his bare chest now.

Well…perhaps ‘unphased’ isn’t quite the right word. There’s the faintest hint of pink to her cheeks and she’s meeting his eyes so unwaveringly that he suspects she’s making a very conscious effort not to look anywhere else.

“Alright then,” Chrom agrees. Willing himself not to blush, he nudges the door the rest of the way open and starts back towards the sofa. Before he can make it more than a few paces, Robin catches his wrist and leads him over to sit at the foot of the bed instead.

“More room,” she explains, then extends a hand expectantly. “May I?”

Chrom studies her intently as she takes the washcloth, trying to distract himself from the sting that comes with each dab at his raw skin. Now that she’s changed into a clean nightdress, it would be impossible to guess what Robin had been through that night just from looking. Her hands move steadily as she works, the haunted look she wore in the hallway scraped clean from her eyes. It doesn’t entirely sit well with him that she has packaged it away so efficiently—one of the many things he’s learned about Robin this last year is that the more she’s hurting, the more adamant she is about trying to hide it. And despite all her efforts to seem less shaken, the deep furrow to Robin’s brow is a dead giveaway of how she’s truly feeling.

Chrom’s eyes drift back to her neck. He can’t help but wonder just what transpired in that room before he arrived, but to ask Robin to recall all of it so soon seems cruel. When she’s ready to recount what happened then he will welcome it, but at present he’d rather follow her lead where that topic is concerned.

Their relationship, however, is another matter. Left to her own devices, Chrom knows exactly what conclusion Robin’s anxieties will lead her to. That type of thinking he simply will not condone; not for another night, preferably not for another minute. He sifts through words in his mind, wondering how to broach it—so lost in his thoughts that he’s startled when she speaks first.

“You know,” Robin says quietly, “I wouldn’t blame you if you’ve had a change of heart.”

Chrom cocks a brow, uneasy. “A change of heart about what?”

Robin takes her time before answering, uncorking a small vulnerary and soaking one end of the rag through before pressing it again to his skin. Her hands are gentle as they tend to him—the motions smooth and rote.

“If…” she manages, “if what happened tonight has made you rethink things. If you don’t want to go through with this anymore, or—”

“That’s what you’re thinking?” Chrom cuts in, aghast. “That…that someone trying to hurt you would make me not want to be with you anymore?”

“It would be completely reasonable,” she insists, voice deceptively steady. “Frankly, much more so than the alternative. Raise your arm for me?”

Chrom lifts his arm on automatically, too stunned to speak.

“I mean, this is proof, isn’t it?” she continues as she begins to wrap gauze around his injury. “It’s proof of exactly what I tried to warn you about. Choosing me is…it’s always going to mean more obstacles. More danger.” Her fingers tremble against his skin as she fastens the bandage in place. “No one would blame you for not wanting that.”

“F-for not…” Chrom sputters. “Robin, do you really think any of that matters to me?”

“Well it should!” she says, tone suddenly sharp. “Chrom, you could have been killed.”

“You’re right, I could have,” he fires back. “I could have been killed tonight, just as I could have been every time we marched into battle. But that didn’t stop me from fighting on the front lines during the war and it won’t stop me from marrying the person I’m in love with either.”

“Is that supposed to reassure me? All that proves is that you have the worst self-preservation instincts of anyone I’ve ever known.” She casts the rag aside, her voice shaking now too. “I’m not worth it, Chrom. I’m just not. It’s…it’s irrational. It doesn’t—”

“Robin,” he interrupts, “you can’t expect me to stop loving you just because you think my feelings don’t align with your…your risk-benefit analysis. That’s not how it works. And don’t tell me that it ‘should’ be,” he adds, when she opens her mouth to argue. “I love you. Nothing you say about how illogical that is can change that.”

He waits tensed and ready for her rebuttal, prepared to trade volleys and take her counter argument apart as many times as necessary. He’s surprised when she droops in on herself instead, swinging from defiant to defeated in seconds.

“I just…I don’t understand,” she mumbles, eyes scrunched tight. “You could have anyone. Why would you choose—”

“Hey.” Chrom takes her hand from her lap, running his thumb soothingly over the pattern of violet eyes emblazoned on her skin. “It’s alright, Robin. You don’t have to understand right now. All I’m asking is that you believe me. Can you do that?”

She breathes out a long sigh before weaving their fingers together. “I…I can try.”

“Trying is enough. But I do hope someday you'll take it to heart,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to her knuckles. He toys with her fingers, tracing over the engagement ring. “Besides, you’re giving me too much credit. Something tells me someone like Tharja wouldn’t be very receptive to a proposal from me.”

A watery smile flickers across Robin’s face as their eyes meet. “Ah, so I was your second choice, was I?”

“Looks like my secret’s out at last.”

She snorts and Chrom struggles to suppress his own smile. He nearly protests when she pulls her hand free, but it’s only to retrieve the wash cloth and vulnerary again. She dabs it against his cut cheek, and he can’t find it in him to mind the prickling when she’s hovering so near like this. He can see each flutter of her eyelashes; the crinkle to her brow from her concentration; the slight glossiness left over from the coloring on her pursed lips.

It’s nice to have her fussing over him, and he thinks idly that there is a distinct possibility he might take the wrong message away from all of this. That getting a little scratched up isn’t so bad if it means getting to be the sole focus of Robin’s attention in the aftermath.

“You have a type, then.”

“Huh?” Chrom blinks, struggling to pick back up on the thread of conversation.

Robin smiles wryly, wringing the wash cloth in her hands. “Whatever would the people of Ylisse think if they knew their prince was so infatuated with Plegian witches?”

He frowns. “Robin—”

“Relax, Chrom,” she interjects quickly. “It was only a joke.”

Only, he’s not sure that he believes her. Not if the queasy look she steals at the back of her hand is anything to go by.

“…Come here,” he says.

Robin hesitates, glancing up at him uncertainly. “Come where?”

“Come here,” he repeats, then drags her into his lap.

She goes willingly, adjusting so her bent knees slot on either side of his hips. Despite himself, Chrom flushes pink, not having processed just how forward he was being—particularly when he’s already half undressed. Still, he can’t bring himself to regret it. Especially when Robin discards the washcloth again in favor of settling her hands on his shoulders.

He’s about to launch into a fresh set of assurances about her worthiness when his eyes drift unwittingly to the line of crusted blood still adorning her throat. The words he’d meant to speak desert him, replaced by a question instead.

“What about you, Robin?”

She quirks an eyebrow. “What about me?”

“I mean, is this really about…” Chrom swallows thickly. “Are you sure you aren’t having regrets about agreeing to be with me?

“Am I—” A startled laugh bursts out of her. “Oh no. Believe me, I put in all my resistance up front. I’m much too selfish to back out now.”

Chrom’s frown deepens. With the solitary exception of his saint-like older sister, Robin is quite possibly the least selfish person he’s ever known. For all the things she’s exceptional at, she’s patently terrible at putting herself first.

“That would hardly be selfish,” he argues. “Being with me put your life in as much danger tonight as it did my own. If…if that’s not worth it to you, then—

“Careful, now,” she warns him. “It sounds an awful lot like you’re trying to convince me to change my mind.”

Chrom’s eyes go wide. “W-what? That’s not it at all! The last thing I want is—” He breaks off when he sees her smirk and coughs out a self-conscious laugh. “I’m glad you’re feeling well enough to tease me, at least.”

“Mm, I think you’ll find even at my worst I feel well enough for that.”

Chrom huffs, faintly flustered, but when he manages to meet her eyes again he sees her expression has shed its cynicism and warmed to something fonder.

“You’re right, though,” she admits quietly. “I’m in no position to judge you, am I? Here I am criticizing your sense of self-preservation when the truth is I’m just the same. We were both more concerned with the danger the other was in than with any threat to our own safety.”

“…So we were,” he agrees. “I suppose that makes us both irrational fools.”

Robin laughs, golden and tinkling. “That it does,” she says. And somehow the look in her eyes is enough for him to know they’re both thinking the same thing: And that’s what love is, isn’t it?

Chrom’s throat tightens as he holds her gaze—chest twinging with emotion. Gods, suddenly the fact that he hasn’t kissed her properly since before the ball feels nearly unbearable.

It’s not the time for that, he reminds himself sternly. Not for the type of kissing he’s thinking of, at least. Robin must be exhausted after the night’s ordeals; no doubt now that they’re both cleaned up she’ll be wanting to sleep—

All his thoughts fizzle to static when Robin brushes her finger along his jaw. She reaches higher, delicately stroking the silvering line of skin where the cut on his face has already begun mending. Abruptly, he is hyper-aware of her weight in his lap; of his own shirtlessness.

“...So, in summary, then,” she says, a smile still lingering on her lips, “despite the fact either of us could have been killed tonight as a result of being together, I still want to marry you, and you still want to marry me. Does that sound about right?”

Chrom nods wordlessly, a thrill traveling through him from hearing her say it again. Robin continues to look at him expectantly, so he stammers out, “Yes, that…that seems to be the crux of it.”

“Good,” she says. “Then if we’re both still on the same page, I’d like it if you’d hurry up and kiss me now.”

“I-if I—” Chrom’s mind is so addled by the coy sparkle in her eyes that it takes a few seconds to process what she’s just said.

When he fails to say more, uncertainty flickers across her face, “S-sorry. If you’d rather not, then that’s—”

“No!” Chrom exclaims, maybe too forcefully. “Er, th-that is—I want to do that. I’m going to do that…right now.” Then he presses his lips to hers so ardently that she’ll never need to doubt it again.

Robin’s reciprocates at once—the heat of her mouth scalding. He can taste the faintest hint of champagne on her breath as her tongue strokes along his, fruity and intoxicating. Her hips rock into his—once, twice, then she tethers her hands around his neck to tug him down with her onto the mattress.

The change in position charges the air around them; his blood pulses hot as veins of magma. Chrom settles over her, the mattress shifting beneath their collective weight and it hits him suddenly just what he’s doing—that they’re tangled together in bed. In their bed. Just a few flimsy layers of clothing are all that separates his skin from Robin’s…and in some places there isn’t even that.

Robin’s hand meanders along the plane of his back, nails scratching lightly along his spine while he sucks on her lower lip. A splinter of his mind flies back to when they tussled here once before. Remembering the thrill that surged through him then, Chrom peels her hands from him and pins her wrists together over her head.

Robin lets out a hushed gasp, straining half-heartedly against his hold. He pulls back just enough to properly take in the sight—her bright cheeks and dark eyes and the curve of her smile, both surprised and pleased—and it’s not hard to imagine that he’d be content to just sit and stare down at her like this for the rest of his days.

Robin, apparently, does not share the sentiment. She wriggles beneath him impatiently, struggling to get his thigh between her legs.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” she huffs when still Chrom remains motionless. “Touch me. Please.”

Any reply he hoped to make gets lost in his throat. How many fantasies has he had about exactly this?

Reverent and slow, Chrom slides his free palm up her waist and along her ribs before finally settling it over her chest. He kneads her breast, keeping his touch broad at first and gods, she’s so soft. The weight and give are different than he imagined—better—and he marvels at the easy way it molds to his hand.

Robin twitches and sighs beneath him. Through her night-dress, a firming nipple pokes against his palm and he runs his thumb over it in tight circles, awed by the way it stiffens to a perfect peak, begging to be tweaked and teased.

A groan rumbles through him. He’s unbearably turned on, all the worse for the way Robin is grinding herself steadily against his knee. He lowers his mouth to hers to kiss her again and she’s so quick to part her lips for him—so responsive to his every advance. By the time he pulls back they’re both struggling to breathe.

“You have—no idea,” she pants, “how much I wanted you to do this—the first time you pinned me here.”

“Me too,” he manages thickly. “I’ve been so—gods, I just…”

Wanting for words, Chrom drags his nose down the bare column of her throat, kissing just beside the shallow cut the knife left against her skin; kissing over the nearly indiscernible bruise he left at her pulse point. His tongue traces a path between them before his lips latch onto her skin, intent on adorning her neck with more love bites.

Robin is mine, he allows himself to think, nibbling and sucking at a spot just beneath her jawline—one that even the highest collar won’t cover. The thought alone is enough to make him hard. She’s mine now and mine forever.

His hips twitch, lazily humping one of her thighs as he switches from groping one breast to the other. An intense shudder runs through Robin’s body and he stills at once, freeing her wrists.

“Robin…” he murmurs. “If I’m moving too fast, or—”

“Too fast?” She laughs—the sound melodic as wind chimes. “I’ve wanted this for more than a year, Chrom. I’ve wanted you.” She slides one of her now freed palms across his chest, a glimmer of mirth in her eyes. “Besides, I made you a promise, remember? If you do anything that makes me uncomfortable, I’ll tell you to stop. Though frankly, I’d like to see you try.”

Chrom feels his cheeks flush, which is patently ridiculous given the circumstances. More than a year—that’s even longer than he’s known how he felt about her.

“Alright. I trust you,” he says, quiet and grateful. He covers her hand with his, pressing it over his heart, then kisses each of her knuckles all while wondering if he might be going delirious with happiness. “Thank you, my love. I…” but suddenly words don’t seem sufficient anymore, so he brings his mouth to hers again instead.

Whatever heat had already kindled between them, Robin seems determined to drive it higher—hotter. She traps his lower lip between her teeth before soothing over it with her tongue, and it ignites something in him. He’s feverish all at once—a sheen of sweat building beneath his night clothes and scalding sparks prickling along every sliver of their brushing skin.

Some quiet, reasonable corner of his mind recognizes that there isn’t any true urgency—not anymore. His ring on Robin’s finger is a promise of years unspooling before them to be filled with their love making. But his body is much more concerned with the months behind him lost to yearning. The nights he imagined it was Robin’s deft hands touching him in place of his own—her name slipping from his lips like a blasphemous benediction.

He needs her. More desperately than he ever has. It would be hard enough to temper himself normally, but it’s near impossible when every one of her searing kisses seems to be begging him not to.

Squeezing first at her hip, Chrom guides her knee around his waist only for his fingers to halt when they brush over the thin silk hugging her legs. He pulls back from the kiss and sits up, wide eyed and breathless.

“You left them on,” he marvels. He runs the pads of his fingers along her stockings with unguarded wonder.

Robin shrugs one shoulder, playing at nonchalance. “It’s still your birthday. It wouldn’t have felt right to tease you about them without following through.”

“And here I thought you meant to talk me out of being together."

Her cheeks darken. “Y-yes, well, tactically speaking, there’s no harm in accounting for every outc—”

Chrom doesn’t give her a chance to finish. Too eager to wait a second longer, he hikes up her night dress, revealing her garters to him at last. Gods, what a sight. The thin bands of silk stretch taut along her lush thighs before fastening to her lacy undergarments. He stares openly, tracing along them before following the seam in to stroke firmly down her center.

Robin gasps, rocking into his hand. She’s soaked, he realizes. Even from just that single touch he can feel how slick the lace is. Chrom caresses over it again and again, entranced by the knowledge that it’s Robin’s want that’s wetting his fingers—that she’s aroused because of him. Emboldened, he slips the ruined garment aside, stroking along her lips, and Robin writhes and sighs, grinding herself desperately against his fingers.

Chrom’s hips stutter forward reflexively again, searching for friction. His clothes have never felt more confining. “Gods, Robin…” he groans, long and low. “I want—”

“Me too,” she whispers. Her fingers inch under the waistline of his night pants, stroking along the jut of his hip bone. “Get these out of the way for me?”

Anticipatory goose bumps race down his arms and neck. Hastily, Chrom fumbles down his pants, too excited about having Robin’s hands on him to feel properly self-conscious about what he’s revealing underneath. Robin uses the brief reprieve to yank her night dress over her head, leaving her in nothing but her gartered stockings.

Air flees his lungs at the sight. She’s radiant—silver hair cascading over the pillows; bronze skin glowing against the muted sheets; golden eyes blazing up at him. Seeing her splayed out beneath him now is so different from that misty glimpse he got in the bathing tent. Now, he can take in every detail of how her skin fits over her hips and ribs; the dimple of her bellybutton, and the sporadic brushwork of half-faded scars.

Just looking isn’t nearly enough. Leaning down again, Chrom peppers kisses along her collar bones while one hand drifts up to cup and squeeze her now bare breasts. He tweaks a nipple gently, fascinated by the slightly pebbled texture; by the breathy sigh it coaxes from her. He’s so caught up in touching her that he nearly forgets his own nakedness—is only half aware of Robin’s fingers dipping down from his hip to brush along his—

Chrom hisses as she takes his erection in hand, pumping steadily. Her touch feels nothing like the fuzzy-edged dream he expected. His blood burns and pulses with static—it’s as if his heart is pushing one of Robin’s spells through his veins. As if he walked through all his life half-asleep until this very moment and now for the first time, he’s finally awake.

He can scarcely imagine the expression he’s wearing, but from the way Robin’s lips curve into a smirk when she looks at him, it must leave quite the impression.

“Still okay?” she asks softly.

Chrom grunts in the affirmative. It’s exceedingly hard to form words with her looking at him like that while stroking him off. His hips move on their own, making tiny jagged thrusts into her hand as she guides him to her entrance.

This is really happening, he thinks, bleary and blissful. He snaps her garters free on his third try, fingers fumbling with anticipation—then peels her stockings and undergarments away. He barely has time to run a reverent hand up her thighs as he settles between them before Robin spreads herself wider and pushes her hips forward to take him in.

A moan rips itself from his throat as silky wet heat envelopes his cock head. Chrom balls a fist in the sheets in a bid for control, willing himself still despite every impulse commanding him to plunge into her at once—to fill her completely. Robin pants shallowly, breasts heaving with the rise and fall of her diaphragm and he finally shakes himself from his euphoric haze enough to remember to make use of his hands.

He grasps her hips to steady her, and Robin shoots him a breathless little smile that rips his heart to pieces and builds it back better—all in the span of an instant. “Go on, then,” she urges. “You’re not going to hurt me.”

A strange mistiness burns Chrom’s eyes. She trusts him so completely; he’ll do everything he can to be worthy of it.

Chrom pushes into her on the exhale. His nerve endings crackle with every inch of his shaft she takes in, set alight by how snugly her walls squeeze down on him. He can’t stop staring; the sight of his body disappearing inside hers is mesmerizing—that single point of absolute connection. Robin makes a little choked off noise as he eases in deeper, her eyelids fluttering closed. He misses her eyes as soon as they’re hidden from him, but she’s beautiful like this too—with her face screwed up with pleasure. Pleasure that he’s giving her; that only he ever will.

Overwhelmed, he leans down to kiss her again, and the shift in position sends sizzling heat throbbing through his groin.

Robin groans against his mouth, lips lolling apart. He steals glimpses of her between kisses, her pleasure dazed smile and sweat-stuck bangs enough to make him feel worshipful.

“Chrom,” she pants weakly. “Chrom, please—I need you to…I want—a-ah!”

Her voice pitches up as he drags his hips back and thrusts in. Chrom moans as he bottoms out, then draws himself back to rut into her again and again. She fits around him so perfectly, their every hollow and curve molded to each other. Determined not to relinquish her lips, Chrom sets to finding a rhythm that will let him kiss her while he fucks her. Robin clings to his shoulders, meeting each needy collision of their mouths with equal fervor; singing out soft encouragements.

Every motion brings a fresh throb of pleasure—he didn’t even know it was possible to feel like this. He wants Robin to feel it too—wants to eclipse all her fears and doubts with the absolute certainty of his love. To swear his devotion to her a thousand times over with his touch—to learn every precious inch of her with his tongue and lips and fingertips.

Fighting to make himself focus, Chrom works one hand down to skim over the patch of hair at the apex of her legs. He’s not entirely sure how he’ll know when he’s found what he’s looking for, but somewhere around there should be…

Robin’s hand finds his, leading his finger exactly where it needs to go without so much as breaking their kiss. He smiles against her lips, unreasonably pleased to find their thoughts so synchronized, and eases his thumb down where she guided him.

The effect is immediate: Robin gasps—her whole body arching with it, the motion rippling through her muscles and causing her inner walls to constrict around his cock. Chrom hisses out a curse, his already frayed restraint shredded to pieces by how tightly she’s squeezing him and the vision she makes with her back bowed and mouth agape. Encouraged, he rubs her clit more steadily, relishing the way her breathing grows threadier, only for Robin to abruptly jerk her face to the side to bury in the pillows. Chrom eases up at once.

“T-too much?”

“No,” she answers sharply, still muffled against the bedding. “Don’t stop, please. I just can’t—I can’t m-make myself be—” She claps a hand over her mouth as he resumes rubbing her, but that only troubles him more. Using his free hand, Chrom cups her cheek and coaxes her face from the pillow.

“Look at me, Robin,” he implores, voice rough and husky. “Don’t hide from me. I want to hear you.”

She flushes deeply, more than he knew she could given her complexion. There’s something raw in her eyes that makes him fearful she might protest, but on the next joining of their hips Robin whimpers his name without stifling the sound.

His name. Just hearing her say it like that makes him feel like he is crashing head first into love with her all over again…but this time without the lonesome, wistful aching. Robin is gazing up at him, muzzy-eyed with lust and love and trust, and the vastness of his adoration for her is enough to drown in.

The sentiment sparks something primal and reignites his earlier urgency. Chrom picks up his pace, snapping his hips into hers relentlessly while his thumb rubs insistent circles against the slick nub between her legs. Moans chain between them every time they crash together, their wanton voices punctuating the creak of the bed frame.

His cock throbs. It’s hard to think. He doesn’t want it to end—not yet. But there’s a blinding, white-out pressure building in him, climbing higher every time their bodies meet, each collision driving him dangerously close to tipping over the edge.

“Chrom,” Robin moans again, the last sound of his name dragged out. “Ah! I can’t—”

“I love you,” Chrom hears himself gasp. “I love you so much, Robin.”

“I love you too,” she says, and those words are all it takes.

Light bursts behind his eyes, pounding through him with each heartbeat, and Robin’s walls flutter around him as he spills inside her. He grinds his prick in with a few last desperate thrusts as the euphoria seeps out into his muscles, dulling his awareness of everything else. Their breathing is ragged and loud in the bedroom’s sudden stillness.

He floats back to himself when he hears Robin whimper, her hips still circling into his feebly. Chrom winces, rapidly becoming over sensitive.

“A-ah, did you…?” he trails off, looking at her expectantly.

“Not quite,” she answers, and he’s not sure why she looks sheepish. If anything he’s the one who should be apologizing. “But if you’re tired, you don’t have to—”

“Not a chance,” he interjects firmly, despite still being a bit out of breath. His limbs are growing more leaden by the second, which he pointedly ignores for the present. “Please, I…I want it to be good for you too. I just, er, might need a little guidance.” He clears his throat. “Until I learn my way around.”

Robin beams at him, combing a hand through his sweat spiked hair. “Chrom, it was good for me. It felt wonderful. But if guidance is what you want, that can be arranged.”

“Great,” he says, confident he’s grinning like an idiot. “That’s great. T-then let me just—”

Gingerly, Chrom eases himself out of her, gritting his teeth as he does. It’s a relief to lessen some of the pressure, but there’s a strange ache that comes with it too. To no longer be inside her leaves him feeling terribly incomplete in a way he doesn’t think he’s ever been aware of before. He reddens a little at his own thoughts, though it’s driven more by giddiness than anything. Two halves of a greater whole, indeed. Even sore and drained he can hardly wait for the next time he can—

“Blazes, Robin!” he exclaims. “I just realized. Do we need to—er, that is should you—”

Somehow, Robin makes sense of his garbled question. “If you’re worried because you came inside, don’t be. I drank some of the potion Frederick left us before I got you from the washroom.”

“Oh. Good,” Chrom sighs, both relieved and embarrassed that it didn’t occur to him sooner. “I’m glad you thought to…wait.” He blinks as her statement fully registers. “You drank it before you came to get me?”

Robin shrugs, not looking remotely repentant. “There’s no harm in being prepared, is there? I didn’t think it was overly presumptuous given that we talked about wanting to do this earlier.”

Chrom flushes, smiling at the reminder. “Right. I suppose I’m not yet used to the thought of that being something you want too.” Softer, he adds, “I went a long time thinking I was alone in that.”

“Well, you’re not, and it is something I want,” she assures him warmly. “More than you can imagine.”

Chrom chuckles as he holds her gaze, still enamored beyond words at the sight of how beautiful she is like this: unguarded and happy. He could—

Robin clears her throat pointedly. “Speaking of what I want, would you mind getting on with it already?”

“Oh!” he exclaims. “Yes, er, coming right up then.” He shuffles backwards, lowering himself onto his stomach between her legs and laying a quick kiss on one knee as he nudges them apart. “Would it be alright if I do it like this?”

Robin snorts, wearing the same pleasantly surprised smile she did when he pinned her wrists. “More than alright in my estimation.”

“Then it’s settled,” he says. Chrom drops a few more haphazard kisses along her thigh and lower abdomen before sucking in a deep breath and eagerly diving in.

He starts with slow, open mouthed kisses, breath huffing hotly over her lips. Every inhale is laden with the same aroma he’s always associated with Robin but layered with something headier now. Curious, he parts his lips wider, lapping between her glistening folds to taste her properly and Robin groans, her thighs twitching and tightening around him. If he thought she was soaked before, it's nothing compared to now. Chrom angles his tongue, chasing every trace of arousal and trusting her to redirect him if he veers too far off track.

While he’d be the first to admit he’s not as quick of a study as Robin, he’d like to think years of honing himself physically have made him a fast learner when it comes to how to use his body. And with his own pleasure no longer serving as a distraction, he’s free now to funnel all his focus towards uncovering how to please her best. He licks and licks at her, closing his lips to employ suction periodically while staying closely attuned to the pitch of every sound Robin makes.

In the end, all it really seems to take is returning his attention to her clit. He licks her eagerly, pleased when her fingers wind tighter in his hair. Next time he’ll look forward to exploring more, but he’s left her worked up for long enough as it is. He can tell she’s getting close as her gasps and groans grow louder, her hips quivering from the restraint it’s taking to resist thrusting onto his tongue.

His own breathing grows heavier with hers—excitement getting the better of him. Chrom slips two fingers inside her, a moan rumbling through him from how effortlessly they slide in and the erratic rhythm that Robin clenches down on them.

“More,” she begs. “A-ah! More! P-please, yes! Oh gods—!” her voice pitches up, thready and broken as he adds a third finger. “Suck me, Chrom. Please, I want—OH!”

He closes his lips around her clit, hollowing his cheeks out for as much suction as he can muster, and Robin’s voice soars as she shakes and spasms around him.

Chrom eases himself back as her body slackens, feeling oddly trembly himself. Idly, he traces his lips with his tongue, hoping for one last taste of her. At some point during the process of getting her off, he’s grown half hard again; only now does he realize he’s been absently fucking against the mattress in a bid for relief.

Robin smiles down at him hazily, so much undiluted love in her eyes that he wonders again how he ever doubted her feelings. “Gods,” is all she manages, before shuddering once more and falling back bonelessly onto the bed.

Chrom chuckles, heaving himself up to lay beside her and pulling the blankets up and around them. The importance of his own stubborn arousal pales compared to how desperate he is to hold her. “Thank you,” he murmurs, nudging a wayward strand of hair from her face.

Robin laughs breathlessly. “Pretty sure I should be thanking you.”

Chrom shakes his head in disagreement, but doesn’t elaborate. Seeing Robin’s drooping eyes is making him feel more drowsy than ever. Without another word, he folds his arms around her, cradling her against his chest.

Robin laughs again, though this one is interrupted by a yawn. “So, you’re a cuddler, are you?”

By way of answer, he tucks her tighter under his chin and interlocks their legs. It’s unreasonably comfortable holding her like this—so much that it seems a small miracle he ever managed to sleep any other way, and an even larger one that he hasn’t drifted off already. The day’s trials and the hours he spent tossing and turning the night before all seem to be closing in at once, determined to drag him into dreamy unconsciousness.

“You know, there’s still some things we’ll need to talk about,” Robin murmurs.

Chrom tries to focus on her voice, but it sounds watery and far away. So much less present than her warm, smooth skin and the press of downy pillows beneath his head. “Mm? Like what?”

“Political particulars mostly, but…” Robin snuggles closer, dropping a stray kiss beside one of his nipples. “...It can wait until morning. Goodnight, my love. Sweet dreams.”

“G’night, love,” Chrom mumbles. “Talk then…”

As his muscles relax into the plush mattress, real, true contentment diffuses, syrupy slow through his limbs. Chrom burrows closer, thinking fuzzily that he never truly understood what it meant to belong somewhere until this very moment—with Robin snuggled soundly against him. He has one last foggy imagining of their hearts beating in a perfect, synchronized rhythm, and then his mind carries him into the tranquil blankness of deep sleep.

Chapter Text

When Chrom awakens the next morning, it’s to a pale yellow sky outside his windows and a non-trivial amount of silver hair inside his mouth.

He sputters, trying not to choke, his sleep-muddled brain only prevented from panicking because it’s far from the first time he’s woken this way since Robin began staying with him. Nor is it the first time he’s found himself curled around her—though that doesn’t stop his heart from tangling itself into knots over the discovery.

But something about this morning is undeniably different: there has never been quite so much of her bed-warmed skin in contact with his before. In fact, his senses sluggishly inform him, it really is his chest she’s cuddling into—his bare chest. Because neither of them are wearing clothes.

The revelation erases every trace of Chrom’s lingering drowsiness as the details of the night before filter in. It’s their first morning together—really together. If he checks Robin’s left hand, he’ll find his family ring fit snugly on her fourth finger. The muscles around his hips ache pleasantly; an imprint from their lovemaking that will linger with him throughout the day.

He can’t in good conscience call a night that put Robin in danger the best of his life…but when he thinks of all that came before and after, he can’t help but feel an almost dream-like sense of wonder.

Gods, Robin loves him. Enough that even yesterday’s nightmarish ordeal hasn’t scared her away.

Chrom shifts beneath the covers, intent on getting a good look at her face, but it’s hard when she’s rolled herself into such a compact ball. Just how Robin is able to make herself so small while she sleeps is a mystery he doubts he’ll ever solve. Chuckling softly, he brushes a stray lock of hair from her cheek.

“Good morning, my love,” he murmurs, voice gravelly with the vestiges of sleep.

Robin grumbles something indiscernible and burrows closer to his chest, pulling the blanket tight around her.

“Hm? What was that?” Chrom asks. Thoroughly charmed by her grouchiness, he paints kisses along every scrap of her he can reach—the tip of her ear, the nape of her neck, the top of her head.

Robin gives an ill-tempered groan, uncurling just enough to ensure her next words are audible. “I can’t believe I’m marrying a morning person,” she harrumphs.

Chrom beams and hugs her tighter, undiscouraged. “I can’t believe it either. I’m a lucky man to have you.”

With one more grunt, Robin finally seems to resign herself to waking and unrolls herself begrudgingly. Her sleep-fuzzed eyes look him over; first scanning his face before loitering around his neck and the reddened patch of skin on his chest where she was just face-planted.

“Mmm, I’ll admit…not a bad sight to start my day with,” she says. She waggles her eyebrow, but given that she’s also stifling a yawn, the effect is more goofy than suggestive. “Think I could get used to it.”

Chrom laughs, squirming forward to kiss her nose. “Haven’t you been waking up to this same sight for weeks now?”

“Yes, but the effect is different when you’re naked,” she replies bluntly. “Not that you weren’t easy on the eyes before, of course. Honestly, it was a bit torturous waking up to you being so you every day when I couldn’t do anything about it.” Her lips stretch wide around another yawn, seemingly too sleepy to register how her words are affecting him. “You broke your promise, by the way.”

“What?” Chrom goes rigid—thoughts flying frantically through his actions since waking. “What promise?! Robin, I swear I didn’t—”

“Breathe, Chrom,” she says, laughing at his obvious panic. “You promised to be fully dressed every time I woke up, remember? But don’t worry: as of this moment, I am officially relieving you of your duty to uphold it.”

Chrom’s spiked heart rate slows as he registers her teasing tone and the fond way she runs her hand over his bicep. He chuckles bashfully, terribly pleased with the knowledge that Robin is as happy to wake up like this as he is. “A-ah, well…then I suppose I should thank you for being so understanding.”

“Yes, I’m tremendously benevolent,” she agrees sagely. She sits up to stretch, the sheets sliding down to expose the top of her cleavage in the process. “What time is it, anyway?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Chrom replies, shifting nearer to kiss along her newly bare shoulder. “We’re in no rush...”

“Aren’t we now? Because I seem to recall a certain prince telling his knight that he would be dealing with everything in the morning.”

“What good is being Ylisse’s ruler if I can’t use my power to demand we’re given extra time to ourselves?” Chrom asks, kissing beside her collarbone.

Robin purses her lips. “Actually…that might not be a bad idea. Though maybe not for the reason you’re thinking.”

“Hmm?” Another kiss, this time to the soft underside of her jaw. “What do you have in mind?”

“Do you remember what I said before we fell asleep last night? About how we still need to go over some things?”

He hums his assent, brushing his lips against her ear lobe.

“Well, first and foremost, we should probably talk about what happened with Lady Cecily before you got there,” Robin continues.

“Ah.” Chrom stills and withdraws from her, suddenly sobered. He wondered when they would be having this talk.

“I’m a little surprised that you haven’t asked me about it already,” Robin admits.

Chrom just shakes his head. “You can tell me about it when you’re ready, Robin. I don’t want to make you relive it just for my sake. Especially not when it’s still so fresh.”

“I appreciate that, Chrom. But this is hardly my first brush with death. I know it may be hard for you to hear about too, but I think…I think it would be better for you to have the full picture before you meet with everyone for questioning.”

Her words call to mind a splatter of war-time memories: of Robin staggering off the battlefield beside him with blood streaking her hair and dripping from her trembling hands. She’s right, of course—mortal peril isn’t new to either of them, and her account will be imperative to knowing how to approach the ball’s aftermath…

But since they escaped to their room, Chrom has been intentionally thinking of anything but that particular obligation. From where he lays in the bed, he can see the shredded remnants of Robin’s gown pooled and glittering in a patch of sunlight by the changing screen. His shoulder, which hasn’t bothered him once since it was bandaged, suddenly prickles perniciously.

He knows he's going to have to anchor himself while dealing with the aftermath of Lady Cecily’s plotting or else risk becoming stranded in his own rage. Hearing the particulars of just how these people hurt Robin is not likely to help in that regard…but it doesn’t mean it’s not important for him to know, all the same.

“…You don’t have to hold back for my sake,” Chrom says at length. “But Robin, are you certain?”

“I am,” she says, firm and steady. “Besides, it’s like I said last night: it’s not what happened to me that I’m most shaken over.”

Chrom’s heart twinges—still struggling to understand that Robin finds the danger he was in more frightening than her own. Something tells him that he’ll be rediscovering how deeply she loves him in these small ways for a long time to come.

“Alright, then. Go ahead,” he says.

It’s not as if curiosity hasn’t been eating away at him—even as he’s been dreading hearing the details too. He sits up properly beside her and fishes one of Robin’s hands out from under the covers in the hopes the contact can be a comfort to them both.

Robin nods, a fragile smile unfolding across her lips. She keeps her gaze fixed steadfastly on their hands as she begins to speak.

“I’m…almost ashamed to admit it, actually, but it really didn’t occur to me that anything was amiss. I walked right into their ambush without a second thought. I probably should have known better than to let my guard down like that, but all I was thinking about was my damn dress. I started changing the second I made it into the room and was trying to get the first layer of skirts off when they jumped me.”

Chrom frowns at the self-condemnation in her tone but bites back his urge to protest. Robin’s eyes glimmer like they know just what he’s thinking.

“I know it wasn’t my fault, exactly, but considering how adamant I was that I’d be able to defend myself, it was still a poor showing. I didn’t have time to reach for my dagger; honestly I didn’t have time to do anything. I was outnumbered and caught completely off guard. I could hear Lady Cecily shouting at them not to hurt me, and at first I thought she was as shocked as I was—that maybe she was trying to help me. But after a minute I realized that wasn’t what the shouting was at all: she was giving them orders.”

“Hold a moment,” Chrom interrupts, his confusion getting the better of him. “I don’t understand. She told them not to hurt you? I thought that was the point.”

Robin shakes her head. “Not quite. She wanted me out of the picture but I think she was hoping it wouldn’t come to violence.”

“How, then?” he presses. “What other way was there when she hired those criminals?”

“A confession,” Robin answers simply. “She said that she knew you would never believe anyone else’s word over mine and that meant that exposing me required forcing me to admit to the plot myself. Once they had me restrained, she ordered me to write a letter ‘admitting to everything’—to having deceived you and feigned my feelings…saying that I’d been using you to gain power and that I planned to do away with you once we were married.” Robin’s lips curl down at the corners in distaste. “It’s quite the conclusion to arrive at from a single journal entry. I’m almost flattered that she thought I was single handedly capable of so much. It makes me wonder if there may be more to the story…more reason she had to suspect me. But I was hardly in any position to interrogate her at the time.”

Chrom’s stomach writhes—enough that he’s grateful he’s yet to eat anything since waking. “And what then?” he asks, a hair above a whisper. “What was to become of you after you wrote the letter?”

Robin lets out a long, gusty breath. “I’m not…entirely sure. From what I gathered, she intended to have the people she hired take me somewhere and hold me there for long enough that it would look like I’d deserted you. I suspect she just wanted to keep me away from the palace until the ‘truth’ came out and assumed that after it had, I wouldn’t dare return. But I…I’m not so sure it would have played out that way. Those criminals she hired didn’t seem particularly keen on keeping me alive—I’m sure they would have made a big show of hauling me off like she instructed, but I doubt they’d have let me live after I’d seen their faces. I can’t claim to know much about Lady Cecily personally, but she seemed to have a very naive understanding of how these sorts of things work.”

“So it would seem,” Chrom says darkly. He squeezes Robin’s hand to ground himself, willing away the horrid images that flash lightning-bright through his head when he thinks of what might have happened if he hadn’t arrived when he did. Anger throbs through him—its burn so physical that his body quakes in an effort to contain it.

“There was one way her plan worked to my benefit,” Robin says softly. “I realized they’d have to loosen my restraints if they wanted me to write the letter, so I pretended to cooperate at first. I waited until they let their guard down and then fought back, but I could only take out two of them before their leader got that knife against my throat. I guess I’m out of practice.” She laughs humorlessly. “After I’d wounded their leader, he wasn’t so interested in pretending to go along with Lady Cecily’s plan. She was trying to get the situation under control again when you showed up, and…and I suppose you know the rest from there.”

“Robin…” Chrom breathes. Just holding her hand feels grossly insufficient. He envelopes her in his arms, his furious trembling finally subsiding when Robin embraces him back. She settles her head on his shoulder, fingers tracing aimless patterns on his skin.

“It seems strange, doesn’t it?” she murmurs. “I can’t help but wonder what made Lady Cecily go looking through my journal in the first place. Did she already distrust me before then, or…?”

“I don’t know,” Chrom replies. “But there’s little sense in speculating about the logic of a mad woman.”

“I’m not sure that I would call her ‘mad’,” Robin says, frowning. “This isn’t Gangrel we’re talking about. But you’re right that there’s not much point in speculating. Whatever part of the story we’re missing we can likely get from speaking with her directly.”

Chrom’s chest spasms again—rebelling at the mere thought. “There’s not much to say. She was nearly responsible for the death of someone I love. I hardly need to know more than that.”

“Hm,” Robin says without elaborating, clearly lost in her own thoughts. Chrom lets the silence stretch, allowing himself a minute more to just cling to her before asking the question that’s been haunting him since they made it back to their room the night prior.

“Robin…” he starts slowly. “There’s something I don’t understand. Why didn’t you tell Lady Cecily the truth about what she found in the journal?”

It’s subtle, but holding her so tightly means that Chrom can feel the way Robin stiffens. “T-the truth?”

He nods. “About how the plan she found was one we’d made together. If you’d explained it to her, then—”

“She wouldn’t have believed me,” Robin says. Her tone is clipped—shuttered to negotiation.

“But you could have tried, at least,” he argues. “If your only concern was whether or not she would believe you, then you had little to lose by telling her…unless that wasn’t the only reason?”

His suspicions are confirmed when she ducks down, hiding her face against him.

“Robin—”

“She wouldn’t have believed me,” she insists stubbornly, mouth still smooshed against his chest. “There was no point in exposing the truth and opening you up to the possible backlash that would have come with it when I knew she wouldn’t have—”

“You mean to tell me that you had a knife to your throat and you were still more worried about my damned reputation?”

“Yes,” Robin says, sitting up straighter now and responding to his exasperation with growing defiance. “It was the right move, Chrom. For me to tell her wasn’t worth the—”

“You’re worth any risk,” he interjects heatedly, shaking his head. “You still don’t understand what you mean to me.”

It comes out closer to an accusation than he meant it to, but he can’t bring himself to regret it—even when he can see how it makes Robin bristle defensively. Before she can come up with a suitable retort, he captures her lips in a kiss.

The kiss is measured—firm and insistent, but not as frenetic as the ones from the night before. Chrom holds it just long enough for her to give up on speaking and for the tension in her body to slacken, then forces himself to retreat. Even restrained as it was, his lips tingle after they part, his heart racing rabbit fast. He underestimated the effect it would have on him to kiss her with so much of their bare skin touching, but he shoves that wanting aside: at present, he has a point to make.

Cupping her face in one hand, Chrom holds her eyes unwaveringly.

“I don’t want to fight with you, Robin. And I know what’s done is done. But when I hear you talk like that…it scares me. Your life is not a chip to be gambled with—no matter the stakes. Not to me.”

“…Okay,” she says, voice small and chastened. “I understand.”

“Do you?” he presses, still skeptical. Robin is so brilliant—if she still can’t wrap her head around this, then perhaps it’s only because he hasn’t been clear enough.

Chrom strokes along her cheekbone, aligning the slope of his forehead with hers. “When I say that I love you, I’m not doing so lightly. You have the whole of my heart, Robin. If you want to protect me, then ensure you’re looking out for yourself. Nothing would hurt me more than losing you.”

“Alright, alright. You’ve made your point.” He can feel the heat radiating off her face from the rush of blood to her cheeks. “I’ll try to take that to heart. Really.” She blows out a breath, a tremulous smile breaking across her face. “Gods, I wonder if I’ll ever get used to you saying that sort of thing.”

Satisfied that he's made his pint, Chrom chuckles and pecks her on the forehead. “You have the rest of our lives together to endeavor to do just that.”

“I suppose I do, don’t I?” Robin’s smile grows steadier, and then she’s draping herself across him, an impish sparkle in her eye. “Actually, on the topic of trying things, there was something I was hoping you might let me try my hand at this morning.”

“Oh?” he asks, trying desperately not to be too obvious about his ogling. “And what’s that?”

Robin brings her lips to the hollow at the base of his throat. She kisses her way down to his navel, then lower still, and suddenly his flagging morning wood has renewed life. Chrom feels almost lightheaded from how urgently the blood in his body rushes down to meet her.

“Ah,” he says thickly. “Th-then you mean—”

“I do, yes,” Robin agrees brightly. She splays her fingers wide, squeezing the muscles of his thighs and peering up at him from beneath her eyelashes. “Although, I suppose saying I wanted to try my hand at it may have been misleading. Really I was thinking more along the lines of—”

She doesn’t finish the phrase—though even if she had, he doubts he would have heard it over his own throaty groan.

It’s certainly a departure from his normal morning routine, but now that he knows that the remainder of his mornings are fated to be spent at Robin’s side, Chrom dares to hope it just may come to be part of a new one.

It takes some time to make all the appropriate alternative arrangements for the engagement announcement. There are interrogations to be held, damages to be repaired, and security to be tightened before then…and that’s on top of all Chrom’s normal duties.

In the wake of all the chaos, he had foolishly hoped he’d be afforded some amount of grace for the delay—at least by those who came to hear of the events that caused it. But before even a whole week has elapsed, it’s clear many of those in the castle are growing impatient.

“I tell ya, it’s right strange that the prince hasn’t set a date for the wedding.”

On instinct, Chrom halts in his tracks, ears primed to pick up the sound of his title. He can just spy the corner of a laundry cart around the next bend in the corridor; a pair of hands folding and stacking bed sheets with expert precision.

“Whadda ya think is the hold up?” a second voice asks. “Think it’s cold feet?”

“Couldn’t say,” replies the first. “You know anything, Louise? You served them the other night.”

“Not a thing,” a third voice answers as another sheet is added to the stack. “Wish they’d get on with it already. Naga knows the rest of us need something to celebrate.”

“Careful what you wish for. A royal wedding would have us busier than ever.”

“Oh, but imagine how exciting it will be once the baby is on the way. I can hardly—”

Chrom backs himself down the corridor, re-routing to avoid revealing what he’s overheard. With each step, his heart thumps almost painfully hard behind his ribs.

He knows he shouldn’t let it bother him. The servants’ speculation is harmless enough, and if anything, the conversation he heard just goes to show that he and Robin needn’t have been so worried about the gossip circulating when they were feigning their courtship—not if it hasn’t let up even now that their relationship is entirely real.

Really it was just that last comment that’s getting to him—the woman’s words feeding a nibbling uncertainty that he fears will only sink its teeth in deeper as the day progresses.

Not that he’s given much chance to stew on it. Today it seems even the brief act of crossing the courtyard is a lengthier reprieve than he can afford to hope for. When he next leaves his office, Chrom makes it all of three steps into the fresh air before being accosted by one of the magistrate’s clerks.

He squints down at the missive the woman just handed him, trying to keep the scraggly script from swimming in front of his eyes. The true heat of summer is just around the corner now, and the sun batters down on him and the parchment both, rendering the page blindingly bright. This time of year always makes him feel lazy and languid, but he’s far past the days where he can afford to loaf around in the courtyard shade, sipping iced tea and dozing off until Lissa invariably dropped a frog down the back of his shirt.

…Gods, his workload truly must be dire if he’s starting to miss the frogs.

“Chrom!”

The sound of Robin calling his name is such a welcome one that Chrom briefly wonders if it couldn’t just be a heat-induced hallucination. Fortunately, when he looks up from the missive, he really does find Robin striding across the grass towards him.

“Are you busy?” she asks, her tone deliberately innocent in a way that immediately piques his interest.

“Not too busy for you.” Chrom hands the letter back to the attendant, waving them off in favor of bounding forward to meet her. Smiling, Robin tilts her face up for him to drop a kiss on her temple.

“Just what I wanted to hear,” she says. She beckons him under the shaded shelter of the portico and towards one of the halls leading deeper into the castle. “Come on, this way.”

“Where are we going exactly?”

Robin’s smile turns coy. “Oh, you’ll see soon enough…”

Chrom grins back, mind flickering through various possible destinations as he falls into step beside her. She could be bringing him to the kitchens to take a late lunch. Or perhaps to the library to show him something in one of her books?

Not that it particularly matters where she has in mind. Chrom would follow her most anywhere—even without the added benefit of getting to escape from more ministerial drivel in the process. He’d take no issue with it if Robin’s destination for them was no more than a dingy, rarely traversed corridor.

Now that he thinks about it, Chrom might prefer that sort of a destination over any other. It’s been no small agony spending his days drowning in paperwork while his eminently kissable fiancée flits about attending to council business in his peripherals. Already it feels as if it has been much too long since he last fell between her legs.

Blazes, he’s getting himself worked up just thinking about it.

Luckily, it’s only a moment later that Robin swings around a corner, heaving open a door and dragging him through. The temperature drops as soon as they’re inside—a single torch’s light stretching their shadows across the stone walls. Whatever this hideaway is that she’s found for them, it’s a perfect respite from the lazy midday heat. Robin slides a wooden latch across the door to ensure their privacy and Chrom’s heart rate spikes with the realization she must have been thinking along the same lines that he was.

Maneuvering carefully as his eyes adjust, he draws her in close and seeks out her hips.

“Easy now,” Robin says. She sounds like she’s fighting down giggles. “We’ve still got a bit farther to go.”

Despite her words, she arches her neck in invitation, sighing contentedly when he trails lingering kisses from her jaw to her sternum.

“What’s wrong with right here?” he presses. There’s just enough light to see that the first of the love bites he left her are starting to fade and he traces over them with his lips again now.

“Mmm, nothing’s wrong with it. I just have somewhere else in mind,” Robin replies. “Trust me, it’ll make sense once we get there.”

His pulse thrums eagerly, aflutter with curiosity for what Robin could possibly have planned.

“Alright, alright.” Reluctantly, Chrom untangles himself from her, though he can’t resist sneaking one more kiss behind her earlobe—right where he’s learning she likes it. He inhales deeply as he parts from her, letting Robin’s sweet, familiar scent wash over him—

—Only, layered beneath her usual lavender and candle wax aroma there is something much less pleasant saturating the air: the stale scent of mildew.

Chrom recoils, wrinkling his nose. “Hold a moment. Where exactly—”

He squints around him, finally taking note of the corkscrew stairs on the far side of the landing, plunging into the castle’s innards.

“Robin…” he says suspiciously, “why are you bringing me to the dungeons?”

She nibbles her lip. “About that…”

His smile drops, the fount of playful warmth he felt moments before running dry.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” she sighs. “It’s been five days already, Chrom. I gave you a chance to do this on your own terms, but you can’t keep putting it off.”

“I’m not putting it off!” he huffs. “I just haven’t found the time yet. There’s been so much that needs sorting since the ball.”

“Right. I know you’ve been busy,” Robin acknowledges. “But you did just tell me you had enough time to spare that you could spend it with me. At least up until you figured out where I was taking you.”

Chrom’s ear tips burn. “That’s different,” he protests. “I’ve been working since dawn. Forgive me for wanting to take a moment for myself.”

She sighs again while Chrom feigns interest in a spider dangling in the landing corner, unwilling to confront the disapproval he knows must be writ on Robin’s face. A touch at his cheek wrests his attention back.

“…Chrom, what’s this really about?” she asks softly. “You had no problem dealing with Lady Idris after the fact. Why is this so different?”

Her expression contains none of the judgment he expected—only muted concern. She combs her fingers through his bangs, and it’s exactly that gentleness that reduces his stubbornness to splinters. Chrom gives a feeble laugh; it really is useless trying to conceal the contents of his heart from her.

“Alright,” he admits quietly. “You’re right. It is different. It’s different because—well, because of Emm….” Chrom’s voice trails. He’s not sure why this is quite so hard to say. He takes a deep gulp of the musty air and holds it in his lungs for a count of three before releasing it and starting again. “What Lady Idris did was despicable. But as much as I loathe her for it, I never believed any better of her. But with Lady Cecily…”

“…With Lady Cecily you did.”

Chrom nods. “It was Emmeryn who chose her for the council. My sister trusted her once, Robin. And she repaid that trust the same way the Hierarch did.”

Robin shakes her head. “It wasn’t the same, Chrom. She didn’t do this for her own sake—”

“I don’t care whose sake she did it for,” he says shortly. “And I don’t give a damn what she saw in your journal, either. She still brought hired criminals into the castle. Into my home. Criminals who nearly—”

His throat closes off again.

“It just…it doesn’t justify what she did,” he finishes furiously.

“I know, Chrom. No one is saying it does,” Robin assures him gently. “But even so, I—hey. Look at me, alright?” She works to catch his eye again, and just as before, he doesn’t have it in himself to fight her on it—not when she’s looking at him so tenderly.

“Thank you for telling me all of that,” she continues. “I think I understand now why this is so hard for you. But Chrom, what you said about your sister trusting her…isn’t that all the more reason to hear what she has to say? So you can understand why she did what she did. You deserve those answers.”

“What is there to understand? You could have been killed, Robin,” he says, echoing his own words from when she first broached the topic. “No matter how good her intentions were, I can’t just forgive that.”

“And I’m not asking you to. I would never expect that. I only want you to hear her out, to help you understand how it came to this.” When he remains silent, she draws him closer, hands skimming up and down his arms soothingly. “Please, love. Avoiding it clearly isn’t making you feel any better. Allow yourself some closure, if nothing else.”

Chrom sits with her words, weighing the pleading in her tone against his too-sharp memories of Robin’s blood limning that knife blade. What could Lady Cecily possibly say that wouldn’t just gouge open those wounds again?

“…This is really that important to you?” Chrom asks finally.

Her gaze doesn’t waver as she answers: “It is.”

Chrom sighs, stewing another minute despite knowing what he has to do. There’s no talking Robin out of something once she gets like this. It’s what Emm would have wanted too, a tiny voice nags at him. He swallows heavily.

“Fine. I’ll hear her out,” he concedes at last. For his sister’s and Robin’s sake, he’ll just have to endure it.

“Thank you, my love.” Robin squeezes his hand. “I really believe you’ll be glad for it.”

Chrom hums noncommittally but ensnares her fingers between his as he starts down the stairs all the same. “And to think I’d hoped you were pulling me aside for some quality time together,” he says wryly.

“Ah, well. I am sorry about that part.” Robin pecks his cheek contritely before falling into step with him. “I promise I’ll make it up to you later, alright?”

“Will you now?” Chrom chuckles, cocking an eyebrow. “And how exactly are you planning to do that?”

“I’ll do whatever it takes,” she assures him.

“Whatever it takes?” he echoes. “Surely my tactician knows better than to make such dangerous promises.”

“Oh, I think I know what I’m getting into,” she insists, a hint smug. “Besides, if it’s you, I’m happy to give you anything you want.”

There’s something in her tone—a low, almost sultry stressing of the word ‘anything’—that gives Chrom pause. He steals a glance at Robin’s face to find her blinking up at him from beneath half-lidded eyes.

Gods, she really can be a tease when she wants to be.

“Ah, well, in that case, what if I decided the only suitable apology was for you to wake at sunrise to spar with me every day for the next week?” Chrom asks.

Robin’s smirk and smolder flee her face. “I would say that the punishment far outstrips the crime and you should take pity on the woman you claim to love.”

“The next three days, then?” he amends.

“Fine. Three days.” Grumbling under her breath, she adds, “And here I dared to dream my fiancé might have some other sort of favor he’d like to ask of me.”

“We’re going to do all that anyway,” Chrom points out. “If I’m to ask a favor of my wily tactician, then I’d rather it’s something I’ll never get otherwise.”

Robin scoffs but beneath it he can tell she’s a little impressed. “Someone’s gotten awfully comfortable with the idea of being intimate, haven’t they?”

Chrom coughs out a laugh, hoping the dim torch light will keep his pink ears from exposing his confidence bluffing for what it is. He needn’t have worried, though. As the two of them reach the bottom of the stairs the first line of cells come into view, and any inclination to continue with their banter shrivels in the dungeon’s dismal ambience.

Chrom picks out Lady Cecily at once, holed up in the first cell on the left. Instinctively, he shifts to place himself more firmly between her and Robin, hackles raised, but with each step they move closer it’s harder to see the council woman as a true threat. She looks so…sullen; dark eyes downcast, palms laying open as if in a plea for absolution. None of the defiance he remembers from when he visited Lady Idris is present in her posture—she doesn’t even look up as they approach.

Chrom’s stomach roils with unease. It’s not as gratifying to see her wracked with guilt as it should be. This is exactly why he didn’t want to come here.

“Chrom?” Robin prompts softly when he hesitates.

He steels himself, forcing his legs to close the rest of the distance to the cell despite not having the faintest idea how to approach a conversation like this. Fortunately, Robin’s voice seems to have broken into her reverie and Cecily glances up at last.

“Milord Chrom…” Her eyes dart wildly over his person before her expression shifts not into fear or dread, but relief. “It brings me great comfort to see that you look well. I…I admit I was not expecting for you to pay me a visit.”

“I’m not here because I want to be,” Chrom says. “Robin asked me to speak with you, so here I am. This is for her sake alone.”

Cecily nods, unperturbed by his curt reply. “I understand. Then am I to take it Lady Robin wishes for me to relay the same information to you as I did to her?”

Chrom tries and likely fails not to appear visibly startled. He didn’t put together that Robin had already come to speak to the council woman on her own. Robin, for her part, takes his surprise in stride.

“Yes. Tell him just what you told me,” she says, voice firm but measured.

“Then I suppose I best get right into it.”

Cecily pushes to her feet, though she leaves a few paces of space between herself and the bars as a buffer. She’s no longer in her gown from the ball, Chrom realizes, having changed into a simple cotton dress in Ylissean yellow. The buttery sunshine hue is much too bright for the dingy cell.

“First I…I just wanted to express how sincerely sorry I am,” she begins quietly. “My failure in judgment endangered both your lives—the fact that it wasn’t my intention doesn’t excuse that.”

Chrom’s jaw hardens. “No, it doesn’t.”

Again, she doesn’t wince from his tone; Chrom is struck suddenly by the sense that every condemnation he could lob her way is one with which she has already berated herself.

Cecily continues as steadily as ever. “While I understand there is nothing I can do to make amends, at the very least I hope to be able to provide you with some clarity in regards to the questions you must have been left. Perhaps the first among them being why I felt compelled to go looking through Lady Robin’s journal in the first place.”

Slowly, Chrom nods. Robin posed that very question the morning after the ball. For his part, Chrom hadn’t taken Lady Cecily for the type to invade another person’s privacy so indiscriminately. Then again, he hadn’t taken her as the type to hire dangerous criminals either. Perhaps he’s better off surmising that every working assumption he had about her character is entirely off base.

Whatever of those thoughts Lady Cecily is able to read from his expression, she seems to take it as permission to continue. “While it was what I read within Lady Robin’s journal that motivated my actions the night of the ball, the truth is that I had begun to foster suspicions of her long before that…before even your engagement was announced.

"When news reached me of Exalt Emmeryn’s death, I was…I was devastated,” Cecily admits softly. “I admired her tremendously and cared for her a great deal besides. Perhaps it was that grief that made me so desperate for someone to blame. I was unable to fathom how among those at the forefront of the fighting, the only people never to return home safely were the exalt and her retainer. I knew that as the chief tactician, it must have been Lady Robin who devised the failed plan, and—”

“—You thought that Robin had a hand in my sister’s death,” Chrom says numbly.

Cecily nods. “Here, on the precipice of war, a woman wearing the colors of our enemy claims to have no memories of her past, only for it to ultimately come to light that she has a mind for strategy and an unprecedented ability to anticipate the enemy’s movements. Couldn’t it be, I thought, that she was planted in our midst by some faction of Plegia for the very purpose of infiltrating the royal family? And in what better way than by offering them the service they would come to need most when war began?

“Lady Emmeryn was known far and wide for her compassion and willingness to trust in others. For a woman to show up lost and memoryless before her seemed to me a bait so perfectly laid it was difficult to imagine it could be anything else. When E—when Her Grace subsequently passed away during a failed rescue attempt orchestrated by Lady Robin herself, it felt like confirmation of my greatest fears.”

Robin winces almost imperceptibly, but small as the motion is, it’s still enough to set Chrom off.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he snaps. “Robin did everything she could to save my sister; she labored over that plan day and night. There was nothing more that could have been done.”

“Chrom—” Robin starts, placing a hand on his arm.

“No, Robin,” he interjects. “I’ve listened to you blame yourself enough already. I’m not about to let her do the same when she wasn’t even there.”

“You’re right, your highness.” Cecily bows her head. “I was not there—I did not see the battle for myself—could not hear Her Grace’s last words. Perhaps…perhaps if I had, I would not have presumed as I did that there was some other way. As it was, I couldn’t bear to believe that her loss was t-truly—that it couldn’t have been…” Lady Cecily breaks off, turning her face away for a moment and laughing feebly. “Apologies. I promised myself I would not lose my composure.”

Her voice is wafer-thin—its trembling poorly concealed. It sounds like misery.

It sounds like mourning.

Chrom bites his tongue—that same tight feeling in his chest from before squeezing that much harder. He doesn’t want to sympathize with her, damn it; anger is so much easier to bear. But it’s hard to hold onto hard-hearted fury when faced with another person who is nursing the same wound he has been for months.

Cecily takes a moment to compose herself, steadying her breathing before facing them properly again.

“M-moving along, then. I fear the circumstances of your highness’s engagement did nothing to assuage my concerns. It struck me as odd that your highness spoke first of how impractical it would be to find a suitable partner in time for your birthday, only to reveal minutes later you already had one. And the two of you were seen together so rarely in the coming days…I could not shake the sense that not everything was as it seemed.”

“And it wasn’t,” Robin murmurs, with a quick glance over her shoulder to ensure there are no guards close enough to hear them. “Chrom and I were keeping a secret; just not the one you believed it to be.”

“Indeed,” Lady Cecily agrees quietly. “Still, for the time, I felt I had little choice but to watch and wait. I volunteered to oversee Lady Robin’s work for the council in the hopes it would grant me the opportunity to observe her more closely. In the meantime, I attempted to open investigations of my own into her past. Unfortunately, their breadth was limited given Plegia’s ongoing political turmoil.”

Lady Cecily pauses, face pinched. “There is…one other thing that I should mention from around that time. Before the first meeting Lady Robin attended, I overheard Idris speaking with her daughter. It is with some shame that I must admit that I made a comment to Penelope which likely resulted in Lady Robin receiving that rat and note—“

“The rat was you too?” Chrom scowls.

“T-The idea was, yes,” she admits shakily. “Though the note’s words were Penelope’s, not my own. I thought that perhaps if Lady Robin’s feelings were not true and she was as self-serving as I suspected, a threat might be enough to frighten her off. When it did not, I began to wonder if I might have been mistaken about her character. I warmed to her for a time…though a part of me remained fearful that she was only unafraid because of her soldier’s constitution.” Lady Cecily smiles sadly to herself. “I admit I gave her little opportunity to change my mind.

“When Lady Robin left her journal in that meeting, I saw it as an opportunity to uncover the answers I so desperately sought. I paged through the journal until I found the plans I now know you formed together. What I saw there spoke of how Lady Robin could convincingly feign her affections; of who she would need to deceive and how. Those few passages were all it took to convince me that the suspicions I’d held for so long were rooted in truth—that she planned to do away with you, milord, the same as she had the exalt.

“When you returned for the journal, I—I almost told you about what I’d discovered. But as I listened to you speak of Lady Robin, it was plain just how deeply your affections for her ran. I knew you would never trust my word alone over hers. It seemed that my only option would be to force her to expose herself.”

“But it wasn’t,” Chrom interrupts, frowning. A thought he had the night of the ball strikes him again as he replays the events of the last two weeks in his head. “Lady Idris was already planning to implicate Robin. Why defend her at the council meeting if you already believed she intended me harm? Why not just let Idris’s plans play out?”

“Because it was not in defense of Lady Robin that I spoke out. My only aim was to protect you,” Lady Cecily answers quietly. “As it was, my position left me little choice. I knew if I said nothing that Lady Robin would bring up the copies anyway. I—I suppose I could have tried to deny ever having seen them, and to destroy them before they were found. But it was clear you were prepared to vouch for her with or without proof and I did not wish to see your credibility undercut like that if it was within my power to prevent it. That aside, I had my own plans in the works.”

“Lord Dorian,” Robin volunteers. Cecily nods.

“Upon his arrival at the palace that night, I sent my brother back to my estate to collect the truth serum. It was he who thought up the plan to tempt Lady Robin into unfaithfulness, with the serum available as a last resort if she could not be swayed by his charms alone. Alas, when even the serum failed to expose her, I became desperate.

“That night, I stole into the town and met with the men I’d hired to investigate Lady Robin’s past. As I had overseen Lady Robin’s arrangements for the ball, it was not hard to make use of my knowledge of the security arrangements to sneak them into the castle. I wanted only to corner her into admitting the truth and keep her away long enough for you to learn of it yourself, Lord Chrom. I was horrified when things escalated so quickly to violence. I thought that by withholding half the payment until the job was complete that I could maintain some semblance of control over the situation, but clearly I was mistaken.”

Lady Cecily takes a deep breath, eyes meeting his unflinchingly. “I was foolish and misguided to put my trust in those criminals and prideful for believing I could manage the situation entirely by myself. My failure in judgment could have cost either of you your lives and for that, I am prepared to atone however I must. My only hope is that you will believe me when I say that harming you as I have was never my intent.”

A pointed silence permeates the air as she finishes speaking. The kind that chafes more with each passing second.

“...Is that all, then?” Chrom asks.

“That is all,” Cecily confirms. She bows her head again. “Thank you for listening, your highness.”

“It’s not me you should be grateful to,” Chrom says gravely, eyes flitting to Robin at his side. “Any mercy you’re shown will be by her grace—not mine. Remember that the next time you’re so quick to condemn someone.”

Chrom turns his back to the bars. “Robin? Let’s go.” He waits only until he feels her hand settle on the crook of his elbow then leads the way back up and out of the dungeons, resisting the impulse to turn back once more to measure the regret on the council woman's face.

When they reach the top of the stairs, Chrom pushes through the doors and back into the palace hallway without slowing his pace. There is no force in the realm that could compel him to return to his work right now—not after all that. What he needs now is a distraction, and another mountain of paperwork is not going to cut it. He walks with as much intention as he can muster in the hopes it will make anyone they run into less likely to stop him.

“Chrom?” Robin prompts, breaking out of her own thoughts. “I should probably be getting back to the library now.”

He hums, weighing her words. The library will do just fine.

“Chrom, did you hear me? I need to go to the—”

“Library. I’ll bring you there,” he replies. “We’re just making one stop first.”

Right on cue, he turns them down the hallway that leads to the palace kitchens. He’s greeted by a film of steam and seasoning, the pepper nearly making him sneeze. Wooden spoons thud against metal pot rims and a few cooks pause their chopping and stirring to bow. Chrom waves them off, more intent on picking over the lunch time remains. He nabs a basket of rolls and a plump cluster of grapes while Robin wanders a few paces behind, seemingly at a loss.

“Alright, that should do it,” he says as he deposits a plate with what’s left of a chocolate cake into the roll basket. Robin does love her sweets, after all. For good measure, he grabs a fork and a folded tablecloth on the way out.

“What exactly do you need all this for?” Robin asks, struggling to keep pace.

Chrom slows and answers her question with one of his own: “Do you realize we still haven’t been on a real date?”

“That can’t be right,” Robin says, brow scrunched incredulously. “I mean surely by now we must have—” She breaks off, taking stock of his make-shift picnic basket. “Wait, is that what this is for? I thought you were bringing me to the library.”

“I am,” he replies. “That’s where we’re having our date.”

“Wh—in the—”

Chrom shoulders open the door, quickly wedging his way between the maze of shelves in search of an appropriate spot while Robin trails after him, mouth agape. Upon finding a quiet corner out of reach of direct sunlight, he unfolds the tablecloth and plops the basket on the ground, gesturing to it in invitation.

“Chrom!” Robin exclaims, clearly trying to maintain some semblance of righteous outrage through her laughter. “We can’t just eat in the library.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s the library,” she emphasizes. “There are rules about these things!”

He waves a hand dismissively as he takes a seat. “You know I don’t care about that. Now are you going to let me feed you grapes or not?”

He pats the spot beside him and Robin flops down at last, fondly resigned.

“Some of these tomes and scrolls are thousands of years old,” she protests. The conviction behind it is significantly undercut by her opening her mouth to accept the food he offers.

“Well, then we best not choose one of them to use as a napkin,” Chrom teases.

Robin snorts, making only a half-hearted attempt to conceal it. Her expression shifts to contemplative as she chews away at the grape. “How strange. I guess this is our first real date, isn’t it? It doesn’t feel that way.”

Chrom nods, stretching out on the blanket to make himself comfortable. “All the others were fake. And,” he reminds her wryly, “the last time I tried to ask you on a real one, you turned me down.”

Robin flushes, hands curling into fists where they lay in her lap. “Gods, I still feel like such an ass for that,” she mumbles. “You looked crushed afterwards. You’d think maybe that would have been enough for me to figure out how you felt, but I was just so—”

“Hey. It’s alright,” Chrom interjects, prying her fingers apart and slipping his own between them. “My pride might have smarted for a day or two, but I’ve recovered, haven’t I? All’s well that ends well.”

It is, perhaps, a slight downplaying of the raw anguish he felt over her rejection at the time. But the last thing he wants is Robin veering too deep into self-deprecating territory—especially when he only brought it up as a means of demonstrating how far they’ve come since. It seems almost impossible that just those scant weeks ago he was so miserably certain that Robin would never love him. Now, their feelings for each other seem an immutable truth of the universe.

As if she’s detected some ounce of those sentiments, Robin graces him with a small smile. “That’s true. And now you’ll never have to worry about me turning you down again.”

“No? You’re certain you won’t grow tired of me?”

He half expects her to take the opportunity to tease him, but instead Robin shakes her head, eyes not straying from their joined hands. “Never,” she says, quiet and intent.

Wingbeats stir behind his ribs; that dizzying, fluttering feeling he never knew existed before Robin. The one that dares him to believe in things he hasn’t for a long time—like whispering wishes to water wells and shooting stars. Chrom brushes his lips against her forehead and Robin in turn drops a kiss on his cheek before accepting a forkful of cake when he offers it.

There’s a brief silence as they each content themselves with eating.

“Are you doing okay?” she asks gently. “You know, after all of…” she gestures vaguely with her hand, “…that.”

“Well enough,” Chrom answers, a bit stiffly. “At least, I will be.”

He swallows the bite of bread he was chewing and flops onto his back to stare at the library’s stained glass ceiling. A memory strikes him suddenly, illuminated as if by a stray sunbeam, of huddling midst the shelves with his sisters, Emmeryn reading him and Lissa some old Ylissean fairytale while a storm pounded down overhead and lightning flashes made a glowing tapestry of the colored glass.

He doubts that they were in this particular row of books back then, but the view is the same. Today, tiny dust particles swim in the late spring sunshine, but he can still hear how the thunder made the window shiver; Emmeryn’s bell-clear voice, serene and unafraid. Sometimes he wonders if grieving a person in the same space you lived with them isn’t more of a cruelty than a comfort…but he can’t imagine choosing to give it up either.

Chrom scrunches his eyes shut to banish the memory, then turns his head to face Robin instead. “You were right, Robin. I did need to talk to her. But even so, I hope you’ll understand if I need some time yet to think over all that was said.”

“Of course. Take all the time you need.” Robin combs her fingers through his bangs, and Chrom tilts his head gratefully into the touch. “Thank you, by the way,” she murmurs. “I know I was pushy about it. I think I just…I sympathize with her, you know? She felt trapped. If our positions were reversed, I could see myself acting similarly, even making the same mistakes. Whatever your decision turns out to be, I didn’t want you to make it without knowing the full story.”

“I understand. I’ll give it the consideration it deserves,” he promises.

“Mmm…understand enough to let me off the hook with morning training?”

“Not a chance,” he replies, slipping into a faint smile. “But enough talk of business. I want to be able to enjoy this.”

“Alright, alright.” Robin withdraws her hand, but it’s only so she can shift to lay her head on his chest instead. She breathes a contented sigh as she settles in, one ear pressed into his pectoral. “Did you have something else you were hoping to talk about instead?”

“Yes, actually,” he answers and then immediately wonders if she can hear the way his heartbeat picks up as he says it. It’s silly to be so nervous—he knows that. But ever since he overheard those servants that morning, he has been marooned at a crossroad between giddiness and pure panic.

In tune with him as ever, Robin lays a hand on his bicep, tilting her face to peer back at him. “Chrom, you’re tense,” she says. “What is it?”

“Do you want to have children with me?” he blurts.

Well. He hadn’t meant to ask quite like that.

Robin blinks at him, mouth rounded in an ‘o’. He could almost enjoy how completely he’s taken her by surprise if not for the way every additional second of her silence is making him want to crumble to ash and be blown to the most distant corners of the continent.

“D-do you…do you mean right now?” she stammers.

“No!” Chrom exclaims, his whole face positively scorching. He sits up so abruptly he dislodges her head from his chest and into his lap instead. “No—no. Not right now. Just, er…eventually. Maybe soon?”

“Oh,” Robin says. Her alarm eases considerably, the stiffness in her muscles melting away. “In that case…yes. I do.”

“Y-you do?” he manages, voice no more than a hushed rush of air. Surely hearing Robin say that should allay his embarrassment, not make him feel like he’s burning a hundred times more fiercely. But despite what he thought was physiologically possible, Chrom’s heart beats even harder.

“Of course, Chrom.” Robin brings a hand to her mouth, stifling a laugh. “Do you think I didn’t realize what I was signing up for when I agreed to marry you? That was the whole reason the council was pushing for you to find a spouse in the first place.”

“Well, yes. That’s true,” he admits haltingly. “But what I’m asking is…I mean, is that something you want too?”

“It is,” she says firmly, not giving him another chance to work himself up. Robin sits up, pulling his hands into her lap and turning them around in her much smaller ones. “I think that—well, it’s complicated. I don’t know anything about my own family—or my family before you, anyway,” she says, and Chrom is very nearly undone just by that statement alone. “I have no idea what a mother is supposed to be, let alone how to be one. But despite that, I still want to try. If you’d asked me a year ago, I probably would have said I couldn’t even imagine it, but I can now. I want a child and a family. I want it if it’s with you.”

Chrom’s heart is beyond pounding by the time she finishes; a sunburst budding in his chest and turning every breath to shimmering gold. He imagines Robin with a baby swaddled in her arms—their baby—one with her same wide, curious eyes and a little tuft of silver hair. The warmth inside him erupts into full bloom.

“Th-that’s…that’s good.” He breathes shakily. “I’m glad of it.”

The words are a poor demonstration of the effusive, radiant joy he’s feeling. But Robin smiles at him like she knows that too. They both lean in together, lips meeting in a tender kiss that tastes like chocolate cake and promises to be kept. When they break apart, he bumps his nose against hers and Robin bumps his back.

“Robin?” he murmurs.

“Mhm?”

“If it’s alright with you…maybe we could wait a bit longer before trying,” he says tentatively. “Believe me, I want that too; more than you can imagine. But selfish as it is, I’m not sure I’m willing to give up having your attention to myself just yet.”

“I think that can be arranged.” Robin chuckles and kisses the corner of his mouth. “Lest you forget, we do still need to get married first.”

When he presses his lips to hers again, they’re both smiling so widely that their teeth clack together. As far as first dates go, Chrom flatters himself with the belief that it’s a pretty good one.

In the end, the two of them reach a compromise where Lady Cecily’s punishment is concerned.

While Chrom would have personally preferred to strip her of her title, he does not have the authority to do so without her going before the magistrate for a formal trial. Seeing as they cannot allow her to go on the record about what she read in Robin’s journal, he does his best to content himself with the next closest thing. Cecily resigns from her position on the council, and agrees to permanently move her residence from Ylisstol castle to her estate in the duchy of Adria. As a precautionary measure, she is forbidden from coming within a two-day’s ride of the capital without both supervision from a designated member of the guard and first sending formal word of the exact duration, cause and location of her visit.

With Lady Cecily’s fate settled, there is only one outstanding matter from the ball left to address.

Chrom steals a peek around the curtains at the gathered crowd below, ensuring he doesn’t stray close enough to be seen himself. Ylisseans pack the streets as far as the eye can see, wedging themselves between lamp posts and slanted alleyways in the hopes of getting a better view for the long awaited royal announcement. Their voices swell up towards the balcony where Chrom waits—a high tide carrying anthemic strains of music in its wake.

The clank of Robin’s boots makes for a metallic metronome as she paces behind him. She’s dressed in her grandmaster’s regalia—bequeathed to her in commemoration of her services during the first war. The golden chest piece has been polished to near blinding brightness and each time she crosses into the patch of sunshine slanting around the curtain, Chrom is indeed nearly blinded by the glare.

He has no doubts that the people of Ylisse will embrace Robin as their future queen, but he can understand why she’s chosen these clothes in particular—they’re a reminder that she’s already delivered them a hard-won peace.

From a personal standpoint, he’s certainly not going to complain about the choice. The skirt and thigh high boots have an effect on Robin’s legs that’s nothing short of magnificent. Which—that’s not why he gave them to her, of course. But now that they’re together, he’s not above some admiration.

“Robin? Love?” he prompts. He catches her by her wrist on her next swivel, the momentum of her pacing causing her to crash into his chest as she turns.

“Ah. Chrom. Hi,” she says, blinking her way out of whatever catastrophizing she was just mired in. “Sorry. I’m just—”

“Nervous?”

“Hypothetically, yes.” Robin smiles shakily. “‘Nervous’ seems an insufficient word for it, really. I think they may need to invent a new one.”

Chrom chuckles, smoothing the violet mantle that lays atop her tactician’s robe.

“Perhaps while they’re at it, they can invent a new word for how much faith I have in you,” he replies, ducking to press a kiss to her forehead. “You’ll be wonderful, Robin.”

Robin makes a long ‘pfffft’ sound, but he doesn’t miss the pink in her cheeks. She leans into his chest, and Chrom wraps his arms around her, swaying slightly as he holds her close. A cheer rings out behind them as the last rousing song comes to a close, an anticipatory drum beat building in its place.

“There will be more,” Robin says softly. “More people who don’t approve…more obstacles. You know that, don’t you? It will never really be over.”

“Then let them come. We’re stronger than anything they can throw at us,” Chrom promises.

Robin’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “It really shouldn’t be so easy to believe you when you say things like that.” She huffs in a breath, prying herself from his arms again. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll have a more productive outlet for my worrying soon. After this announcement is made, there’s no way Frederick and Maribelle are going to let us wriggle out of wedding planning.”

“Oh gods,” Chrom mutters, paling considerably. “We’re actually going to have to do that now, aren’t we?”

“Mm, having second thoughts, are you?” Mirth twinkles in Robin’s eyes. “You’ll endure half your council conspiring against us and being put in mortal peril, but you draw the line at choosing a color for napkins?”

Chrom shakes his head. “For you, not even then.”

His answer earns him a feather-soft kiss—one he only parts from when the drum beat has built to a tremor in his bones. “Are you ready?” he murmurs.

“You know what?” Robin says. “I think I am.”

She weaves her fingers with his, the band of the engagement ring pressing firm through her glove. As they step out into the dazzling sun, the applause rising to a roar, Chrom thinks the future has never looked brighter.