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 thrash about frantically. 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 around—
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!”