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"My brother is an insensitive brute," he hears Lissa say. She speaks with a weary gravitas ill-suited for a thirteen year old. "But you continue to fancy him."
Someone sputters in response, tripping over her words in varying pitches, trying to form the word "he" but stuttering until she sounds close to hyperventilating. Lissa sighs, followed by the sound of a saucer sliding across the surface of a table.
For a moment, Chrom entertains the idea of peeking past the door cracked slightly open, but banishes the thought as quickly as it came. It would be a violation of privacy. Besides, it's not as if he's particularly equipped to deal with matters of love.
Chrom is aware the maids talk. It's difficult to not know when they gossip loudly with the guards stationed outside of his room.
The Prince of Ylisse is a fool, they say. What use are his looks if he has a brick for a heart and the common sense of a bear.
Though he's not one to think badly of others, Chrom finds it a tad bit insulting they'd say that when he has enough tact to properly entertain foreign emissaries.
He smells it before he sees it—the perfumed stack of scrolls lying precariously on the corner of Emmeryn's desk, threatening to fall off with the slightest breeze.
"What in Naga's name are those," Chrom says, pinching his nose. To Emmeryn's credit, she maintains her usual smile as if the stench wasn't invading every corner of the room.
"Marriage offers." She barely moves her mouth, barely breathes, and Chrom is reminded that she, too, is only human.
"Already? This soon?"
"Not soon at all," she corrects. "The council has been growing insistent as of late. It's the fastest way to secure political ties, after all."
He tries to picture it—Emmeryn and a mystery figure, crowned, in a shared seat of power—and is surprised to find it unsettling, almost revolting. Or maybe it's the overwhelming floral scent that's aggravating him.
"Take care, Chrom. It will be your turn soon."
He smiles. "I have no interest in marriage, or love. There is nothing to worry about."
"No," Emmeryn says, "that is precisely why I worry."
"Frederick," he begins, "have you been in love before?"
Frederick coughs once into his hand. "I beg your pardon, milord."
"It seems to be all anyone talks about recently."
Frederick stays silent for a beat, before a strange well of emotion pulls at his voice. "Milord is already at that age, I see. How quickly you have matured into a fine young man."
"I—"
"Do not fret, milord. I will teach you all that you need to know about the intricate details of courtship and intimacy of—"
"No, no, it's fine."
Chrom starts to find small, unobtrusive flowers wherever he goes. In his saddle, in his gloves, in between the pages of a book. He mentions it to Lissa who looks unsurprised and aged ten years older.
"What do you think it means?"
"You have a secret admirer," she drawls out. "Congratulations."
He stares, dumbfounded. "What should I do?"
Lissa throws her hands up in the air and groans. "I don't know! Get interested! Fall in love!"
"But how do I do that?"
"You'd have to feel a spark when you see them—"
"A spark sounds like it might hurt."
"—the kind that makes you want to stick close to them, and talk to them constantly, and want to stalk them with flowers, I guess."
His brows furrow. "I don't understand."
"Brother," she says, "if someday you grow one romantic bone in your body, I'll dance at your wedding dressed as a clown."
Chrom frowns, but catches sight of a familiar figure walking towards the stables, and waves her down instead.
"Perfect timing, I'll ask Sumia about this."
"Wait, don't—"
Chrom is already running.
Curiously, the day after, the flowers stop.
The foliage of the gardens nearly mutes the music floating from it, but Chrom manages to track down the soft notes of a harp until he walks upon Phila.
Her fingers still on her harp as she gives a polite bow. "Milord."
Chrom raises his hands in half assurance, half apology. "Don't mind me. Please, continue."
He settles down on a bench. She does not play. Crickets chirp in the silence between them, and Chrom fidgets, sliding his boots against the stone tiles. Just as he wonders if this was why Lissa went around calling him an "insensitive brute," a warm breeze wafts a familiar scent over.
He smiles wryly. "I see you've also run into Emmeryn's affairs."
Somehow, the already still Phila freezes in place even more. He hears Lissa's chiding voice play in his head.
"Um, have...have you also received marriage offers before?"
"Milord," Phila finally says. Chrom sits up, alert. She raises her hands, and a moment later begins plucking strings a note at a time, aimless in rhythm and pitch.
"I apologize, I'm not very, well-versed, with, ah, topics of romance—"
"My duty is to stand behind Her Highness, acting as a shield and spear when necessary," she says, mercifully cutting him off. "Marriage, for someone in a position such as mine, is risky."
"I...see," he says. He doesn't "see" at all. Plenty of soldiers and generals marry and have children, but this territory is out of his depth, so he settles on a safer conversation. "Truthfully, I tried imagining someone else ruling by her side, but Emmeryn has always been shining as the sole light of Ylisse. It feels wrong to split that light with another."
Phila remains silent, but her hands continue to move, plucking solitary strings as they resonate in the air.
"I'm glad my sister has you, Phila, so she has someone she can fall back on. Bringing this country together would be impossible without your support from below, holding her steady."
He's sure he imagines it, but the slightest curve of a smile seems to grace her stoic expression as she bows her head. When she raises her eyes once more, a gentle, coherent melody springs forth from her fingers, and he drums his own against the bench.
"Milord," Phila says as Chrom rises to leave, "it is my hope that in the future, you will also find someone to stand at your side."
As time passes, Chrom finds himself free of any pestering by the council. It crosses his mind that Emmeryn must be blocking any talks of marriage—and then he thinks of the never ending duties he must fulfill, recruiting new members into the Shepherds, arranging the army's schedule and supplies, dealing with reports of border disputes, and forgets all about it.
"I could have ridden my own horse," Lissa grumbles into Frederick's armor, her arms barely wrapping around him. Chrom smiles at how ridiculously small she looks in comparison.
"Stay close to Frederick," he says. "It will be safer."
"You're all overreacting. This is not my first time outside of Ylisstol."
"This is your first time dealing with brigands."
She huffs and leans around Frederick to glare. "That's when we get to town. Until then, I could have ridden my own horse."
"Milady, danger lurks on every road. It is best to be prepared and aware of your surroundings at all—"
"Chrom." Lissa's gaze sharpens and her voice drops all traces of her temper. "Is that someone lying on the ground?"
Chrom feels a spark on his fingers as he helps the stranger up, but curiously it does not hurt.