Chapter Text
Chapter 1
Chrom's first sight of the Plegian prince he is set to wed is one of gauzy veils and fabrics, of golden-bright eyes flicking disdainfully away when he turns to look at him. He's thin, Chrom can tell by the slender wrist that lifts the hand that settles against his, warm and so delicate that it reminds him of a bird. They stand side by side, before Emmeryn and the council, and pledge to wed in two weeks' time, and Chrom hasn't even seen his full face or heard more than whispers: "I do so pledge" and "Under the gods' eyes." His voice is deep and soft, at odds with the formality in the words and the attire and the whole pomp of this situation.
Chrom's stomach churns as they turn from Emmeryn, as he motions for the Plegian prince, nearly a head shorter than him, to proceed him from the audience chamber.
Chrom will do his part in sealing the peace agreement, no matter what.
He's half expecting the prince to seek out solitude and his own servants, but he tilts his head slightly and defers to Chrom's guidance. So Chrom leads him to a secluded balcony where the sun gleams on white marble and the roses creeping up the trellis behind the bench.
The Plegian pauses as Chrom goes to the bench and takes his seat, then joins him a careful distance apart so that not even their knees brush together. His fingers lace together on his lap. He does not look up, face mostly hidden in profile beneath the silken hood he wears.
Chrom's dislike grows with every silent moment. He never asked for this marriage, never wanted a Plegian prince for a partner. Chrom had naively thought that he could go where his heart led him, when in fact he had become the most eligible bachelor in Ylisse and a bargaining tool. Emmeryn had cried when Chrom told her he hated this. But she had still asked him to do it, and Chrom, being the prince of the halidom, had seen that his marriage would be the least offensive of the potential arrangements that either Emmeryn or Lissa would have to make.
"Was the journey tiring?" he finally asks, just to break the silence.
The Plegian's long, delicate fingers tighten. "It was."
Did you protest this as hard as I did? Chrom wants to ask, curious as to the kind of person he would share the rest of his life with.
"Ylisse is very green," the prince says, and turns slightly to look at Chrom for a moment with one eye. "Fertile. I enjoyed looking at the fields as we traveled."
"That's right, Plegia is mostly desert," Chrom says. The prince nods, but turns his eye away.
Silence descends again.
"So what do you think of all this?" Chrom finally blurts. "Of marrying me."
The Plegian straightens beside him, and his purple silken hood shifts into a wayward sunbeam, bringing out the gold strands woven into the fine fabric. "It is an honor to assist my country in this way," he says stiffly.
"You're seriously okay with being carted halfway across the known world to marry a strange prince you've never met?"
"They told me you were kind and strong."
Chrom wants him to look at him, and it's such a strong urge that he shifts on the bench and accidentally brushes blue fabric against white.
The Plegian gives a sharp inhale and freezes.
Chrom continues, "They told me nothing about you, except that you were male and around my age… a suitable partner."
The words ring out, and Chrom wants to take them back, only they finally incite the Plegian into some sort of emotion before he can lessen their impact. "I'm… sorry if I displease you, milord."
Now Chrom feels awful, his stomach flopping unpleasantly. He reaches out, stops, then says, "May I touch you?"
"Yes." It's soft as the wings of a butterfly.
He takes one long hand and settles his own around it, then gently tugs until the prince is forced to either turn or fight against it. The Plegian turns, and finally Chrom gets a good look into his eyes. They are golden as the sun, deep pupils wide as he takes Chrom in. The veil disguises his face, keeps his expression from Chrom, but even with just his eyes, the worry shines through.
"You don't displease me," Chrom says. "This wasn't your fault or your idea, that we marry to secure the treaty."
Those eyes widen. "Thank you, milord."
And as he's about to turn away again, Chrom reaches up with a hand. "May I see your face?"
The Plegian prince shrinks back, but then catches himself. His shoulders try so hard to hunch but on an inhale, he presses them back.
"I - suppose." He leans slightly into Chrom's outstretched fingers, and Chrom disentangles the veil from the hood. The skin of his cheek is hot beneath Chrom's fingers as he pulls the veil down and aside.
Robin bites his bottom lip and then seems to realize he is doing so. He presses them together, and Chrom's eyes drift up his delicate nose, seeing the symmetry in his features, the way his eyes are his best feature.
He's blushing. Chrom realizes this in a flash, as Robin ducks his head and asks, "Do I… suit you?"
"Yes," Chrom blurts without thinking. His own cheeks burn. "I mean…" He laughs, and squeezes his hand on Robin's, gently. "I'm sorry. We are both stuck in this situation, and I want to make the best of it. I want to be your friend, if you'll have me… Prince Robin."
Robin stares at him, mouth falling open in surprise. "My… friend?" He says it like he can't believe Chrom would ever want that.
"What do you say?" Chrom asks.
Robin stares for another instant. The sunlight slants across his features. And then he smiles, like he's finally decided what to feel about this offer. It's brighter than the sunlight, but fleeting, there and gone behind the clouds.
His fingers curl in Chrom's. "Yes, please," Robin says.
"Friends, then," Chrom says, and disentangles his fingers to offer a handshake.
Robin chuckles, then sobers as he realizes Chrom is serious. He settles his hand in Chrom's, and as they shake, Chrom feels a tension slowly ease out of him. This Robin is nothing as he'd expected.
"I need one thing from you, though," Chrom says.
Robin's eyebrows come in with apprehension. "Yes, milord?"
"I only want you to call me Chrom. That's what my friends call me."
Robin's eyes look suspiciously watery. "Alright… Chrom."
Chrom stands and pulls Robin to his feet. "We'd best get back. I'm certain someone will be looking for us soon. May I take you to your quarters?"
"Yes, please." Robin looks relieved, and Chrom isn't certain if it's because Robin doesn't know where to go, or if he's more tired from the journey than he admitted to… or if it's because he doesn't want Chrom to leave him alone.
Chrom leads him from the balcony with Robin's hand tucked over his own forearm, and when Robin leaves the veil off, Chrom counts it as a step in the right direction.
~*~
Nine days after their first meeting, Robin is already expecting the note tucked beneath his evening teacup. He traces the elegant scrawl as he sips his tea. This is the fourth such message, secreted to him through the servants, since his arrival in Ylisstol.
Please meet me in my rooms tonight at half past eight. It is not signed, but it doesn’t have to be. Chrom’s handwriting is effortless and distinct. Robin slips the note into his pocket, already memorizing the words as he smiles into his teacup. The soothing Plegian spices in the tea are a dose of familiarity in among the strangeness of this old, drafty castle. He slips down his own sofa closer to the roaring fire, knowing that Chrom probably spoke to the servants to make certain of Robin’s comfort. Even in late spring, Ylisse holds none of Plegia’s heat, and especially at night it is cold.
He glances up at the mantle. Quarter after eight. Henry and Tharja have already left him for the night, settling him in with the tea and making certain his sleeping clothes and tomorrow morning’s outfit are laid out for him. Chrom occasionally takes breakfast in Robin’s rooms, and Robin’s two vassals are not early to rise. Robin used to be a night owl himself, but he doesn’t mind the intimate, gentle affair with Chrom, much easier than attending with his father’s court. He finishes the rest of his tea and sets the empty cup on the platter with a faint click, careful with the delicate porcelain painted white and gold and blue the same color as Chrom’s hair.
Then he rises and wraps his cloak a bit tighter around himself. He pauses before the mirror in the corner, elaborately carved in deep mahogany, and idly smooths his hair down before settling the hood over the top. It's his mother's old cloak, brought in secret from Plegia, and wearing it brings him comfort.
Then he heads from his room. The hall is cold, but the oil lamps cast a steady light. He knows how to get to the library and the main dining hall, and thinks he could navigate his way out to the training courtyard or the gardens in a pinch, but the castle is confusing and he could easily get lost. My new home, he thinks, but there is no malice or fear that clenches his heart, as he’d felt when packing up his life and his belongings to come to Ylisstol.
His feet know this path well, and soon he finds himself before the ornate double doors. He pauses before knocking, and says to the seemingly empty hallway, “You can go now, Tharja.”
There’s a soft rustle, and she emerges from a clever shadow, scowling at him from beneath her dark bangs. She is exceedingly loyal to Robin, for no reason other than her own strange affection. Robin knows his father had promised both his vassals death if any harm should befall him here, but he also knows that Tharja only wants the best for him. Robin inclines his head toward her. “I’ll be safe with Chrom.”
Her mouth twists, but she bows to him, then slinks back into the shadows. He's not certain if she's actually left, but he doesn't think she will follow him inside.
He raises his hand and knocks three times, slowly.
The door opens so fast that Robin thinks Chrom was waiting right beside it, and that thought tickles him more than he's willing to admit. "Good evening, Chrom." It still feels strange to utter his name, a privilege he hasn’t quite earned.
"Come in, come in," Chrom says, and backs up to allow Robin entry. Once he’s inside, the warmth of the nearby roaring fire settles over him.
“I have something to show you,” Chrom says, and instead of leading Robin to the couches arranged before the fire, he turns to the open doors to his bedroom. Robin pauses for just a moment, aware of the boundary they are crossing. Heat rises to his cheeks but he follows Chrom once the other prince disappears into the bedroom.
The double doors leading from the sitting room into the bedroom have always been open each time Robin attended his future husband, but he hasn’t inspected the room beyond. Chrom’s giant four-poster hangs draped with all the finery and pomp one might expect from a prince of the halidom. Chrom goes to his knees and then flops down beside the bed, then pats the lush rug beside him.
Robin approaches slowly, half-expecting a trick or joke. When Chrom watches him steadily, Robin folds himself down beside Chrom. He tucks his legs beneath him and watches as Chrom leans back against the bed, one arm casually draped along the top where the covers hang to the floor.
“What is this?” Robin asks, surprised by the soft warning in his own voice. He hasn’t even asked if they will be expected to share the same living space, once they are married. His mother had her own quarters from his father, but she died when he was very young. Robin doesn’t know if his parents' separate areas were out of mutual convenience or societal demands, and he certainly doesn't know if he prefers keeping his own quarters or moving in with Chrom.
“I want to show you something,” Chrom says again, and then leans in.
Robin’s eyes widen. He almost flinches back as Chrom moves closer, as his cheek brushes against his shoulder. Chrom’s chin rests there, pressing the layers of fabric into Robin’s skin. This close, Robin can smell him, the foreign scents that are already quintessentially Chrom: the sweet bright aroma of sword oil and beneath it, his warm skin, definitively masculine like the sunlit cedarwood forests Robin’s procession rode through on their way to Ylisstol.
“What are you--” Robin asks, aware that his voice is breathy and unsure. But then Chrom makes a soft grunt and withdraws an elaborately inlaid wooden box, two hand spans long and one wide, from beneath the bedskirts. He sets it between them, and he doesn’t seem to notice that he accidentally touched Robin, which seems astounding for how aware it made Robin of his much larger fiancee’s body. Robin tries his hardest to relax, and after a moment emulates Chrom’s easy sprawl against the side of the bed.
Chrom angles one leg and slips a key into the slot on the front of the box, and the lid falls open.
Paper rustles as Chrom dives into it, shifting the dry, old parchment casually out of the way. Robin gathers the folded pages from Chrom before he damages them, placing them into his lap to allow Chrom to reach the assortment of things beneath. A small carved figurine mounted on a horse nearly impales Chrom’s finger with his wooden sword.
“What is all this?” Robin asks.
“Memories,” Chrom says, his voice at once wistful and hard. He pauses in his introspection to set an elaborate miniature dragon on the carpet beside the box. “My mother gave these to me when I turned four… the year before she died, giving birth to Lissa.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Robin says.
Chrom shrugs, then pauses to look up, a third figure in hand, raising a familiar sword. “You don’t talk about your mother much, either… I assumed…” His eyebrows come together. “I thought you lost her young, too.”
Robin swallows. “I did. I hardly knew her.”
Chrom’s smile is bitter. “My father changed after my mother’s death. He was… well, you know all about the recent wars between our two countries.”
Robin nods, and lifts the knight, tapping the horse’s head.
“He grew harder after her death, expected more out of all of us. He hated Lissa most of all, so I protected her.”
Robin blinks, surprised at the candor and the anger in Chrom’s tone. “He was still your father.”
“He was cruel,” Chrom says with a shake of his head. “I was glad when he died, even if it meant Emmeryn had to bear the brunt of our people’s anger.”
“My father… is not very kind either.” Robin is surprised by his own admission. “I mean, he does what is best for the country, but…”
“What he thinks is best,” Chrom gently corrects.
“I - You say that.” Robin does not want to hear Chrom speak ill of his father. He is still Robin’s king, despite being sent away to Ylisse.
Chrom frowns. “I’m sorry, Robin. I thought… You don’t speak warmly of your own father.”
Robin looks down, traces a symbol on the fabric of his pants, then draws a knee to his chest. “We were never warm to each other. Not like you and Princess Lissa and Lady Emmeryn.”
“I won’t be like that to my own children,” Chrom says. “I want them to know what love is, to feel it without having to leap through hoops or prove themselves to their parents.”
Robin doesn’t realize he’s staring until Chrom’s blue eyes pierce him, a stretched moment of communication. Another thing he hadn’t thought of, that they would be expected to raise children. He thinks of the long dinner table, of his father’s booming voice echoing across the empty space, telling Robin that he was to be ready to leave for Ylisse in two weeks’ time, to marry the Ylissean prince and secure peace… of how his father had treated him like a commodity to be sold at a fancy price, cast off into Ylisse.
“That’s… a nice hope,” he finally says, his stomach twisting. Just when he thinks he’s got Chrom figured out, another facet comes into view. Robin isn’t certain he would make a good father, but he knows he does not want to be like his own. Perhaps all children want to do things different from how their parents treated them.
But Chrom has gone back to the box of memories, and pulls out a small velvet case. “Here it is.” He turns to Robin and gives a lopsided smile. “This is what I wanted to show you. It’s my mother’s ring. Father had several anti-Plegian hex protections put on it…” He gives Robin a sideways glance, almost apologetic, and Robin flips his hand for Chrom to continue. He knows what Ylisseans used to say about Plegia, about how Plegia’s magic had gone dark and twisted, and how everyone with an ounce of magic in their blood could hex with a single glance. He knows that they will probably say it about him, as well.
Chrom cracks open the case and turns it toward him. Robin sucks in a breath. He doesn't know what he was expecting, but it is not this. The main stone is a pale bluish green, a delicate aquamarine, and shaped like a teardrop. Silver and gold engravings curl around the large stone, encasing it in lovely patterns. Small diamond chips lurk further down the design.
"Here," Chrom says, and pops the ring free of the protective velvet. He holds it out to Robin, who stares at it, and then at Chrom, until Chrom chuckles and gently takes Robin's wrist. He draws Robin's hand forward and slips the ring onto his third finger, then releases him.
The stone's weight immediately spins around and sags to the underside of his finger, and Robin twists it back in place. "It's beautiful," he says.
"It's loose," Chrom says. “I’ll get it sized down for you.” He takes Robin’s hand once more and lingers, his gloves rough and calloused against Robin’s palm. His eyes are large and close. Robin holds his breath, entranced by the gentle touch on his knuckles.
And then, it and the ring are removed. He feels strangely bereft of the contact, fleeting as it was. Aside from Tharja and Henry, nobody has touched him so kindly since his mother.
He folds his hands together. "You would really give me your mother's ring?" he asks, to disguise the way the absence has made him feel.
Chrom slips the ring back into its case. "Why not? We are to be wed, and Emm said I should give it to the person I would spend the rest of my life with." There's only a hint of wistfulness in his voice, and Robin understands that Chrom wanted the choice. And Robin understands that he would never have been Chrom's selection.
His heart aches for and with Chrom, and also for himself. Without thinking, he presses his hand to the top of Chrom's knuckles, where they have closed protectively on the ring case. Part of him is shocked at this forward behavior, and his cheeks flush warm. He removes his hand from Chrom's, but says, "Thank you," with a little abashed smile.
It's apparently the right thing to say, because Chrom smiles at him, and slips against the bed until his shoulder is pressed to Robin's. When the conversation moves to other things, Robin lets it, gladly furthering his acquaintance with the man he's going to marry.
~*~
Chrom is glad that the festivities of their nuptials are almost over. He leans his elbows on the balcony railing, a little tipsy on sparkling wine, and inspects his new wedding band. It's silver and gold, entwined around Naga’s symbol, the same that graces his arm.
He actually didn't mind the elaborate wedding feast the entire court had shared in his and Robin's honor. The food was good and the beer and wine had flowed freely. His training group, Sully and Stahl and Vaike and the rest, had celebrated the end of the tensions between Ylisse and Plegia. With Plegia's crown prince married to Chrom, they cannot attack without risking repercussions. It means that none of them will have to go to war, will have to fight and kill or be killed. And Chrom had drunk to that.
Robin had been shy and withdrawn, barely smiling, but Chrom has heard enough, and listened between the lines, to know that Robin is afraid of being seen as unprofessional or looked down upon by anyone. When Chrom held Robin's hand beneath the banquet table, he didn't seem to mind.
A voice interrupts his wayward thoughts. "May I join you?"
Chrom turns, and gazes upon Robin, still wearing most of his wedding finery. His veil is gone, along with the heavy outermost layer, leaving him soft and exposed. His arms look slender and bare, and Chrom can almost see the goosebumps from where he stands.
He pats the railing, and Robin crosses, then settles onto his elbows. He tilts his head and inspects him. "You look tipsy, my prince," Robin says, one side of his expressive mouth quirked up.
"You look happy," Chrom says back, without thinking.
Robin is momentarily shocked, and then the harsh expression softens into a gentle smile. "I am. It was a lovely night."
Driven by Robin's smile, Chrom takes Robin’s hand. The ring glints in the torches along the wall, Chrom's mother's ring on Robin's finger. "It fits well," he says.
Robin nods, and Chrom knows him well enough to understand his silence for shyness. After a moment, Robin says, “Your friends - the Shepherds - are very kind.”
Chrom feels a twinge of worry, remembering a moment’s glance across the wide banquet hall with Vaike, Maribelle, Sully and Stahl all crowded around Robin, raucous laughter breaking out over the top of the music and the lull of conversation, Robin barely smiling in their midst. “I hope they weren’t too pushy with you.”
Robin spreads his hands, the gemstone glittering in his ring. “No, they made me feel very welcome. They truly care about you, and want the best for you. I’m only sorry that I wasn’t your first choice.” He attempts to hide the shiver that darts down his spine, but Chrom catches it.
Chrom tugs at his own jacket, undoing the buttons and slipping out of it while Robin protests, “What are you doing?”
“Here,” Chrom says, and settles it over Robin’s narrow shoulders.
“Won’t you be cold?” Robin asks, but tugs the collar close to his neck, as if savoring the fleeting warmth of Chrom’s skin.
“I’ve got sleeves. I can’t have my husband falling ill on our wedding night. It would be a bad omen.”
Robin regards him, then slides his arms into the sleeves. They are too long and cover his knuckles, leaving his fingertips peeking out the ends. “Thank you.”
“And I don’t mind that you are my husband,” Chrom says, remembering what Robin said moments earlier. I wasn’t your first choice.
Robin’s eyes are as wide as the almost-full moon that hangs overhead. “Truly?”
“You’re smart and gentle,” Chrom says, ticking off fingers. “My friends like you. You know how to be courteous and you know your way around these sensitive courtiers. I could have been saddled with a boor, or someone twice my age, or someone who is deliberately cruel. I might not have asked for this, but I’m glad it is you.”
Robin drops his face, cheeks flushed red under the compliments. Chrom takes his fingers with a smile, and Robin curls their hands together into the cuff of the leant jacket. He leans in so his head rests against Chrom’s shoulder, light as a bird. “Thank you, husband.”
Chrom can barely see the curve of his cheek, but knows he’s smiling.
The smell of roses rises from the gardens below and mingles with the bright Plegian scent coming off Robin. Chrom doesn’t know the individual scents that make it up, but it is distinctly Robin, and he’s starting to appreciate it.
Chrom smiles up at the stars.
“Come on,” Robin says, “We should get back. Someone will notice our absence.”
Chrom obeys, and lets Robin draw him away.