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The Ylissean plains were quiet now, the battle against the Risen finally over as the sun was setting. Chrom had led the Shepherds, wielding Falchion with his usual skill, but a Risen axeman had caught him off-guard. Its blade had landed a deep cut across his side before Frederick dispatched it. Now, with the fighting done, Chrom made his way back to camp, one hand pressed against the wound, blood staining his cape. His face was pale but determined.
Maribelle sat on a high-topped stool in the healing tent, tending to a pegasus knight with a gashed forearm, when she caught sight of him. Her heart seized, a familiar dread knotting her stomach. She murmured a quick apology to the knight and strode toward him, her staff already glowing with the faint pulse of a Mend spell. Her delicate features were set in a fierce scowl, her eyes alight with a mix of fury and fear.
“Chrom!” Her voice cut through the camp’s noise, turning the heads of soldiers nearby. “Have you lost all sense? Throwing yourself into the fray like some reckless fool?” She reached him as he faltered, her gloved hands steadying him with a strength that belied her small frame, guiding him to a cot. “Do you have any idea what it does to me, seeing you stumble back like this, bleeding and half-dead?”
Chrom winced, the pain in his side matched by the bite of her words. He tried for a smile, but it faltered into a grimace as he sank onto the cot. “Maribelle, I’m all right…” he started, his voice rough with exhaustion.
“All right?” she snapped, peeling back his shirt to reveal the wound, a deep, angry slash that made her breath catch. “You call this all right? You were bleeding through your tunic, you obstinate man!” Her hands moved with practiced grace, positioning her staff over the gash, the magic knitting torn flesh and slowing the flow of blood. “You’re the Exalt of Ylisse, Chrom, not some hired mercenary! You can’t just charge headlong into danger and expect me to stand by, watching, waiting, wondering if this is the day you don’t come back!”
Chrom’s shoulders sagged, his blue eyes meeting hers, heavy with guilt and weariness. “I’m sorry, love,” he said softly. “I didn’t mean to scare you. The Risen were breaking through. Sully and Stahl were pinned down. I couldn’t stand by and let them fall.”
Maribelle’s lips tightened, her hands trembling slightly as she channeled more magic into the wound. His words struck a chord, stirring both frustration and a reluctant admiration. He was always like this, selfless to a fault, putting everyone else before himself. “You always say that,” she said, her voice quieter now. “It’s always about saving someone else. But what about you, Chrom? What about us?” Her eyes glistened, though she blinked fiercely to hold back the tears. “What am I supposed to tell Lucina if you don’t come back? Or Lissa? Do you think we can just carry on without you?”
The mention of their daughter, of Lissa, of their family, hit Chrom like a blow. He reached for her hand, his calloused fingers curling around hers. “You’re right. I was reckless. I’ll do better, Maribelle. I’ll be more careful. For you, for Lucina, for all of us. I swear it.”
Maribelle let out a shaky breath, her shoulders easing as the worst of her fear slipped away. “You’d better,” she said, her tone softening. “I didn’t marry you to spend my days playing nursemaid, you know. I’ve got far more refined pursuits--perfecting my tea blends, teaching Lucina the finer points of courtly grace, maybe even having a moment’s peace!”
Chrom chuckled, easing the tension between them. “And I didn’t marry you to be lectured, though you’ve got a knack for it.” He squeezed her hand, his thumb tracing slow circles over her knuckles. “I don’t deserve you, Maribelle. I never will.”
She huffed, but the sound was soft, almost fond. She leaned closer, her free hand resting gently against his cheek, her touch tender as she traced the familiar lines of his face. “You’re utterly infuriating,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, thick with emotion. “But you’re my husband, Chrom, and I love you… more than I can ever say.”
He turned his head, pressing a soft kiss to her palm, his eyes locked on hers, warm and unwavering. “I love you too. Always.” He shifted, ignoring the lingering ache in his side, and drew her closer, his arm wrapping around her waist. She didn’t pull away, letting herself melt into his embrace, her forehead resting against his.
They lingered there, her hand cradling his face, his arm holding her close, the chaos of the camp fading into a distant hum. Her fingers brushed against his jaw, grounding herself in the warmth of his presence, the steady cadence of his breath.
Maribelle pulled back just enough to look at him, her eyes soft but searching. “Promise me,” she said, her voice low, “that you’ll always come back to me, no matter what.”
Chrom’s smile was gentle, his hand rising to tuck a stray curl behind her ear. “I promise,” he said, his voice firm. “No matter what, I’ll always find my way back to you.”
Her lips curved into a small, genuine smile, and she leaned in, closing the distance between them. Their lips met in a tender kiss. His hand slid to the back of her neck, her fingers threading through his hair, and for that fleeting instant, the world was theirs alone.
When they parted, their foreheads pressed together, Maribelle let out a soft, shaky laugh. “You’d better keep that promise, my love,” she whispered. “Or you may incur my wrath.”
“Always,” Chrom replied, his eyes laughing. As the camp stirred around them, they held onto each other, their bond a light against the darkness of war.