AN: This one is for Chrom. :( Bless his exalted heart—I got to thinking about it, and I realised that after the events of the game and before Robin's return, he must have had something of a hard time. Older!Lucina leaves him, Lissa leaves him, Emmeryn (if she is recovered using Spotpass) leaves him, Owain leaves him, and Morgan may potentially leave him too. I know he has all his friends. But that's his family that's leaving, and Chrom is such a family man.

As ever, feedback and criticism are appreciated and highly valued!

And happy (belated) St. Patty's day to those of you who celebrate it!

I.

Lucina broaches her plans on a brisk autumn day. The sun hangs white and blank in a uniformly blue sky. This day is not much colder than the previous days of this week, but the wind today is biting. It doesn't seem to hold any promise.

Chrom could pretend he hadn't heard her. He could buy himself some precious time to grasp and recover the sense that he sees quickly spiralling away from him. And he could fight the clammy feeling that's rising from the centre of his palms up through his arms; he could hide his stretching as a movement to bring himself closer to her. His swordarm is resting in its sling, and that hand twitches beneath his tattered white, blue-lined cape. (When he has been going for walks he has always donned the same outfit he had worn that day when he met her. These have been dubbed his searching clothes by several of the court's more sardonic members. He changes into them as he would prepare for a royal hunt.)

Lucina is looking at him. There is in her expression what he understands to be vulnerability. He reads it in the slight tilt of her head, her looking up at him through the rim of her lashes. She's an unsure daughter looking for her father's approval—his blessing that he could confer or withhold.

But he could never disappoint her. He smiles at her, he says along with an expansive gesture of his hand, "My darling, congratulations! Of course you may go to Wyvern Valley with Gerome."

She beams at him. "Oh thank you, Father."

"I must admit I never thought I'd have to see you off so soon...But you are your own person. And this time I've had with you—every moment of it has been a gift. You have been a valuable friend, and you will always be my irreplaceable daughter. You will always have a home here, and you will always have a father who loves you."

"Oh, I'm not leaving immediately you know," she says, and there's a slight pause that holds a staggering depth of meaning. Not yet, but soon, soon, Chrom senses. "Gerome would like to get married in Ylisse before we leave. Cherche asked for us to do as much, and I couldn't have a ceremony without having Morgan or you."

Her head's slightly cocked when she smiles, and her femininity renders him lost once more. He is this woman's father, of course, but he wasn't given time to adjust to this kind of thing. There was no growth spurt, it just happened. Her sudden maturing in this way was unanticipated. Here she is, a lady, and how is he to relate to her? Luckily, she isn't expecting much from him. Him just doing his best—whether he fails or not—is just fine by her. As long as he's alive, he's doing enough. How simple is that, how could he ever refuse her?

Then she takes him by his arm—his naked arm, the one with the mark of Naga and the one that's becoming numb on this blustery day. Though he isn't buffeted enough to be chilled, he appreciates the contact, and he remarks to himself that Lucina has become more tactile. She has even become more than generous with her hugs, much to her younger brother's repeatedly spoken delight.

Chrom presently leans into his daughter's warmth. The blue scarf bundled around her neck and shoulders tickles at his upper arm. They resume walking along the lane back towards the castle.

"You've grown up too quickly, my little girl. I haven't even had time to think of a good wedding gift for you."

"Father, you needn't bother. ...You know that kind of thing doesn't mean anything. Not to me."

"Nonsense," Chrom says. They are still walking, but he slows for a titch to cast a glance around him. He doesn't really realise what he's doing, that he's still looking even now. He thinks that he's taken a moment to breathe. "Your mother wouldn't forgive me if she found out I didn't get you something from the both of us. If you love me, you won't try to talk me out of it."

Lucina laughs at that. It's a comely sound, and the way she brings her hand to her mouth makes his heart beat up-tempo. "I shall allow you to do your duty, Father."

"Thank you," he says, and though he grins at her, there's a sudden maudlin mood that settles upon him. It's light and undefined, originating from somewhere in the space within chest. There are many things that he's thinking of—changes, missed opportunities, unaccountable nostalgia, wind-numbed ears. He looks around them and he sees the ambitiously celebratory colours of autumn: yellows, oranges, purples, golds, all of it in preparation for death. It will be a temporary death, but it is still a going away, a parting for some time. There is distance here.

He longs for the winsome laugh of his little Lucina who is just learning to walk. He longs for the pretty smile of his older Lucina who is just becoming an adult. The dichotomy sets his conscious aching: firsts and toys and gurgles, against smiles and gestures and whispers. He has seen the way Lucina positions herself around Gerome. He has never heard those three words spoken between them, but they are obvious in the way that she rests her eyes on Gerome when he's near. There is also the way that a part of her presence always gravitates towards him, even when he isn't near.

Which is fine by him, really. He understands that this is all part of a natural process. Though there were never any parents he had to prove and justify his own love to, there had been a kingdom and Lissa, who had been what remained of his family but not a matriarch. If Emmeryn had been alive she would have been the closest thing to a maternal figure whose blessing and acceptance he would have had to have sought. But surely she wouldn't have said no. She wouldn't have held any reservations when she saw how happy his wife had made him. (There was also the fact that Robin was a good match for the kingdom. Her obscure origins would have meant nothing to his older sister.)

Lucina parts herself from him then to rearrange her scarf with a few deft movements. It has been blown out of place by the wind that is also tugging at a part of his cape, as it blows another part against his broad back. He moves to shelter Lucina from the wind. His silver pauldron glints in the sun as he turns. It's not much that he's providing her with, but it gives him a raise of paternal pride that overcomes his indistinct sadness for a moment. He comes to a better place.

She smiles at him.

Then the small reprieve is over. She and he resume walking. Side by side for the moment, but that's even now coming to an end. Soon they will be closer to her departure.

By letting her go, why must he be losing a part of himself? And why does it make him feel so old?

They are within sight of the castle when he spots a hawk perched on the uppermost branches of a shedding tree. The thin branches are white and stark and gnarled, and they wave in the wind. The brown bird rides on one of them above the showers of colourful, dying leafs below.

Chrom doesn't think that the bird will notice him. Hopes it won't actually, because then he can observe it longer. For a moment, though, the hawk looks his way and his world shrinks down to the gaze he is sharing with the creature.

Abruptly, he is on the cusp of something. But there is no time, no way, to ask questions. Whatever he decides, he knows that things shall come pass. His impact can only be on the details. And he is on his own in this; he can't remember the last time that this was so.

Then the hawk is flying out of the tree, flying up in the air, diving down and out of sight. He cannot follow it with his eyes so it vanishes.

So be it, Chrom thinks to himself.

When they arrive at the castle they part ways until dinner. She departs to the left to prepare for training. He has an audience in a few minutes, but he takes the time to stay behind and watch her walk away. As she turns a corner, he lightly places a hand over his chest. He breathes deeply.

II.

Lucina and Gerome are married two weeks later. The ceremony's held in the castle's own chapel, and there is a young choir to sing and state officials in attendance, but overall the affair is small. Their friends can be raucously roving and violently vivacious, but here they are subdued, with a sense about them that they are not quite comfortable standing on the brink of the rest of their lives. This event so clearly confronts them with the fact that they need to come up with something soon.

There is a dreamy, if slightly uneasy, air throughout the ceremony. Because of the early hour of the morning, the chapel is well-lit and flooded by warm pools of light where normally there would be gloom and chilly reserves of shadows. This detail will later be remembered by Chrom as a certain luminosity, and this luminosity will pervade all the details of his future recollections of the event—the rising voices of the children, the gleaming polished wood of the pews, the toothy smile of Morgan as he sits in the second row back, the taffeta of the women's gowns.

Even Lucina, whom he leads arm in arm down the aisle, seems to be glowing. He will remember her as absolutely serene. Currently she is looking forward as they approach the aisle. Her gaze seems fixed, but she is not yet gone ahead. There's still time to say something to her—he's sure that he should. He will be giving her something forever, for there is an overwhelming sense that this is the last time they will speak in private.

He glances forward, and he sees Gerome dressed almost completely in black. Even his hair appears darker than it really is.

Chrom whispers to her, "My darling, you look so beautiful. You are no longer completely mine but I am so proud."

She says, "I love you, Daddy."

"I love you," he says, and here it is it that they part. She takes the last steps by herself. Together, she and Gerome kneel before the bishop who stands purposefully at the alter. In his vestments he would normally outdo them, but today he cannot compete with their shimmering air of young fulfilment.

The next thing Chrom is cognisant of is Morgan tugging on his doublet's sleeve. His son's looking up at him.

"Father, are you going to go to the brunch? I want to, but I don't know if I can keep anything down. Lucy's so happy, she's making me a little nauseous!"

Chrom frowns at him, and then he laughs. "Leave your sister alone. Today's her day, not yours. You better put any plans for attracting attention to rest."

"Nah," Morgan says. "I wouldn't take that away from her! Besides, I don't want to risk getting speared by Falchion. Or getting eaten by Minerva."

"I bet you'd make quite a tasty wyvern snack," Chrom teases, and Morgan laughs.

"No way! I'm so small I'm not worth eating."

"That won't matter if you give them reason," Chrom says.

Morgan agrees, and after that they catch up to the brunch crowd. The meal wares on into the afternoon as speeches are made. In particular Cherche makes a gallant toast and, by the time she's done relating the wartime antics of the two Minervas and her already-adult son, the shadows have shifted. Inigo shares a tale of the misadventure of the drunk maiden who couldn't discern the difference between Gerome and Minerva. The punchline—and he gets to it quicker than he normally would, spurred on by the glare that Lucina delivers from across the grand dining hall—is that she especially couldn't tell the difference between the two Minervas, either. In fact she had thought that she was seeing double before passing out in the tent—Inigo's tent, of course. Gerome's red by the end of it, but Lucina leans to him and puts her hand on top of his. Chrom recognises that gesture even from a distance—there is forgiveness in it, as well as comfort, and she understands that it is not his fault. So let it go, I already have.

Chrom shifts in his seat. He looks to Morgan who's talking with the half-manakete girl. He watches them for a few moments. Morgan looks up and sees his father and smiles at him.

Chrom smiles too, until Morgan returns to his conversation.

Then Chrom rests his gaze on the unoccupied chair beside him. The cushions are a regal blue, the top is emboldened by an intricate carving of the Ylissean state seal. The seat sits in reserve for his wife. It's silent, and there is a slight air of expectancy about its placement, but there's also a hint of exception—her presence would be welcomed, yes, but she shouldn't feel obliged to be here if she can't.

He wonders what the chances of her showing up are. Unconscious of his gesture, he settles a hand on his chest. He decides that they're not very good. But that does not detract from his present mood.

There's state business that Chrom has to attend in the evening, but he's there for the culmination of his daughter's day. Lucina will be departing with new her husband and parents-in-law in the morning, so this is the last time that she'll be seen in public. Him missing it would be unimaginable.

He's on his way to the marquee when he pauses. He is outside. He can feel the mossy stone of the footpath through his leather shoes, and there is a light breeze shifting tufts of his hair. There's a waft of dying grass and leafs, and the night's so mild it's hard to believe that the world is just on the brink of winter. The recent days have been warmer, a gift—it has been pleasant weather for his last few sparring sessions with his daughter. Sunny, but lacking that heat that draws copious amounts of moisture even when the body is at rest. The two of them had panted, but neither had ended with sweat-drenched backs.

Physically, Chrom is currently comfortable.

And yet he thinks, what does physical comfort have to do with contentedness? As he thinks he looks to the moon because it holds a special interest. The heavenly body is so low on the horizon it's still coloured a brilliant bloody orange. But it will soon rise, and then it will be pale, and then it will appear as it had on his own wedding night. At that time it had looked down on them, and it had been reflected in her eyes.

He and his wife had slipped away from their escort. After their ceremonial bedding, the group of important and influential people had left their chambers to congregate in the sumptuous sitting room right outside their doors. Despite the heavy, thick, solid wood, Chrom and Robin could hear the mutterings and stirrings.

They had been expected to undress each other. Then they were to attempt heir-making for the first time in their marital bed.

But she had had a plan. She had used a brilliant subterfuge, she had gotten them out through the window and down into the gardens. Fully clothed, they had taken off and laughed all the way.

The expanse of the castle grounds had been transformed by the night into somewhere unfamiliar. For without guards and torches, there were shades and shapes that not even he had seen before. The land was quiet but not silent—the sounds of animals and insects followed them from the base of the castle all the way to the maze they had then found themselves in. The verdure had been dark all around them, while her dress and hair had been cast white silver. The moon had not been bright that night—it had been a sickle moon that was occasionally darkened by scudding clouds.

But she had taken note of it as they sat down on the lip of an august fountain. It had been summer so the water had been running and there was a soft gurgle in the background. Cleaning had kept algae out of it, and flowering lily pads had drifted stately in it.

She had kissed him and he had kissed her back. She had tasted sweet and, faintly, of hazelnuts. Then she had nuzzled up against him and looked up to the sky. He had gazed down at her and the heavens had been reflected in the liquid loveliness of her eyes. In that light her eyes had appeared to him black.

She had asked, "Which constellation is Lady Naga again?"

"That one there."

He'd pointed somewhere to his left.

"And Grima has already set?"

"Yes. Grima sets just as Naga rises."

"Poetic," she had said, and she had sighed prettily. Then she kissed him again and they'd gotten carried away, they'd fallen into the fountain. He'd gone first and she'd followed right after.

Suddenly there had been a splashing struggle. He'd pulled himself away from her so that they couldn't keep each other under. When he'd surfaced, he'd found her floating. Her hands were settled on her chest and her lace veil bloomed around her. The heavily-detailed trim of it had remained submerged while the lighter parts drifted. If not for her blinking just then, she'd have been a flawless corpse.

He'd been enraptured by this vision.

He'd knelt in the water, and with a little coaxing she'd floated over his lap. He couldn't detect her life. Her torso had been a flat plane with a slightly silky sheen, but it hadn't been a smooth surface. And though her dress had appeared stretched over it, he'd known that it was structured. Sturdy like a shell, just as brittle too. And the luxuriance of the needlework on her stomacher had been a rich texture under his fingers. Folds of her veil stuck to her collarbones and his thighs; small wavelets disturbed portions of the lace. He'd removed his glove and laid his hand on the base of her neck. The water had disguised her warmth, but there'd been no mistaking it, under his fingers her life had been surging.

Then she'd smiled at him. She'd had the moon in her eyes.

"Robin, you're so beautiful," he'd whispered to his wife.

"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder."

"Aye, and I'm the beholder."

And that to him had been the proof of their transition to adulthood—nothings exchanged, but with profound, private meanings attached. He'd offered sincere flattery with an inquiry, and she'd accepted with an invitation, and neither of them had done any of it consciously. It just flowed.

That's a sure sign of maturity, Chrom thinks as he shuffles on his feet. There are levels of communication that are suddenly tapped—when you realise you can access them, it comes as a pleasing surprise. They cannot be accessed with effort, they are accessed with experience. So when he sees Lucina touching Gerome and there's such sure fondness there, he's once again convinced that they've been in love for a long time. Their lives may end up taking any number of turns in the future—at any moment everything could change—but for now their present situation is a logical conclusion. Chrom can't dispute this.

Nor does he. Instead he makes his way to the tent where their final celebration is being held, and he takes his seat by her. The one on his other side remains empty. Here there is a void, but no-one becomes lost in it. Everyone's taken by the sight of Lucina, who as ever is graceful and gracious. She has a grateful smile for all.

Then the night is almost over, they are at the penultimate dance. Gerome will dance with his wife for the last song, so Chrom is Lucina's partner for this one. Father and daughter come together. Smiling, neither of them think to say anything; Chrom has nothing left to give her. They move through the bright warm world for the length of the song, and this time and distance they've travelled will later be condescending into a singular memory of light. And, when the song is over, he leans over to kiss her forehead.

As she walks over to her husband, he notices that she had smelt of sandalwood. Her warmth lingers in his hands, on the tips of his fingers and the expanse of his palms. He places one of them on the centre of his chest.