This takes place post-game, so beware of spoilers.
Alone.
Chrom's tactician watches behind a castle wall. Its stone, cooled with the outside air of a chilled spring day, brushes by her cheek, leaving a residue of mildew in its crude kiss. Her hazel eyes close, then open again. The sight before her remains the same: Chrom and his wife. She clutches a child's hand. As Chrom bends down to say something, to stroke the child's wild blue hair, she giggles as her mouth parts in a wide grin. Little Lucina.
It's been a while, hasn't it?
She almost can't believe the time that has passed. Five years since that day when she felt that she may never see Lucina grow up—which was funny to even think, really. After all, she had seen her grown up, and wasn't she a sight? It's almost hard to believe that the five-year-old before her will grow up to be such a strong woman.
Five years.
Her arms tighten further around her tome. The worn covers feel soft, like velvet. She almost lost it, her trusty tome. That's a worry—she almost never loses it. But she supposes that maybe she could forgive herself this time. When you're collapsing, your first thought isn't exactly, "Save my tome!" as it tumbles from your hands and to the wild expanse of clouds beneath. She knows that outright.
Chrom grabbed her hand, she remembers that. But then it slipped, he faded away. His stare never left her face as everything disintegrated away. She dimly recalls hearing his voice—but it wasn't anything she wanted to hear.
"Why did you have to do that—?!"
Yes. That's what it was, it's really coming back now. A part of her longed for something else to slip from his lips. Something kindly. If she were to be selfish, maybe even a "thank you."
If she were to be naïve, maybe an "I love you."
Bitter bile rises in her throat. She swallows it away. That's right, isn't it? A final confession—how silly of her to even wish for one when he was already fully committed to someone else. He's been long committed to someone else.
Her eyes avert to the ground. A lone bug scuttles by her boot, and she steps aside to allow it to pass into the throne room. Little Lucina cries out, screams a laugh as footsteps patter on the stone. Her shadow looms by the corner the tactician hides behind.
"Look, it's a little buggy!"
"Yes, it is, isn't it?" Chrom says in reply. She can just feel his smile. Humored, gentle, soft. Age has yet to dull his kind eyes as they probably look his daughter's way.
"It's cute!"
His wife keeps back a laugh, but she can't stifle it.
"Can we keep him?"
She doesn't hear the rest of it. She doesn't want to hear the rest of it.
The silver sword brushes against her hip as she slips back further, and she touches a hand to it, feels its warmth radiating into her fingertips, her palm. She was never all that comfortable with a sword. It always seemed to terrify her for some reason. She doesn't really understand why.
But she remembers the few times she did use it. Their first fight together, a shriek as a bandit staggers back from its point. Back-to-back against Chrom, with Risen on every side. A peaceful feeling as she cleans the blade, a wet feeling when it accidentally cuts her when her hand slips, Chrom laughing at her surprise in the barracks. Lucina admiring it in the sunlight as it starts to slip beyond the horizon. She always thought of that glow in the woman's eyes as silly—after all, her father's sword was beyond compare, yet she never uttered a word against the tactician's own weapon.
"You were always there by Father's side. You never ceased cleaning it, I remember when you let me wield it once. The grip was perfect. The weight was balanced," Lucina said, closing her blue gaze, "and it always reflected that smile you wore."
If not for Lucina, the tactician probably would have slunk away at the mere sight of Chrom's wife again. She had forgotten about her. She regrets forgetting about her. Her cock-eyed, wistful grin, her tall boots never blemished by the mud of the battlefield. The brightness of her eyes as she stroked a tamed creature.
Compared to her ragged cloak, Sumia must be a wonderful sight to the man.
Lucina darts around the corner. She lets go of a screaming caterwaul of joy. "I found her, I found her!"
The tactician jumps at the girl's words and parts her mouth in shock. As little Lucina tugs on the stained robe, the shredded black and violet of its pattern creases in her hands.
"Found who, Lucina?" She cringes as Chrom heads over to the pair. Then she musters the most pathetic smile she could at the man when his face peers behind the wall, and he steps out to face the two girls. That look, that kindly, humored upturn of the lips at her. "There you are, Robin," his pleasant voice rings out.
"Oh?" Sumia pops out of the corner, her hazelnut-grey hair bobbing at her back. The tactician presses her lips together, glances away. She tightens her arms further around her trusty tome. "You could have worn some of my clothes, Robin."
"It's fine. I'm just glad Chrom didn't walk in on my showering again," she jokes. But it's hollow. "I'll find a way to fix my clothes later."
"N-no, you don't deserve to wear those, they're soiled!" she replies. "There's no fixing those!"
Robin shrugs. Her fingers knit into her pile of navy hair, damp with a hot shower. She can still feel some dirt in it that she missed the third time around. It doesn't feel right living in the castle again—she supposes that she got too used to living in the grime of a muddy cave, waiting patiently for someone to find her again. Watching the sunsets get too numerous to count, tasting the bear meat improve every night. Fighting against the bandits and gangs with only a sharp stick and her wits to her advantage. A part of her still felt guilt for what she had almost done; well, more like what her future self had done. For letting that monster take control of her fell blood. For even meeting the Shepherds, for ignoring Frederick's warnings, for joining in on that very first battle against them, for pressing herself against Chrom's side as they defended that town against attacking bandits thirsting for screams.
She never wanted Chrom to die.
It was a sheer miracle they even ran into the red-headed merchant the tactician had encountered before—and was sorely told to get some gold or get lost. That she even told them of the weary, worn-down traveler scouting her wares like someone eagerly seeking the perfect tool, the ideal weapon, that object that would make or break a war. The remembrance the girl had at the traveler's hazel eye scouring the objects, that fierceness—that was what she relayed to Chrom and Lissa upon their questioning.
Sumia wasn't accompanying them. Neither was Frederick, the loyal knight, or Lon'qu, the silent swordsman. Just Chrom and Lissa. He had insisted it be that way. He was fighting a losing battle to find the heart tied to so many, yet he didn't care, didn't listen to the naysayers in the Shepherds who insisted that she was gone. They were only trying to break it to him kindly.
Five years of waiting, of searching, all culminating to this point.
"How can you keep those clothes, anyway? Don't they just remind you of Validar?" Sumia continues.
Ah yes. The warlock. Her dear, sweet father.
"I suppose," is all she can get out. She wonders if perhaps he gave them to her, maybe as a child. Maybe as a bright young woman. Maybe he cared when he did that; maybe he didn't. Either way, everything's over—that's what Chrom told her.
"Whether she's wearing clothes or no clothes—" She feels her face get hot. "—she's more than welcome here," Chrom says. "We can get you something new in the marketplace later."
"That's okay," she replies, "I'm fine with just a seamstress."
"What a coincidence, Sumia's been practicing," he says, surprise lining his tone. His wife breaks out in a wide grin.
The tactician squeezes her eyes shut.
"Um, sorry, I have a headache. Maybe we can work on it later?"
Chrom blinks, then nods tersely. "So you're not well enough for a banquet dinner I cooked up for you?"
Icy blood floods through her veins. Then she calms, rubs her arms together to try to thaw her vessels out. "You cooked it up?" Chrom nods. He can cook?! the tactician thinks. "That sounds lovely," she says. If Sumia wasn't there, she would be thrilled. However, be as it may, she has Chrom there to support her.
"Unfortunately, I have some business to attend to at Ferox, so I won't be able to stay."
And whatever efforts she expelled to warm her blood up went to naught.