Summary: Chrom may not think himself worthy of Emmeryn's ideals, but he's so thankful he married someone who is.
(Set in an AU where Robin is resurrected immediately after killing Grima.) *REWRITTEN

Notes: 7/21/2014 - Hi, everyone! Thank you reading "Such a Silly Feeling". Truly, every kudos and hit made me smile. "Such a Silly Feeling" was the first fic I've written in years, and I don't care for that draft anymore. So I decided to rewrite it! The plot is essentially the same, but the character POV switches will now be a collection of short chapters. I hope you all enjoy the update!

Chrom closed his eyes and inhaled. Though the evening air still smelled of war —of earth, sweat, blood, and tears— it had never felt so crisp in his lungs. Accepting the reality of having triumphed over Grima was surprisingly difficult. The Shepherds' crusade should've been more like lambs to the slaughter. It felt blasphemously arrogant to think they had actually vanquished Grima and ushered in an era of peace

Knowing he wasn't the only soldier feeling pensive comforted Chrom though. Instead of recklessly celebrating, everyone was recovering, resting, and reflecting back at camp. Chrom was so proud of his brothers-in-arms for fighting on behalf of his cause. No. That wasn't quite right. Chrom was so grateful to his friends for fighting with him. At least until they all returned to Ylisstol, their victory deserved to muted and private.

Still, the young lord felt guilty for his incredulousness. Thwarting Grima was his sole objective as the new ruler of Ylisse, exactly as how healing the trust of the people was Emmeryn's when she was first crowned. He had accomplished his promise, so why didn't he feel contented with himself?

Sitting in the grass with his knees bent, Chrom leaned heavily against Falchion. (He had stabbed it into the ground as a backrest earlier.) He growled softly in irritation and pinched the bridge of his nose. Damn it all to hell. Why did age and responsibility have to make a man question and re-evaluate every action and feeling? He missed being young. Things were simple when he was young. Good outcomes made him happy, and bad outcomes made him sad.

Gods, he used to be such a simpleton.

Chrom smirked beside himself and entertained a silly musing. His self of the not-too-distant-past knew nothing of responsibly. That idiot was just a bored prince wistfully filled with good intentions. Perhaps if this victory happened two or three years ago, there would've been a sloppy celebration featuring him as the rowdiest of the bunch. (But perhaps Sully or Gregor could give him a run for his coin.)

He bit tongue from snickering aloud. Gods, calling his old self an idiot! He imagined that Chrom would've cried up at the remark. No. Again, that wasn't quite right. It was more likely that his teenage self would've teared up and broken something in anger.

Not until when little Lucina was born did Chrom know anything of responsibility. Neither being captain of the Shepherds nor the new ruler of Ylisse weighted his shoulders like becoming a first time father. Little Lucina was his memoir, a living record that would hold the consequences of his actions today. Her childhood with him would influence her into adulthood, and every political decision he made would shape not only the kingdom, but also the world he would leave to her. Having "future" Lucina and Morgan in his life now made this epiphany all the more robust since his alternate self had died trying to protect them from absolute doom.

He sighed slowly, bittersweetly.

Those two were such inspiring young adults in their every own right. Chrom prayed that his Lucina and Morgan in this timeline would parallel their counterparts. He had doubts about his own capabilities, but he was sure the four were intended for greatness with Robin here to guide them.

…four?

Oh dear Naga. Chrom's stomach dropped and churned— with dread of or excitement, he didn't know. Morgan hadn't been born in this timeline yet! There was going to be a "little" Morgan too!

The realization of a fourth child wiped out his petty dissatisfactions about the end of the war like a wave engulfing a boat out at sea during a storm. His mind was absolutely panicking, and his heart was pounding so hard that he would've sworn it was rattling his chest armor. Chrom was only useful in physical crises, not cerebral ones.

Flight-or-fight instincts kicking in, he sprang up, uprooted Falchion with a great yank, and tore towards camp to find Robin.