A/N: So, it's been a while since I've posted anything. I've been trying to devote all my time and effort into The Twin Blades since I'm performing yet another rewrite on it. This one is not as major, but still. I didn't want to work on anything because I wanted to get it done. Funny thing is that inspiration hits at the worst times, especially while playing Awakening.

I had a couple of ideas hit me at certain points, and this is one of them. It's just what might be going through Chrom's head in between chapters 10 and 11. I hope you like it.

Anger, Doubt, and Grief

They had fled when the battle had turned against them. The Shepherds and their allies had run when the archers had appeared, seemingly from out of nowhere, although when one considered that the archers were truly the living dead, it did not seem so difficult to say. But now, it did not matter. The tide of war had turned, and it had done so in a matter of moments. Without a choice, they had fled.

Now, they rested, at least for the moment in the safety of the castle of Ferox. Their hosts had provided the weary company food and wine and even the luxury of warm baths. Each fighter willingly accepted each favor after the toil of the days, and when the night had fallen, all had gladly taken their rest. They had done so because they knew well that the most difficult of their battles was soon to begin.

However, for the prince of Ylisse, rest would not come this night.

Chrom sat alone in a sparse bedchamber provided by his hosts, though he often rose and fitfully walked, muttering words that only he could comprehend. The day had seemed too long for him, yet he could not sleep. He did not even wish to try, but he was altogether wearied. His arms, strong as they were, felt weak from having swung his sword this way and that until he lost all count. His legs ached from the flight across the burning sands of Plegia and on further until they reached the safety of the wagons. His flesh even felt the lingering burn of that unforgiving sun, but these things were nothing when he thought of the searing heat of his own anger.

His sister, surely the greatest Exalt his homeland had seen, was dead. In his thoughts, the final moments of Emmeryn's life appeared time and time again. In the eyes of his mind, she took those fateful steps, and then her body fell slowly from the ledge. In his mind's ears, he could hear the rush of the wind the met her, even though he was not at all near her. But most of all, he could hear the laughing of the Mad King as his beloved sister fell to her death. All the while, his anger grew and grew.

It had burned slowly as he rode in the wagon, but now it spread in flames like the raging of a wild fire across the land. It compelled him to move about even as his body no longer wished to do so this night, and Chrom found he grew hotter and hotter as he awaited the morning when justice would be served; the morning when he would dare think of revenge.

Chrom found that he hated King Gangrel, and the sight of Emmeryn falling, even willingly, as she had, to her doom, only managed to fan his anger and compel it to burn all the hotter. He wished to have the ruler of Plegia here and now in his quarters so that he might repay him for all he had done. Though his arms ached from the constant battles, he would gladly take his sword in hand and hold it beneath the king's throat.

He thought of when he would see this with his own eyes. He would have Gangrel on his knees with the tip of his blade ready to strike. He would see the murdering king beg for his life, and then relieve him of it quickly.

"It would be too kind," said Chrom through teeth nearly clenched as he thought of such an image. "I should pay him back in full for all that he has done to us."

When he thought of his dear sister and what they might have done to her, he thought it only right that Plegia's king should suffer likewise. Emmeryn's last days were dark, far darker than she deserved, and it was all Gangrel's doing. When he thought of the tears of grief streaming down Lissa's young face, he wished for the Mad King to weep as well, but Chrom would see him weep in fear.

Chrom's hands tightened into fists. He raised his arms, and grunted in rage. He did not know what to do. He paced. He growled. He wished to act. He wished to take up Falchion and stain it anew with Plegian blood. He had cleaned it well when they had arrived, and he would make it run red once again if he had the chance. Chrom briefly thought of going to the training halls and utterly destroying what wooden men he could find, but his arms cried in the pain of their labors,

At last, he stood still before an empty wall in his room. In his anger, Chrom's hand became a fist, and he struck the wall.

He was glad of the pain upon his knuckles, for it seemed to ease the fires within his own heart. He struck the wall again. He growled with every blow. He struck again. Once more, he saw his beloved sister fall, and his hated enemy smile with a wicked glee. He struck the wall yet again and again. By now, he thought he felt the warmth of blood, but Chrom did not care.

His anger grew beyond Gangrel, even as it abated with every blow.

"Why didn't I have Sumia fly to her quickly? She could have saved her as she fell," the prince said through clenched teeth. "Why didn't Robin take this into account? He thought up the plan, and we followed him. Why couldn't he figure that it might be a trap? Why did Emm have to go back in the first place?" The final question came with a sob and a tear that fell from Chrom's eye.

With an ending blow against the wall, Chrom sank to his knees. His knuckles did indeed bleed from the many strikes, and he was certain he had left a small hole in the wall. From the pain, his anger eased, and the tears and sobs flowed freely.

Chrom quickly realized that he had no need to blame any of his army. They had fought well, and if he had sent Sumia, she would have likely fallen to her own death at the hands of the archers. He knew he could not have borne another great loss. As for Robin, Chrom knew he was but a man. He was their tactician, not a soothsayer. He was wise in battle, but even the wisest could not foretell. He could not have known that such a dire turn would occur. Chrom did not even know of any magician with such a skill.

Yet, while he could absolve others of the loss of his sister, there was one Chrom could not offer any pardon.

"Why couldn't I do something?" the prince wailed. "Why couldn't I have given my men a chance to act? Why couldn't I have brought down one of those Risen?" He said nothing else as he continued to weep.

In his thoughts, Chrom saw himself do nothing except sink to his knees in defeat. He did not even have the courage to fight back. He had done nothing but watch.

"I should have fought back," he said. "I should have fought for my sister's body. She should be buried in our family tomb in Ylisstol, not hung up like some trophy." The thought made the flames of his heart burn once more. He imagined her body, broken and battered, dangling like a banner in the wind, for that was surely how her enemies would treat her. Chrom lifted his eyes towards the heavens with a scowl of rage. "Gods!" he cried out, "why did have to be her?"

He wept again for his only living sister robbed of her flesh and blood, for his country robbed unjustly of its queen, and he found that he wept for himself as well. A sudden thought came to Chrom just then. He had only considered it for the smallest of moments as they fled, but now, it came to him like the blow of a battering ram against a gate.

He was now the Exalt. He was now a king.

The tears ceased to flow as he realized this truth. In the place of anger, fear now took hold of him.

"Am I ready for that?" Chrom asked.

He was never meant to rule. Oh, he was the prince of Ylisse, and he had always known that he might, one day, be her king. Yet, he had paid such a thought little mind. He had never imagined that he would truly wear the crown upon his head. He had always expected that it would be Emmeryn who held the throne and then her child after her. She was the one would marry and produce an heir. She was the one who was meant to reign. Now, the rule of his country now rested in his hands.

"I lead men into battle. That's what I know. I'm a warrior, not a ruler. I don't know the first thing about ruling a country."

He had always held a sword. He had always stood among his small fighting force, and he was at greater comfort with the Shepherds. He knew of life on the roads and paths. He took his rest upon the ground. He dined on the small rations that he and his followers would bring. He knew little of the life of a ruler. Yes, he had always held a sword, but now, he would need to hold a scepter.

The thought frightened Chrom.

He would rather face brigands and robbers in battle. He would rather stand at the head of the armies of his motherland than sit upon her throne. He would rather roam the land and do battle for days and nights without end than remain in his palace.

"I'm not a king," he said. "How can I live up to an Exalt as loved as Emm was? She was the one who knew how to rule. She was everything I'm not. How can I be what she was?"

Chrom felt his mind race as though a startled horse carried it away. So many thoughts and images appeared at once before the eyes of his mind. Would the people love him? Would they give their allegiance to him as they did to Emmeryn? Would he prove himself worthy of such a thing, or would he, in the end, betray their trust? Would his actions lead to the utter ruin of Ylisse? Chrom knew not, but he did not wish to think for long on it.

He began to wonder what he might do. He did not think himself fit to rule. Yet perhaps, there was one more fitting than he. He thought of Lissa. While she too was a Shepherd, she was not as he was. The thought came to him that she would be a likely queen in time. She was but a child to many, and she did indeed act as one. Yet, she held a certain natural love for her people, from the richest of the lords to the poorest of the villagers.

Surely, such a love would grow into wisdom. Surely, she would pass from her childish ways to become the woman that would lead their nation. Surely, Lissa would make a far better Exalt than he would.

Yes, he could cede the throne to her. Lissa would rule in Emmeryn's stead and his own. He would return to leading the Shepherds across the land, for it brought comfort in its familiarity. He was sure that even his dear sister would not object to such a plan, for she knew all the days of her life that he was not a king.

Just then, his eyes drew themselves towards the small streams of red flowing from his knuckles. Chrom did not know why, but he found himself pressing the unstained fingers of his left hand against his wounds. His blood was warm and sticky, and he found himself sighing in shame as a sense of realization flowed over his soul just as the blood flowed over his sword hand.

"Emm's blood flows through me as well," he said. "Gangrel may have spilled her own, but I have what's left. Lissa does too, but I know she will always be a child."

Chrom sighed again as his thoughts of giving away his throne became all the clearer. Though the lamps of his chambers dimmed, it shined brightly before his mind's eye.

"I'm a coward," he declared. "I can stand before the armies of Plegia, and even Gangrel himself, and I don't feel any fear. But I'm still a coward."

He wondered what Emmeryn might have done had she stood with him here and now. Would she have comforted him? Would she have chastised him, even gently, for even the consideration of giving up the crown of Ylisse? He could not say, but he was sure that she would have tried to sway him.

In silence, without word or hardly thought, Chrom idly swayed back and forth. When, at last, the thoughts came to him, he found himself pondering anew the words his sister would speak to him. Her eyes would show their gentle shine. Her voice would carry a softness, yet still bore a firmness, just as she had been in life. She would give him every reassurance that he was and should indeed be the new Exalt. More than that, he knew she would tell him that she had faith in him as a leader of fighting men, and such a position was hardly different from that of a king.

The thought brought a strange comfort to Chrom. He did not know why, but the thought alone that his sister would have placed her trust in his reign soothed him. He was sure that had she lived to see him crowned, she would have gladly bent her knee before him. The prince allowed his shoulders to ease, though he knew he had little reason for such comfort.

The stone floor began to cause Chrom's knees to ache. He looked at his hands, both now stained red. He rose with the thought that he should see to his wound and clean his other hand. Then he thought it wise to take his rest now, for tomorrow, they would march. Tomorrow, Plegia and her king would pay for their injustices. Tomorrow, the war would come to an end, along with the life of Gangrel the murderer.

Yet, the night had not yet ended.

When he had tended to his hands, Chrom laid himself down in his bed.

"I don't know what sort of king I'll be," he said, hoping that in whatever realm the dead lingered, his sister would hear, "but I will try to be a king that you would be proud of. I don't know much about ruling, but I will try to learn for your sake."

He closed his eyes, hoping sleep would come upon him, but before he had laid there for long, he found himself speaking one last thing. It was the same thing he had said many nights before, and he would say it for the last on this night.

"Good-night, Emm," Chrom whispered before adding one thing more, "I hope I will make you proud."

Then he drifted into the silence and darkness of sleep, knowing that the morning march would come soon enough.

A/N: Now, I know the script doesn't seem to say that they rested in between these two chapters, but after two fights and a long run away from battle, you have to figure that they couldn't just go bam into another battle. I figured they would have to get even a little rest before the confrontation with Gangrel.

I also realize that Chrom might not be that angry with everyone else, but under the circumstances, I think it's in his character. He just watched his sister fall, and just when everything was looking up too. So, I hope everyone agrees. The last thing I want to be is OOC.

Happy 4th of July everyone.