A/N: And now the answer to the big question. Enjoy. Also be kind, I only ran it through spelling and grammar checks, but after 4 drafts, I finally got it the way I want...or close to it.

Silence

Surely, Chrom reasoned, he had nothing to fear.

After all, those versed in the healing arts could accomplish incredible things, and few were as adept as Libra. An arrow, a knot on the head, and a few bruises would have posed no challenge to him. Any moment now, Sumia would awaken.

Or would she? In the silence of the infirmary tent, that question resounded like the lingering toll of the tower bells. Why hadn't she stirred yet? Why did she still look so unnaturally pale? And for what reason did Libra remain mute? From the corner of his eye, Chrom glanced at this priest, his gaze focusing on his sober expression. What had happened during the healing? What was he so unwilling to say?

"She'll be all right, won't she?" It was a needless question; Sumia was in capable hands. Still, Libra's words would quiet his anxious thoughts, would drown out the nagging fear at the back of his mind.

But no words came. Not a sound filled Chrom's ears, except the increasing thump of his heart. And Libra's face showed no sign of changing; if anything, it grew all the grimmer.

"Sumia will be all right, won't she?" Chrom probed. Something was wrong; deep in his bones, he could feel it.

At last, the priest sighed, a sound loud as a thunderclap, "I don't know, Your Majesty. I've done all I can but..." A clatter of thoughts shouted in his mind. Would she be unfit to travel? Would she lose the ability to ride or wield her lance? Would she carry that wound for the rest of her days? Would it plague her with a lasting pain? While terrible, none of these possibilities merited such silence and sobriety. What, then, could he mean? Whatever was Libra hiding? What did he not wish to tell him?

Chrom's eyes went wide. His breath caught in his throat, and all other notions fell silent as another whispered over them; an idea that, on every sacred text, Chrom swore made his heart pause.

"Is she going to die?" Again, he looked to Libra, ears begging for answers, for assurance, for the slightest utterance of hope, and again the priest said nothing. "Damn it," he growled, neither willing nor able to bear the silence another moment. "Tell me my wife isn't going to die."

"I wish I could, Your Majesty, but it's the hands of the gods." His hand clasped Chrom's shoulder, though it held no warmth. "Don't lose heart. The gods are good." The pressure of his fingers withdrew, and the rustle of fabric announced his departure.

And as silence fell once more over the tent, two terrible words echoed in Chrom's ear.

If only.

If only he'd expected the Risen to attack. If only he hadn't lose sight of Sumia. If only he'd found her sooner. If only he'd thought to take Libra or Lissa with him.

If only he'd convinced her not to follow him to war at all, she would be safe and very much alive in Ylisstol. If only. If only.

"You can't leave me," Chrom pleaded. Whether or not his words reached Sumia, he could not say, though he hoped; oh, how he hoped. "I'll carry you wherever we go, I'll feed you every meal, I'll even climb the highest cliff for herbs to make you feel better if you just stay with me."

But only silence answered him, the same eerie, unearthly stillness of his family mausoleum. His vision blurred, though the image of Sumia lying on the ground never looked so clear. His arms, weak from the weight of her body, quivered. Beneath the weight of silence and sorrow, his legs wavered, and he sank to his knees beside the cot. He could not even find the strength to hold his head upright. Tears trickled from his eyes like the blood, drop by drop, from her side. How much longer would the gods give her, an hour, a few minutes, or even less?

"Chrom," Sumia's voice uttered, quieting his thoughts. Had she truly spoken, or was it only a trick of his itching ears? Looking up, his mouth dropped. Her eyes were open. Her head had turned towards him. "Chrom," she repeated.

"Yes, Sumia," he took her by the hand, "I'm here."

"I guess I really made a mess of things this time," she groaned. "Tell me you love me." At her request, his heart swelled within his chest. His eyes filled anew with tears. She sounded wearied and worn, but gods above, not even the sweetest serenade or loveliest lyric could compare to the beauty of her voice.

"Say that again, please." Sumia smiled, her hand squeezing his with as much might as she could muster.

"Tell me you love me."

"I love you," he breathed, pressing his lips to the back of her hand. But only once seemed woefully inadequate, "I love you." He dotted kisses across her palm, her cheek, her brow, and wherever he could manage, and with each caress of his lips, he continued to utter those three words.

And each time, he offered unspoken thanks that those words had not fallen silent this day.