"It Used To Be Simple. We Used To Be Happy"
It's still fairly early in the evening when Robin spots Nillian already slacking off, slumped against a tree, reading that damn book he bought in town the day prior. By his side rest the two bags full of tomes she asked him to put on their cart, and on one of his hands is a peeled orange with the marks of a wide bite.
"Nillian!" she screams from her spot at the entrance of their little house, impatiently taping her foot and using her apron to dry her soapy hands after finishing washing the dishes.
His head snaps up at the sound of his wife's voice and, still chewing on the juicy morsel of fruit, turns his head to wave at her. He's like a child, euphoric as if an old friend has just called his name across the street.
Robin stomps her way over the pebble path that leads from their house's entrance in a wavy pattern and stops in front of the recently built fence. Glaring at the weak spots where more nails should have been used, she yells once more. "Come here, Nillian!"
Eager to please, the brown-haired man stands and saunters over, dragging the heavy bags of books behind.
"Don't drag the books!" his wife wails.
"Sorry, sorry," he quickly apologizes and pulls the bags over his shoulders after stuffing his mouth with his orange - an orange clearly stolen from the kitchen, no doubt. Ten paces more an he's standing before Robin, attentive for new instructions. "Fhere am."
"What?" Robin stares confusedly and yanks the orange from Nillian's mouth. Sweet juice trickles down his chin. "Speak."
"Here I am," he repeats. "What now?"
Robin sighs and wipes Nillian's chin with her hand. "I asked you to take those books to the cart before I started with the dishes. Tell me why you are reading under a tree instead of doing as I asked."
"Well... I'm not quite so sure, you see..."
Robin despairs. "Please don't start."
"It was like the tree was calling to me!" Nillian bursts with a happy grin, wide as a watermelon slice. "The bright, golden sun rays slipping through the foliage, the swaying leaves, the gentle breeze of summer..."
"Nillian," Robin pleads with her eyes and reaches to tug on his shirt's collar.
"It's simply perfect for reading, Robin. You need to join me."
"No Nillian," she fumes. "What we need to do is finish the day's chores. Why can't you just do what I tell you?"
He is a good man. He really is. He is one of those lovers that wake up their wives with kisses and rhymes ripped from some poem book or another. Sometimes while on the road to the market square he will stop their cart just to pick a pretty flower from the road and place it on her hair, because he's a romantic fool like that. He nips her lips because that's his idea of being a charming devil and he cooks for her all the time because he could never bring himself to tell her she's a terrible cook. He still eats her abominations, though, and he does it with a smile even if he's dying inside.
Because he loves her, and he has the best intentions in mind.
"Come on Robin," he chides. "Where's the bookworm I married? I know you wouldn't have passed such an opportunity either, so don't be mad at me for doing something you would have done as well."
She is more or less the same as he when it comes to books. In the past she might have dropped every chore on her list just to relax and turn pages, but in the situation at hand she can't imagine how her husband manages to be so carefree. So annoyingly radiant.
"Look at that," Robin commands and points at the loose fence door that reaches up to their hips.
Nillian's green pupils fall on the rusty hinges he got tricked into buying a week back. Then he follows her index finger as it sweeps in the air. The nails he used are coming loose under the weight of the wood as well.
"And what do you see back there?"
He glances over her shoulder, to where their small garden lay, where a tile from the roof squashed a lettuce.
"All of this happened because you just don't pay attention to the tasks I give you! Did you even read the books I gave you on how to do these things properly?"
Setting down the bags on his shoulders and rubbing them like he's sore, Nillian sighs in defeat. "They're just not my type of books; you know that. It's amazing that you can stomach all that complicated nonsense. It's all dull as can be. Thatching roofs and building fences... My father never had the chance to teach me to do all that and I never felt the inclination to learn, much less ask him."
His uncle, the man who took care of him most of his life, never learned to do those things either, having just enough money to pay more experienced men to do it for him.
"I understand Nill," she speaks to him with that tender voice of hers after he mentions his deceased father. The back of her hand slides gently down his cheek. "But perhaps, could you put a little more effort into our home? It's the only place we have to live, and where our children will grow."
His stern expression tells her he's not entirely okay with raising any possible children here, in the house of the man who rejected him all his life only to repent in his final hours and give him a ratty hut in the middle of nowhere. The only place he likes is at his back, under the tree that provided shelter from the strong sun as his mother read him fairy tales when he was younger. He'd be more willing to swallow his own ink before letting his children run inside the place where his father beat him for... for something stupid as suspecting his saint of a mother of sleeping with another man. He had never even called him by his name. He had always been 'that bastard child'.
"Nill?"
"I... sorry. I spaced out."
His fingernails had also unconsciously dug into his palms and his face darkened even under the merciless sun of summer. Robin, being the perceptive woman she is, tries to ease away his tension, to usher him away from the troublesome thoughts that, maybe by living here he's playing a part as an instrument for his denatured father's redemption from beyond the grave.
"I know you would have liked to keep on living with your uncle, but we needed our space."
"No," he rectifies her quickly. "I didn't feel right mooching off like that. He took care of me since my mother died. It was time I became an independent man. This house is just... too somber. I don't like the memories being here brings back."
There is a silence between them as the words sink in. Nillian has talked to his wife about his father and the way he treated him and how resented he still feels. He's told her about how he hates that drunken excuse of a man, but also how he wishes things had been different, because naive as he was, he used to love him. He used to lay awake at night wondering what he'd done wrong because he didn't understand what 'bastard' meant or why his father always seemed so angry or why he cried when he thought nobody was watching. Now, as an adult, he doesn't want to try and find any possible justifications for his father, but it's not like he can just ignore what he saw as a child. It's difficult to keep his emotions from becoming a mess of pity and hate. He doesn't want to antagonize his father forever, it's not in his nature... but he's not willing to forgive him yet. Or ever.
It just sickens him, thinking about it all.
"Hey," Robin calls gently. "We don't have to stay here forever, if you don't want to. Once we raise enough money, we'll find our own house. We'll build it with our own hands. And I have always fantasized of leaving near the sea..."
Nillian puffs out a chuckle, endeared by Robin's loving treatment and understanding. It reminds him of his mother.
"I'll build you the biggest, most luxurious sand castle in the land, milady. And you'll be the Princess of the Sea."
She laughs heartily as his arms sneak around her waist to bring her close. He attempts to entice her into a waltz with his coy smile and arching brow.
"Please? My fantasy has always been to dance with a princess. Grant me this wish and I shall die a happy man."
And so they twirl on the grass like fools, because neither knows how to dance - they are young kids, in this moment, just learning to move with a terrible rhythm.
At some point Nillian shouts to an imaginary audience one of his favorite poems and gestures to his wife.
"'Look how wonderful she looks! The Princess of the Sea!"
"Nillian!" Robin squeals.
"Her body so streamlined-"
"Oh, shut up!"
"-thin and long; She is so wonderful, quiet yet strong!"
"I said shut up!"
"She sees summers and takes winters too in her stride; She enjoys the tropics and passes the rain with pride!"
"For the love of-"
"Look how beautiful she looks! The Princes of the Sea!"
"Enough," Robin huffs and pushes Nillian away. He falls backwards, aided by his particularly clumsy two left feet and while he lays there laughing like a maniac Robin points an accusing finger at him. "You're not sweet talking your way out of your duties this time. You get back up and put those books where they belong in the cart and then you climb up to the roof to fix the tiles, or so help me-"
"You're enchanting when you get mad. It's one of the reasons I married you. How many women out there can look so lovely while scolding me to hell and back?"
The apron tied at Robin's waist is swiftly discarded and thrown at Nillian's face, who just laughs more.
"Then I guess you won't mind if I scold you some more while I supervise your work? I for one have finished washing the dishes and cleaning the house. And the dirty laundry is no more. I can just sit and sip a cup of tea and watch you struggle until it's time to cook dinner."
"Aww, you're cooking for me today? Please don't."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"It's just my duty! I don't want you covering me because I'm too busy doing stuff that should have been fixed long ago."
"Get up already." Robin growls. "If you plan on finishing soon to cook afterwards you better get started."
Her husband is insufferable. And childish. She loves everything about him, yes, but sometimes she can't help hating him at the same time. He's rambunctious and too loud, hence it's a good thing they live so far from other houses or their neighbors would be banging on their door fifty times a day.
As he passes Robin by, he snatches his orange back.
"If I'm gonna be hard at work I better finish this. I wouldn't complain if a nice, cold drink were to materialize out of nowhere either."
She rolls her eyes but nods and complies, reclaiming her apron and wiping the sweat on her brow and Nillian's. "Alright. But this is the last time I use spells to cool down your beverages. Too much concentration for such a petty spell."
His lips land chastely on the corner of her mouth.
"You're so wonderful to me."
He knows he's not the only one with father issues, and it's just like her to keep her emotions in check for his sake, to wave off her own problems to help him navigate through his, because they are married and she loves him dearly.
She. Robin. Virtuous, brilliant, beautiful, magical Robin, loved him - a broke village boy without a plan in life.
He got so lucky.
A/N: Poem used in this chapter is totally not mine. I found it somewhere. But I forgot where. Those lines are the only ones I can remember, so I used them. I'm pretty sure the poem is dedicated to a ship though XD. I feel real bad I can't find the poem or give credit to its writer, but well. That's how it is. NOT MINE is all I can say. I should also place a disclaimer for Fire Emblem characters. And I guess I just did.
I own nothing.
Also, should I continue this? -_- I dunno. I am better suited to writing one-shots. I swear I can never finish multi-chapter works. Unless they are short. But for now this shall stay as a spontaneously born brainchild.