disclaimer: i own nothing.
a/n: he is my ultimate fe:a husband. and i think he would accept Robin's 'death', eventually, which would lead to unpleasant circumstances with Morgan, while beating himself over it. also, written this at one in the morning so excuse the horrible quality.
. . .
He had lost half of himself.
Even when he had said that she lives, that she isn't the dying sort, it had tasted off on his tongue— a sack of bitter lies. There was doubt on his shoulders, heavy and pressing, while fear, despair and anxiety had choked his throat. After that, it had been difficult for him to move, think, breathe.
And gods, Morgan.
Morgan.
He really didn't know what to do.
The only comfort he could offer his son was his presence, hugs and repeated, quiet whispers of "I'm here" and "she'll be back" but he knew that it could only do so much.
For him, it there had been no Morgan to busy himself with, he was sure he wouldn't even be standing.
Another loved one. Yet again, lost.
(It had been Ke'ri first. Then it was Robin. Who was next? Basillio? Morgan?)
If only— if, if, if, if, if he had been stronger. Maybe it would have made a difference. But would it really? Maybe it wouldn't matter at all. Maybe he was just destined to lose all he's ever loved. Maybe he can only lose.
The thought haunted him like constant, violent nightmares, and he realized, eyes wide and sweaty palms, that he had never felt so much of a palpable dread as he had now.
It meant that—
Robin was never, never coming back.
. . .
The moist on his cheeks had stained the pillows.
He could hear the silent screams.
With gritted teeth and clenched fists, he walks away from his father's tent.
. . .
But moments later, he halted and spoke, seemingly strong yet frail.
"If you are losing faith— you, Father— then it will be impossible for her return."
. . .
There were too many memories of her with the Sheperds.
It was not possible for him to stay with his heart not aching, not crying, not tearing itself apart into pieces.
(That was the field they had trained in together, that was the tree where they had sat under together as a family, that was where he proposed to her, that was where they had tried holding hands, that was where—)
So he had asked Chrom, with face stoic, stubborn and unmoving that the man could only relent albeit hesitantly and he knew it was because of concern.
But he departed because not remembering her was as much of a torture as it was unthinkable.
. . .
"I'll keep looking for her because I know she is going to come back."
Then, he turned and walked away.
. . .
He refused to drink now.
And he planned to continue doing so for as long as he lives.
(She had chastised him once on his drinking habits because they harm him and it is unhealthy. He thought it had been absurd then as he never drink that often but now, it's different.)
When the day comes every year, he wouldn't drink his sorrows away.
There would be a pile of figs beside him and the memories of how she had thrown them to him for the first time.
A smile would grace his lips, only shown to his son and her ghost alone.
. . .
"I'm sorry, Morgan. Robin is not coming back."
. . .
—end—