Note: Wow, I'm really late posting this. I feel awful, really. So, I'm sorry. Thanks to all my reviewers (I love you all!) and I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint. It was barrels of fun to write. XD

PS: Due to lack of time to reply to all reviews, would it bother anyone if I started replying in chapters? It's okay if you say no. :)

Chapter Five:

Marlin

I wasn't supposed to feel guilty.

I'd expected the expression that would flash across her face—anticipated it, even. I'd planned the words oh-so-carefully, had them ready like bullets: prepared to fire the next time she'd dare to walk through that door. And I let them loose without restraint, if only to see the look in her eyes.

That stunned, almost anguished, look in those innocent doe eyes.

I walk outside and glance at my sister; she's bent down, weeding out the fields again. For a single moment, I consider approaching her to apologize, but I let the moment pass in silence. "Why are you apologizing to me?" she'd no doubt reply heatedly. "Why aren't you telling that poor girl you're sorry?"

And why should I? What made Celia so high-and-mighty that I had to bow down to her in apology, that I needed to confront my sins, but she could go about as she pleased? Damn, it wasn't fair.

I deserved to see that look in her eyes. I deserved to see her pain. After what she'd done to me, I deserved even more than that. But somehow, when her gaze flickered towards mine…

No. It was too late for pity.

"Celia gone?" I ask, clearing my throat. Vesta turns her head towards me, and her eyes narrow as they lock onto my unforgiving expression.

"What's it matter to you? You made such a damn scene about her staying here; I'd expect that you would enjoy some time to yourself."

"So she is gone," I gather, her words invoking nothing in me. Everything within me is sort of empty now; all the anger has quieted with her departure, and now there's nothing left.

Except those eyes. Those damn doe eyes.

"If it's all the same to you, I sent her to do a few errands," Vesta grunts, returning to her farm work. "Delivering crops and things. You know, chores you should've done by now."

I had been behind on that. I cross my arms and nod, my feet walking towards the shed for no real reason except to see for myself. I poke my head into the room, and the absent clutter wordlessly confirms Vesta's story. Then, as I take a closer look, I sigh.

"…Idiot."

Celia—the girl with the haunting doe eyes—had stupidly forgotten a crate of tomatoes.

I'm not sure why I decided to follow her. It wasn't like I cared whether or not Ruby got her shipment of tomatoes today, and I can't say I'm a big fan of deliveries and the meaningless chitchat that they ensue.

Yet I'm walking down the street, I've got a crate of tomatoes in my arms, and it isn't long before I spot a petite brunette outside the Inn's entrance. A little wagon sits by her heels, stocked with other crates like the one I'm holding. Then she turns to me, and a single word slips past those angelic lips:

"Marlin?"

I don't know if I'd call what Celia does to me hypnotic or mesmerizing or what. My whole body goes rigid, every step is shaky, my very frown is frozen. Breathing becomes all but impossible as I force myself to move forward, to ignore the furious beat of my heart, to pretend she's nothing but Nami or Muffy or Lumina.

But she's Celia. And that alone makes pretending impossible.

"You forgot one." I slam the crate on top of the wagon and turn to glare at her; it takes all my willpower to lock onto those startled eyes. "Try and pay attention next time. I don't want your mistakes making trouble for the rest of us."

Her smile fades a bit, and she looks away, nodding. "Oh, I-I'm sorry. I must have missed it somehow."

"Just be careful next time, alright?"

"I will. I promise."

The forced conversation fades into silence, and she shuffles forward, head downcast. I study her for a moment; silky chestnut tresses tumble past her shoulders from beneath a worn green handkerchief. Stains crown her faded dress, and it's tied loosely about her, sliding over the round curve of her belly.

I feel my stomach tie itself in knots, and I look at the ground instead. "So when's the baby due?"

She blinks; apparently, she hadn't expected me to turn the conversation in this direction. For that matter, I hadn't intended to, either.

"Dr. Hardy says the baby should come in a few weeks or so," Celia murmurs, her voice small and meek. "Before the end of winter, I'd think."

"Soon, isn't it?" Too soon. My mind begins to spin; she'll surely be staying at our home then. I can already imagine her laying on that bed, writhing in agony, blood rushing to her face as she screams in pain. No, I can't see that—how can I face that?

And when the baby—his baby—lets out its first cry of life—

"…Marlin?"

I can feel my whole body shiver as I gaze upon her, her youthful features creased in confusion. God, she's only eighteen. Eighteen. Girls that young should be smiling, they should be running about carefree, they should be living life.

Not waiting to release it.

"Marlin, are you alright? Your face—it's ashen."

"Let's do this later," I say instead, starting down the path. "Ruby can live without her damn tomatoes for a day."

Celia simply stares, rooted to the ground in shock. "But I'll slow you down—"

"Then follow me already, would you?"

I grab her hand firmly in my own and pull her forward, heat pulsing from her palm into my own. God, her hands are so tiny. Her fingers feel lost in my calloused palm—like they'll slip through the cracks without a trace. Without a word, I tighten my grip.

Hell, I'm breaking so many rules right now. Holding her hand, leading her home—I would have killed for this a year ago. I sneak a gaze her way, and I realize she's been doing the same to me as she turns away in embarrassment, caught in the act.

"What?" I accuse, more anger than I had intended echoing in the single syllable.

She trembles slightly, and her voice wavers. "Did you mean what you said?"

Everything stops as our feet freeze to the ground, that question the glue pulling us down. I swear, even my heart is skipping a beat when I turn to her, eyebrows raised. "What I said?" I repeat.

Celia ducks her head, hiding behind a curtain of chestnut locks. "What you said," she murmurs, daring to raise her eyes to my own. "Do you really blame me?"

And her hand slips from my own as I stare at her, stunned silent.

"I'm not going to marry her."

Furious, I turned away from my sister, defiance beating through my veins like liquid fire. I wanted to scream; I wanted to slam my fist against the wall; I wanted to break something so hard it could never be fixed. Yet all I found I could do was say those six words. "I'm not," I added, the expression facing me that of pity rather than authority. "And I'll be damned if you can make me."

Vesta and I had known this talk would come. It was a bomb that had waited eighteen long years to finally explode, and now that it was being brought into the open, I had set myself to do everything I could to snuff out its fire. Even so, little did I know the havoc that one flame could bring, the irreparable damage that could result.

All because of a betrothal, a promise my parents had made for me when I was fourteen years old.

"Her family's been hit by hard times, Marlin," Vesta cajoled me, seeing my face tighten in fury. "For all you know, she's a sweet girl—and Lord knows you haven't done anything to find a nice wife on your own."

"What do I care about marriage?" I spat, turning my back on her. "And she's only fourteen, for God's sakes! Who in their right mind marries someone half their age? What kind of guy do you think I am, Vesta?"

She chuckled—not the reaction I wanted. "Scream at me, insult me," I longed to say. "Just wipe that damn smile off your face."

"Marlin, there's plenty of marriages that have survived despite age differences. Twenty-eight and fourteen ain't so bad."

"It's not exactly a small gap, either. Besides, who the hell let's a fourteen year old get married?" My hands ran through my hair, and I let out a groan. "And why the hell would I want to get married?"

The thing was, I didn't want to get married. Living with Vesta for the past ten years had taught me more than I wanted to know about women: they take up half the bathroom, they nag, they make you come home in time for dinner. They get onto you if your laundry smells like alcohol, they complain if you sleep in, they don't stop getting onto you about your language and your attitude. Marriage was just finding someone who would do that, permanently, all for the sake of love.

Love. What a small price to sell your soul.

"Marlin, at the very least, let the girl stay here," Vesta told me in that tone of hers that says she's already made up her mind on the matter and my opinion officially means jack. "I'm not gonna make you marry the girl when she turns eighteen, but let her stay. Betrothal or not, she needs a home, and her mother desperately needs one less mouth to feed."

And since--as I have said--my opinion means jack, she did come.

I had tried to imagine what this stranger might be like as I laid awake at night, drawing pictures in my mind. Perhaps someone with Muffy's outgoing nature, her physique, and her manicured nails completely unsuited for farming. Maybe my unwanted bride was cold and distant like Nami: carelessly dressed and unimpressed by everything. Or my young fiancé may be a girl like Lumina: childish, talented, prim and sophisticated. None of those options were particularly encouraging. Hell, the thought of marrying someone as young as Lumina seemed downright sick and wrong.

Though Lumina was twelve, and this girl was fourteen. In four years, she'd be an adult, but for now, she was still a child.

When Celia entered into my home for the first time, her manner was quiet, timid, and polite. Vesta had been right—she was young, and her body had yet to completely lose some of its stick-straight figure. It'd be fair to say that she'd never shared Muffy's closet; those clothes were worn, probably handed down. Loafers peeked from beneath her faded gown, and she folded her pale hands in front of her; the sun had yet to beat down on her fair skin. All I could think was that the girl was in for a rude awakening tomorrow.

"You must be Marlin," she whispered, terrified, yet curious to catch a glimpse of my face. I returned the favor, scrutinizing her shadowed features and child-like face. I didn't know what she thought of me—in fact, I still don't know—but it didn't really matter a hell of a lot to me anyway.

"We need to get something straight," I demanded, a growl creeping into my request. "I know you've been told we're supposed to get married or something." Her slow and cautious nod affirmed my statement. "Well, don't get your hopes up. I don't know you, you don't know me, and I don't believe in getting married for convenience. The betrothal was written by our parents; that's no reason for us to stop paving our own lives. So, if you have any ideas about marriage, just…drop them. Okay?"

And then, a miraculous thing happened. A smile crept its way across her lips, and she replied quietly, "…Okay. But Marlin, can you promise me one thing?"

Oh, God. Don't touch my stuff, don't go into my room, don't forget I'm allergic to fifty-seven different kinds of foods, don't breathe my freaking air—I'd braced myself for that and maybe a hundred more responses. But the kind voice simply requested,

"Can we still be friends?"

And I didn't have the good sense to refuse her.

She didn't have a damn clue how to work a field. She learned. She'd never used a gas stove. She learned. She had never done laundry on a clothesline. She learned.

Everyday, the world threw obstacles at her feet, and to my amazement, she kept on smiling and facing them head-on. What shocked me the most, I guess, was the fact that she'd never let herself complain. Not even one damn time. Celia would just pick herself up, grit her teeth, and plunge forward once again.

This one time, a year or two ago, I'd walked outside to see her sprawled out on the field, exhausted under the unrelenting rays of the sun. "Till the field," my sister had instructed her, and to my disbelief, she'd done it—and once completed, the newly-hoed soil ended up serving as her bed. My first thought was how pathetic she was to collapse on the ground like that. My second was how innocent she seemed, smiling in her sleep like a fallen angel on the ground. Her hair sprawled out behind her head like an auburn halo, framing her young features. I knelt beside her, despite the fact that I didn't owe her anything—that I'd never wanted to.

"Celia?" I whispered, but she barely stirred. I brought myself closer, and my breath tickled her ear. "Celia? You can't sleep on the job like this."

This time, I inspired some sort of movement, and as she stretched her arms lazily in the sun, she murmured, "Sorry," in a dreamy, half-asleep voice. She nestled closer to me, probably mistaking me for a pillow, and suddenly everything in me just melted. My resolve, my defiance, my anger—all of it melted away as I took her into my arms and carried her fragile body indoors, whispering, "You owe me, you know," as I laid her down in her own bed.

She seemed so peaceful as I brought her blankets over her slumbering form, so content as I blew out her candle. I could see the freckles that had appeared on her now sun-tanned face, the bruises that blossomed on her arms, the dirt smearing her brow. And something within me just ached at how serene she was, just beamed with pride that she had accomplished all she had. My heart pounded within me as I approached her once more, as my hands dared to brush the bangs from that beautiful face. God, I couldn't explain his feeling—this unspeakable joy that left sadness in its wake as I stared at her sleeping form. But I could hear those words spoken by a stranger with my voice: "I love you, Celia. Sleep well, okay?"

And I swear to God she smiled.

You won't find that story in Celia's diary. But I'll never forget it, even if it isn't forged in ink. I'll never forget how terrible that realization was, how in that moment, I just knew I had to protect her, no matter what. I had to be by her side, I had to be there to help her up when she fell, I had to be.

When Vesta first let me work on her farm years and years ago, I'd taken half of the garden for myself. I tilled the soil, planted the seeds just right, and watered them everyday. I watered them every morning, every afternoon, every evening. All I'd wanted was for them to be perfect, I told myself. So help me God, they were going to be perfect and fruitful by the end of the season.

One day, I stepped outside to see my garden nothing but a mess of weeds, of wilted sprouts that couldn't pull their weary bodies from the ground. Everything had died.

I'd run to Vesta, fuming, and my sister dutifully came outside to inspect my precious crops that never grew. Bending down, she let her finger make a trail in the wet soil, and I quickly explained how I'd wanted only the best for my plants. That I'd watered them as often as I could because I'd cared about their survival.

"Sometimes," Vesta had instructed me quietly, "it's possible to care too much."

When I look back on what happened with Celia, I think it was something like that. I'd tried too hard. I'd poured out my heart and soul, hoping to win her love. But instead, all I did was drown her in it.

What's funny is I never thought I had to spell it out for her. I counted the days until her eighteenth birthday, the day where I could finally enact that beautiful stroke of fate that was the betrothal. I took it all for granted. I never thought I had to say I loved her. We spent every minute together, we told each other everything; I thought by then she could read my thoughts as well as I could read hers.

On both accounts, I was incredibly and devastatingly wrong.

"You told me all those years ago," Celia had said, her sweet voice shredding my heart into ribbons. "The betrothal was written by our parents; that's no reason for us to stop paving our own lives. Tomorrow, my life is just beginning."

And as she glowed in radiant delight, I couldn't tear my eyes away from the sparkling blue feather clutched in her palm.

Do I blame her? Who do I blame, if not her? Who do I throw all these broken dreams, all these stupid feelings of jealousy and betrayal, on, if not her? Who's responsible? Jack, a dead man? Was I supposed to just sit back, smile, and say, "Well, at least she's happy now"?

What about my happiness? Anyone give a damn about that?

Celia remains silent as she waits for my reply, eyes intent on avoiding my own at all costs. I let my eyes trace the outline of her body, of the way her lips are drawn into a small frown, of the curve shielding the child nestled within her womb.

"…Yeah." I nod, every muscle in my body resisting the few words escaping my mouth. "I do."

Her hand strays to her face, and nodding slowly, she wipes her eyes furiously. Those pale lips part, and a cracked voice answers me, "I'm glad." Like raindrops released from a storm cloud, her words fall upon my ears like quick droplets of quiet sound, choked and unwilling to be released. "I'm glad you blame me. At least you're not pitying me, right?" Her body trembles once more, but her eyes remain stubbornly dry. "It's okay if you hate me. I--I don't mind. I know you didn't want me to come back, but I just…I didn't mean to complicate things. Honest, Marlin. I just want things to be like they were before. Before everything…changed."

Everything inside me is screaming for me to stay away from her, to stop making this even more damn complicated than it already is. But I've never been good at listening to myself, and I've never been good at making my brain work when Celia's in sight. My fingers intertwine with hers once more, and I gaze into her dark eyes as she flinches at my touch.

"Celia," I whisper, "who said anything about hating you?"