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after-witch · 1 year ago

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My Heart Was Not So Heavy Then [Yandere Spring Spirit x Reader]

Title: My Heart Was Not So Heavy Then [Yandere Spring Spirit x Reader]

Synopsis: You've always known you were going to die in the spring.

Word Count: 8600ish

Notes: yandere, reader is a married woman, misogyny, mentions of expected pregnancies and childbirth, reader becomes pregnant, physical abuse (slapping); some animal birthing descriptions

You have always known that you were going to die in the spring. It was not a fact that you shared with others--you learned very early that such talk was not acceptable. It earned you stares and whispered words and on one occasion, sore knuckles from your mother rapping them with a stick, sternly telling you to stop talking like that.

So you did.

You pretended not to know that one spring, when the flowers were in bloom, you would die and cease to be. You kept this knowledge with you, a secret in your pocket, but you no longer let it slip from your lips. You kept your thoughts to yourself between the snow melting and the heat of summer rising, wondering, always wondering: is this the spring?

And if you grew up with death woven into your thoughts, stitched like embroidery into your heart, was that so bad? You still grew up. You had friends and played. You learned to read enough to get by and you loved to paint, when your parents could afford the materials, and life was sweet and bitter in all the right turns.

And now you were old enough to marry, though the prospect of it all--marriage, birth, death--seemed almost fruitless sometimes. What was the point? How long would it last?

You were going to die in the spring. And your husband didn’t even know.

You had a beautiful dream that morning. A lovely thing. Hazy--perfect for spring. Something that would no doubt be half-remembered by the early afternoon, only recalled in desperate snatches that you could not possibly hold onto for very long. Not when there were chores to be done and your husband’s younger sisters and brother to mind and neighbors to visit and your mother-in-law to appease.

Such beautiful dreams were lost in the tumult of life. It was to be expected that you’d never fully retain them past childhood, and certainly not now, married and expected to carry your load in your husband’s household while you waited to start your own.

When you were a child, the thought of your impending death was almost like an adventure. But now, you’ve found, it makes your heart feel sick with worry. Would it be worse to die before or after you had a child? Should you even have children? Was it wrong not to tell your husband what you knew?

But you remembered your sore knuckles and the way people stared when you told them, voice high and babbling, that you were going to die in the spring. So you said nothing. You woke up and you ate and you worked and you slept and you dreamed.

Even snatches of beautiful dreams, fleeting and whispered, were better than nothing.

Your mother-in-law--and you all live under the same room, mother-in-law, husband, wife, and his younger siblings--doesn’t care much for dreams. She told you so, the first time she caught you smiling at the breakfast table, still lost in the dizziness of a lovely dream.

Dreams are for children, not for married women, she had said. Someone about to have children of their own, running around your feet. Someone who is expected to be a proper spouse, a proper mother, a proper everything.

Best forget about your dreams, is what she told you. And you knew she meant it in every way possible.

Your husband, Thomas, doesn’t seem to mind your dreams. Figurative and otherwise. When he has a few extra coins in his pocket, he sometimes buys you paints, a little easel. The paints are cheap and the easels need to be carefully prepared before they will accept paint, but you don’t mind the effort. When you’re ready, he always ushers his mother into the house and lets you sit outside and work.

Your paintings will outlive you, and maybe that’s why you like it so much.

Not that your mother-in-law sees the benefit in any of it. Though you’re glad, at least, that she prefers to send you outside the home to work. Go to town, collect herbs, collect wood to be chopped by your husband or his brother that is old enough to wield an ax.

You don’t mind that she puts you to work outside the home so much. There will be plenty to do inside once you’re married, she tells you now and then, and even more once there’s a baby in your belly.

The thought makes you feel already heavy, leaden, like there’s a chain wrapped around your stomach keeping you to the floor… but you don’t tell her that.

Instead, you briskly step through the threshold as soon as you can, sometimes pulling off your husband’s younger sister who loves you (and you do love her, despite her clinginess, despite the knowledge that you won’t be here forever) and wishes you would stay home with her instead.

But you like the woods. You’re always alone in the woods. There’s nobody here to judge you. For your secrets or your paintings or anything else.

The woods are quiet and not-quiet, all the same. Buzzing insects and the trill of birds and the snap of branches from foxes and deer and perhaps, on occasion, a bear.

But there are no squealing children, shouting neighbors, or nagging mothers-in-law here. No children dragging against your skirts, no mother-in-law staring at your belly, tsking, wondering no doubt: when will you be ripe?

Ripe. What a thought. Your hand goes to your belly. You and Thomas had already started… becoming one, as they say, before you were married. You’re not meant to do so, until you’re married. But you were betrothed and Thomas said no one would mind very much, if your belly was a little round at the wedding that winter. But you weren’t pregnant at your wedding. And not now, either.

You wish you could avoid town for a little longer. And, more wistfully, you wish you could remember your dream from this morning. It was something beautiful and fresh. It made you feel renewed that morning, gave you a spring in your step. But what was it?

You sigh, ready to turn at the fork and head into town--when you hear it.

A horrible bleat.

You know that sound, and what it means.

Your legs carry you quick as anything towards the wild, primal noise, and sure enough, there--on the other side of a fence is a sheep, keeled over on her side, bleating awfully with one fresh lamb sitting at her head. She licks it in between her awful screams and you know that there must be another one still beside her. But it won’t come out.

You hop over the fence and her bleats intensify at the sight of you, despite the soft hushings you give her. Your hands reach towards her exposed underside and you see the edge of a leg, tiny and jerking. But no matter how much she bleats, it does not progress.

It’s stuck.

You tug your sleeves up to your elbow--they’ll probably get bloody anyway, but best to spare them as much as you can--and stick your arms inside, feeling the wet, squirming gore covering the lamb that refuses to be born.

“Do you need help?”

Your mind jerks but you force your body to stay still, lest you injure the lamb. You glance up and there is a young man standing in front of you, behind the fence. A stranger. He has chestnut hair that glints a little golder in the spackle of the spring light.

“I--”

The lamb tries to push again, which only seems to make the little thing underneath your hands tremble. But it moves no further.

“It’s stuck,” you say, tongue almost sticking to your mouth. There is no time for introductions or questions when there is a bleeding sheep and a stuck lamb before you. That can come later, as it always does, in times like these. “I need someone to push on her while I move it.” You pause, letting out a frustrated sigh. “Or I need four hands.”

The man laughs and leaps easily over the fence, landing right next to you. When he crouches, the smell of forest flowers spreads, though there is no breeze to bring them. He wastes no time in assisting you, and he must be the son of a farmer, you think, the way his hands deftly manipulate the lamb through the sheep’s thick wool and skin.

As he does so, your hands slip further inside, gripping the slick bloody wool and turning, turning--until there is a little rush of thickened blood and the lamb slides out. There is a moment of silence in which you think, poor lamb, poor thing.

But it bleats. It lives. And the mother jerks her body up, terrified bleats turning to ones of relief, and soon the stubborn second lamb is joining the first in getting its first mother’s bath.

“Bluebells,” you say. And then your mouth goes to your lips.

The man looks at you, and quirks his head to the side. “Hm?”

“Bluebells,” you say again. Then you smile and look down at your hands, covered in wetness and blood and birthing gore. “I… dreamt about them last night. I’ve been trying to remember my dream all morning, and it came to me just then as the lamb came out. How funny.”

He stares at you. You think back to your mother, your neighbor, your friends--the look they gave you when you told them about your spring-induced death. But you just told him about a dream. Why should he look at you so intensely?

But the look is gone before you know it, and instead he smiles. It’s a toothy smile. He stands, and then extends his hand to you. You glance down at your bloody hands and help yourself up, and he merely shrugs, and lets out a little laugh.

He insists on following you to the farmer’s door, so that you can let him know about the lambs. He tells you that his name is Robert, but everyone calls him Robin, and you can call him that, if you don’t mind.

You don’t mind, so you do.

“Did you make a wish?” He asks suddenly, as the two of you make your way up the winding, cleared path between the neighbor’s fences.

You’re busy wiping your hands on your apron--oh, how Thomas’ mother will seethe at the sight of it. “A wish?”

The man does a little spin as he walks--a spin!--and you can’t help but smile at him. He looks to be about your age, but he seems more carefree than the other men in town. Certainly more carefree than Thomas, who as of late has begun to calculate how much he will need to work, to make, to save, in order to expand his family’s home for your own children. You try not to think about that.

“A wish,” he repeats. “during your dream. On the first bluebell of spring.”

You laugh, and a cow somewhere on the other side of the fence moos in response. Silly thing. You’re not sure whether you’re referring to the cow or yourself.

“I’m afraid not,” you say, shaking your head. “I didn’t know.”

The man pauses his steps and hums. His fingers go to his lips, as if this is a serious conundrum, indeed. You remember, then, that you never asked his name. He hops back over the fence and you’re about to call out when he lets out a noise of success, and saunters back with a sprig of bluebells in his hand.

You didn’t see them there before. But you were paying more attention to your hands than the flowers.

He holds them out to you, and raises his eyebrows. “They aren’t the first bluebells this year, but I don’t think it will matter much.”

Making a wish on bluebells. How silly. But it’s just the sort of thing you used to do, when you let yourself indulge more in your secrets.

You reach out and brush the petals with your fingertips, letting the soft petals and stems tickle your skin. Then you close your eyes and make a wish.

You keep that wish in your pocket with your other secrets.

---

That night, Thomas holds you too roughly in bed and pushes too roughly inside you and you close your eyes and think, suddenly, of the bluebells. And the lamb. And the blood. And Robin.

When he pulls out, the stickiness of it all makes you wince. You don’t tell him that you pretended at your own release, and he doesn’t notice the lie.

“That should take,” he says, voice breathy. He rests his head back against his pillow and glances at you. Is it wariness in his eyes, or weariness? Sometimes you wonder if he regrets the marriage. Most of your friends, married off earlier than you, were already with child. Or had one weaning from a wet nurse already.

You wonder if any of them missed their dreams and took them out of drawers and gazed at them, the way you like to do. Any notions you had of leaving town and being a painter died long ago. When your parents died, maybe--but perhaps earlier. When your parents tutted at the idea of paying for painting lessons or when they pulled you out of schooling because you didn’t need much, they said, to run a household. Or when you had that first realization that you were going to die someday, in the spring, when the flowers bloomed, and was there any point to pursuing a life when it was all going to end, anyway?

Thomas says your name and you’re pulled out of your reverie. He leans forward and kisses your cheek, and you lean against him. He’s not a bad man, really. He buys you paints. He peels his mother-in-law from your presence when she’s overbearing.

But sometimes you catch him staring at your empty belly with a frustrated sadness that makes your fingers curl.

Beside you, on the bedside table, is a sketch of bluebells you made when you came home. You didn’t bother using your paints on it--you don’t have the right blues to capture them just right.

The next day, you dutifully visit the farmer to ask about the lamb. You tell your mother-in-law this, and she smiles, grateful that you’re enduring yourself to their neighbors. It is essential, she has told you before, that you maintain a good standing in the community.

And you aren’t exactly uninterested in the lamb or the farmer. But you’re mostly hoping to run into Robin on your way there, if only to ask him to help you find more bluebells like the ones he gave you yesterday. You want to dry them out and save them, and perhaps the next time Thomas’ purse is heavy (though when that will be, considering all the things he is planning, you don’t know) he might be able to find a suitable paint.

But when you ask the farmer if he’s seen the man who helped you yesterday, he gives you a look. A look that reminds you of rapped knuckles and whispers.

“I don’t recall anyone with you yesterday,” he says, glancing behind you before giving you a look that was perhaps skin to pity. Maybe he remembers the dusty rumors from your childhood. Or maybe the sun is in his eyes.

“Well…” you start, and it’s best to shrug it all off, isn’t it? “I’m sorry to have bothered. I’m glad to hear that the lambs are doing well.”

It’s funny how easy it is to wash away strange looks with complacent, neighborly smiles. Funny and a little sad. The farmer waves you off and gives you a basket of fresh bread his wife baked and vegetables his son harvested and a tin of jam his daughter made. You imagine baking bread to give to neighbors and something inside you shudders.

So the farmer didn’t remember seeing Robin. Perhaps Robin was standing behind you. Perhaps the farmer had gotten into the drink a little early.

Perhaps Robin wasn’t real and you were losing your mind and dying from some unknown illness that was finally, finally going to kill you and--

But when you reach the fork in the road that leads in and out of town, there is Robin, leaning up against a tree, a thistle of something dancing in his teeth. He’s wearing a loose white top with frills, almost akin to an undershirt than anything else, and plain black trousers. When he catches your eye, it drops from his mouth as he practically runs toward you.

You think to ask him about the farmer, but he’s talking--there is a bit of green stem in his teeth--before you can speak.

“Did you dream of bluebells again?”

You smile, a forced politeness, and shake your head. You didn’t dream of bluebells, and it was a shame. Instead you dreamt of your belly growing big and there was an awful pain and grayness, and you were dead before your child could even walk, and your husband didn’t care--all he did was pick up the beautifully squirming baby and go on his merry way.

“I dreamt about…” But you can’t tell him about that. You wouldn’t tell your husband about this dream, much less a stranger wearing

Robin’s grin broadens. “What? You can tell me. I like hearing about these first dreams in spring, you know.”

You’ve known this man for less than two hours, yesterday’s lamb birth and walk to the farmhouse considered, but you find him refreshingly strange.

But you shake your head. You shake your head. You wouldn't burden a stranger with the troubles of your life that spill into dreams. What would this young man care about the woes of your life, anyway? Your fears about death and life and marriage. Though perhaps he had a wife. Perhaps she was at home, toiling over the hearth, while he sprawled about the woods and talked gaily with others and grinned at them and gave them flowers.

You force down the bitter kernel of resentment. It wasn't fair to him, you suppose, to spin such an assumption out of nothing. He looked young enough to remain untethered, and men often went longer without marrying, anyway. He was a helpful--albeit unusual--young man who helped you pull a lamb out of a stuck sheep and escorted you to-and-fro afterwards. That was all.

“You think too much,” he says, and the shock of it pulls you out of your thoughts and brings a bit of heat to your cheeks. You do think a lot. It’s a bad habit, started from childhood, when thinking about things (you’re going to die in the spring) was revealed as preferable to saying them out loud.

“You’ll get wrinkles,” he points out, voice sing-song, and gestures a finger towards your lips, which are set in a somewhat serious frown.

He grins.

“It doesn’t matter. Look--” He sweeps his hand down towards the ground, and you instinctively step back as you notice for the first time that there is a carpet of bluebells underneath your feet. They weren’t there before… or were they? You were so often lost in thought in the spring that you perhaps paid more attention to the limited nature of your future than you did the world around you.

And aren’t these just the most vibrant bluebells you’ve ever seen? Their color reminds you of

“Witches' thimbles,” you blurt out. He quirks his head again, like you’re a fascinating specimen at a museum. Not that you’ve ever been to one, or will likely ever go. “That’s… another name for them, isn’t it?”

Heat blossoms across your cheeks. You feel stupid. Silly. Who cares about another name for bluebells? It’s exactly the sort of thing that made people give you strange looks when you were younger--blurting out facts that no one cared to hear. Whether it was the fact of your impending demise or a stream of names for spring flowers.

But he doesn’t look at you like you’re strange. Instead, he busts out laughing.

“Yes!” Like an extremely enthusiastic tutor, thrilled that his pupil has finally gotten an answer correct. “Or wood hyacinth, lady’s nightcap…”

He crouches down and brushes his hands over the blossoms, drooping blue-purple bells that sway just enough in the breeze.

You crouch down--oh, it’s so untoward--and take a sniff. Bluebells don’t have a very strange fragrance, and you only get a bit of bright greenness. And then another name comes to you, and you can’t help the carefree grin that spreads across your face before you spit it out.

“Crow’s toes!”

He stares at you, and there’s a split second where you think ah, that was too much and now I’ve ruined everything, before he bursts into laughter.

“Cuckoo’s boots!” He counters, voice choking with mirth.

It takes you only a moment before you’re the one bursting with laughter, and your crouch turns into a full blown sit right on the ground. Your skirt will be dirty and if someone comes across the pair of you, the local gossip will never end, but you don’t seem to care in the presence of the laughing, strange young man in front of you.

When the laughter fades and you’re left inexplicably sitting on the ground in a pile of bluebells, you finally think to ask something of him. Something you really ought to have asked before, but you were distracted. By lambs and bluebells and the season itself.

“Why haven’t I seen you around before, Robert?”

“Robin,” he says, light and easy. He shrugs just as easily. “I’m only around sometimes. I like to travel.”

His eyes are a brilliant shade of blue. Not quite deep enough to mimic a bluebell, but there’s a dancing light in them. The thought is too much, and you clear your throat and help yourself to your feet.

There is a difference, you think, between being yourself (when is the laugh time you laughed giddily? The last time you made a joke? Your husband could be kind, but he was not silly or carefree or funny…) and being improper.

“Well,” and your voice is back to sounding almost prim, an echo of your mother-in-law. You are a married woman, after all. “I’m glad I’ve caught you when you’re visiting, then. Thank you--” He looks up at you, and there’s confusion in his eyes. Maybe a little hurt, too. “For your help with the lamb,” you finish.

He doesn’t stand up, which is odd enough. Instead he pulls his knees up to his chest and stares up at you. “I didn’t do much.” He sighs, a soft, long sound that makes you want to contradict him. “You could have done it even without four hands, I bet!”

The compliment makes you want to stay. It also makes you want to leave.

“It’s nothing.” You glance down at your hands. They aren’t a painter’s hands, though you often wished they were. They were a farmer’s hands. “My parents were farmers and I grew up here. It’s not the first lamb I’ve helped birth… or cow… or goat.” A low sound from your throat, a mirthless chuckle. “Or a person.”

He blinks up at you.

“Do you have children?”

Your hand goes to your stomach.

“No.”

Your lips get tight and thin and yes, perhaps it is time you left.

He groans, suddenly, and flops back on the grass. One hand splays over his forehead.

“I’m sorry,” he says, sounding annoyed and sorrowful and pouting all in one breath. “Ugh!” He opens his eyes and stares up at the sky. “Sore subjects, there’s always sore subjects…”

You almost feel a little sorry for him. He reminds you of… yourself. Somewhere, deep down, buried under layers of corrections that began with rapped knuckles.

“It’s all right,” you tell him, voice soft. “You didn’t mean anything by it. It’s a common enough question, I suppose.”

“Please don’t go,” he asks, and you want to smile a little at the wheedling tone in his voice. “You’re fun. I like it.”

You shake your head and lift up your skirts. It’s too much, isn’t it? Someone might see. And even if they don’t, there’s that pit growing in your stomach, a pit all women must cultivate for situations like these.

He continues to lay in the grass for a few moments, before he hoists himself up and jumps back into a standing position. He’s back to smiling, as if nothing had ever been said between you.

“If you stay…” His voice is teasing you, drawing you in, pulled candy held on a stick. “I’ll let you use these.”

And you take a step back now, when he crouches and reaches for a bag left loitering on the ground. You don’t remember seeing that bag. Maybe you are too overworked lately. Your brain must be frazzled and fried like eggs in a hot pan.

But instead of pulling out a weapon or something else that has your lips ready to shout for help, he pulls out… paints.

A set of paints. And a traveling easel, with a sheet of cloth ready to be bolted over it.

You stare at the paints. Then at the bluebells. And then at him.

“I… could stay for a little while.”

That evening, blue paint stains your fingertips while you finish your sewing for the evening. Your husband’s shirts, first; then your mother-in-law’s; then the children’s; and then your own.

There is a robin perched in the window and you laugh. A bright, beautiful sound in a room that has seen little giddiness since you and your husband have made it your home. Your husband, busy with his own work, looks up at you with a peculiar expression.

But he says nothing.

He said nothing about your fingertips, either. Although he clearly saw them when you came home. Instead of asking--and you would have told him, surely?--he pursed his lips and gave your arm an affectionate squeeze and told you that he’d bartered for some fresh cheese from the neighbor.

You like cheese, so you’d thanked him, and went about your day.

And now it was evening, bordering nightfall, and the time for chores has ended as a new nightly task was set before you. The task that had you unfastening the laces of your dress, and then your stays, and climbing into bed in your night chemise to wait for your husband.

The window behind you was open, letting in the cool spring air. Singing crickets were as good as music and darkened pinks and purples filtered through the window, the last bits of dappled colors before night would come.

The robin is still there when you tilt your head up and look out the window to catch the fleeting sunlight.

And you swear the bird quirks its head as your husband unfastens his trousers and climbs into bed.

It’s not right to do this. You know it’s not. But you meet Robin again, and again, and again. The spring seems longer than ever and for once you are not fretting about childhood prophecies, you are not foregoing thoughts of happiness and friendships because you’re worried about the fact that you won’t live to cherish them forever.

Instead, you’re meeting with Robin at the same spot, the far far end of the neighbor’s fence where only the lambs like to go. Where the stubborn lamb was born and comes, sometimes, sneaking underneath the fence and sitting between the two of you.

Together, you paint. After a while, Robin brought a proper easel with him, along with a canvas worth more than ten of the canvases your husband could ever afford to buy you. And the paints, oh the paints! Such rich shades that perfectly mimic the natural colors of the world around you. For once, you are making progress on bluebells that aren’t hampered by a limitation in color or quantity.

But you don’t just paint. You talk. About your dreams and the future and everything but your secret. Because for once, you’re not thinking about it.

Because Robin makes you laugh.

Because he makes you feel like yourself, or someone you used to be. Like you can peel off layers of smoke and grease and find yourself again, fresh and new.

Because he makes you feel unmarried.

And if you come home later than usual, if you sing more than you ever had before, if your smiles and laughs fill the house with a lightness it has been sorely missing… is that such a bad thing? Your paintings of bluebells are hung up in your bedroom, and your husband hums at them and says they look pretty. And it’s not exactly like being a real painter but it’s nice enough for the life that you have--and that’s all we can ever hope for, isn’t it?

Robin’s kisses are tinged with the flowers he likes to nibble on now and then. Spicy and sweet.

Today his kiss tastes of honey and you draw back and press disbelieving fingers to your lips. When he grins, as he always does, his mouth is sticky with thick, orange honey.

“Wh--where did you get--” You sputter, licking the taste in your mouth. A delicious floral honey, earthy and sweet.

“Honeycomb.” He gestures behind him, somewhere in that wild, beautiful forest that surrounds the carefully plotted paths the townspeople made so long ago. Then he pulls out a chewed piece of raw honeycomb, jagged and broken. It’s a wonder he didn’t get stung.

You laugh--oh Robin, silly Robin--and say nothing more, but lean forward and begin to lick the rest of it from his lips.

Before the afternoon is out, the two of you make love for the first time. Beneath the tree, above the bluebells, yards away from the stubborn lamb who fell asleep by the fencepost hours before.

“You wicked slut!”

There is a flesh-colored blur and then a sting across your face. Not painful but humiliating and surprising and oh God, you think, at least it wasn’t my knuckles.

She knew. They knew. Your mother-in-law and your husband and probably half the town, if not the whole of it. Someone saw you two (the farmer? You hope not, thinking of his basket and his smile, but thinking of his strange look at you, too) and your mother-in-law has put two and two together to make four.

Four being that you and this young man are clearly engaged in something other than paintings and picnics. You could tell her that you’ve only kissed, nothing more. But it would be worse to admit to anything right now, when gossip has inflamed her imagination.

Do you dare look at your husband? No. Not for more than a second. He stands, firm, his mouth pressed into a frown. But he says nothing as his mother screams at you and slaps you once, and then twice.

“Have you been together?” She practically shrieks the words out, and spittle flies towards your tingling cheek.

“I--” You don’t answer, but your stuttering is enough. Your face is enough. The way your body seems to shrink inward is enough.

Your mother-in-law’s voice turns into a ragged gasp, and she huffs until she sits herself down in a chair pulled from the kitchen. She’s done, burnt out, probably thinking of ways to turn you out of the house.

You don’t know what else to do, so you turn towards Thomas and look at him as fully as you can despite the pain in your cheek and the guilt rolling about your chest.

He stares at you for a moment. And then he raises a hand to slap you, the way his mother had slapped you, the way that his mother has slapped the children and no doubt, the way she slapped him, when he was a child.

But he doesn’t touch you. His hand lowers, slow, and you catch a hint of tears in his voice as he tells you to go to the bedroom and stay there.

Guilt, regret and rebellion, turn over in equal measure in your stomach.

You’re not allowed to walk beyond the plot of the garden fence surrounding your home. Your mother-in-law forbids it, and your husband does not contradict her.

He does tell her that you are never to be slapped again, and that is at least something.

But what relief comes from that is overshadowed when he throws away your paints and your papers, your sketch pad and your pencils.

“No more,” he says, voice low. “No more.”

“Why?” You ask, and you see yourself in his eyes. A wife who sneaks out of the home to dally with young men in the forest, a wife who comes home with paint on her fingers, who stains his mended shirts with the color of bluebells.

He says nothing. He gives your shoulder a squeeze and asks you to mind the cooking supper while his mother goes into town.

You begin to throw up in the mornings.

You begin to have strange dreams, feverish ones, of bluebells and births and sticky dark lamb’s blood.

It’s not until your mother-in-law treats you more tenderly that you realize what it all means. The sickness and dreams and odd feeling in yourself.

You haven’t bled since the end of winter.

You are with child.

The news lightens the household. At least, it lightens Thomas and his mother, who is beside herself with preparations for you. She spends the evenings working on a pile of baby clothes and often comes home from the market with fruits said to ease your stomach, poultices she swears will be ideal when you begin to have swollen feet.

You don’t want to have swollen feet. You don’t want to think about how Thomas must now build the addition to the home sooner than anticipated, and how you’ll have to learn how to feed your child and raise your child, and how there will always be a tether between the two of you that could be snipped at any moment.

Your husband brings you things that are pretty and sweet. But never paints. You don’t think you’ll ever see him walk through the threshold with those again.

But you can’t complain about how he treats you. He insists on buying cushions for the chairs, so you don’t have to sit down as far. He minds what you eat. He holds you in the night, and no longer insists on entering you--a respite in several ways.

He says nothing when you look pensive in the evenings, hands itching for your pencils, your paints.

He never asks whether or not the child might be his, which is just as well--because you have no idea.

The robin comes back only once, which dispels your fantastical notions that perhaps it’s been Robin in disguise all along. That would be ridiculous, of course. Just as ridiculous as the notion that you were some carefree unmarried thing, free to dance about with a stranger in the woods. Just as ridiculous as the notion that you’re going to die in the spring.

“Please?”

Thomas frowns. You haven’t been allowed past the garden in several weeks. It was now nearing the end of spring, your dreaded season, and something deep inside you was going mad with the need to see something past the confines of your marital home.

“Just to the end of the path and back.” You sigh and stretch your legs, lifting up your skirts to show him your swollen ankles. “It will be good for my legs. And fresh air is good for the baby, or so your mother says.”

Thomas can be stern. He has a right to be, you assure yourself, all things considered. But he is not terribly cruel. And so he sighs and tells you yes, but only to the end of the path, and don’t stop for strangers, and come right home.

And you intend to obey him like a dutiful spouse. You really do.

It’s just… when you get to the end of the path, near the fork in the road…

There is the bleating of the lamb.

The smell of bluebells, richer than before.

The twitch of your hand, aching for a brush and paints.

And Robin, leaning up against a tree, a flower rolling in between his teeth like a wayward goat.

He catches your eye, and pushes himself off the tree. His grin is as easy as it was the day you met him and the many days in between.

What do you say in situations like these? Your heart thuds, but offers no answer. Your stomach twists, but says nothing at all.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, head downcast. “I haven’t been able to come.”

“Hm?” You glance up, and he quirks his head. Like a bird. “It hasn’t been that long.”

It’s been weeks, and there’s a stinging in your chest. You’re one of many, most certainly. Or he does have a wife at home and he’s been busy with her and you’re a silly, stupid fling that he’s forgotten about. Heat rushes to your cheek faster than it should--damned pregnancy.

“Sorry,” he says, his eyes wide and his smile chipper. “I said something stupid, didn’t I? I don’t have a head for time.” He sighs, and the soft, languid sound of it goes a long way towards soothing your hurt.

Then he finally looks down at the swell of your stomach and his eyes get wide, the crisp blue of them seeming to glitter as he

“I see…”

He walks a few paces back to the tree and plops down, his back against the bark. You hesitate. You should go home. Someone will see you. More than that, you said you’d go back. You can’t even keep your word, how are you ever going to raise a child?

But you take one step and then another, and Robin reaches out and helps you lower yourself to the ground.

The silence between you feels uncomfortable. But apparently Robin feels nothing of the sort, because all he does is stretch out his legs and pull out his bag (and God, you swear, where did it come from today?) to retrieve paints and easels and your fingers practically shake as he hands them to you.

You talk while you paint, but there is nothing light about your conversation this afternoon. Just as there is nothing light about your painting. It is bluebells, yes. But not a pretty field of them buzzing with bees and floating dandelion seeds and spring sun. Instead it is dark and overcast, the soggy aftermath of a storm.

“I want it on my terms,” you say, and your frown is so set that your teeth begin to ache. Robin hums, and your brush drags down over the canvas, agitated. He doesn’t understand. He can’t. He’s…

Robin watches you paint, and then pulls up a long blade of grass and begins to chew on it.

“Tell me, then.” As if it’s the easiest thing in the world to say to anyone. Much less him, in your current state.

“Thomas told me this morning,” you begin, laying it out with a simmering anger. “That perhaps I can paint again when we’re done having children. When they’re grown. When it will be… appropriate.” The word drips from your mouth like poison.

How often have you heard that damned word in this world? It’s not appropriate to tell people that you see green people in the woods. It’s not appropriate to tell your mother that you met a fairy and she was very nice, and gave you a flower to put under your bed when you slept. It’s not appropriate to mention at breakfast that the flower was magic and it told you your future, that you were going to die in the spring and that was that.

You don’t notice that you’ve stopped painting until Robin’s hand is on yours. When you glance at him, he looks a little serious, and it’s so unlike him that the brush slides from your fingers so that they can intertwine with his own.

“Tell me,” he says. “About the secret in your pocket.”

Your throat constricts. “I don’t have a secret… in my pocket or otherwise.” You feel heavy, suddenly. Because of your skirts and your child and your life.

“I was your secret for a while, wasn’t I?” He taps your nose, a gesture that might have made you giggle a few weeks ago, but now only makes you frustrated. He’s never serious enough, when you need him to be. “You can tell me.” He quirks his head--the bird--and adds, lightly. “I already know, but I’d rather you tell me.”

And… you do.

You tell him about the woods and things you weren’t supposed to see, and your dream about your death that has followed you ever since. You tell him about the way people looked at you until you stopped talking about it at all. You tell him about Thomas’ mother slapping you and the baby growing inside you and the fear that you will die before it is born or die before it is old or die before you’re ever, ever allowed to paint again.

When you’re done, he laughs. He throws back his head and laughs, and it hurts and confuses and tears are blinked away as you try to muster up what to say to him.

The blade of grass gets curled up in his mouth, and he blows on it--a whistle.

“It’s easy. Just don’t get any older.”

It was your turn to laugh. A short, bitter thing.

“Everyone grows old.”

They do, don’t they? Growing old has been a part of you since childhood. Eggs to chicks to hens to table. Watching your grandfather go from lifting you up high to sitting in a chair to lying on a table, his body looking waxy and stiff as everyone wept around you and the room smelled funny.

He rolls his eyes and shakes his head. As if the very idea was ridiculous.

“You don’t have to do what they want. Grow old--or don’t. Be a painter--or don’t.”

Your fingers brush over the unfinished canvas in front of you.

“Even if I could stay young forever--and I can’t. I… I can’t be a painter when my husband won’t buy me paints.” You frown, which only deepens as you speak. “Or when I’m about to have a child, who will need me to nurse it and care for it, who will pull on my skirts when it learns to walk, who will need to be wiped and washed and taught. And soon enough I’ll be just like Thomas’ mother, and I’ll nag my own daughter-in-law and maybe I’ll slap her when she displeases me. And then my children will be grown but I’ll be old and I won’t be able to hold a brush even if I wanted to.” You take a breath. “And that’s assuming I don’t die well before then, in a spring just like this, and everyone else moves on after me because that’s just what you do when people die.”

He shakes off your words like morning dew. Unimportant, silly things.

“You made a wish.” He picks a bluebell and twirls the stem in his fingers. “You dreamt of bluebells and you got the first wish of spring, and it will come true.”

There’s a pang of stinging irritation in your chest. Maybe you shouldn’t have stayed. It feels like no time at all has passed between you and all the time in the world at the same time.

“Robin.” There’s patience in your voice, and something sterner that reminds you of Thomas’ mother. “Wishes aren’t real. Not like that.” You can’t just wish yourself to never grow old or be a painter or do whatever it is you want in this practical, limited place called life.

His smile softens, sweetly. You’re reminded of the kiss with honey between his teeth.

“You had a dream that you would die in spring, and that is real. But you don’t trust in wishes?”

His fingers tighten over yours. Just enough for you to notice. And then they loosen and he’s splaying his hand out, palm up. “Come with me, then. I’ll make your wish come true.”

And he doesn't say it soft and honeyed and low, a temptation. He says it with sureness--with a grin on his face, with the gold in his hair shimmering in the afternoon light, with the blueness of flowers in his eyes.

“It could always be like this,” he says, looking out towards the fence across the way. “If you come with me.” The stubborn little lamb toddles after its mother and there are bluebells surrounding you and Robin at your side.

And a baby in your belly.

“What about my baby?” You blurt out the words, a hand resting on your stomach.

He shrugs, and far away, the lamb bleats. You realize that he never asked if it was his child. Like Thomas, he says nothing of it. It's a baby in your belly and that is that, or so it seems.

“Keep it if you want to. Or we can give it away, if you feel bad.”

You don’t ask to whom you’ll be giving it away, but the way he says it unnerves you, untethers you just a little.

You don’t think he’s talking about leaving the child with an orphanage or on the doorstep of a kindly neighbor. Beads of sweat stick to your back and you think of the stones you used to see in the woods as a child. Large, smooth paved stones. Someone (your grandmother? A neighbor? A whispering thing that dripped words in your ear while you slept?) told you that women left babies there to be taken by fairies and spirits and anything else that would have them.

Green men didn’t always look green, and just where did Robin get his bag and his paints and his bluebells?

You don’t bother asking him what he meant. You’re not sure, really, that he’d tell you.

The thought of not keeping your child never actually registered before today. But then, running away with Robin never registered until this moment either.

What do you want? You stare at Robin’s outstretched palm and look at your own naked one. The memory of the stinking rich lifeblood on it comes to mind, as does the sight of your friend’s round bellies, the screams and sweat of the birthing rooms you attended with your mother.

Is that what you want? A child? That life? The uncertainty of wondering when when when will I die?

There’s a lurch in your chest and you want to leave before it becomes too much. You stand, wobbling, refusing Robin’s hand and starting down the path without another word.

He yells after you, jovial, unconcerned.

“Tomorrow! It has to be tomorrow!”

On the way home, your hand plucks the last of the blooming spring flowers so that you can explain your long absence in front of what you’re sure will be frowning, tutting faces.

But when you stride frantically in, skin flushed and hand clutching a bouquet, everyone stares at you like you’ve lost your mind. You were gone less than a half hour--the time it normally takes to walk up the path and back.

That night, your bed feels rock hard. Or maybe it’s just your nerves that keep you afloat, refusing to let you sink into the mattress as you’d like to do.

Your hand rests on your stomach and Thomas isn’t in bed yet, late nights doing work to make more money to build you an attachment so that you aren’t sharing the same space as his mother forever, and you both love and hate that he’s not here.

If he was here, you might not have the luxury of thinking about anything at all.

But you do, and the thoughts race inside your head, bouncing to and fro like frantic children.

Do you go with Robin? Is Robin a human? Do you keep the baby? Can you leave Thomas? Is it better to live here and die here or go somewhere else and perhaps, be there forever?

There is no bird in your window that night, but you swear you smell the delicate scent of bluebells. Fresh and green and bitter, right under your nose.

Thomas lets you walk to the end of the path again, because you complain about your swelling legs and he thinks getting out of the house is better for your increasingly isolated mind.

And so, here you stand at the fork in the road.

You could turn around and walk home. Back to your husband and his mother and the new life that awaits there. You would let your mother-in-law tut over you and tell you the best way to nurse and feed and how long to wait after birth to conceive another. You would let Thomas guide you and hold you and look at you with stern pity when you wanted nothing more than to paint. You would live there and die there, and who knows when that would be? Could you stand the agony of each spring, every shifting season, promising life for others and death for you? Could you stand never picking up your paints again?

You could walk towards the farm. To the lamb and to Robin, to a beginning that might not have an end at all. You could see if Robin’s skin would peel back green or if he knew where to leave your child so that it could have a good life (but would it?) and ask him if he meant it, when he said you never grow old.

What life do you choose? Which one could be called a life at all? Both? Neither?

Take a step back. Take a step forward.

Stop keeping secrets in your pocket and splay them out on the table and make a choice.

Make a damned choice.

But you don’t get to make one, after all.

Instead, a familiar hand grabs your wrist and tugs you forward, and you stumble over bluebells that don’t crumple down even when you trample on them.

“Robin--”

He’s there, smiling and holding onto you, and behind him is a wild field of bluebells that are so thick and fragrant it’s as if you walked into a maze of them. You spin around, his wrist still holding your own, but the path is gone. That world is gone, lost and brushed over with this hazy spring afternoon.

He leans forward and presses a kiss to your nose. He smells like flowers and honey and something bitter underneath that has perhaps always been there, covered with the scent of paints and lamb's blood and your own uncertainty.

“Well?” His grin is as vivacious as ever, and his chestnut hair seems to shine more deeply here, glimmering with golden hues that beg to be run through with your fingers.

In his eyes is the lamb, the roundness of your belly, the deep hue of the bluebells in your dream and the paint that stained your fingers. Were his eyes always so rich? Or did you fill them with your conversations and your laughter, your kisses and your touches? Just as he filled you with dreams and smiles and an airiness you'd long since plastered over.

“Come on!”

He pulls you along, laughing and you don’t know where you’re going. Whether you will live forever or ever paint again or what it will be like. You only know the three of you will start there together, whether you wanted it or not.

You were always, in the end, going to die in the spring.

#yandere #yandere oc #seasonal spirit #afterwitch writes #my bb!!!#wahh I can't believe he's done and the series is rounded out #how funny that one person being like hey you should do other seasons #led me to do this ;asdfsd #seasonal spirits #folklore writing #original stuffs

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