Robin(g Death)
"You have no control who lives or who dies." She all but spits in my face. I wipe it furtively anyway, her vitriol enough to drown.
I sigh, turning to look over the stables I own. We own. "Maybe not. But I sure as hell can try, cant I?"
My eyes land on a dark horse- a Seattle Slew. I named him Robin after my late brother. The horse lays on its side, huffing uneven breaths despite the open air the field provides. The vet said it might help, but his eyes are cast further down on his broodmare, a fine horse that stands nursing their new foal.
"You can't stop death."
"But she stops for us?" I sarcastically quote, mapping the strong muscles of my prized animal. I had bought him to secure a fortune- I mean, a race horse? One of the cream of the crop? He surely would have brought glory. At least a dollar to the farm. But I quickly valued him far beyond that- far beyond my own brother, I hate to admit. He is family, as much a dog or cat. He became sick the moment I offloaded him, and hasn't been able to do much but rest the poor bastard.
"No." My wife says, turning to look out at the farm. It feels easier without her heavy gaze on me; one I had promised would survey a bountiful future, now drawn to the very dying of our soil. The horse never wavers his dying gaze from his loved ones. "No, death hasn't stopped. She rests. Even death must rest, must she not?"
I shrug noncommittally. "Does she? I watched my entire family die first hand- one after the other, barely a few months apart. Not much a rest, is it?"
"Oh William, you are such a negative man." My wife chuckles, and I quirk a smile instinctively. "No. Death takes those that she must. She is not cruel. She simply takes those begging for release."
"You say my ma, pa, brother and sister- god my sister, barely five- asked for death?" I growl out. She does not flinch.
"Perhaps. Perhaps not. But death must sense fight. I imagine your family-" She turns quickly to me, and I nearly buckle beneath her wide-eyed stare. Her hands grip my face, forcing me to steady on the fence. "Oh Will, your family was sick. They were in so much pain. Surely you did not wish them to survive and suffer still? From paralysis? From a risk of relapse?"
I shake my head quickly before I can imagine my young siblings ensnared by wooden wheels and bed-bindings as they lash against their fevers. "Of course not. But couldnt death give them a chance? Grant them mercy? Restore them?"
Her hands, firm and sturdy, stroke my face like I am something good. She is as piss-poor as I, yet pulls me forward as though I am worth the land in weight. "Prayers fall on deaf winds, scattered by the winds of begging for release." She tugs me by my jaw and I helpless to follow, inhaling her sharp scent of sunshine and earth. Her smile puts the darkness to shame, though I feel a banging of guilt like the sturdy slam of the guillotine to wood at my own thoughts of deserting her.
"William, what is it you wish?"
Without hesitation, I reply. "Health. Happiness.." My eyes drift to the delicate bump beneath her tunic, though I am not brave enough to touch the poor child she nurtures when I am barely capable of feeding her. "Survival for our family. Security."
She smirks, all the bit enticing she had been nearly five years ago in that tavern when she had been little more than an overworked barmaid. "You've yet to name him: our son."
I can taste the beginnings of her smile, and shrug with a whisper of a response, "What about Robin? After my brother and our stallion."
"Do you not suppose it bad luck?" She asks with a tilt of her head, and I pull a few inches back to admire the framing of brown locks around her gentle, wondering face.
"No." I grin as I let my hands fall from the fence finally to her hips, my thumbs skirting the edge of her expanded stomach. "Luck is benevolent to have found me you."
She grins, bright and brilliant and I admire the slight lines years of happiness have bestowed her, whereas mine revel worry of the fall of empires. However, her gaze is not on me.
Without glancing away from the field, her fingers find my jaw, softly prompting. "Look."
Robin stands on shaky legs, his wild foal bounding happily around him in circles. The mare nuzzles the sturdy neck of the male, who chuffs into her own mane.
I blink wildly, my hands falling to grip the fence, ready to vault over. My wife is making for the house; undoubtedly calling for the vet. However, she stops to shoot me an impish grin. "Better find a better name for our boy by the time I get back."
How dare I doubt such a woman, I wonder as I leap across the field in bouts of energy no amount of money could ever bestow me. So long as I have my family.