My wife does not say "I love you."
She is the most powerful being in the world, and she can't say three small words. So over the past few months, I've learned to translate.
Here is my little dictionary:
"Don't touch me." means Please hold my hand in a minute.
"You look like an idiot." means You look happy, and I like it.
"I didn't make this for you." means I made this for you.
"...Whatever." means Yes. Obviously yes.
I was thinking about this while I chopped firewood behind our cabin. It's a small wooden house with a crooked chimney, a vegetable garden, and one very tall tree that Noctavia refuses to admit she likes. The nearest neighbor is a long walk away. When I picked this place, I said it was because it was quiet. The real reason is that it's big enough for a family someday, and I wanted her to see that I'd thought about it. She hasn't mentioned it yet, but I've seen her stare at the empty room upstairs.
I lifted my axe, and the log split in half with one swing.
"Show-off."
I turned around. Noctavia stood at the kitchen window with her arms crossed, a teacup in one hand. She is small, about a head and a half shorter than me, and she looks younger than she really is. She is actually hundreds of years old. Her black-violet hair was tied up messily, and her tail was swaying slowly behind her.
"You were watching me," I said.
"I was watching the tree." She sipped her tea. "Your axe might hit it."
"The tree is on the other side of the house."
"...Whatever."
Yes. Obviously yes. I grinned.
"Stop grinning!"
"Sorry. You're just really cute when you're lying."
Her ears turned red, and she disappeared from the window. A moment later, the front door slammed. Then it opened again, because she'd forgotten to take her coat, and then it slammed again, quieter this time.
I counted that as a win.
When I came inside with the firewood, the cabin smelled like soup. Noctavia was standing at the stove, stirring a pot very seriously, as if it were a battle. She snapped her fingers, and the fire under the pot grew a little hotter. A few months ago, she could burn down a castle with that same snap. Now she used it to make dinner.
I put the wood down and noticed something on the chair by the door.
It was my armor.
Not the full set, just the small silver plates I still wear on my chest and shoulders. They'd been broken since the last day of the war, and one leather strap had been hanging by a thread. Now the strap was repaired. The stitching was neat and tight, and it was sewn with a thread that shimmered, a deep gold color.
"Noctavia."
"I didn't touch it."
"This thread is magic. You can't buy this anywhere."
"It looked embarrassing, all right?" she said to the pot, not turning around. "The Hero of humanity, walking around with a loose strap. People would think I'm a bad wife."
I stood there for a long moment, holding the armor. I thought about the fortress, the road, and one hundred and twelve confessions. Then I walked over and hugged her from behind, very carefully, so I wouldn't spill the soup.
"Don't touch me," she said.
I waited. One second. Two seconds. Then I felt her small hand slide over mine and hold it.
Please hold my hand in a minute.
"...The soup is going to burn," she muttered.
"Then let it burn."
"Idiot."
I have never been so happy to be insulted.
We ate dinner at our little wooden table. The soup was a bit salty, a bit bland, and somehow both at the same time. I told her it was the best soup I'd ever had. She told me I had no taste. Then she quietly had two bowls.
Halfway through the meal, she paused and looked into the salt jar. It was empty.
"This is your fault," she said.
"How?"
"I don't know yet. But I'll think of a reason." She stood up and picked up her bowl. "We're going to the village tomorrow."
"We?"
"You'd go alone, and then you'd come back with a pig." She glared at me. "I'm coming."
"I would not buy a pig."
"You would."
Okay, maybe I would. But the real reason, I think, is simpler. My wife has never gone to the village before. And I think she's a little bit nervous.