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The sight of that calm water always induces equal feelings of melancholy and peace. He stares into the depths, eyes boring into that one flower. It floats just so slightly above the bottom, taunting him. His hands curl into fists at his sides, a sharp breath punching from his lips. He sits down with a soft sigh, propping up one leg to rest a hand on. His reflection in the water stares back at him, haunting.
The bags under his eyes are defined, dark creases etching exhaustion into every line on his face. He drops his head onto his knee with a sigh, curling in even closer to himself. He can still hear the phantom voice of his beloved, smooth and welcoming in his ear.
“What has you so stressed, moonlight? You need to take care of yourself more.” His hand curls into a fist at his side, shifting against the soft ground. He can see the phantom version of his husband, reflected in the still water, shining in the light of the moon. He shuts his eyes as the phantom brushes a strand of hair behind his ear, squeezing them tightly closed.
When he opens his eyes, the phantom is gone. He wants to sob. He wants to sob and scream and break something, but none of that will bring his husband back. Nothing will bring his Runaan back to him. One tear drops from his eye. Then another. And another. And then he is sobbing, tears streaming down from his eyes like a roaring river. His hand covers his mouth to muffle the mournful cries begging to be released. It feels like his grief is neverending, coursing through him in such a violent wave that it scrubs him of any other emotion. He’s not Ethari the blacksmith, or Ethari, Runaan’s husband. He’s not even Ethari the widower– no, he’s not Ethari anymore. He is grief incarnate.
He stares at the flower with slitted eyes, tears still leaking out to blur his vision. No matter how much he wills it, it stays stubbornly floating there, just a bit above the bottom. Taunting him. If he’s being honest, if he’s being selfishly honest, he would prefer if it could simply drop to the bottom. Knowing that his husband is out there, somewhere, not alive enough for the flower to float, but not dead enough for it to drop makes him sick. He can’t do anything with the knowledge, can’t even hope that someday his husband will make it back to him.
He’s lost all his hope by now.
All he can do is sit, and stare, and pray that whatever thing is keeping his husband just barely alive will cease, so Runaan can pass on. So Ethari can truly grieve. Because now he can only grieve the absence of what should be right next to him, what could be right next to him. He cannot mourn, and cannot even begin to heal. How can he, when he knows that his husband is out there somewhere? And there’s nothing he can do about it.
He wipes the tears from his eyes with a shaking hand, making his way to his feet. He dreads going back to their house, their bed, and having to inhabit those halls all on his own. When they are together, their home is pleasantly cozy. But alone? Each empty doorway is a trap, a reminder of everything that Ethari has lost. A reminder that Runaan is lost. The halls echo with memories, with expectations of another body, another presence, another soul filling the space alongside him. He takes a heavy breath as he opens the front door to their home, preparing himself to step into that suffocating emptiness. Tears threaten to well up again when he catches sight of their front hall, all of Runaan’s outer-things still resting there. It’s not much, a couple coats for colder weather, a few different pairs of boots, but it’s almost enough to push him over the edge. He’s been religiously taking care of Runaan’s things, so they all look the exact same as they did the day he left. ‘I promise I will return your heart to you,’ he had said. Ethari snorts derisively. No, his heart remains sunken in that pool with Runaan, hopes dashed on the dim glow of the gem and the delicate silverwork of the petals.
He makes his way back to their room, echoes of memories haunting him all the way. It’s not usually this bad. He can ignore it, can pretend Runaan is simply out for the day. It’s always worse at night. He expects Runaan to be there, arms open in an embrace, and a soft smile on his lips as Ethari climbs into bed at an ungodly hour. Runaan will chastise him with a whisper, and Ethari will apologize and say it won’t happen again (they both know it will). They’ll laugh, and Runaan will kiss him and say he’ll stay up every night for Ethari, and he’ll drift off only when he is caught in Ethari’s embrace. The tears do fall, this time. Small drops of water, dampening the fabric of their sheets and darkening the silken color. The room is so strongly filled with Runaan.
Through tears, Ethari stumbles over to their closet. He rips off his own sleep shirt, reaching for one of Runaan’s. He slides it on with a hitch in his breath. It smells so strongly of Runaan. Something sharp and cold, mixed with the tang of wood and oil, rich and almost spicy. He holds the clothing up to his face and inhales deeply. It reminds him of what he is missing, yes, but it also serves to calm him. Runaan’s familiar scent, so strongly intertwined with the good memories they had together, slows the flow of tears leaking from his eyes.
He shivers, a mix of the emotion washing over him and the chill of the outdoors finally catching up to him. He pads back over to the bed, limbs heavy and brain awash with emotion. He curls up tightly under the blankets, trying to trap his body heat as close to him as possible. Physically, he is warm now. But there’s a chill inside his heart, a bone deep coldness that he cannot shake. It is a coldness that can only be dispelled by the feeling of strong arms wrapped around him, holding him close.
He doesn’t fall asleep for quite some time.