When She’s Gone. {Feysand}
Warning: Angst ahead. Sat down to write, and this is what came out. Enjoy, friends.
Rhysand hated the rain, but he walked in it.
He walked, and he ran, and he screamed amidst the frigid drops that were falling from the dreary sky of Velaris. The others had asked him to join them, that the city had something planned in her honor, but he couldn’t.
All he could think about was the first time he met her, when she was someone else’s, when he had spent years dreaming of her and there she was: a perfect painting of the night sky stuck in the dead of Spring.
All he could think about was their wedding day, when she came to him prepared to give him her life. When she cried as she told him of her love for him. How they made love, over and over and over again. Their first night as man and wife. A human tradition- one he was thankful he was able to experience. One he wouldn’t have experienced with anyone but her.
All he could think about was when their children were born. The glow she had when she carried them for nine months. The joy she had the first time she saw them, their son and their daughter, with dark black hair, one with lavender eyes, and one with stormy blue. The tears she shed when she held them in her arms, and looked at her mate, and said, “They’re beautiful, Rhys. They’re ours. They’re perfect.”
All he could think about was her touch, her smile, her laugh, her warmth, her scent….and how he’d never feel, see, hear, smell them again.
All he could think about was the love he had for her, how that love was so strong, and so rare, and how blessed he was that he was able to feel that with another person.
His wife. His mate. His High Lady.
Now, his jog became a sprint. His breathing was heavy, but he couldn’t hear himself panting over the pounding in his ears. He knew he was crying, weeping. He knew he did not look as a High Lord should, stoic and strong, but broken. He looked broken because he felt broken, he looked lost because he was.
His thin tunic was drenched, and the rain was sliding off his leather pants in one fluid motion, tiny rivers streaming down the fabric and into his boots. He thanked the Cauldron no one was around as he ascended a hill on the far side of the city.
He fell to his knees and tilted his head back, dark hair falling behind him, hanging limply, as the raindrops camouflaged the tears that he allowed to flow freely.
He wanted to scream, and curse, and tell whoever the hell was listening how much he hated them for taking her away. They said it will get better, that this would be the worse, but he didn’t believe it, didn’t believe that time healed all wounds.
Easier, maybe, but never healed.
But, he didn’t say a word. He sat there, on his knees, as the dreary day turned to dreary night. He sat there as the stars lit up the sky through the clouds. He sat there as the people of his city, their city, took the streets.
He sat there as every light in Velaris was turned off, and every person in the city held up a candle. Flames shined brightly, little specks of light from where he sat perched on the hilltop. They held up their candles as a symbol. They held them up for their High Lord, because he was hurting, because the city was hurting. They held up their candles for the High Lady of the Night Court, in her memory, as if to say, You will never be forgotten.
yousharknotpass
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