A wooden horse is all that's left
Henry entered his home in Rattay with heavy steps. His body feels numb. Every step feels like he's carrying a suit of armour weighing him down.
The house still feels the same. But it shouldn't. Not after....
Henry shakes his head. He needs the room to be darker. Quiter. The singing of the birds in the linden tree outside feeling like knifes digging into the emptiness in his chest. The bright sunlight feeling like poison in his gut. He needs it all to stop.
With quickened steps, fuelled by an old familiar instinct, Henry marches towards the window. He forcefully grabs the shutters, planning to keep the light and sounds of the world outside away.
But as he goes to slam the shutter, his eyes fall on something laying on the windowsill, glinting in the light.
It was a small wooden horse. Beautifully carved and painted. Martin's old favourite toy. One of the first gifts his son received at his birth. A gift that Hans had spent days working on.
Henry still remembered Hans crooning as he had given the toy to the newborn Martin. How he had smiled so brightly when Martin's grabby hands had taken it and brought it to his mouth to drool on it. How Hans had pretended to be insulted by the behaviour, except his warm laughter showed his true feelings.
The horse now lays on his side. The paint faded, revealing the smooth wood underneath it in some spots. One of the ears was broken off. Years of play having taken its toll on the poor animal.
Henry picks it up and slides his thumb over the smooth sides.
He should probably store it somewhere else. Somewhere where no one could steal it. Where it could not be destroyed. The trunk near the wall seeming a better place for a prized horse than a windowsill.
Henry walks towards it; the wooden toy kept tightly in his grip. The horse’s legs prodding into his hands, which Henry barely notices. He openes the trunk with his key, stumbling slightly while doing so. The inside was filled with daily utilities. Cleaning cloths, cooking equipment. Object of daily use. Henry went to lay the wooden horse inside a cooking pot, nestled in some cloth. But he couldn't.
Some part of him, the part that was filled with emptiness stops him. Makes him look at the little horse, it's grey paint a resemblance of old Pebbles. That part of him, that he tried to ignore up until now, makes him clutch the toy tighter and bring it to his chest.
And this little horse is one of the few things that was left of him.
A lump forms is his throat, not leaving no matter how hard he swallows. The emptiness inside his chest suddenly feeling like a stone dragging him under water.
Hans was gone.
Henry had not cried during the burial. It hadn't felt real. The person in the shroud had felt like a stranger. As if he had been awake in the middle of a nightmare, not knowing how he got there. His body and voice going through the motions. Hugging Martin and Hynce, being a shoulder for Jitka. Saying words that rung hollow around the church, echoing meaningless in the emptiness inside him.
But Hans was gone.
And Henry had no strength left to hold back the tears. He falls to his knees, hand clutching the wooden horse to his chest. Trying to put it where his heart had been. Sobs racking his body as the world became blurry. Nothing felt real except that one horrible, painful fact.
Hans was dead.
Never more could Henry see his smile. Never more could he hear his laughter. Nevermore his singing, his teasing, his complaining. They wouldn't go hunting anymore, or wake eachother up with kisses in mornings. They couldn't play dice anymore or draw blades against eachother. Never more would he see the stars reflected in those eyes. Nevermore...
A pair of arms hugs Henry for behind. Holding him, like a rope to hold on while he's sinking.
"It's alright, pa," said Martin, his voice thick with grief. "It's alright."
But it wasn't alright. Hans was dead. He had gone to where Henry could not follow. And Henry's broken promise surrounded the hole in his chest where Hans would lay his head.
vaporwave
2087
stormborns
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
germansingergirl
romaincrisis
