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if anyone asks

last night didn't happen.

I promised you a fairytale ending

“—finally here.” The silence returned and all was still.

Black. It was a night sky: dotted with stars, crisp with a winter bluster. Snow crunched underfoot satisfyingly, layered deep and packed. For all but the path it was pristine and glittered with the light of the heavy full moon of a long night of winter. The snows of Italy lacked this tenacity, melting away as quickly as they fell, destined to a brief existence. It was so unlike this blanket which instead clung to legs and clothes as burrs, trading hooks for biting cold, clumping and weighing down all it touched. Yet the night itself was not brutal with buffeting winds, only the hushed whisper of falling flakes and the worrying howls of lurking beasts.

The road was worn with the tread of horses’ hooves and heavy feet, entirely slush and mud: soldiers had passed through recently, following the winding trek through the neighboring mountains. Left in their wake was only these tracks and a low figure standing in the road, watching from afar. One of the troops perhaps lost from his brethren… his crest emblazoned on the gently flapping cloak was not recognizable, thoroughly caked with blood. There was no mistaking him as a mere foot soldier, yet he was young, lacking the poise of a general, uncertain as he stood at a distance. The armor was expensive and slightly ill-fitting as though meant for a larger man. In the darkness he waited, head turned to the cacophony of barks and whines as they approached, sweeping past everything en route to reach him. Their pursuit ended in a flurry of commotion, leaping upon the man and easily knocking him from his feet.

A pack of war dogs. They too were armored, impervious and fearless, flashing teeth as they tackled their prey. Yet he arose laughing, pushing them away with a quiet, scolding tone, trying desperately to remain upright under the onslaught. But it was joyous yelps and feverish licking that threatened to overwhelm him once more; he knew them. The ruckus was a reunion and he was forced to endure many more minutes of barrel-chested, muscled brutes attempting to weave their way between his legs and bowl him over once more to cover his helmeted face with drooling affection. At last they calmed, darting away further down the path, their master close behind. The cloak was cast off; it dragged through the snow and slowed his pace as he ran. Though there was something amiss as if a great injustice had been shown. Too slow. The armor was not his and he was too slow, dragging him down to earth. He was not meant to be grounded like this.

The wind rose, the flurried snow ebbed, and he was gone.

Gold. It was a painting that one could live in, too perfect to exist in the world. Trees shivered in the warm autumn breeze, showered the ground in golden leaves, whispering softly with the sway of branches. To the east, the vineyard was ready to harvest with jewel-like fruit. The grapes were too round, too sweet, breaking upon the tongue with an incomparable crispness. It was painting of dreams made real with colors and sounds. Memories had built this.

Like dandelion seeds caught on the wind, the children spun through the field in their white dresses. However the perfection was marred with the conspicuous tiny muddy handprints and grass-stained lace decorating their clothes. Unlike the sky of impossible blue above, devoid of clouds, they were real and acted as true children: both girls giggling as they flung handfuls of the leaves at one another. Sisters, too young to be separated far from their mother’s watchful eye-- yet in this valley the soldiers’ footsteps were absent entirely. The cluster of trees sheltering the town was their fence and their shield; to find this place was to stumble upon it when wandering aimlessly amidst the forest. It was protected, this idyllic little haven that produced leaves of gold and fruit without peer. The only one that knew its secrets was the soldier, hovering now nervously in one of the gardens, hand gripping his sheathed sword’s hilt too tightly as he watched the children. They, however, remained oblivious to anything beyond their own amusement, seemingly content in dirtying their clothes further as they sought frogs in the nearby pond.

There was hesitation evident as he took one step forward before retreating. The spell would be broken if he neared; this fragile construction would collapse into a thousand pieces as he was a bloodied, imperfect blot in this portrait. Out of place. This was not where he belonged: a solitary figure of death in eternal paradise, the lone shadow cast in the afternoon of gentler memory. The children were left to play, spared doubt and reality. He turned and did not look back.

Red. The blood-stained armor was leaning against the solitary gravestone, kept separate from the three plots that sat empty. Her hair fell around her face as she wept silently, tangling in the whip of wind funneling through the valley. It was brushed away with the same neutrality as the tears that stained pale cheeks now hollow from mourning. She was a widow but bore it as a true woman of her country: stoic and strong. The children were not here in this place of death, spared again from the knowledge that their father was gone.

The soldier was changed now, familiar but not. Arms wrapped tightly around himself, he held his distance though both of them were in misery. He could not comfort her here for she did not see ghosts. When he had told her that her husband had died in battle—a lie to comfort, as it was obvious as he still stood before her—she threw herself onto the bed and cried in solitude.

His pillow still smelled of him. His clothes were neatly folded for when he returned. She had pounded on his chest, demanding to see the body, certain her husband could not fall to the Ottoman menace. He would always come back to her. He had promised. He would come back. Yet now she stood bravely over his grave, accepting and letting go.

White. He had returned. He would not break his promise to anyone. Cloaked in his usual robes of white and green as he waited next to his own grave, he had given her closure. She would be strong and raise their children as she had all these years waiting for him.

He was older now, captured for eternity as he had been, with scars carved into his skin from almost forty years of battles. While sadness lingered in his eyes, it would pass. It was as he had been after her, after them. Nothing had changed, least of all the smile he gave, except there was no more hint of guilt and pain. Regret had fallen away too; he was finally whole.

“Îmi pare rău, înălțimea voastră. You are finally here and I had one last thing to do. Cu toate acestea, I am all yours.”

#tldr #The tears can end now #All is fixed