A Single Red Rose - Alistair
She touched the ring around her finger, numb except for the feeling of the warm metal against her hands. Tears slipped down her cheeks and her breath caught in her throat. Oh, Maker, she thought. No matter how hard she tried to move on, she never would. She knew that now. Every night as she fell asleep, every day when she woke up, every minute that her mind was idle she thought of him. His laugh, his arms, the smell of love and roses. The way he held her close before the fire, body against his chest and head tucked into his shoulder. The way his eyes had glossed over and his body went cold. Touching the ring, once glistening but now muted from her constant touch, she could still hear him.
“This isn’t a ring, my love. It’s a promise. I’ll always be there for you, no matter what. It’s you,” he’d said, “It’s always been you.”
She hadn’t understood his intentions, then. She thought they had an agreement. She thought she was stubborn enough, sure enough, good enough a liar to convince him she wasn’t afraid of what’s to come. She thought it was supposed to be her. She’d been saved, she’d been avenged, and she was supposed to finish it. She should have known better. He would never let her get the chance. As she stood against the demon with a sword in her hand, ready to take the final blow, he stood in her way. With a gentle kiss and a forceful hand, he pried the blade away from her and told her one last time how much he loved her. She tried to stop him, to take it back. Her screams echoed through the air, her pleas fell onto deaf ears. She wished she could forget that moment, that smile, that look of satisfaction and resignation on his face as he slid the sword through its body and took on its soul. He lay there, bloody and victorious, as he exploded with light. She ran to him, held him, screamed and begged to the Maker to spare him. It was too late. He was gone.
The days and weeks and years passed by, blending together until they lost all meaning. She was a hero, but she knew it should have never been her. He should have been the one they praised, the one who ruled, the one who lived. Her companions mourned with her, but healed, which she knew she never would. Eventually, they carried on in their separate ways, leaving her to her grief and responsibilities. She pressed the ring to her lips, taking in the feeling.
“Oh, my dear Alistair. I miss you more than you could ever know,” she whispered, another fracture forming in her brokenness. “One day the call will take me and I’ll see you again. Then I promise, my love, that you’ll never be taken from me again.” She forced herself to stand and steady herself. With gentle steps, she made her way out of the home that Alistair should have shared with her. As she entered the garden, the breath was pulled from her lungs. There, among the greenery and wild-growing bushes, a single red rose was in bloom.
