This is another tragic fic which I wrote because recently I've felt like screaming and running in circles. It is a companion piece/sequel thingy to "Mourned as a Friend" which I wrote a while ago. If you wish to comprehend the deeper meaning of this angsty piece, you should probably read that first. I wrote this piece itself roughly a year ago and found it while metaphorically dusting my hard drive. I don't really do TP anymore but what the heck? I wrote it. I might as well post it.
Disclaimer: I do in fact own Tortall if you're dumb enough to think I do.
To Mourn a Friend
By Fantasizing-Lady-Knight
The news was a shock. Painful. Jarring. It brought with it the numb recollection of memories, straining to block out the tragic news…
He had been in that battle. He had, at one point, fought by her side. But he had been called to another area to fight with his forces there. He had left the clearing with no doubt that he would see her again. She would take care of herself. She always did. And if she failed to, he knew her over-grown pony and rascally mutt would.
That was what made the news of her death so abrupt. He would have expected himself to die before her…his skills were lesser than hers, he was certain! But she wasn't immortal. And all mortals have to die eventually.
The loss of her friendship was horrid. He missed the ease of talking to her, the joy of teasing Neal with her, the exhilaration of fencing against her…
He found himself wishing that a different comrade of his had died instead. He had many friends, but, at times, he had found himself thinking that she was his best friend…she and Neal. And her loss was just as painful for his cousin.
He remembered how Neal's face had paled to an ashen grey when he'd heard of the loss. How Neal had collapsed into a chair and remained there for three whole days before he had been able to drag Neal to the healers. And he had helped his cousin through the pain. The pain that he felt himself. But Neal needed it more, so he gave all he could to help his comrade recover.
Neal would never be totally cured, but he was better now. He could speak and feed himself…he could even say her name, though barely.
But as the days passed, the weeks, the months, his inward ache only increased. More than once he went to tell her something, only to realize that he couldn't and would never be able to again. When he had gotten his promotion as second-in-command in the Own, he had run halfway to her chambers before realizing that they were empty.
When Neal would push his vegetables aside with his fork, he would only be crushed into reality when her voice did not reprimand his green-eyed cousin.
The more she was gone, the more he missed her. The pain did not lessen—only increased until he wasn't sure how he could continue living.
He was haunted by glimmering hazel eyes, his life consumed by the desire to see them one last time. He wished he could see her once more…greet her in the morning by her unwanted title. The one that annoyed her so much. He wanted to tease her, wanted to joke with her, wanted to simply be with her…
And the more he thought, the more he mourned for her absence. He wasn't too "manly" to admit that he cried at night. And he had never really cried before.
Finally he just had to admit it to himself. He loved her. Loved her smile, her humor, her style with weapons. He loved the way she walked with an air of confidence, the way she felt compassion for all living things who deserved as much. He loved her green-brown eyes with their long, curled lashes. He loved the way she had always cared about her friends, no matter what.
And with this acknowledgment came the agonizing comprehension that he was too late.
All those years he could have spent loving her, but now he couldn't…
She had died thinking of him only as a friend.