He would have torn his eyes out, had it meant hearing her voice again.
He would have stopped his heart in his chest, let his old antagonists chop his hands off, had it meant feeling her touch and seeing her smile.
And so time dragged on in that way for what seemed eons.
Hours he spent poring over parchment, empty glass bottles of ink laying shattered and desolate about his desk. His hair grew out until it fell in lank locks over his face, shading his eyes from the reality he did not wish to see.
But his despair was meaningless. It did not translate into the real world power he was so desperately reaching for, hoping to grasp so that he might see her again.
The years had passed over him like spikes, making every waking moment hell until he was numb and bloodless.
The first ten had become nothing to him. Their happiness was meaningless now that she was gone, a brief decade washed in her warmth that now only screamed at him in his sleep.
He tried desperately to reclaim the power that was once his, the ability to pull from his mind and summon into reality. He spent days at the desk until he couldn't lift his hand from hunger and dehydration.
He would've done anything, anything at all, if only he could hear her soft voice.
But over and over again he failed miserably. There was an instant of light, a rustle of white upon white, and an awakening gaze -
And then it would die in the same moment.
The parchment would crinkle in his hand with unspoken curses, dotted with wet spots, and then he would pick up the quill and try again, unsteady though his grip was.
And as time ticked on and dragged by beneath his notice, the room grew dusty and dingy. The books he'd once spent hours examining lay despondent on their shelves, a picture of surrender. Quills of all sorts lay untouched in jars, waiting to be sacrificed to his mad scrawls.
And beneath the dust was a sort of grief that no one else could touch. Invisible and immobile, it hovered about in the stillness of the room, weeping gently.
The ignorant writer kept at his grief. The crowd of used up parchment and broken quills grew at an exponential rate.
With each piece of paper thrown, the unseen presence seemed to sigh with sorrow.
And at those times the room would shudder, felt by no one, and the dust would dance in an intricate performance.
The breeze would make its way over to the crazed writer, and the dust motes would settle lightly about him.
And then, ever so lightly, the room would come alive with the faintest of lights.
It was at those moments, inexplicable as it seemed to him, that he could nearly hear her voice.
But what came through to him as mumbled nothings was a desperate plea from an angel on the other side.
And anxious and light as the words were, they trembled with grief.
Won't you stop those hands of yours?
Inspired by Leia and Reon by Megurine Luka. Listen to them.
I'm overcome by emotion just trying to find the words to get this short piece across.
I do not ship Fakir and Duck/Ahiru, but at this moment, in this piece, I can understand them, if just in this way.