The sun shown gold through the windows, heralding another beautiful day. Gilbert found no joy in it. He shivered slightly. It was barely autumn, but he was cold; he had been cold for the past several weeks, and he was beginning to forget what warmth was like.
He watched Anne as she lay on their bed, breathing steadily and quietly, her eyes closed to the world. The silence was still and heavy with the weight of loss. He did not know how to break it; he did not know if he could even if he knew how.
He supposed he had been too optimistic about life. Too…idealistic. He had wanted to give Anne the world. He had never considered the hardships that would come; he had pushed all thoughts of it away, in his eagerness and joy to finally have a life—a life!—with her.
Not even love can hold back loss, and grief, and pain. And yet… He remembered a conversation he had had with Anne, all those years ago, back when they were young and still finding their way to each other. "If I had my way I'd shut everything out of your life but happiness and pleasure, Anne," he had told her. She had not been too pleased—those days she had not been pleased with him at all, but he had meant what he had said. He still meant it. But now…Now there was nothing he could do but watch her as she drowned in her grief, and he unable to do anything about it.
As he watched, the sunlight crept silently toward the bed, like a friend whose intent was to comfort, to heal. He wished it was that simple, that a touch—a single touch—would be enough to take their pain away.
Oh, if only he had known what to do! More than once he had wondered, scoured his brain for another answer, some other way. For surely there had been another way? Surely there was something he could have done to keep their child alive? He could not bare the thought that he had missed something. Forgotten something. But worse yet, he did not want to believe that there had been no hope at all. Even now, weeks after she was gone.
He closed his eyes against the light and the warmth. He had been numb for so long; it was only beginning to dawn on him just how much. But this morning of all mornings, his thoughts rose up and wrapped themselves around him, choking him. His heart ached; his throat constricted; his eyes stung. He covered his face with his hands, but they could not prevent the burning, hot tears from falling.
He must have made some noise, for the next moment she was there, holding him in her thin arms, pressing him close to her. He could smell her familiar scent, feel the very real presence of her, feel her warmth seeping into his bones. She was there, with him, and he could have lost her. He almost did—almost lost the person he loved most. But you did, a traitorous little voice piped up. You lost a very large part of her, and you cannot get it back.
His tears, finally allowed to be released, fell in torrents. He wrapped his arms around her waist and clung to her as his body shook with sobs.
"Oh, Gilbert," she breathed, "dearest Gilbert." One of her hands ran through his hair in a soothing gesture. "I've been selfish, haven't I? All these weeks I've only thought of myself. I haven't considered how you're feeling. I'm so sorry."
He wanted to tell her that it was not her fault; it was his, all his. If only he had known…If only he had had more time. But he did not know what was going to happen, and he could not have done anything differently, could he? He could not have saved his daughter's life; he could not have saved his Anne's heart. He was as helpless as they were, in the end. For who could hold back death when it comes?
For what seemed like eons later, his tears finally subsided, and he looked up, into the eyes he loved. Her hand, the hand that stroke his hair, trailed down and brushed away the tears on his face. She looked down at him, her eyes tender and wistful. She was not crying, he noticed. Her eyes were dry; there were no teartracks on her cheeks.
"I'm sorry. I didn't think—I didn't mean—"
"Hush." She smiled at him, a soft little smile. "It's alright. I forgive you."
"Oh, Anne." His voice caught, and she quickly pressed a finger to his lips. Did she know? Did she blame him?
"It's not your fault," she said, suddenly fierce. "Don't think that. It was never your fault."
"But I—"
"No." Her voice was gentle, but firm. "You weren't the only doctor there that day, remember? Dr. Dave was there, too, and if there was anything to be done, between you and him, it would have been done. Don't fret anymore, dearest. What is, is."
She leaned down and pressed her lips to his forehead. "We should get ready for the day," she murmured. "Come." And she straightened, and drew him up with her.
A breath of air blew through the window and wafted over them. It was soft and cool against his skin. The sun shown on her face, and for a moment, she lifted her head to welcome it. And in her eyes, he thought he saw a gleam, a shimmer, a small hint of a dream.
Note: For the purpose of this little ficlet, let's pretend that Anne and Gilbert's bedroom faced east. It's not made clear in House of Dreams, but I have a vague idea that it actually isn't.