Sunrise
.
.
The air is cold when she wakes, and the sun has yet to rise. The early morning is still, and as the purple-haired young woman lies upon the soft mattress, the blanket pulled up to her chin, the only sound she hears is that of her own breath, echoing through an empty room.
She fumbles in the dark as her eyes adjust to the dim light. Something has shaken her from her slumber, but everything is peaceful; calm, as it always has been for the past sixty years.
And then she senses it- a pulse of power that she has not felt for a long time, the hint of darkness that she has never forgotten.
She shoots up from her bed quickly and sprints out of her room. She does not consider calling for aid- the last words the creature said to her, sixty years ago on Fodra, ring clear in her head. She reminds herself that he has lain dormant for just that long, aiding Asbel occassionally, but never breaking his word. If nothing else, she has grown to trust his power; the power that has protected her family just as long as she has.
But she hears nothing as she nears her father's room. No sound of commotion, of pain or the wheezing that has become so familiar to her ears as of late. He sleeps alone ever since Cheria passed half a decade before; and in the last five years she has seen him wither. He's healthy for his age, but he's gained decades in years. The wide, calm eyes she once knew have now become tempered with age and sorrow; and the smiles he gives shine not as bright as they once did. She normally would never intrude upon him now, while the land of sleep proves his only refuge, but the thrum of power pulses through the air.
Holding her breath, she opens the door, unsure what she might find.
Sitting by the bedside is a ghostly silhouette, a boy that died in a shuttle crash nearly a thousand years ago. He rests on the chair pulled up to the bed, his translucent form fading off into the darkness halfway down his legs. There is no light in the room, but he shimmers with power, illuminating the surroundings with a dull green glow. He lifts his head, and as she meets his red eyes, she feels her heart sink.
She knows why he is here, now.
He says nothing, neither chases her away nor invites her in. Instead, Lambda returns his attention back to the man lying on the bed- the man that, for the last sixty years, has protected them both. He waits, his hand resting lightly on her father's forehead, watching his charge with wavering eyes and an emotionless face. And she knows then that he means no harm; that all he wants is to stay close to the man who has become his friend.
Her father doesn't stir as she enters. Lambda stands, letting her sit as he hovers by her side. The chair is familiar to her- she has spent much time over the last year here, watching as this once-strong man became bedridden, unable to move without aid.
In the dull light of her companion's glow, she sees the shadows that line a once-unmarred face. The swordsman has lived a life that has outlasted his friends; has endured far too much pain. He is the last of their original band, the one who stood by her side at their graves; the one whose large, callused hand grasped hers firmly in comfort, even though he said nothing as she cried. They shared the pain and the memories, and she had forced herself not to think about the day when he would lie here with them; when she would live on, without him.
But he has enjoyed his life to his fullest. The wrinkles of his aged face betray the hint of a smile as he slumbers, and though the deep red of his hair has whitened, the vibrancy of his spirit- his laughter, his smile- never broke. This is the man that had pulled her out of a life of silence, who had brought joy and laughter to her world; who had fought to protect her happiness and her life. This is the man that had given her a place, a home- a family; things that, for the last sixty years, she has always been thankful for.
He's silly and stubborn, brave and kind, and as she looks upon his slumbering face, she remembers him- the way his sword shone in the light when he fought, the way he smiled even though he had no idea what was going on; their talks in the light of the evening sun, where he confessed that he wished he could do better by her; where she assured him that he had done all he could.
Slowly, she reaches out and holds his hand. The skin hangs loose on old bones, but his touch is as warm as ever. She hopes he knows she's here now, by his side. He stirs slightly, his smile widening, but he does not wake- he's too entrenched in his dream to notice.
She hopes it is a good dream, one where he walks with their old companions, with his beloved, under a bright sun and with the fields stretched out for him to see. She hopes that the pain that wrecks his body does not intrude, that happy memories of long-forgotten days fill his mind.
She hopes he knows that he has always managed to protect the things he treasured; that she would always remember his dreams.
The passage of time is marked by the sound of his breath, getting weaker and weaker as they draw closer to the dawn. She stays, steadfast, by his side. And as the first rays of light hark the start of a new day, he breathes his last- a sigh that passes unnoticed by the rest of the world; a memory to the ever-growing horde she holds dear.
The only sound she hears then is that of her own breath, echoing through an empty room.
At first, she doesn't move. The pain doesn't quite sink in, and he's still there, slumbering in front of her; not underneath stone and flowers.
But she knows that he's gone, just like the others. And she knows she would never have had it any other way.
Reluctantly, she releases his hand; says farewell to the man she has known for all his life; the man she will remember for all of hers.
For a moment, she feels hollow.
Then, a small, translucent hand- a memory, a shadow- hesitantly slides into hers, grasping awkwardly in comfort even though nothing is said. The familiarity of the action is contrasted by the strangeness of the touch. She glances up, and meets red eyes that are a mirror of her own.
She manages a smile, because she knows that's what Asbel would want. Because there was someone else who had shared their pain as they stood by those solemn graves, who knew the burden of sorrow that memories of bygone days invoked, who had depended on her father as much as she had. Someone who needed her now just as much as she needed him.
Looking back at the motionless figure on the bed, the corner of his lips forever turned up in mirth, she understands. Asbel knew they would be alright without him.
She does not cry.