First Friday entry for Angst Week: Prompt 43 - I miss you.
It's been three days since she watched him die for her, only six hours since they lowered him into the cold ground as a final resting place, and tonight… well, tonight brings the same dark pain as the other lonely nights, if not worse.
She's wide awake, strewn across her bed with heavy eyelids and an even heavier heart. All day she felt like she had to keep it together. Everyone was treading around her like she was a bomb just ticking away, gearing up to explode at any second, and truth be told, when the universe decided to gift her with one final punch to the gut, she almost did. Seeing Hook walk through Granny's was the final twist she allowed that knife to have. She pulled it out, there and then, not caring if she would bleed out until her last breath, and marched straight home.
She crawled into bed, still in her dress and shoes, and she hasn't moved since, except for reaching over to her nightstand for Robin's deep red scarf and bringing it up to her nose - without at least the smell of him around her she doesn't think she'll be strong enough for a tomorrow. So she's keeping a tight grasp on that scarf, and, though she'd never admit it out loud, she might skip cleaning her sheets this week.
Sleeping is out of the question. The night she lost him, she was desperate to search for him in her dreams like she had once before, only that time she was plagued with replay after replay of his sacrifice.
Something urges her upright, though. A feeling in her gut - a desperation almost. She was so focussed on everyone else, she barely had a second to grieve the loss, and she deserves to grieve at the very least. She deserves to lose herself in sadness even for a minute without the fear of being reduced to nothing more than a woman with little control over her morality.
She pulls herself from where her mattress has molded to the shape of her and wanders outside into the cold, wet night. It's been raining since this morning, the world sobbing the way she has been desperate to. She probably should have considered a coat or an umbrella, but the chilly downpour against her face is surprisingly pleasant, and the way the moon is shining down on the streets through the droplets creates an almost ethereal feel - like she's somewhere else… anywhere else.
Robin loved moonlight. He always said it had the power to bring hidden secrets to the surface, that somehow her eyes looked even more honest and true in it, and as she walks through Storybrooke in the early hours of the morning, she wonders what her eyes look like now.
Are they screaming that she's not okay or are they empty? Is the moonlight drawing out her heartache? She bows her head mostly on the walk to the graveyard, not sure if she really wants to know what's hidden behind her walls right now.
As she nears his resting place, she tries to focus on anything else, but it would appear that Marco has created a beautiful stone for Robin and erected it privately without her knowing, and it's easily his finest work; it's strong like Robin was, perfectly shaped like the tip of an arrow, and the lion emblem etched into both warms and breaks her heart.
Completely drenched, the rain batters down around her as she kneels in front of it, not a care in the world for how her knees are sinking into the mushy dirt or that her dress is beyond filthy. How could she when the weight of Robin's sacrifice is forcing her further and further into the dirt like it's another desperate attempt to be with him again.
It's her fault.
All of it.
It has to be… losing two loves in front of her very eyes is far too much of a coincidence. She must be cursed, which is hauntingly ironic given the length of time she dedicated to casting one.
But she shoves aside the negativity, sadly sobbing a pained laugh when she can practically hear his voice telling her, "Don't talk about yourself that way, my love."
The stone in front of her is coarse against her hands as she carefully caresses its face. She needs to know he's safe. She's desperately wondering if Hades had been telling the truth about his soul. She can't handle the thought of him being gone entirely, so she won't. She'll go against her usual wave of doubt and choose to have hope, just this once, just for him. But if he is out there somewhere, where is he? Is he angry with her? Is there something she can do to bring him home?
Is he cold? She has his scarf, after all.
There's so much she wants to know, so much she wants to ask and say, but for right now, she'll settle for a simple, whispered, "I miss you."