He remembered her. He remembered the way her eyes were clear and glittering like amber, the way her face rounded when she smiled, the way her freckles and her veil spread across her smooth, bare shoulders. He remembered the red of her cheeks and how her hands fit in his and the clarity of her voice when she spoke.
"I, Lanette Marguerite, take you, William Alan, to be my partner in life and my one true love."
He remembered her smile, wide and brilliant and rare for her, as the two of them piled into a taxi beneath the glittering lights of Lumiose. He chatted with the driver—who hadn't caught on that he wasn't human—and she leaned into his shoulder with a knowing smirk and an occasional whispered correction of his shaky Kalosean. That was stop—Gods, he couldn't even remember the number, then or now—of one last world tour.
He tried to think of how long it was after they had been married. It wasn't that the years blended into one another then. It was that they seemed to come and go so quickly. Every day was a new adventure, and every moment seemed more perfect than the last.
Yet this one stuck out to him. She looked tired, and her eyes didn't quite shine right. That much he knew. He had thought it was just that the traveling was getting to her, but…
"I will love you through the good times and bad, through joy and sorrow."
He remembered the doctor's office but not what the doctor had said. He remembered her face, pale and tear-streaked. He remembered her hands, shaking in his.
It was in her ovaries. He remembered that. Or—at least, it started in her ovaries, and there were signs that it was already reaching outward, planting roots up her body like fungus reaching deeper and deeper into fruit.
"I will trust you completely and vow to love you a little more each day."
He remembered the treatments. The surgery. The hours holding her hand as she sat back, letting each dose drip slowly into her body. She grew thin. Everything about her—her hair, her skin, her frame, her smile—grew thin.
He remembered the days when he would find her on the bathroom floor. He would hold her and let her cry into his chest. He remembered the moment he realized he couldn't feel her tears.
"Together, we will face the uncertainty of tomorrow and share our hopes and dreams with one another, and I will love you faithfully, no matter what our future brings."
He remembered that life became a pattern then. She beat it for a few years. Then it would be back elsewhere. She would fight it, then beat it, then fight it again. She was the strongest person he had ever known, and true to their vows, he loved her more every day because of that.
And then, one day, the doctors said she couldn't fight it anymore. It was inoperable this time, they said. It's gotten to her brain. It was terminal. He remembered those words and all the others they had told Brigette when they said she should make her peace. That she should make her peace. They didn't know. They didn't know why Lanette was wearing a ring or what he really was. He said nothing. He couldn't tell them. Not then. Not when every second with her mattered so much more.
He remembered that her once-bright eyes looked duller and duller each day.
"I give you my hand, my heart, and my love…"
He remembered sitting on the edge of her bed, watching her blink slowly. He remembered feeling the weight of her hands in his—only the weight of her hands, as always. He cursed that. He wanted her warmth, her softness, her scent, her everything, and all he had was the bloody weight.
He remembered her voice, thin yet clear.
"Hey," she said. "Hey."
"I'm here," he told her.
"I love you," she said. (Ho-oh's wings, it hurt.) "You know that, right?"
"Of course," he said. (It hurt it hurt it hurt it) "And I love you now, and I'll love you forever. Please know that, Lanette."
And she nodded and said, "Can you sing for me? One more time? The song we chose."
And he held her hands and sang for her, because of course he would whenever she asked.
"Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do…"
And he sang to her until she closed her eyes and smiled and drifted away. And he sang to her for a long while after, until the morning came and the nurses found him there.
"…from this day forward…"
He remembered standing on a bridge. (Where was he?)
In the middle of a city somewhere. Hood drawn in case…
Home. It was home. But it wasn't home because it had changed. Dad was gone. Mom too. Rachel was there, but he couldn't recognize her, and none of the buildings looked the same.
But … no. Something was wrong. This wasn't…
He looked up, at a giant screen above the canal. A Companion was advertising some sort of drink. She smiled down at him and…
No one saw him. He wasn't…
He looked up. He looked up and sang. And the Companions around him stopped and looked up too.
Something was wrong.
Something was wrong.
Something was missing.
Something was wrong.
"…for as long as we both shall live."
Geist opened his eyes to find that he was not on the top of Dragonspiral Tower, nor was he in the city.
A bridge? Wait. Which one? Why?
He looked up and realized Reshiram was nowhere to be seen. An army of Companions and fauxkémon surrounded him, waiting for instructions.
Whose instructions? Where were they going? What was he…
Magdalene turned to him, her bright eyes blazing amber.
Amber. Amber eyes. She looked just like…
"My lord?" Magdalene asked. "Why have you stopped? Is everything all right?"
A whimper at his side drew his attention away from her and down. He found Door crouched, almost to her knees, right beside him. Her wrist was clutched tightly in one of his hands. He couldn't feel the exact details, but he knew something about it felt wrong.
Then he looked at Door's face. She was crying.
He let go. Stepped back. Looked her over in his growing horror. And then, without realizing it, he spoke.
"Door … what did I do?"