The cottage she lived in was very old.
It was said that it had been built long ago when the trees around it were only saplings and she was young and happy, a new bride being carried over the threshold of home that had it's last nail driven through the last windowpane only a week prior. Her feet had danced over the cool stone floor and up the nine wooden steps that had not yet been splintered. His boots had followed her up and his laughter had echoed loudly in the un-cluttered space that held nothing to absorb the sound. The curtain-less windows in the bedroom left open as they made love on the simple beige sheets and pillows that had no slips over them yet, for who would be out here to peep in other than a breeze and the rays of the sun.
There was no need for anyone else. The villagers soon forgot about them and they had never really bothered to remember. They had everything they could ever need and they had no need for others. She couldn't imagine being without him. He knew of every place on her skin, of everything that flickered in her mind. They had never quarreled, only had a few stern discussions that usually ended by him carrying her off to the bedroom as she playfully yelped and hammered gently on his back with her small fists. He couldn't remember much of live without her. She always knew the spots to rub when he'd been hunting far too long. When the weather was cold she knew just what soup to make and always gave him the plants the right amount of water. When the roof began to leak he would climb a ladder made from birch wood and hammer as she passed him nails and sang him songs. If their pantry grew low on supplies he would string his bow and set off for the forest and she would dust earth from the carrots and potatoes of her backyard garden. She could weave cloth and sew buttons and knit socks and do countless other things with those slim white fingers that never ceased to amaze him. He loved to spend evenings sitting by the glow of the hearth and listen to the needles click together in a rhythm that he thought could relax even the wildest animal. Every night he would kiss those fingertips as whispered the three words to her that meant so much more than they seemed. She would smile at him softly, her eyes answering him back and they would drift to sleep, their arms around each other and their heads on the same small pillow, for they had never had need of a larger one.
They lived together to see the rise and fall of only a year's worth of suns. One early morning while he was hunting the antlers of his prey struck him down when he thought he was safe. His clothing stained with the brightest dye of them all, he pulled himself slowly back to their doorstep. He wanted to see his young wife's face once more before the darkness forever stole him, wanted her deep green eyes to be the last thing to pass before his eyes. He managed to reach the garden before he stumbled forward and pitched toward the dampened earth. The turnip leaves stirred at his last deep breaths as he struggled to maintain himself, to life for just a little longer. He prayed with all his might for the powers that be to allow him just a few minutes longer, just until she returned from wherever she was. She would only be at the market, she was just finishing the dishes, she could be repairing the tear in her favorite worn dress, just a few moments longer. Only a few more.
She found him hours later. She had been down the old and over-grown path to the village to speak to the doctors there. They had confirmed her suspicious and she had returned home so quickly that she felt she was flying. The sun was warm on her shoulders and it's heat felt too strong as if it were jealous of the shine and sparkle of her eyes that it could never imitate. She was so happy that she stumbled through the doorway laughing and singing and calling out for her dear husband. Where was he, could he still be hunting, no it was too late for that. She opened the back door and danced into the garden, her feet feeling as light as they were when the stone floor had just touched them and she had been holding her fine dress up to allow her room to twirl so many months ago. But now it ended with a harsh jolt and nothing but the movement of the wind between the trees could be heard. The grass became crushed as she felt her knees give way and the now cold liquid seeped into the fabric of her light summer dress. She stayed like that for moments, hours.
Not a sound escaped her. She couldn't even cry. Her eyes remained dry, but the pain inside them was deep and powerful. Fear. She was afraid. She was terrified. He was gone, her moon and sun, her earth and sky, her one and only. Her husband. Her love.
Dead.
Her left hand rested on her stomach.
What could she do?
It was said that it had been built long ago when the trees around it were only saplings and she was young and happy, a new bride being carried over the threshold of home that had it's last nail driven through the last windowpane only a week prior. Her feet had danced over the cool stone floor and up the nine wooden steps that had not yet been splintered. His boots had followed her up and his laughter had echoed loudly in the un-cluttered space that held nothing to absorb the sound. The curtain-less windows in the bedroom left open as they made love on the simple beige sheets and pillows that had no slips over them yet, for who would be out here to peep in other than a breeze and the rays of the sun.
There was no need for anyone else. The villagers soon forgot about them and they had never really bothered to remember. They had everything they could ever need and they had no need for others. She couldn't imagine being without him. He knew of every place on her skin, of everything that flickered in her mind. They had never quarreled, only had a few stern discussions that usually ended by him carrying her off to the bedroom as she playfully yelped and hammered gently on his back with her small fists. He couldn't remember much of live without her. She always knew the spots to rub when he'd been hunting far too long. When the weather was cold she knew just what soup to make and always gave him the plants the right amount of water. When the roof began to leak he would climb a ladder made from birch wood and hammer as she passed him nails and sang him songs. If their pantry grew low on supplies he would string his bow and set off for the forest and she would dust earth from the carrots and potatoes of her backyard garden. She could weave cloth and sew buttons and knit socks and do countless other things with those slim white fingers that never ceased to amaze him. He loved to spend evenings sitting by the glow of the hearth and listen to the needles click together in a rhythm that he thought could relax even the wildest animal. Every night he would kiss those fingertips as whispered the three words to her that meant so much more than they seemed. She would smile at him softly, her eyes answering him back and they would drift to sleep, their arms around each other and their heads on the same small pillow, for they had never had need of a larger one.
They lived together to see the rise and fall of only a year's worth of suns. One early morning while he was hunting the antlers of his prey struck him down when he thought he was safe. His clothing stained with the brightest dye of them all, he pulled himself slowly back to their doorstep. He wanted to see his young wife's face once more before the darkness forever stole him, wanted her deep green eyes to be the last thing to pass before his eyes. He managed to reach the garden before he stumbled forward and pitched toward the dampened earth. The turnip leaves stirred at his last deep breaths as he struggled to maintain himself, to life for just a little longer. He prayed with all his might for the powers that be to allow him just a few minutes longer, just until she returned from wherever she was. She would only be at the market, she was just finishing the dishes, she could be repairing the tear in her favorite worn dress, just a few moments longer. Only a few more.
She found him hours later. She had been down the old and over-grown path to the village to speak to the doctors there. They had confirmed her suspicious and she had returned home so quickly that she felt she was flying. The sun was warm on her shoulders and it's heat felt too strong as if it were jealous of the shine and sparkle of her eyes that it could never imitate. She was so happy that she stumbled through the doorway laughing and singing and calling out for her dear husband. Where was he, could he still be hunting, no it was too late for that. She opened the back door and danced into the garden, her feet feeling as light as they were when the stone floor had just touched them and she had been holding her fine dress up to allow her room to twirl so many months ago. But now it ended with a harsh jolt and nothing but the movement of the wind between the trees could be heard. The grass became crushed as she felt her knees give way and the now cold liquid seeped into the fabric of her light summer dress. She stayed like that for moments, hours.
Not a sound escaped her. She couldn't even cry. Her eyes remained dry, but the pain inside them was deep and powerful. Fear. She was afraid. She was terrified. He was gone, her moon and sun, her earth and sky, her one and only. Her husband. Her love.
Dead.
Her left hand rested on her stomach.
What could she do?