Promises
by
K'Arthur

The dull gray stone didn't suit her. Hard, cold and unyielding, it did her vibrant life no justice. Even the carvings of flowers around her name were too dreary and uninspired. He touched his hand to one of the vines and traced it to the letters. In doing so, the fresh edges that the carver's tool had left scratched him gently. He traced it again. Vanelle Eismeer. Her name.

The funeral had passed quickly during the day as friends from near and far came to pay their respects, but now he had her to himself. Yet, standing there, before the marker, he was at a loss for words. There was too much to say. A friendship, a courtship, nearly twelve years of marriage, a child…where to start?

A shaking hand found its way towards his tousled brown hair as he considered his words, but before he could speak the tears started slipping. He had been strong all day, but now, in the solitude of her resting place, he did not fight them. Covering his eyes with a sea-weathered hand he embraced them.

Long minutes passed as he wept. It seemed ironically fitting. The last time he had been home, before she had taken ill, they had fought and he had made her cry. He shook his head, the memory brimming to the surface of his mind. He cursed the Fates. They were probably collecting on this debt of tears with a laugh.

It had been the same fight as always. She begged him to finally retire from his post and he didn't want to hear it. She wanted a family, not half of one as he sailed the seas, the hand of death constantly grabbing at his coattails. He wanted to continue his family legacy as a Captain of the Empire. They argued. She slammed the door to their bedchamber on him. He called her a name. She called him two. They didn't speak for a good four hours. Later, he had made it up to her, of course.

Mere days after the fight, a vile disease had ravaged her. First it took her sight, then her ability to stand, and finally her mind. In less than a week's time, Death—the one enemy he couldn't fight—claimed her as his own.

Finally he said, "I'm sorry, Vanelle. I miss you. I pray you will have a good sleep and someday we'll be together again." Frowning, he added: "I'm sorry. I never know what to say. You always did leave me tongue-tied."

He sensed her laughter at that and smiled just a bit under the tears.

Taking a break, he stepped back and bowed his head, ready to send her on with a final prayer. Before he could, though, short footfalls caused him to wipe his tears and turn around.

A boy and a girl, both nearly ten years old appeared behind him. The boy was his son, Helmut. He was small for his age and had inherited his mother's unusual silver hair. The girl was Layna, and she was dragging poor Helmut by his shirt sleeve—again.

"I'm sorry, Sir Colton," she said, the chestnut curls in her hair bouncing with frustration. "But he won't come with me. It's like he's afraid."

"I just don't want to, all right!" Helmut snapped, yanking his sleeve from her grasp. "You need to stop being so bossy!"

Colton leaned down and asked the boy gently, "What don't you want to do?"

"Come here."

"He's afraid of people seeing him cry," Layna said. "I told him no one cares."

"Shut up, Laney!" The boy shouted.

"Don't call me that!"

"Then stop bossing me around!"

The man stepped between the two children. "Enough. This isn't the time or place to have a fight."

"I'm sorry," Layna said pitifully.

"Me too," Helmut whispered.

Colton kneeled down and drew his son into his arms. "Layna is right, though. You shouldn't be afraid to mourn your mother."

Helmut shook his head. "But the other boys…they laughed at me when I cried last time."

"I promise I won't," Colton said as he stroked his son's hair. "Because here's a secret: I cried, too, and I'll probably cry again. I loved your mother, and I miss her."

Layna put her hand on Helmut's back. "I won't laugh. And I won't tell anyone."

Helmut glanced at her warily from within his father's embrace. "Promise?"

"Promise," she said, moving her hand to his shoulder.

Then, while still in the comfort of his father's arms, Helmut shook with the anguish he had been denying. Colton pulled Layna closer to his son, knowing her mere presence would offer some comfort to her best friend. The wind died for those moments while he wept, leaving a morose stillness to wrap itself around the three of them. Slowly, both of them joined in the symphony of Helmut's sobs, each adding a new layer harmonic grief that was not only necessary, but extraordinarily comforting. There they remained, huddled in the windless glade, Colton holding both children as their shadows grew longer.

Later, when Helmut finally lifted his head from his father's chest, he did not bother to wipe the tears away.