G is for Grief
Justinian, 9:25 Dragon
It is raining heavily. There's a summer storm going on. Flashes of lightning crack the sky and the thunder drowns out every other sound. He is shivering. Not because of the rain pouring down on him as he stands there in that tiny backyard, though, frozen to the spot in shock and disbelief, but from the sight that presents itself to him in all its atrocity. There is so much blood. Blood on her clothes and in her hair. Blood on her skin and in the mud beneath her.
"Bryn…"
It is just a whisper, that one syllable almost choking him and he runs to her side, gathering her up in his arms.
No. No, no, no, NO! This can't be! This can't be true!
Frantically he searches for a pulse, listens for a heartbeat, an intake of breath. There is nothing, though. No pulse. No breath. No warmth. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knows that she's dead, has probably been for hours but that doesn't keep him from rubbing at her icy skin and trying to breathe life back into her lungs.
"Wake up, Bryn… please… please, baby, wake up…"
He repeats those words, over and over and over again, like a chant, as if they alone can coax her into opening her beautiful eyes, make those blue lips form a smile. His fingers restlessly stroke at red locks and pale cheeks as he cradles her limp body in his arms, a dry, anguished sob escaping his constricting throat.
Memories flood his tangled thoughts, memories of her gentle hand in his, of her shy smile the first time they met at the Crown & Lion, their first kiss under the fireworks at the fair. Only a day ago, he told her he wanted to talk to his father about his intentions to marry her. Especially that last memory is still so very fresh in his mind, that glint in her eyes, that fervor in her kiss.
Did that really only happen a few hours ago? It feels like in another lifetime. Right now, with her dead body in his arms and her blood smeared over his hands and face, he cannot imagine that just a few hours ago he has been he happiest man in the world. All that he feels is despair and a grief that threatens to suffocate him.
For several hours, he just sits there in the blood-soaked mud, rocking back and forth, staring into eternity, with her stiff body in his arms, refusing to let go. The storm has passed by the time he finally lowers her to the ground. The sky is clear again with a bright, red sun sinking in the west. His throat feels tight and his eyes are burning. The despair has been replaced by emptiness and merciful numbness.
Gently, carefully, he leans down and places a last kiss on Bryn's cold, unmoving lips. Without haste, he rightens her ripped dress and pulls out a handkerchief to wipe the blood and rain from her grey face. His own face is a pale, stony mask when he finally stands and leaves the backyard on stiff legs and without looking back.