It would never fail to bring him down, every single year. If he tried to prepare for it, no amount of preparation would be enough. If he pretended to ignore it and keep moving as if it wasn't there, it would smash into him unsuspecting as a penalty for such arrogance.
Even when Zera grew old enough to understand what was wrong and tried to help him through it, regaling him with her own memories, he still fell into that neverending pit of grief and loss and agony.
Even when a year became ten, twenty, even thirty years, each year still held that same potency as the moment it had happened.
On this day, every year, everything shut down. The Palace, communications...everything. Even during the planetary wars it had always been so, allowing his second-in-command to take over for the day or, as she became older, Zera (if she was able, that is).
He hated himself for it, hated that by merely waking up he was already lost, curled up on his pallet and keeping his back to the world, eyes shut and heart breaking, one hand reaching - always, forever reaching - to his empty left side where she once lay.
No amount of time eased this agony. It was his greatest shame, but it was also his greatest refuge.