"Life must go on; I forget just why."
~ Edna St. Vincent Millay
This will be a good change. A change of pace, of venue, of…airs.
Adan smirked at the irony.
Airs.
Indeed.
He contemplated the gloomy room, the candle nub close to burning out. Turning his head to the right of his pillow, he gazed upon the freshly inked letter over the quilt, waiting to be delivered the next morning, formalizing his request to accompany the company of soldiers going off to the Western Approach to build over the sulphur pits. He was certain he could find a way to help neutralize the toxic fumes in smaller areas, in more contained locations, to allow the laborers to work in the region. Even if he couldn't neutralize the fumes, he thought, crossing his arms behind his head, he knew the antidote to remedy the sulphur poisoning. It was an opportunity for him to help, to be of value. The Seeker had, at first, hesitated to approve his request, but he assured her the infirmary and dispensary would be fine without him. He'd vowed that his apprentice would assist with healing and could run the dispensary until further arrangements were made.
At some point he knew he would have to speak to Ava. It was the one thing he was avoiding doing, even though he still had two weeks before taking off. He did feel ashamed of his hesitation, but he dreaded the thought of standing before her to bid her farewell. He anticipated one of two possible reactions: she'd either be furious at him for dumping so much work on her, or she would be indifferent.
While neither option was pleasant, he feared the second one much more.
Coward, he thought. As if there were any doubts you don't deserve her, this just about proves it.
The candle finally sputtered, immersing him in a solitary darkness. He folded his hands over his stomach and closed his eyes in a futile effort to fall asleep.
She haunted his thoughts. All he could see was her: the way her hair caught the sunlight, how her lips parted when she smiled, the lighthearted undertones in her voice when she scolded or teased him. How could he ever forget the day she introduced herself? He'd already written her off, as none of his apprentices managed to last very long. They were intimidated by him, flustered by his preciseness, rendered dumb by his knowledge. A few derogatory comments, some unkind observations, and they would be crestfallen. They'd beat a hasty retreat in shame and his reputation as the greatest and most acerbic alchemist kept everyone at bay.
She had burst into his life dragging a large sack filled with her belongings into the dispensary, freshly arrived from the Free Marches. He'd stood behind his counter observing her with a mix of impatience and disapproval.
This one won't last the week, he'd guessed.
And then she had looked up at him with those eyes, filled with spirit, and said, "Won't you give me a hand? It's what civilized people do, you know?"
Part of him had wanted to remind her who he was, of how fortunate she was to have been granted an apprenticeship under his tutelage. He'd wanted to point out that she had been offered the position not because of her brilliance— she wasn't a remarkably skilled mage, nor had she been a particularly gifted student at her Circle— but because the Inquisition needed help anywhere it could get it from, especially after Haven. Another part of him, however, lowered his eyes almost meekly and awkwardly stepped forth to help her with her belongings.
He'd tried so hard to convince her to leave—to run. But when he criticized how her abilities were lacking, she would turn to him in feisty anger and blame him instead.
"Aren't you the master? Then..master away!" She'd cross her arms defiantly, making him repeat and explain things over and over.
He'd watched her struggle and fail many times. Seen her become frustrated and irritated. But he had never seen her at the verge of quitting. It was the opposite. She had a tenacious will. She celebrated every single triumph, no matter how big or small: the first elixirs made without consulting her book of formulas, an accurate diagnosis, the gratitude of a patient she had tended to. Everything was a sign pointing upwards.
One morning he'd arrived at the dispensary and noticed they moved about each other in an easy, familiar dance—a well-worn routine. From the tea she knew to place before him just as he'd begin feeling the effects of another night spent wide awake, to the wordless cues they effortlessly picked up from each other in the presence of patients, orderlies, and physicians.
"Seems like things worked out with the apprentice, right Adan?" someone had congratulated him.
When he realized it, he had avoided the dispensary for three days, confused and uneasy. When he returned at last, she had crossly showered all the prescriptions awaiting him over his head, ribbed him as if he were just…
A man.
Not a great alchemist, revered scholar, reputed healer and apothecary. Just a man. He'd tentatively tease her back, playfully slapping her hand away when she'd try to intrude on his work, purposefully grasping her shoulders and turning her around towards the door with orders to go run an errand somewhere anytime she was being stubborn, or stepping away to read in front of the fire, leaving her behind the counter to prepare the most tedious part of a recipe just to have the pleasure of hearing her comically curse him. When introducing her, she was always 'Ava, my apprentice.'
The only 'my' she'll ever be in this life.
He'd been happy those months.
I wouldn't change a thing, he knew.
He'd liked who he was by her side.
A better man, he thought.
But not good enough, he realized sadly.
He had no doubt she would become a formidable healer— If she studies properly, that is, he amended with a bittersweet grin. He would write her a recommendation assuring her an apprenticeship anywhere she wanted.
She was sunshine—warm, and radiant, and full of life.
Always shine brightly, my dearest Ava.
She would never imagine how infinitely he'd miss her.