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The door to her chamber—the chamber that never seemed to be locked—was closed tightly. No student nor teacher waited outside for her inexhaustible and patient council.
And yet, the room was not empty. He could hear her, even in the silent frigid air of this winter's day.
Saint Cichol day.
Seteth felt her pain acutely as he listened to her muted weeping from the other side of the door. His hand stilled a moment before his knuckles made contact with the old oak. He knew not what to say to her.
He glanced down at the white feather in his hand. A trite gift for such a terrible circumstance.
Grief was a familiar companion to him. No words would suffice at this time. No gifts would be welcomed. Not when the wound was yet so raw.
Only time would heal the rent in her heart.
He ached to hold her—to give her the comfort he knew she needed so desperately.
To finally admit that to himself felt like a selfish release.
Alas, he had ruined every chance the goddess had offered him to ingratiate himself with her. His embrace would give her no condolence.
He slipped the feather under her door before turning to leave.
The sound of the door cracking open behind him gave him pause. He turned to see her standing before him, eyes red rimmed and glassy; the feather held tightly between her thumb and forefinger.
Seteth had never beheld such beauty.
Her lips pulled up into a broken smile. "Happy birthday," she murmured before the tears overflowed once more.