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Kristin sat quietly by the bedside of her soundly sleeping husband, watching his chest slowly rise and fall with the tide of his breathing, laboured by the weight of the heart heavy with regrets inside. It was all he could do nowadays to sit up in bed for the short whiles he stayed awake, to eat and drink something and talk about how beautiful she looked.
She did not feel beautiful, with her unbrushed hair and tear stained cheeks, and messy clothes that clung to her form which had not moved in days. She refused to leave him.
This time, she’d stay.
——-
Philza was so, so old now. How many years he had lived, he could nary say, for he’d stopped counting some centuries ago. Thousands, at least. Perhaps tens of thousands. He had watched empires rise and fall, as fleeting as morning glories that wilt the very same day they bloom. He had seen mortals fight, and love, and live, and die, and he had learnt to stop getting attached to any of them long ago now.
There was only one constant throughout all the fleeting years—his goddess. His wife. His Kristin.
And still, here she was. Watching over him with eyes begging him to let her try and rebuild him again.
“Do you know the story of Theseus’ ship, my love?” He asked, with a voice hoarse from age and disuse.
“Of course I do. But tell me anyway,” She replied, offering that somber saccharine smile he had come to adore.
“Well, Theseus had a ship. A ship he loved so very dearly, that every time it came to port, he’d have all the broken and worn boards replaced with shiny new ones. But, being sentimental, he kept all the old boards too. The ones that told stories of war, of friends, of adventure, of loss. He kept them all. And one day, when he’d replaced every board on his beloved ship, he had in store enough of the old boards to have a new old ship built. The two ships sat, identical twins, in the port, and as Theseus looked at those ships and remembered all the stories he had known, he came to realise that in loving his ship so much—in replacing all the boards to keep her new—he had created an imposter. A false idol of his beloved ship. And in that port he realised he did not love the ship, but he loved the stories told in the old boards he’d kept. He loved the memory of her.”
“And you are my ship?” Kristin asked softly. It was true, that she had rebuilt parts of him too many times - healed fatal wounds and restarted his failing heart, and restored his old bones, and new life into his skin and new spring in his step. To keep him with her, because she could not bear to see her angel look so defeated. So fragile and delicate, like a porcelain orchid that would break apart in her hands if she pressed even the slightest bit too hard.
“I am your ship. You keep rebuilding me because you don’t want to see me age, but you should be treasuring the stories of me instead. All the time we had, all the things we’ve seen and done together. It’s time to stop rebuilding, Theseus.”
“I can’t… please, Phil, my angel, my love, I can’t. I can’t bring myself to sit here and watch my orchid wilt. I don’t want to watch my ship rot and fall into the sea.”
“Kristin, you know I love you more than I could ever possibly describe. I’ve loved you as long as I have lived, and I will continue to love you even if I’m gone. We knew this would happen eventually, didn’t we?”
“It feels too soon.”
“It always will.”
“I promised you eternity,” She reminded him, looking down at their wedding rings. “I promised I would keep you, til eternity ne’er do us part. I’m not breaking that promise, Phil.”
Philza smiled. “I’m not asking you to. I’m asking you to let this body die—it’s carried me much longer than it ever should have.”
“And where will you go, if your body dies?” She asked, but she already knew the answer. What happened to her angel would be the same as happened every time this had happened before. A new life. A new place. A new face. A new age.
“I don’t know. But wherever I end up, I promise I’ll come find you.”
“You sound like you’re saying goodbye.” Tears formed in the goddess’ eyes again, the familiar ache taking hold of her immortal heart and wrenching a sob from her chest. “Please don’t go yet.”
“The longer you wait, the more it will hurt,” He pointed out. “This body has served me well. But it’s high time this old ship stopped sailing.”
“I love you,” She whispered, leaning closer to study every detail of her husband’s face. Scarred and old and perfect and her angel.
“I love you too.”
And Philza kissed his wife, held her hand to his chest, and closed his eyes.
——-
Kristin watched him lie so very still, the lump in her throat feeling like it might suffocate her. She stayed exactly there for as long as it took for his hand to go cold, and longer still. Watching over her angel, as any dutiful goddess should.
——-
There’s a rumour in the kingdom, about an old king who married a goddess. The story says she gifted him immortal years and wings made of galaxies, and that he worshipped and loved his goddess, following her to the ends of the world. The story says that when he died, she sat by his side and wept over his body until they were both made of the blackest stone. The story says that the statue still cries, and that her tears watered a garden that grew over the whole grounds of the ruined castle; a garden full of orchids.
The story says that she’s still there, still crying over her lost love, but that their kingdom is lost to the ocean of her grief.
No ships sail over that ocean.