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Vernon is still asleep when Iorveth rouses, and he stays this way as the elf goes about his morning routine.
Iorveth lets him rest. The past few days had been difficult for his dh’oine, his knee and back pain flaring up, his breath coming short and shallow with every step taken. He had barely eaten or drank anything ever since last afternoon as well.
Perhaps a visitation from a medic is in order? Dh’oine grow old the same way they do everything else, gracelessly and messily, this he knows. It doesn’t mean nothing can be done to ease their aches, though.
He casts another glance at Vernon. He’s still asleep, his face finally peaceful and relaxed.
Iorveth smiles.
He spends the morning working in the garden. The sun is bright and warm, and he is slick with sweat once he comes back inside.
“The strawberries are finally bearing fruit,” he calls from the door frame. “I was starting to think that…” he trails off once he notices that the ground floor rooms are all quiet.
“Vernon?” he calls out cautiously, growing worried when no response comes. Is he still asleep?
He climbs the stairs slowly, the apprehension increasing with every step
Just yesterday, Vernon had seemed tired, but still spirited. Still so alive. Surely, the past few days have exhausted him, and now he is merely resting. This must be it.
He prays that this is it.
He peers into the bedroom and swallows thickly, worry turning into anxiety.
Vernon hadn’t stirred.
Iorveth spends several heartbeats standing uncertainly in the door frame, then crosses the distance to the bed in a few shaky steps.
“Vernon,” he whispers, dropping to his knees next to the bed and reaching for his hand. “Vernon,” he repeats, even though he knows no response will be forthcoming.
Vernon’s hand is cold and stiff, and Iorveth’s eye stings.
He wasn’t ready.
Dana Meadbth, he wasn’t ready.
Despite all the aches, despite all the difficulties, he had thought they still had years together. But now, their time ran out.
“Bloede dh’oine,” he whispers, his vision growing blurry. “You couldn’t have waited? The strawberries have just borne fruit.”
He pulls himself up slowly, his whole body trembling, and sits heavily on the bed. Then he hides his face in his hands.
He used to be better at dealing with loss, at mourning quietly and modestly. This life has made him soft and complacent, though, and once the tears start flowing, he’s unable to stop them.
At some point, he pulls Vernon closer, cradles him in his arms and softly rocks back and forth as the sobs wrack through his body.
It is late afternoon when he finally quiets.
For several long moments, he simply sits there, staring at nothing.
Then he leans down to whisper into Vernon's hair: “Va fáill, en’ca minne.”
He kisses him one last time.
Then he goes to dig the grave.