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They had married in early spring, with the winter chill still in the air.
It was done mostly out of convenience: a proposal made with the promise of remaining good friends. It was practical, and all things considered, it was quite pleasant. Early on, there had been a phase of awkwardness with settling in and learning how to navigate a concept that neither of them entirely understood. But the domestics fit together just fine, and it ended up not feeling all that different from before. If anything, the expectations placed on them afterwards had proven to be substantially more difficult than their actual day-to-day life.
Well-meaning questions concerning children had been the most troublesome. Jorg had not been the most enthusiastic about them- it was an idea he did not want to entertain yet. But he was troubled over Veronica, who had been further perturbed by them. He had spoken to her about it himself, and he was relieved to know that neither of them were ready to talk about children, especially during notably harsh seasons.
He had been worrying about the increasing displeasure he had noticed in Veronica. She was more restless, more unhappy with being at home. Whenever he tried to figure out what was wrong, she was hesitant to answer. The only times she seemed genuinely happy were when she had been out on her own. Their conversations were still pleasant, but it did not stop him from being concerned.
She had pulled him aside, one morning, when it was early enough that it was still chilly and the sun had only just fully risen. There was a lingering cold from a storm a few days prior: still damp, but not unpleasant. And she told him, then, why she had been so unhappy. She told him that she could not love him because of something she did not have the words to describe. She could not force herself to try. And he was wholly relieved. He had struggled with the same notion- he told her that he was not capable of it, either. It was just not something that he felt. It was a realization that he had come to him gradually, and he had been concerned about expressing it.
And he was grateful that she understood. There was a lightness after that conversation, a weight had been loosened. He no longer felt like he had anything to hide
It had warmed from then, the sky clearer.
—
He remembers so clearly the burning of Kiersau a year later, the heat of that summer night. The dawning realization of what exactly his father had done. The pit in his stomach, the thundering in his head, and the guilt. The thought that he could have done something more, that it never had to come to this. He could have stopped him. That twisted, harrowed look on his face, hauling him away from the fire like a doll. He spent the night in an in-between state, panic holding his over-exhausted body up well into dawn. The fighting had not stopped even after the early hours of the morning. And the aftermath- the weeks spent in uncertainty, life going on while it simultaneously felt as if it was ending.
It was painful, and he found comfort wherever he could in the others who were just as stricken. He remembers Brigita coming over whenever she could spare a visit, bringing a sense of a lightness back to a house turned so stagnant by grief. They shared whatever meals they could, and laughed again, a small remedy. Eva came back with little Ötz and offered whatever help she could. And they mourned, they cried- but it was made more bearable. It would not feel normal for a long time, maybe even ever again, but at the very least he felt like he could muster the ability to continue on.
The later weeks of summer cooled, and the ash settled.
—
It was an evening in early winter, a few months later- he thinks about it fondly now. The season brought an unpleasant reminder of grief and new absences. He sat outside with Veronica, and they spoke fondly to one another. It was harder for him recently to get through daily monotony. The season was sinking a new kind of sorrow into his core, and he appreciated the opportunity to speak to her openly about their friendship, and all of his fears about the future, his concerns.
They had grown significantly closer in the months following the revolt. They loved each other deeply, as partners, equals, on their own terms. It was fulfilling in its own way, even if it was far from traditional. He regarded himself as a very lucky man to be able to know her as a good friend. He had gotten more familiar with Brigita these past months as well through her frequent visits, and he considered her family as much as he did anyone else in the house. She had been coming by often this winter with small, warm stews, and he was glad to get the opportunity to speak with her more. She had a way of laughing with a similar warmth to a hearth, driving off any lingering melancholy: and he was relieved to have seen Veronica so jubilant.
They came back inside to a house heated by a pleasant fire, content after dinner.
—
He found a few springs later that fatherhood was something he was immensely ill-prepared for. Overwhelming in its joy, in its stresses- he had spent weeks fretting over Veronica during the early stages of her recovery. It was rejuvenating to have new life in the house, an all-encompassing pride. He felt as if he had woken up new, stirred from a long stretch of dormancy. Everything seemed brighter.
New growth reared out of the dirt. The air boasted a new clarity, and life went on.