Work Text:
People see him as the Light of Kshahrewar, the genius architect.
(I see how he pushed himself over the edge, how he passed the point of no return.)
He spends every single moment hunched over his desk with a pencil in hand, stopping just to eat for a few minutes.
(Now, he will forever be resting, never to continue drawing.)
Until now, when I see him lying asleep at his desk with the pencil still in his hand.
(He will never wake, and I will have to pry the pencil from his stiff fingers.)
His golden hair is messy and shines in the light of the moon.
(The gold will never turn grey with age.)
His red eyes are closed.
(They will never open.)
An unfinished blueprint lies on his desk.
(It will never be completed.)
He works far too hard.
(And he paid for it with his life.)
He spends every waking moment working, drawing, designing, in hopes of paying off his debt.
(Is it Dori’s fault? Was it in hopes of paying off his debt to her that he worked himself to death?)
He doesn’t talk to anyone, not even his friends.
(Is it our fault? Did we neglect to check on him, to make sure that he was getting rest?)
He never comes out of his room.
(Is it my fault? It’s my house, shouldn’t I have been responsible for its other occupant?)
…
After over a month running solely on caffeine and spite, he’s finally sleeping.
(And he won’t wake up. Not now, not ever. Because he is dead.)
~~~~~