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General Riorson awakes from an afternoon nap—a luxury offered by post-war peace.
“Violet?” he asks as he rises from the couch.
Violet had left earlier, and he knew she wouldn’t be home by the time he woke, but calling her name is a force of habit, in many ways. They’d promised to see each other in the evening, just like they did every year on the anniversary of reunification, and he had to get ready.
His eyes are barely open and his limbs feel heavy, but he pushes himself upright and hobbles into the kitchen nonetheless. The General yearns for a cup of water.
Leaning over the sink, he frowns at the growing tower of uncleaned dishes, precariously balanced atop one another. This is what happens when a young couple spends their early twenties learning to survive, and their late twenties figuring out how to live.
No matter. This is a minor inconvenience. Fetching a mug from the drying rack, he squints at it just once. ‘This will do’, he thinks to himself. He downs his drink in a single swig, and rinses the mug immediately, placing it back where he found it, refusing to add to the tower of tomorrow’s problem. When he glances over to Violet’s room, the door is only slightly ajar, but the dystopian landscape of books and manuscripts serve as damning evidence of her passion for literature. He does not dare to enter, for fear of tripping over a stack of tomes or shifting even the slightest thing out of place.
The rest of their home is spirited, in ways that their war college could never have been, with its dark halls and woefully utilitarian decor. It’s not the cleanest home, and certainly not the neatest, but he loves it all the same. Violet had furnished and decorated it herself. Her touch is in every nook and cranny, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.
General Riorson shivers lightly, breaking his trance. The afternoon sun has fallen away, leaving an evening chill that filters right through his light sleepwear. Now, he knows he must make a move, lest he be late for his date. He pulls himself up the stairs to the shower, gripping the handrails for much needed support. Even after all these years, the nerves of the anniversary gets to him. He wants to look perfect when he sees his wife, and he wants her to think that it’s entirely effortless.
Freshly showered. Clean shaven. An ironed-down uniform.
As he regards himself in the mirror, a hint of pride flickers across his features. This is the man she chose to marry. Satisfied, he limps over to the front door, swipes his walking cane from where it leans against the shoe rack, and embarks into the streets of Aretia.
Today is a day of celebration. The pavements are littered with stalls touting flatbreads infused with rosemary and thyme, and skewers of roast lamb dripping with unidentifiable sauces, dark and viscous. Who knows what they could be, as long as they taste good.
A precocious young girl recognises the General’s visage immediately—as anyone in Aretia would—and offers him an open fig. To him, it appears dull and under ripe. Still, he accepts the gift and takes a bite. After all, he is not in the habit of upsetting young children. The fig is bland, though it is not her fault. The child does not demand any payment but his attention and recognition, but he places a few coins in her palm anyway.
“Thank you,” is all he manages to say, before her father scoops her up by her arms and apologises with great fervor. General Riorson shakes his head. There is no need for apologies. The father’s reverence is misplaced.
As he weaves through the festivities, the scent of olive and sesame floods the air, yet none of it reaches his senses. He is a man on a mission for a bouquet of flowers.
He spots the florist by its overflowing display of freesias, tulips, and roses, adequately themed for celebrations. He glances over the arrangements, and frowns when he sees the the tulips. The door to the shop creaks open even as he lingers outside, still glaring intensely at the tulips. He cannot decide if they are green or red.
Ridoc emerges, wearing a soil dusted apron and a warm smile, and says, “Hey, Xaden. Come on in.” He holds the door open for the General, securing a gentle hand around his arm to support him up the three stone steps.
“Those tulips…” General Riorson trails off, unable to peel his eyes away from the red-green flowers.
“They’re yellow.” Ridoc answers without a beat, and softly ushers him indoors.
“Off to see Violet?” He asks a question he already knows the answer to.
“Yeah, I’m trying not to be late.” General Riorson replies as he leans against a wooden bench. He wants to sit down, but he does not want to dally, either. Best he stay on his feet.
Ridoc hums as he curates a selection of marigolds, picking only the best for this bouquet, as if he were giving it to Violet himself. He does not ask the General for his preference of wrappings or ribbons. He knows that he cares little for appearances, and much more for the gesture itself.
“My leg is killing me,” General Riorson mutters as he leans on his cane. He would not, on regular terms, share this information with Ridoc. But his leg truly is killing him. And as Ridoc puts his order together, he deigns to fill the silence with more than just the rustle of paper and slide of ribbon.
“I’m sure she won’t hold it against you if you’re a couple minutes off,” Ridoc reassures him, but the General is not convinced.
“Oh. That reminds me. Brennan told me, to tell you, to pay him a visit. Soon.”
“He’s just going to get me to sit in bed all day and live off his mending.”
“Hey. I’m sure it’d make Vi happy to see you two hanging out and getting along.”
General Riorson does not retaliate. Ridoc has employed his greatest weapon; Violet Sorrengail. There is not a soul in Aretia who is unaware of the way the General’s demeanor softens at any mention of his wife.
“…I’ll drop by tomorrow.”
Pleased with his response, Ridoc hands the bouquet over. But he is not done yet.
“How about tonight? After your date? You know the healer’s quadrant is never closed.”
“Fine,” he grumbles, slipping the bouquet of marigolds under his arm and pushing the door open with his shoulder, refusing to allow the florist to lend him a hand.
Next on his quest is a good book. The archives are, thankfully, not too far. Jesinia is quick to offer him a seat. The couches are outrageously comfortable, and he finds himself unable to resist.
“What can I get you today, Xaden? Chemistry? Botany? Arts? Or maybe, even, fantasy?” She signs slower than usual. Not patronisingly so, but enough for the General to keep up. She understands, perhaps better than any of his friends, how it feels to see the world differently.
He struggles to place a genre, silently wishing he’d simply asked his wife beforehand, what she’d like on a day like this.
“Today is special,” he signs meekly.
“Yeah?”
“I want it to be special.”
“Oh, well then, I think I have something Violet might enjoy!”
Jesinia collects a tome from the New Arrivals section of the archives. It’s locked behind a glass cabinet, the spine is falling apart, and its corners have been distorted in transport, but she trusts the General to take good care of it. And, more than anything, she trusts that it’s right up Violet’s alley.
General Riorson gingerly lifts through the pages with his free hand. The words are egregiously cursive and written in print so small that one might mistake it for a doctor’s prescription. He feels a headache coming along and his vision starts to blur. He doesn’t want to admit that he struggles to read it. But Jesinia notices all the same—perhaps a perk of spending her whole life watching and reading people. She regrets her choice of literature immediately.
“Wait here,” she signs with great urgency, wary of keeping the General squinting for too long. She rips the old book out of his hand and scurries away into the archives, fixing her glasses up her nose as she runs her fingers along the book spines, before finding exactly what she’s looking for.
‘There you are!’ she thinks to herself, extracting the book from the clutches of Physics and History. She patters back to the General, and presents it to him with two hands, like a charity.
He accepts with one. The ache in his leg grows stronger.
General Riorson wears a face of confusion as he skims through the pages. Inside, are drawings of mythical creatures and foreign lands, painted over with vibrant strokes and textures. It’s dreadfully childish, but the writing is blessedly legible. He clears his throat.
“This is…a picture book. I’m not sure if Violet will—”
“She’d—She’ll love it!” Jesinia makes a ruckus of slamming her hands down on the counter, drawing looks of irritation from the usual denizens of the archives. Though, their glares are quickly mellowed out upon sight of the great General.
“You want to be able to read it to her, don’t you? This will be easier. Trust me,” She signs, before ushering him towards the exit, eager to have him on his way. She does not want him to be late for his date.
“Thanks…” He relents, placing his faith in the librarian’s curatorial expertise. He does not read her intentions. This is the respect he offers to his wife’s dear friend.
The hike up to their meeting place is strenuous, even more so, now, that he cradles a bouquet and book in one arm, and reserves the other for his cane. To him though, it’s all worth it, to respect Violet’s wish to be by nature.
His best friend, Garrick, stands by the gates to the peak of the hill. Access is highly restricted here, but the couple enjoy the privacy.
“You’re here,” Garrick says, rising from his post to take stock of his friend. He frowns when he sees the way exhaustion creeps into his features, imprinting on the shadows under his eyes.
“Of course I am,” General Riorson replies, mildly peeved by his friend’s disbelief.
“How was—how’ve you been?”
“Fine.”
“Ridoc told me about the…colour thing.”
“Chatty bastard.”
“He’s just friendly.”
“Maybe too friendly.”
“You saw Brennan on the weekend, yeah?…What did he say?”
“Said I shouldn’t leave the house for a couple days. Just rest. But that’s all he ever tells me to do.”
“You know, I can always come by the house. Help out a bit, if you want me to. You don’t have to do everything alone—”
“I’m fine. I’m not alone. It’s our home—”
“Xaden.”
“What.”
Garrick sighs. He’s known General Riorson long enough to realise that nothing he says now will get through to him. The only thing he can do now is support his choices, and offer his aid for when the General finally decides to accept it. If he decides to accept it.
“Just…don’t spend too long up there. Okay? Come back down. It’s going to be cold today. Come back before the sun sets. If you’re not back by the end of my shift I’ll come get you myself.”
“…Yeah. Alright.”
Garrick does not retreat into the shelter of his post, instead preferring to watch as his friend treks up the grassy hill, ready to catch him at a moment’s notice. His post is largely symbolic, anyway. A security guard for a single person.
It’s been five years since the end of the war—five years since General Riorson established morning training by the bottom of this very hill, along the base of Aretia’s war memorial. Some say his intention is to remind infantry of the harsh realities of war, and of the people who sacrificed themselves for peace.
Fewer speak of his simple and primal need to be near the grave of his late wife.
General Riorson lays the flowers down by her gravestone, and sits on the grass by her side. It’s been five years since Violet Sorrengail sacrificed herself to defeat the last surviving venin—five years since the General lost both his purpose and his reason. The war had ended, and his wife had passed. There was no burden left for him to shoulder, and no Violet left from him to hold.
This is not what his people see, however. To them, he is the greatest leader they have ever had the good privilege of serving under. Tales of his courage are sung far and wide, and these stories are almost always accompanied by praise and reverence of Violet’s final lightning strike upon the battlefield.
Tributes to her are unavoidable on a day such as this, but he prefers to avoid them, for homages and eulogies exist only for the departed.
He visits her here on frequent occasion. Sometimes with a bouquet, other times with a book, and on rarer occasions, with a friend. Today, it’s a combination of two. He had intended to bring Rhiannon along, but the journey through the city had been painful and arduous, and he longed to sit down and rest his legs. If only her residence were not so far. He is not ashamed of his health, but he is ashamed that he failed to offer his wife the perfect anniversary.
I’m sorry, Vi. I’ll bring her tomorrow. I promise.
Her body was never burned. Some might call it blasphemous, cruel, even. To sentence her mortal body to the soil that the enemy drew their power from. But no one would dare to question the word of General Riorson, for he led them to victory against all odds.
Most days, he simply sits here in silence, aimlessly watching the clouds drift by as he recalls their memories together. He remembers the day they met, young and contentious. He remembers his orders, to train and protect her. He remembers the moment the orders stopped mattering to him, the night they first kissed. He remembers every smile and frown she offered him, every tender moment, every bitter fight. He locks every memory in his heart, unwilling to let go of a single one, no matter how small or painful.
Grief and loneliness are nothing but excess love unspent. Bundled and repackaged, with nowhere to go. Love slides down the production line, waiting to be released into the world.
For Xaden, there is too much of this love, accumulating in the dusty corners of their home, in the dishes left undone, in the weary midday naps, in his legs, his vision, his taste, his smell. He is overcome with so much love that it threatens to eat him alive.
I miss you, Violet.
The first admission is always the most difficult. But once he gets it out, the rest flows red and molten—wounds from a broken heart.
Sometimes I think you might just crawl out of the earth.
Sometimes I pray that I’ll come home one day and you’ll just be there. On the couch, reading a history book I could never compete with, in a language I don’t understand. I’d ask you to eat. And you’d say, “Later, later”. But then I’d join you on the couch, and hold your hand. And then you’d finally look at me, and forget about the book. Then you’d take me to our bedroom, and I’d hold you like I’d done so many times before. We wouldn’t be in a rush. No war games to pull us away from each other. No battle to fight.
We’d spend our afternoons like this, just in each other’s company. Lazing around, aimless but peaceful. Happily drifting through life. I would need no other purpose than to be by your side. Sometimes I get stuck in this fantasy for so long I forget that I’m alive.
I was in a meeting the other day and I just…spaced out. Bodhi had to tap me on the shoulder and tell me that it was my turn to say something useful. Everyone just stared at me, waiting for me to tell them how to rule our nation.
I looked away, pretending I was just deep in thought, when really I was reading them, all of them, trying to figure out what the hell they were discussing. But they probably saw me and thought I was…figuring out how to spend our budget or…working on ways to finalise our trade deals with Poromiel.
But really all I think about is what our lives could’ve been together.
Sometimes I wish that the whole world would’ve just burned down, so there’d be nothing left to protect. Nothing left for you to sacrifice yourself for. So it would just be us. The two of us. Together.
I miss you. I miss you so much.
I—
I think I’m dying, Vi.
But I’ve been waiting to die for a long time.
It was hard, walking up here. My legs don’t want to listen to me anymore. Sometimes I’ll go down a staircase just the wrong way and they’ll start to hurt like hell. I wonder if this was how you felt. Everyday. I wonder if I ever did enough for you while you were still around.
The day you…died, I waited for my own body to give out. I sat by your side and waited for everything to end. But nothing ever happened. Then a week passed, then a month. And when a year went by, and I could still see your face in my dreams, I tried to take death into my own hands.
Tairn caught me before I could do anything stupid. It fucked up my leg, but I lived. You should’ve seen how angry he got. He had every right to, of course. You died for us, and I tried to undo it all. I vowed never to do anything like that again. I gave him my word.
He fought the hardest out of all of us. But he’s gone now. He didn’t last much longer after that incident. I still feel responsible.
Sgaeyl left me just a few weeks ago. I wanted her to make it to reunification, but she’s never cared too much for human celebrations. When she left, she left quietly. She told me she had things to do in the Vale, went away on an evening just like this, and never came back. I never saw her die, but I could feel it. Empty.
We all fought, Vi. We tried to live on. But every day without you felt like a waking nightmare.
I’m getting tired, too. I can feel it. It’s taken me a long, long time to die. But it’s finally happening. Everything is shutting down. It’s not just my legs.
I want to read you this book, Violet. I really do. But I can’t—fuck, I—
Jesinia picked this one out. A children’s book, just so I could read the fucking words but I still can’t—my eyes are—I don’t even know what colour these flowers are.
Shit, I'm ruining the pages.
Xaden slams the book shut, desperate to protect its drawings from his falling tears. He tells himself that he will apologise to Jesinia later.
He tilts his head back, looks up into the sky, and lets his tears flow. There is no one to see him here. He cries for his own sake. Five years of grief seeps into the soil, stealing his sorrows just like they stole his only beloved. He wants to lie down—flat on the grass—to mirror the way his lover lies deep in the earth. But the ache settling into his bones does not offer him that liberty. He is rooted in place.
Instead, he leans his body into the gravestone—the closest he will ever be to her again—relaxing, settling in for a peaceful exit. He fails to focus his eyes on anything in particular. He’s too far gone. The rustling of grass does not reach his ears. He does not feel the chill of the absent sun on his skin. Blue skies fade to black, but he cannot distinguish between night and day. At last, his legs go mercifully numb.
But in that moment—that sliver of awareness between waking and sleeping—he sees a lock of silver between the lining of the clouds he so often looked up to. It is unmistakable. The one colour he refuses to let go of.
Consciousness returns to him as his every remaining sense hones in on the sliver of silver. The lock extends from the skies, revealing a braid. He recognises it instantly. She is here.
She drifts down from the skies, appearing as precious and dear as the day he last saw her. He does not wonder if she is a hallucination, an apparition, or a mercy from the gods. There is no space for such thoughts when his beloved wife is in front of him. All he thinks and feels is pure joy, that she has appeared before him once again. He likens her visage to that of an angel. Yes. Perhaps that is what this is. His lover. An angel on earth. Here to deliver his salvation.
Violet?
She smiles down at him, and he smiles back. The tears do not subside, no, they only flow with greater insistence. But at least now they are not tinted with grief.
Violet, gods, please. Take me with you. Let me follow.
Don’t leave me here alone. Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me, please.
He pleads with her, begs with his every breath, for her to simply hold him in her arms, and lift his soul into the great unknown. He is unconcerned with where he ends up, so long as he is by her side. As he reaches out to her, his voice shakes with desperation, spilling with a longing so treacherously fatal.
The moment is surreal, yet so agonizingly real. The love of his life is here to gather him from his mortal prison. She scoops him up from the sordid earth, severing the tethers that bind him to life. She bestows upon him, a single kiss, and he feels like it might crush him.
Enveloped in her embrace, he feels a rush of sensations return to him. The scent of marigolds, the taste of salt from his tears, and the feeling of her arms around him. The weight of happiness is accompanied by an equivalent burden of fatigue. There is nothing left for him now but to lean into her comfort, and allow her to grant his wish.
Violet, I’m so tired. I’m exhausted.
Please, just take me away.
I’ve been so lonely without you.
Take me with you. Bring me anywhere, I don’t care.
I just can’t live without you anymore.