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The shade is gentle on his brow, as is the breeze that lightly touches his skin, carrying the scent of those clusters of pink flowers she loves so dearly. Shy rays of sunlight glide across the delicate blossoms, glass finely woven with intricate threads where dark sap flows; opaque veins paint unique patterns on each petal, no two alike. Rare and precious, a brush guided by no hand but that of an obliging and devoted chaos.
One day, in the not too distant future, these flowering bunches will become the precious fruit of this earth, crimson like blood, sweet, juicy, imperfect rings; shelter for worms and flies, womb of a seed that tomorrow, nourished by this marvellous chaos, will weave the earth of strong and patient roots.
She rests in the shade of this cherry tree, her tired limbs laid on a soft carpet of fresh, flourishing growth, her face warmed by candyfloss sunbeams. She looks up, he doesn't quite know where. He doesn't follow the direction of her eyes, he is absorbed by her time-scarred features, the deep wrinkles telling the story of years of love spent together. His only regret is not having witnessed the birth of every line on her face. Their reunion came too late. Gold dissipated, lost. He will never retrieve it.
He holds her old, knotty fingers in his immaculate, young and strong ones, clasped together in a bizarre shell. It's her he wants to look at, only her he sees, her expression full of awe and wonder, like that of a child discovering the taste of sweets for the first time, mesmerised by the playful dance of the wind among the fragrant bouquets above her.
She is so beautiful when she finally turns and looks at him. Her eyes have not aged a day. A lively and vibrant glow, like gems set in a stone carved by sea waves and blowing wind: they shine with the light of her soul and settle in his, smiling warmly and sincerely, restlessly, grateful for every moment they have spent together. For the life they have lived and the short time that remains, forever etched in the features of their children and grandchildren, who carry their skin, their nose, their eyes, fragments of their spirits, endlessly repeating their tale until the very end of the world.
Ma'lath, he says, placing a hand on her cheek. She breathes softly, her chest rising and falling to the steady rhythm of her heart, the same beat he had desperately tried to mirror for years–to no avail. He had slowed his steps so that he could walk by her side, he had lengthened the rays of the sun for the days to never end, passing by with quiet and calm gestures in their dwelling of love. He had enlarged the moon, made the stars infinite, drawn the shadows across the sky until it was covered in a velvet cloak, so that the night would fall forever soft and gentle to soothe their tender sighs.
He had bent space and time for her, but he had not been able to stop it. Her body, the same that had once allowed her to run, to fight, to dance, to laugh and jump, to make love so many times, so sweetly, so desperately, their arms and legs a tangle of skin and flesh, moans and sighs, had changed. It had grown tiny now, fragile and curved, until it became painful for her to walk, and her hair had grown long enough to hide her delicate back under streams as white as the moon.
He had tried to change the beating of his heart then, to force it to slow down and harmonise with hers. He had tried every ritual, every enchantment, every spell he knew, but there was no magic strong enough to loosen the bonds that anchored his spirit to his body. His heart always beat faster than hers, pumping blood with a strength she had lost. He was cursed with an incurable disease; a disease that she was free of and that would eventually take her from him; it would tear her from his arms on a day as bright as any other, and that cherry tree would remain there, standing tall regardless of her absence.
The smile that lights up her face is the same as his. Pure, unclouded. Serene. Now it's she who whispers something to him, she speaks in elvhen, telling him that she loves it here, she loves it so very much, the sun is kind and the shade is a blessing, and oh, how beautiful her eyes are as she utters those words with that flawed cadence, that accent so different from his. But the words are the same ones he was born to, and together, their hands intertwined, their lips touching, they chant the sweet melody he's been singing alone for too long.
To kiss her slowly. To love and adore her - that's all he wants. To inhale the sweet yet pungent scent of lavender and rosemary, unchanged over the years. Just like her. Her vessel has shrunk, but her soul remains strong and alive, and she will not be crushed. She will fly away, far away, free at last, and grow until she embraces the whole world–she will become all things.
She will be the air he breathes when he dreams, the earth he walks on when he is awake, the water he drinks when he is thirsty, the light that colours the world. Oxygen. Life. He will hear her voice as he listens to the breath of the wind whispering through the green leaves of the trees. He will feel her in his arms as he lies in a golden field of wheat. He will kiss her lips as he sips from a crystal stream gushing from a high mountain. He will see her eyes in the sunlight that sparkles and glitters in mirror-like pools of water.
But it will never be enough.
I'm lucky, she whispers to him as their lips part. Lucky to be here with you. I wish time would stand still.
He smiles, smiles for her, without a cloud in his eyes.
Can you see those flowers above you? he asks now, drinking in her face, and she looks up again at those luminescent pink buds. No two are alike, he continues, gazing at the soft curve of her nose, a slide for his fingertips. Each one is unique, he murmurs, lost in the way her lips part in a soundless O. Like the marvellous days shared with you.
You are my fortune.
Nothing else in the warm light of day and the cold one of night, she is all he lives for, all he has, all he is. The incredible blessing that this obliging and devoted chaos has given him.
Her.
The life she breathed into him blossomed beyond the millennia he had endured—an existence once defined by relentless toil, now reborn in the cradle of her embrace. He already knew everything about the world, his knowledge was vast and endless, but love, love he had learned from her.
That dreadful feeling, that slow, endless fall, hand in hand, where every moment, every passing day was a discovery, nourishment for his spirit and solace for his heart.
A quiet life. Peaceful moments and sluggish days that had become idle, loving touches, smiles and caring gestures to each other. Sleepy fragments of joy. Family.
I'm a bit tired, she says. He smiles and nods silently, his hand slowly slipping from her face. He lifts her in his arms. Holding her is like nothing he's ever felt before. Cradling their children was like carrying a soft cloud of rain–a gentle, soft weight. She feels like a bouquet of flowers. She is so small, so fragile against his chest, he holds her with the delicate touch of a nestling sparrow brooding over its young. Her long white hair shimmers, the braided curls wrapped around her head like the crown she deserves to wear every day for the rest of her life. Tonight, as every night, he will help her untangle those strands, comb them until they are fluffy cotton against her back.
He will kiss her forehead, her lips, they will lie down together in their great bed of stars and he will whisper his love until the soft, golden sun rises again between the hills that silently embrace them.
There will be time, she whispers to him, caressing his face as he holds her tightly in his arms. She reads the darkness that clouds his mind, sweeps it away as she always does, leaving only the clear truth–she is with him. When he looks down at her, her eyes reflect the burning embers of his devotion, an adoration so deep the earth itself could not contain it.
There will be time.
Time for weeping, for loss, for grief, for the void she will leave behind. Time before she rests forever beneath that cherry tree. But today is not a day for mourning. Today, they are together. Today is joy–a gift, a grace, a privilege.
There will always be time, as long as he can hold her in his arms. Their love grows steadily, multiplying infinitely with each passing moment. Every day unfolds differently from the last, every night brings a new dream, and so on, on and on, for as long as time allows, for as long as this devoted, obedient chaos is willing to grant him.