Work Text:
It was snowing again, and the air was full of flurries and swirls. Yang had the curtains drawn, as she always did, and stared solemnly out into the world. She barely noticed the cold anymore. She barely noticed anything save that the flowers on her bedside table had died. It was a surprisingly poignant loss for Yang. Another spark of life had left her forever.
Taiyang made small talk, occasionally reading Yang fairy tales and fables from her childhood, but even that ended in bitter silence. He would close the book, take his chair, and leave without Yang even noticing that he'd been there. For her there was nothing left to do but eat, sleep, and look out the window for something, or someone, more substantial than snow. At night, when she pretended to sleep, Yang refused to let herself cry.
The only time that Yang had gotten out of bed was late one night after she had been caught in the grip of a terrible nightmare. Ruby had been fighting a powerful witch, dodging and parrying with all her speed but still losing quickly. The witch had taken the form of a great dragon, rearing it's immense head to unleash a mighty bellow before engulfing Ruby in it's maw. Yang had woken in an awful panic, and, fearing that the dream was real, half-sprinted/half-stumbled her way through the house screaming Ruby's name. Taiyang had later found her doubled over in the snow uttering nonsensical mumblings.
Taiyang never spoke of the incident, and Yang wouldn't notice if he did. She still refused to let herself cry.
After this, time crept quietly by unimpeded. Eventually Yang stopped sitting up to look out the window. Eventually Taiyang stopped making small talk and reading from books. They both slipped into complete solitude, living in the same house but barely interacting beyond necessity. It appeared as if the little household would be buried in winter forever. It's only inhabitants ghosts, abandoned and forgotten.
Until a morning when Yang opened her eyes to see a fresh batch of flowers upon her bedside table. It was not yet spring, so there was no reasonable explanation as to their existence. They had simply appeared. Perhaps this is a dream, was Yang's thought. Until she noticed that adorning the vase was a small, black bow.
For the first time in months Yang finally let herself cry. Great, heart rending sobs worked their way out and shattered against the walls of the room. She wept uncontrollably, staring at the bow with unbelieving eyes. The pain she'd been resisting for all this time had come all at once as an unbearable wave. It crashed against her relentlessly for hours as she writhed in the wretchedness of it all. And when at last the emotions subsided to a dull ache, Yang took the bow and held it close to her chest. She stood up, somewhat shakily, took in the scent of the flowers, the touch of the sun, the feel of the bow in her hands, and composed herself.
Yang decided to eat breakfast at the table for a change.