Work Text:
to live in this world
you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it
against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.
-
in blackwater woods,
mary oliver.
[ shiva’s companion ]
Jill knows the day is coming.
If Jill is honest with herself, which she especially is on the hardest of days when grief and anguish already sit like a lead weight in her stomach and an icy loneliness spreads sluggishly through her veins, she is surprised ― pleasantly ― that he has remained at her side for so long.
Frost wolves are generally long-lived in comparison to their common cousins, yet they do not grow much older than sixteen. Even if one were to ignore the unfortunate inescapable truths of the natural world and mortality, Torgal has not had an easy life; the silver scars that decorate his face and flanks attest to that.
Neither Harpocrates nor the dusty tomes that dwell on the shelves in the Hideaway have an answer for how Torgal has lived for as long as he has ― whether it is a side effect of the aether, or an abnormality of nature.
Whichever it is, Jill has known enough loss and suffering to look at such a blessing too carefully.
Still. Sometimes, while she watches Torgal trot ahead of her, his tail waving lazily, she is overcome with a surge of anticipatory grief so strong it steals the breath from her lungs. The promise of future loss squeezes like a vice around her chest. Torgal will turn then, picking up on her distress, and bound back to her side, his tongue lolling out of his mouth so foolishly that Jill cannot help but laugh, sinking to her knees to bury her face in his fur. She will breathe him in, twist her fingers in his unruly coat, and try to commit the sensations to memory before Torgal tires of her moroseness and begins to lick her hair, making her laugh again.
Fondness for this overgrown hound, her oldest friend now, drives off fears and sorrows.
The future will come, and it will bring its usual assortment of pain and joy and grief. But it has not come yet.
So, yes. Jill is aware that one day, this final part of her childhood, her dearest companion, will be taken from her, too.
She tries not to be. She tries not to feel as if an hourglass has been flipped, its sand trickling to a new bottom as minutes and hours and years begin to slip by in a blur.
She pushes down her panic when, two years after Origin, she notices Torgal slowing down, his movements more lumbering than lithe. It had to happen eventually , she tells herself as she cards her fingers through his fur. He could not remain a puppy forever. She traces the patch of white fur on his forehead, the spread of paling fur around his eyes and snout. “You’re becoming an old man,” she teases him, earning an indignant huff and lazy tail thud in response.
As if to prove her wrong, the next day on a trip to Eastpool he races down a hare, carrying the carcass proudly back to her. She hands it off to one of the butchers and drops to her knees in front of Torgal, rubbing his jowls vigorously. “Maybe not so old, then,” she says, placing a quick kiss on his brow. “There’s life in you yet, Torgal.” He barks as if in agreement; she barely has time to dodge out of the way as he darts forward, his paws coming up on her shoulders and almost bowling her over. Okay, she corrects. Maybe he could be a puppy forever.
Six months later, she curtails the preemptive heartache when Torgal can no longer leap onto the bed as he once had, and resolves to a future of heaving the hound onto the mattress next to her so that still she may curl her fingers in his fur, hear his heavy sigh as he drifts into sleep by her feet. At dawn, he wakes her with a soft bark.
When she opens her eyes, his face is close to hers, his ears twitching at the sounds of the changing of the watch. Further down the bed, his tail wags excitedly, whipping her legs. As soon as he realises she is awake, he crawls closer still and starts to lick her face, chasing her when she pushes him away with a shouted laugh.
On the third anniversary of Origin ― the hardest day, the coldest day despite the summer sunshine ― when Torgal does not wake her at dawn but sleeps until midmorning and only then rises when Jill needs to relieve herself, Jill wills away the dread that washes over her. It is not like this day is ever productive for either of them. Maybe eventually the pall of grief will lift and she will remark on the day as a victory rather than as a reminder of world-shattering loss.
She knows some of the others have celebrations, drinking and swapping stories of the outlaw named Cid.
She also knows that Gav will be uncharacteristically quiet until he gets deep in his cups in the evening and will only then talk of the man he called brother, that later, after the revelry has ended, he will knock on her door and drag her to join Otto and Charon and Blackthorne and Tarja and Mid and all of the others that knew him as Cl-himself and not as a liberator, to toast the men who dreamt of a free world and sought to make that dream a reality, even if it meant that they would never see it for themselves.
Then she will retreat to her bed once more and press herself into Torgal’s side, his thick fur muffling the sounds of her sobs.
But that is later.
Once both she and Torgal have completed their business, they return to the bed, Jill lifting him up next to her. He settles down with a tired sigh, his head resting near hers on the mattress. He stares at her with dark eyes, blinking slowly. She strokes his muzzle, running her fingers over the short, wiry hair there. “Very distinguished,” she says quietly and presses a kiss to the diamond of white fur on his brow.
When she pulls away, his eyes are shut. She looks at him for a moment, until she feels the tightening in her chest and prick of tears in her eyes, and shoves down the creeping grief. She curls closer to him, closing her eyes. Not yet. Not today, she reminds herself and places a hand on his ribs, feeling the gentle rise and fall of his chest. There is still time. She listens to Torgal’s quiet breaths and lets sleep tug her back into its embrace.
She will not mourn him, not while she still has time.
She will not let grief steal these moments from her ― not after it has already taken so much.
Yet time moves ever onward.
When the day finally comes, it is both far later than she expects and earlier than she ever wishes. Jill thinks that eternity would not have been long enough. It arrives before dawn, two days after the fourth anniversary of the destruction of Origin.
Jill wakes without reason, startled from a blissfully deep sleep in which neither nightmares nor fantasies can reach her. She blinks blearily at the ceiling, her mind fuzzy as it slowly orients itself with the waking world. It is dark in the room, the only light coming from the glowing embers in the hearth. Outside, the moon is a silver crescent, thin clouds partially obscuring it. The gentle murmur of the Cursebreakers on watch drifts up from the mess, certainly not loud enough to have woken her.
Jill exhales and rolls on to her side, her eyes drifting shut, ready to retreat into the oblivion of slumber. She stretches out her arm absent-mindedly for Torgal, his heavy weight and comforting warmth more powerful than Tarja’s strongest sleeping tonic.
Her hand drops onto cool, empty sheets. Her eyes spring open. She pushes herself up onto her elbows, staring at the empty space, willing her suddenly racing heart to settle. After all, it is not unusual for him to wake in the night and wander to relieve himself, or relocate himself to the floor at the end of the bed if he grew too warm for his liking. The air is mild tonight, a warm summer breeze rippling across the lake and stirring the gardens below. Maybe that is it.
Jill leans to peer over the end of the mattress, finding Torgal’s usual spot vacant. At the same time, she hears a faint, soft whimper, almost inaudible even in the quiet night. Jill’s head jerks up, her neck clicking in protest. Fear washes over her, cold and nauseating. “Torgal?” she calls, her voice low.
The room is motionless and silent. Then there is the familiar sound of his tail swishing against the wooden floorboards, the soft thud of his tail rising and falling. It comes from the western side of the room, just below the dais. She twists to look down and― yes, there, a Torgal-shaped shadow at the window. How did I not see see him before? “Torgal,” she sighs, swinging her legs over the edge of the mattress and looking down on him. “What are you doing down there, boy?”
His tail thuds at the sound of her voice, but he does not move otherwise, his head not lifting from the ground. Instead, he whines quietly, the sound almost inaudible despite the quiet of the night. It is a pitiful, painful noise. Jill moves without thinking, sliding out of the bed and off the dais to kneel next to him, her heart in her throat.
Again, he does not move or react to her proximity besides a half-hearted thump of his tail. His head rests on his paws, neatly crossed beneath his chin, and from what she can tell, his gaze is steadfast on the world outside the window. “Torgal?” she says quietly, gingerly placing a hand on his side. “What’s wrong―”
Oh .
“ Oh, Torgal .” Jill breathes, her voice breaking over his name.
He is so, so still. Not tense ― indeed, there is no tension at all in his body, it seems. He is just ― still . He does not react to her touch, not like he once might have. He does not even look away from the window. His chest rises and falls in deep, slow breaths that have too much time between them. If Jill was not able to see the glint of light in his eyes, she might have thought he was sleeping. If only that were the case.
There is no mistaking this, though.
A discordant wave of emotion crashes over her: fear, desperation, and a grief that she has only ever managed to delay over the years, unintentionally allowing it to grow in strength with each treasured memory she has hoarded. The intensity of it rocks her back onto her heels, the hand not resting on Torgal quickly coming up to her mouth to stifle a sob.
Grief ― grief like an ache, a hollow, an old wound that has been healed over now split open once more. Her heart hurts . Her chest tightens, anguish like a physical pain as it lashes at her. Nausea sweeps over her as clawing desperation and disbelief make her stomach churn. Her vision blurs as tears start to flow down her cheeks. I’m not ready for this , she wants to say. I need more time.
She knows, however, that there is no amount of time that will allow her to prepare for loss. There never is.
Jill is quick to regain her composure, swallowing against the forming lump in her throat. She blinks rapidly, clearing her vision, and wipes at her face. She settles next to his side, keping her hand on his ribcage to feel his slow, steady breaths. “Was it you that woke me, Torgal?” she murmurs. “So I could say…”
Good-bye .
The word will not come out of her mouth, her throat closing shut around it.
Jill smooths a hand down his back. She is not sure how long he has been laying here like this, slowly fading into the night. Anger sparks in her briefly ― not at him but at herself, for not waking earlier, not noticing his absence. However, the anger fades as quickly as it comes and a deep sadness rushes in to fill the space it leaves. At least he does not appear to be in pain or distress, which is a blessing as far as these things go. Rather, he seems tired, like all of his years are catching up with him all at once.
For the first time, perhaps, Jill notices that the fur on his face is almost all white now, the dark grey having long since lost its pigment. She traces his whiskery brows with her fingertips, then the white diamond patch between his ears, once so vibrant but now almost indistinguishable from the rest of his coat. “When did you get so old, hm?” she comments and taps him gently on the nose, an action that once would have resulted in a lapful of wriggling hound as he tried valiantly to lick her face and hands in response.
Now, he does not react.
Her chest aches.
He continues to stare out the window, unblinking. Jill follows his unwavering gaze, uncertain what has captivated his attention so. She sees only the mountains and the scattered Fallen ruins. “What are you looking―” she begins but stops mid-sentence as understanding washes over her.
He is looking west.
“Oh.” Jill murmurs. “Rosalith.”
The clouds drift away from the moon, its watery silver light spilling across the room and allowing her to see as Torgal’s gaze flicks from the horizon to Jill’s face, his eyes dark and tired. He whines quietly, again.
Something cracks in Jill’s chest, a fracture she does not think she will ever be able to repair. It sends a sharp jab through her, her breath catching painfully. “Do you want to go home, Torgal?” she asks hoarsely, her throat constricting around the words. How often have those words been said, by myself or others? she wonders. After this, they will never be said again. A fresh wave of tears threatens to spill down her cheeks, her eyes stinging.
His tail thuds twice. He returns to gazing out the window towards their far away home. Jill looks across the lake, as well, towards the distant mountain range.
Rosaria is leagues away, she knows, and Rosalith even further, dense forests and vales dividing them. Even with Torgal’s excellent vision, it is not possible for him to be able to see all the way to the city. Still, for a moment, she lets herself believe that he can ― lets herself believe that there is a home to go back to.
A memory springs to the forefront of Jill’s mind, one that she has not thought of for many years, from before the War, before Phoenix Gate and Rosalith had fallen and everything had changed. Clive had been sent to stay with Byron for a fortnight, at the behest of the duchess of course. Torgal had only been a pup, new to the keep and his masters, yet that had not stopped him from whining and yelping as Clive rode out of the gates as if their separation was doing him physical harm.
Even after Clive had disappeared from view, Torgal had been inconsolable.
He had sat by the portcullis for days. Only she and Joshua had been able to lure him from his post, and never for very long.
Eventually, Clive had returned, and master and hound were reunited. Jill recalls the sight they had made in the courtyard, Clive on his knees at Ambrosia’s side, dirt and dust from the road still clinging to him, laughing while he held a whining Torgal at bay, his tail wagging so hard it was nearly a grey blur as he tried to crawl up Clive’s chest. She and Joshua had laughed at the pair. Clive had looked up at them, his eyes burning a brilliant blue, his hair windswept, and grinned.
She remembers how he had turned Torgal’s attention to her and Joshua, urging the pup to redirect his assault on them, and how Torgal had bounded across the courtyard before launching himself at Jill, almost knocking her over with his momentum.
It had been one of the last good days they had, before it all fell apart.
She is not sure what compels the next words from her mouth beyond her tendency to press on bruises, a bad habit she has never been able to rid herself of: “Do you want to see Clive?”
Torgal’s ears twitch at the sound of the name. His tail swishes weakly along the wooden floorboards, and he lets out a soft huff.
Jill feels her lips tremble, a sob building in her chest. She is only partially able to stifle it; a wretched, raw noise falls out of her instead like a heaving inhale, her throat stinging. “Me too,” she breathes like a secret to only be shared between the two of them. Jill recalls murmuring other secrets and dreams to him long ago, tiny hopes for futures that have now all been burnt to ashes around her.
She runs her hand through his thick coat, trying to commit the feeling to memory: the waxy, wiry texture of his overcoat, the soft density of the undercoat, the oddly textured areas where injuries and wounds had disrupted the growth pattern. Her fingers twist and tangle in his fur, as if she has a good enough grip, she can keep him at her side through sheer strength.
She leans forward, pressing a kiss to the centre of his forehead, lingering there for a moment to breathe him in. He smells like cold winter air and charcoal and hound , familiar and comforting and in this moment, heartwrenching. It brings back memories of Rosalith, and the War, and the days that came after when she would wake with her nose buried in his fur more often than not. He has been with me through so many things, she thinks. The idea that he will no longer be at her side seems outlandish, surreal.
How is she meant to say goodbye to him, to this creature that has been one of her constant companions and certainly dearest friends? What words can she say that appropriately describe how she feels, how proud and grateful she is to have known and loved the world’s most faithful hound? For a moment, sorrow seizes her chest like a vice, squeezing tighter and tighter until she can hardly breathe for it.
It passes, the band of terrible sadness minutely loosening around her. It will return, Jill knows. She can feel it circling her like a predator, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
Now. She has to say good-bye now, before she loses the chance.
She inhales deeply and places another kiss on the same spot. Hot tears begin to trickle down her face, soaking into his fur. “Thank you, Torgal, for everything,” she murmurs against his head, her lips brushing his fur as she talks. Each word feels like a knife driving into her heart. “You are a good boy. You always have been, and you always will be.”
His tail thumps weakly against the floor and Jill laughs wetly, kissing his brow again. “You are the best― the best hound anyone could have ever wished for,” she whispers emphatically, taking another shaky breath before she continues. “You have been so brave and strong for such a long time. But you don’t have to be any longer. You can rest now, Torgal. It’s okay.”
Torgal looks at her. There is a bone-deep exhaustion on his face, his eyes black and his blinks slow and heavy, but he regards her with such concern. He whines anxiously, his tail wagging twice. Jill drops a series of kisses on his forehead, unable to help herself. Grief coils in the very core of her being, lodging itself so deep that she fears she will never be free of it. She can feel exactly how she will miss this wonderful hound: the weight of his absence like a physical thing, the bittersweetness of memories, the love that will haunt her like a ghost, always just out of reach. A sob slips past her lips. She smoothers it in his fur, tears flowing freely down her face, dripping on top of his head. “I’m okay,” she reassures him after a moment, when she is able to speak again. “Rest, Torgal. You can go home ― you can see Clive again.”
Torgal’s ears prick at his name. Jill feels her heart break further, if it is even possible. She passes a hand over his ears and down his neck, moving down his shoulder to the golden bracelet still locked around his leg. He watches her closely as she unclasps the bracelet and lifts it off of him, setting it to the side. “Go home, Torgal,” she tells him gently. “He’s waiting for you.” As soon as she says it, Jill knows it to be true with absolute certainty.
Torgal stares at her. Eventually, he sets his head down on his paws with a sigh, returning his attention to the horizon.
Jill stares at him, too, before she sighs as well. She lays down on the ground next to him, resting her head on her arm, her other arm reaching out so she can lay a hand on his side. She talks to him, whispering stories of their shared past: of Rosalith and days spent in secret out in the fields beyond the keep; their reunion and their many adventures across Storm with Clive and then Joshua as well; their time in the years after Origin, just the two of them. Her mouth is dry, and her chest hurts, but she will not leave him, no matter how long it takes.
She is not sure how long they lay like that, her fingers in his fur as he stares out across the lake. The sky has only just begun to lighten at the horizon, the first early signs of dawn chasing away the deep indigo of night, when there is a long pause between his breaths. Then, another. He inhales and his chest rises. He exhales, the breathing coming out in a low rush. His chest falls.
It does not rise again.
Jill stops talking midsentence. She thinks she might stop breathing as well. Stifling silence blankets the room, the world, for an endless moment ― before it abruptly ruptures, sound and sensation rushing back in. Jill sits up. Her heart is not beating, except it races in her chest. “Torgal?” she calls.
He does not move. His chest does not rise. She feels his body under her hand go limp.
Jill sits. Jill stares. For a moment, Torgal as he is now disappears, a small, younger version of himself taking his place. Then she blinks and the vision disperses.
Except Torgal still lays limp and lifeless before her.
At last, her composure shatters completely.
Like a puppet whose strings have been severed, Jill crumples forward onto him, burying her face in his side. Memories flash through her mind, each one short and fast and painful: Torgal as a puppy, his bright eyes staring up at hers, tongue lolling out his mouth; Torgal chasing butterflies in a sea of tall grass, barely visible; Torgal, grown, sleeping on his back and snoring loudly; Torgal dodging away from Clive, his trousers in his mouth, Jill laughing so hard her ribs hurt as a half-naked Clive chased after the merry hound; Torgal sitting with her in silence on that terrible night, and every night that followed, his mere presence like an anchor in the storm of grief and pain that had raged inside her.
All gone now. He is gone. He will never come back.
Horrible, broken sobs are torn from her chest, her body bowing and shaking with their force. Hot tears soak his fur as they stream down her face, her eyes burning. Her breath comes in short, heaving gasps that do nothing but make her head spin. The despair is absolute, falling upon her like a wild animal, pierces her with its sharp, sorrowful teeth. Every part of her hurts, fiercely.
Jill is not a stranger to loss ― not in the slightest ― but this feels different. It is like saying goodbye to everything and everyone she has ever lost, all at once: Joshua, Clive, the childhood they never got to have, and the person she could only be with them. Shiva, a blessing and a curse but her one constant for thirteen years. Rosalith, the home she can never go back to. Torgal , her oldest friend, her companion. There is a finality to it, like a door closing behind her, never to open again.
Oddly, it reminds her of the Apodytery at Phoenix Gate, and its doors that will now be forever shut without the Phoenix. She thinks of how it will sit empty and vacant for eternity, waiting for someone that will never come back. They’re gone. They’re all gone. A tidal wave of heart-wrenching loneliness crashes over her, sinking deep into her bones, colder than Shiva’s touch. It steals her breath, her muscles seizing, before her sobs renew with interest. She feels as if she is coming undone
Eventually, however, her sobs begin to peter out and her tears slow. Her breath slows, deepens. Her head pounds. Exhaustion ebbs away at the onslaught of sorrow and sadness, a dull miserable ache replacing them for the time being. She looks up from Torgal’s fur, noticing how the early morning light slants across the opposite side of the room.
She has to get up. She has to lay him to rest and say her last farewell, and then carry on, somehow. For all of them.
Jill presses a kiss to his flank, her eyes shutting, and inhales his scent one last time before she pulls back. “I love you, Torgal,” she tells him and hesitates before adding, “Give my love to them.”
The room is silent. Jill breathes out shakily. She will have to become comfortable with silence, again. She has to -- there is no other choice. She pushes herself to her feet and prepares for the day ahead. Outside, the sun continues to rise, the pink glow of daybreak banishing the inky indigo of night.
Jill is getting tired of the dawn.