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The Waking Sands seemed particularly empty, more so than usual despite the fact that Urianger was normally there alone. Certainly, every time and again one of the Scions would deign to visit, usually to pick up some forgotten item but sometimes for scholarly advice.
This time the emptiness was different. 'Twas no mere lack of fellowship Urianger felt, at least not in the usual sense. This time, it was his own mortal shell that felt empty. He had brought the emptiness with him from Mor Dhona. It was there that Urianger had left his heart.
"Oh, dearest Moenbryda, thy time upon this star was fleeting indeed," he bemoaned as he half-heartedly organized a stack of tomes. A slip of parchment laid partially crumped on the desk behind him, the words tear-stained and smudged. A letter he had hoped to pen, but his heart would not allow its completion. Not yet.
Urianger found himself wishing for company, despite the fact that he had all but banished himself to the solitude of Thanalan. Would that any of the Scions had joined him. Y'shtola's rationality, Minfilia's serenity, even Thancred's levity would bring him some measure of comfort. Any of his companions would serve as a much-needed distraction from these unwelcomed feelings of heartache.
But he could not ask that of them. No, he must be strong, resolute. And for that, he must be alone. Because if even one of them saw the cracks forming in his peerless stoicism, he feared the facade would crumble.
Oh, Moenbryda...
Urianger nearly fell over in his chair when his studying was interrupted by the thud of a plate landing on table before him.
"Heavens forfend!" he exclaimed, nearly dropping the book into the plate of meatballs. "Is it truly necessary to relinquish thy food in such a dramatic manner?"
"My food?" Moenbryda laughed, nudging the plate toward him. "I think you mean thy food."
The Elezen's brow furrowed. "I take not thy meaning."
"You're going to bloody starve down here with your nose stuck in that book," Moenbryda explained, rolling her eyes and picking one of the meatballs up with her fingers. "Open up."
Urianger blinked. "Surely 'tis a jest."
"Open up," she demanded sternly, earning her companion's immediate compliance. As soon as Urianger put down his tome, Moenbryda all but jammed the meatball into his mouth, causing Urianger to gag and nearly spit it out. She was doubled over laughing as he began to chew, his face turning to a scowl even as the blush rose in his cheeks.
As he swallowed, Urianger pulled the plate closer to himself and continued to scowl at her. "Thou art akin to a mother hen," he accused.
Moenbryda grinned. "You're welcome."
"'Twas no compliment," Urianger clarified with an obvious measure of annoyance.
"Well," she continued, popping a meatball into her own mouth and swallowing with nary more than a moment to chew, "you can avoid being fussed over if you just start taking care of yourself."
Urianger's scowl deepened, though in truth some of it was his unwillingness to admit that he appreciated the care Moenbryda showed him.
"I can't promise I won't eat all of these if you don't dig in, though," she continued, shoving two more meatballs into her mouth at the same time.
Urianger's usually stoic features broke into an uncharacteristic smile.
"What?" Moenbryda asked with her mouth still half-full.
The Elezen just shook his head, his mouth still upturned, as his eyes wandered back to his book. Much to Moenbryda's delight, his hand stretched forward toward the plate.
With a gasp, Urianger bolted upright. His face fell as he realized it had been but a dream. He had fallen asleep, and his melancholy mind had conjured a phantom from his own memory.
He knew he should appreciate the recollection. Urianger had many such memories from his time with Moenbryda in Sharlayan, during their earlier years. But she was gone now, and memories were all he had left.
Urianger's eyes turned down to the table, where the crumpled and tear-stained remnants of his letter seemed to taunt him. He reached out and took the wad of parchment in his hand, carefully smoothing out the wrinkles.
It was a letter to Wilfsunn and Bloewyda, Moenbryda's parents.
This was not the first letter he had penned to them, and it would undoubtedly not be the last. Several wads of parchment laid scattered about the room, a testament to the impossibility of the task he had given himself.
How could Urianger find the words to explain what had happened to their beloved daughter? How could he tell them how very sorry he was that he could not save her? That he missed her? That he was drowning in the deepest depths of grief?
He could not.
"Oh Moenbryda, I feel thy loss so keenly," Urianger sighed to himself, reaching across the table and taking another piece of parchment from the stack. "I pray thy memory granteth me the strength to forge on in the face of such despair."
Moenbryda was gone, but his memory of her remained. It was his unending duty to preserve the last remnants of his most steadfast and loyal companion. And in this, his most important task, he would not falter. He would not fail.
With a deep wavering breath, Urianger picked up his quill, dipped it in the ink pot, and began to write once more.