Work Text:
It’s a warm summer afternoon in Elmville, and Sklonda Gukgak makes her way through the breezy rows of graves and tombstones that make up Cravencroft Cemetery. She’s dressed rather unusually for a weary police detective, opting to wear a white-and-green sundress that she knows her son has never seen on her before. It’s a little out of fashion nowadays, as Pok had gifted it to her nearly ten years ago, but she doesn't care. She loves the dress and saves it for the annual special occasion that is today; her and Pok’s anniversary.
She strolls past ornately-decorated gravestones, some fresh, some faded, and shifts the picnic basket from one arm to the other as she goes. It’s her special day with her husband, and she isn’t going to let his death stop her from enjoying it with him. She stops for a minute and watches some butterflies dance around a bouquet of flowers that have been left at another grave, smiling and imagining the departed enjoying the gift left for them.
She finally arrives at Pok’s grave, beneath a small tree, alone. She’s okay with the location, thinking that Pok would have enjoyed the quiet, peaceful location that’s tucked away. His own tree, she always liked to think. One day she’ll share it with him for eternity, but for now it’s just one day at a time. She pulls a wire brush out of the basket and uses it to clean off some moss that had begun to form on the tombstone, and then tucks the brush away and smiles.
“Happy anniversary, dear,” she says to the grave, and feels a warm breeze waft by as the words leave her lips. She pulls out a picnic blanket and spreads it on the ground beside the grave site before setting down two plates and two glasses. She dishes out some potato salad, a couple finger sandwiches, and cold fried chicken, then pours some cheap champagne into the cups. She toasts the gravestone and sips her champagne.
“Just like when you proposed to me,” she says to the soft wind that ruffles the hem of her dress and caresses her legs and arms. She smiles at the sensation of the wind and closes her eyes, imagining it’s her husband running his hands along her body as he used to so many years ago. When she opens her eyes again, ready to reach for some food, she notices a dove has alighted on the blanket opposite of her and is eyeing the food. She gives a small laugh at the sight of the bird.
“Go on,” she says. “He always liked feeding the birds when we went on picnics.” She winks at the dove. “You know, he’d joke that he was feeding them to fatten them up, and then once we finished eating he’d lunge for the nearest one, shouting ‘Dessert time!’” The bird flutters its wings a little bit and Sklonda laughs louder.
“Oh, don’t worry. He never really tried to catch any.”
She reaches for some chicken and demurely tears off a bite, chewing thoughtfully as she watches the bird peck at the salad in front of it. Despite being a goblin, Pok had always been so careful when eating, trying his hardest not to make a mess and draw attention to himself. Years of spy training, she knew, but all the same a mannerism of his that she had found endearing and she always tried to copy whenever they went out to dinner together. (Back home, of course, Sklonda would gobble and crunch and gulp like any regular goblin would, and Pok would always smile and wipe away any stray food that wound up on her face. It was the same fond smile that he’d show Riz when their son had begun eating solid foods and would inevitably make a mess of everything around him, too.)
The bird continues to peck and nibble at the salad and sandwiches (avoiding the chicken), and Sklonda soon polishes off her plate. She lays back on the blanket and closes her eyes, letting the warm sunlight wash over her as she dozes beside her husband’s grave.
She awakes about an hour later and looks over. Of course the dove has left, but as she gathers up the food to scatter for wildlife, she gasps at the leftover sandwich. There, in the center of the bread, is a perfectly pecked-out outline of a heart.
“Pok…”
Sklonda tears up at the sight of the message, then breaks down and fully cries. “Pok… I miss you so much,” she manages through her tears. “I still love you so much it hurts sometimes.” She hears a rustle from the tree above the grave and looks up. A single white dove’s feather gently drifts down, landing at her feet. She sobs again and kneels to pick it up.
“Thank you, Pok,” she whispers to the feather, tears streaming down her face. She takes her time to cry, allowing the emotion to fill her and wrack her small body, and the catharsis of mourning at the grave. Nearly ten minutes later she heaves a sigh and shudders, her tears beginning to run dry, and she stands up. She pours the remaining champagne out on Pok’s grave and packs up the uneaten chicken. She leaves the pecked sandwich on his gravestone and gives it a wistful, teary smile.
“I’ll love you until the end of time,” she whispers, before packing up the remaining picnic supplies and turning away from the grave. She carries the feather with her as she leaves the cemetery, turning it in her fingers as she looks at it.
The next day when Sklonda turns up for work, there’s a beautiful white feather nestled alongside her police badge and ID in her billfold.