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After Isabella's death, music became both a blessing and a curse.
Vivaldi was always a beautiful choice—one of Isabella's favourites—but today the singing violins sounded to Edward like a grieving wail. He reached out and lifted the needle from the record, leaving it spinning in silence. Rare tears rolled down his face as he pressed his cheek further into the arm of his plush chair. The blanket he'd thrown over himself felt suddenly too heavy and restrictive, forcing him to push it aside with what little energy he had. He found that the next sob came with an overwhelming pain in his throat. Standing on wobbly legs, he stumbled out from the room he'd isolated himself in.
He searched the manor for Oswald, finding him quickly enough where he sat at his desk before his paperwork. Edward opened his mouth, gently rapping his knuckles on the door, but when Oswald looked up and Edward attempted to speak, only a croak escaped. Oswald's face melted in concern, and Edward coughed, clearing his throat.
"Are you alright, Ed?" Oswald asked, before grimacing at the question.
Edward forgave him instantly with a hesitant smile. He gestured to his own throat and managed to eke out a few words.
"Would you happen to have any more of your mother's tea?" he rasped, his face hopeful.
"Of course, of course!" Oswald exclaimed, seeming relieved to have the solution to something, some task to set before himself that wasn't his monotonous work.
He stood, bustling out from behind his desk. Edward smiled, also relieved. Oswald guided him to sit on the couch by the fireplace, the location and the pain in his throat reminiscent and somewhat comforting.
The day had seemed to pass faster and slower than any other day in his lifetime. Isabella's first riddle came to mind.
You struggle to regain me. When I'm lost, you struggle to obtain me. What am I?
Time. He thought of the time he had believed he would have with her; their future stolen in a moment, the branching paths that may have spread if he had chosen not to visit her that night, or if he had chosen to break from her grasp when she held him, or if he had insisted for her to rest.
Were there other worlds where she'd never gone on the trip, or never fallen asleep at the wheel? What future might have come as a result? What might have happened between them? Who would they have chosen to be? The grief of time lost and time imagined brought with it another wave of tears. Oswald appeared again, tea in hand, alongside a fresh handkerchief. Relieved, Edward gestured for Oswald to join him on the couch.
Oswald happily obliged, and once Edward had his first sip of the soothing tea, he built himself up into something brave and allowed himself to ask the question he'd been wanting to ask.
"May I ask for your advice, Oswald?"
"Ask me anything," Oswald replied.
"I've never known how to grieve," Edward said. "I never seemed to do it right."
The unspoken losses that Oswald had endured hung between them.
"What do I do?" Edward asked finally.
Oswald looked awkward. Ed regretted the question.
"There’s no right or wrong way to grieve, Edward."
"There must be," Ed replied, frustrated.
Someone had to have figured it out by now, he thought. There had to be a solution, because if this emptiness was to continue, this gulf of emotion, how was he supposed to live? The pads of his fingers brushed the delicate pattern lining his porcelain teacup.
"You were right," Ed decided. "I should have given up on love."
“What do you mean?"
"I should have had more resolve and ended things, as you said. Love isn’t meant for people like us.”
"That’s not true," Oswald rushed to say. "Don’t give up on love."
Edward wiped at his cheek "How couldn’t I, after all this?"
Oswald paused, considering his words, before he visibly steeled himself.
“After my mother passed, I fell apart.” He faltered, glancing up at Ed’s tear-streaked face. “As you know. But now I know that I can honour her memory, and my father’s. I can feel the pain of missing them and the warmth of remembering them—and—and that’s how I know that it was worth it; because I love them even now.” His face had taken on a wistful expression, before darkening, as though seeming to return to reality. His voice dropped into a mutter. "Although you hardly knew this woman long enough for those precious memories to form."
Edward furrowed his brow, ignoring the strange addition. There were many times when people said things that seemed odd to him, but normal to others. Perhaps it was a misguided attempt at comfort. He had seen many of those sprout up from Oswald since Isabella’s death. He could commiserate; he had hardly known how to adequately comfort Oswald during his time of need.
"So I hold on to the memory? That’s the solution?" he asked, eyes searching.
"I could hardly say it’s a solution." Oswald shrugged. "But it’s something."
Comforted, Edward smiled, clearing his throat and reaching for his tea once more.
Oswald’s bedroom was empty. It no longer smelled like him. Nowhere did. Even the pillows and sheets smelled like nothing but must. They hadn't been changed since Oswald's departure, and they wouldn't be. The manor was empty; the staff were gone, the air silent. Edward paced the length of the halls and the perimeter of every room.
“It’s the perfect plan,” he murmured to the empty air. “I know how to fix this.”
Haltingly, he stopped, fists balled at his sides.
“You can’t say that. You know I’m right this time. It’ll be better—this time—”
He glared at the couch on the far end of the room.
“What are you saying? You’re not making any sense,” he growled, then waited, then pointed. “Speak up! Ugh—”
He stalked to the desk, overturning a teapot and some books onto the floor. Old tea from the teapot splattered onto the rug, seeping in. He grabbed the little box of pills, threw one back, and chased it with long-cold tea, thumbing the pattern lining his teacup's side. He waited with bated breath, then turned sharply on his heels with a sigh of both irritation and relief. In the corner of the room, an old record spun in silence below a lifted needle. The empty couch dripped, and everything felt better and worse and terrible and the same.