Talechaser ~ Absent Friends
Apr. 10th, 2007 06:42 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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yrae
Title~ Curse of Memory
Author~ Annarti
Disclaimer~ All mine
Notes~ Talechasing challenge from 14 June, 2006. This is 1602 words of pure, unadultered ANGST. Good insight into Mithé tho, which is what this is all about.
~ ~ ~
Mithé rolled over pointlessly and sighed heavily, hooking one leg out of the bed sheets and trying to decide whether it was too hot under them or too cold in the night air. He lasted in that position for barely ten heartbeats before flopping onto his back, then his other side, untangling his leg from the sheets.
He sighed again and snapped his eyes open to stare out at the night. They were clearly more comfortable wide open now, however late it was. How late was it, anyway? They flicked up to the sky, unable to spot the moon, and looked at the balcony instead. It tempted him to walk out onto it, look for the moon and see whether it was worth him even bothering with sleep at all.
His eyes slid across the floor to the general direction of the door to the hall. Maybe a quick beer, that might calm him enough to sleep.
He swung his legs to the floor, searching blindly for his slippers as he threw a dressing gown over his shoulders. He braced his hands on his knees and pushed himself upright with a quiet groan of effort, then made his way across the hall to the lounge.
Moonlight spilled silently into the large, open room, bright enough that he could see colours, but not enough to read the labels on the beer bottles in the room’s self-service bar. He shrugged and snagged one from the shelf he knew was stocked full with palace brew, then cracked the top off with one hand and dropped it onto the bar bench with a light tinkle.
The mouth of the bottle was cold, and there was no residual heat left in the beer from the day’s heat. He relished the crisp, cold drink, its flavour comfortingly familiar as it picked at his tongue with bubbles. He took another swig as he walked out onto the balcony, a light breeze flapping his dressing gown around his ankles.
The moon was almost full here, and though he couldn’t see any glow of sunlight on the eastern horizon just yet, Mithé knew the faint signs of morning would begin to show in no more than two hours. He rubbed one eye with the heel of his free hand, trying to make himself feel tired so he could at least snatch those two hours of sleep, but it was no good now. He’d been well and truly awake since he’d gone to bed. That was hardly likely to change before the sun rose.
The king sighed and rested his arms on the cold stone railing, the bottle hanging by its neck between his fingers. He ran his thumb around the glass rim, idly flicking his nail against it.
Why did memory have to be such a curse? Why was he only remembering the bad things? Why was it that every time Alurié’s image floated into his mind, he could never think of her life? The first image in his mind was never the bright smile on her lips when she had agreed to his proposal, never the soft touch of her hair or skin, never the bright, cheeky spark in her otherwise dark brown eyes. He couldn’t think of how beautiful she had been on their wedding night or how proud she had been when he’d first put on the crown of Raykin’s king.
She’d had her faults, certainly, but Mithé had loved her for them. She had known they were there, and had admitted in her own strange way when she was wrong. Likewise, she had been able to make decisions when Mithé had been too weak or hesitant. She had been a quick thinker, and if she had been given more time, Mithé was certain she would have made a strong queen.
Alurié had been a beautiful woman. A tiny, but nevertheless strong presence. Her curves so smooth and sensuous, and yet so soft and huggable. Her eyes so dark Mithé had to touch his forehead with hers to make out her pupils.
Why was it, that no matter how hard he tried to picture this in his mind, he could only ever remember her death? In life, Alurié had been everything to him. He’d never imagined losing her, not so soon, not this early.
He took a deep, shuddering sigh and passed the bottle of palace brew to his lips again, closing his eyes in a cringe at the cold liquid. It seemed to drain through him now, the same as the cold dread that had gripped his heart when the healer had approached him, her hands and robes bathed in blood.
That was five years ago now. Why, when he had so many beautiful, warm memories of his wife, did that one always come back strongest?
‘I’m sorry, Alurié,’ he murmured up to the stars.
Years ago, it had been a different apology. Sorry he hadn’t done anything to save her, but he’d since realised there was nothing he could have done. The kingdom’s best healers had been in that house since Alurié had first gone in. Childbirth was always a dangerous process, no matter how highborn the mother was. He was able to accept now that he couldn’t have done anything.
‘I’m sorry. I try to remember you in a gentler light, I do. You didn’t live to be remembered by your death. Every memory now, even the happy ones, is just so painful, because I know there’ll be no more.’ He stopped, halting the quaver in his voice before it could become a crack.
He tried to pull his mind away from those dreadful few words the healer had spoken to him. His first real date with her, on the rooftop at the impressive Riverside, just the two of them. Her way of crossing her eyes at him whenever he seemed to be taking an issue too seriously. A small smile spread on his lips as he choked back a quiet laugh. It wasn’t a sob. Her rich voice mumbled through potential names for their child, alternating between calling it a he or a she in the same sentence.
Mithé took another shuddering breath, straightening and lifting his head from where it had fallen to stare at the small palace garden below. He turned and rested his weight against the stone railing, looking into but not seeing the black depths of the palace, shadowed away from the moonlight. If it was daylight, and there weren’t other things playing on his mind, he would have been able to see the door to his son’s room from here.
He took another swig from his bottle and rested both elbows back on the railing, dropping his eyes once again.
Why was it that every time the eighteenth day of Spring came upon him, he could only ever think of it as the anniversary of her death? Why was it never his son’s birthday? He’d never thought himself to be a pessimistic man, but whenever the day was mentioned, it always struck him with a pang of grief.
He carefully lifted his eyes again, imagining the oak door he knew was there. In his mind’s eye, he could see the small figure behind it, curled up in bed and sleeping peacefully.
‘Blood of the goddesses…’ He didn’t know whether to smile or growl at the image. He wanted the boy to apologise for his mother’s death and immediately felt a wave of guilt wash over him. He knew it wasn’t the boy’s fault, and he wanted him to know that. He didn’t want him to feel responsible for his mother’s death… and yet Mithé couldn’t help but lay the blame on him.
He hung one arm around his middle and held his other hand over his face. He loved the boy, or at least tried to, and felt guilty for it, as though doing so meant he forgot Alurié. He tried to hate him, and felt guilty again. The boy was Alurié’s son as much as Mithé’s, and how could he hate anything she had borne?
Mithé tipped his head back to look up at the stars, trying to clear his mind and think of nothing, but even the stars were bitter in his mind now.
He pushed himself away from the railing and made his way back inside, cringing at his stiff legs. He stopped at the door to his son’s bedroom, staring down at the handle as he rested his hand on the cold brass. He should spend more time with the boy. He shouldn’t have waited so long to see him at the beginning. It had taken him a full eighteen days to first lay eyes on that tiny little face. He had been so scared of seeing Alurié’s killer instead of his son that he couldn’t avoid it.
Now, he had fallen into the same trap again. He hadn’t even seen the boy on his birthday until last year. If he’d just been there from the beginning, maybe he’d simply see his son.
Mithé took another deep breath, releasing it more smoothly and evenly this time, full of determination. He took another swig from his bottle and turned the handle, swinging the door quietly open.
Unpleasant tingles pinched at his skin as soon as his eyes fell on the shadowy lump under the covers. It was supposed to be the boy’s birthday, but try as he might, Mithé couldn’t think of today that way.
He closed his eyes and rested his forearm against the doorframe, thumping his head quietly against the wood. ‘I’m sorry, Nolryn.’
Author~ Annarti
Disclaimer~ All mine
Notes~ Talechasing challenge from 14 June, 2006. This is 1602 words of pure, unadultered ANGST. Good insight into Mithé tho, which is what this is all about.
Mithé rolled over pointlessly and sighed heavily, hooking one leg out of the bed sheets and trying to decide whether it was too hot under them or too cold in the night air. He lasted in that position for barely ten heartbeats before flopping onto his back, then his other side, untangling his leg from the sheets.
He sighed again and snapped his eyes open to stare out at the night. They were clearly more comfortable wide open now, however late it was. How late was it, anyway? They flicked up to the sky, unable to spot the moon, and looked at the balcony instead. It tempted him to walk out onto it, look for the moon and see whether it was worth him even bothering with sleep at all.
His eyes slid across the floor to the general direction of the door to the hall. Maybe a quick beer, that might calm him enough to sleep.
He swung his legs to the floor, searching blindly for his slippers as he threw a dressing gown over his shoulders. He braced his hands on his knees and pushed himself upright with a quiet groan of effort, then made his way across the hall to the lounge.
Moonlight spilled silently into the large, open room, bright enough that he could see colours, but not enough to read the labels on the beer bottles in the room’s self-service bar. He shrugged and snagged one from the shelf he knew was stocked full with palace brew, then cracked the top off with one hand and dropped it onto the bar bench with a light tinkle.
The mouth of the bottle was cold, and there was no residual heat left in the beer from the day’s heat. He relished the crisp, cold drink, its flavour comfortingly familiar as it picked at his tongue with bubbles. He took another swig as he walked out onto the balcony, a light breeze flapping his dressing gown around his ankles.
The moon was almost full here, and though he couldn’t see any glow of sunlight on the eastern horizon just yet, Mithé knew the faint signs of morning would begin to show in no more than two hours. He rubbed one eye with the heel of his free hand, trying to make himself feel tired so he could at least snatch those two hours of sleep, but it was no good now. He’d been well and truly awake since he’d gone to bed. That was hardly likely to change before the sun rose.
The king sighed and rested his arms on the cold stone railing, the bottle hanging by its neck between his fingers. He ran his thumb around the glass rim, idly flicking his nail against it.
Why did memory have to be such a curse? Why was he only remembering the bad things? Why was it that every time Alurié’s image floated into his mind, he could never think of her life? The first image in his mind was never the bright smile on her lips when she had agreed to his proposal, never the soft touch of her hair or skin, never the bright, cheeky spark in her otherwise dark brown eyes. He couldn’t think of how beautiful she had been on their wedding night or how proud she had been when he’d first put on the crown of Raykin’s king.
She’d had her faults, certainly, but Mithé had loved her for them. She had known they were there, and had admitted in her own strange way when she was wrong. Likewise, she had been able to make decisions when Mithé had been too weak or hesitant. She had been a quick thinker, and if she had been given more time, Mithé was certain she would have made a strong queen.
Alurié had been a beautiful woman. A tiny, but nevertheless strong presence. Her curves so smooth and sensuous, and yet so soft and huggable. Her eyes so dark Mithé had to touch his forehead with hers to make out her pupils.
Why was it, that no matter how hard he tried to picture this in his mind, he could only ever remember her death? In life, Alurié had been everything to him. He’d never imagined losing her, not so soon, not this early.
He took a deep, shuddering sigh and passed the bottle of palace brew to his lips again, closing his eyes in a cringe at the cold liquid. It seemed to drain through him now, the same as the cold dread that had gripped his heart when the healer had approached him, her hands and robes bathed in blood.
That was five years ago now. Why, when he had so many beautiful, warm memories of his wife, did that one always come back strongest?
‘I’m sorry, Alurié,’ he murmured up to the stars.
Years ago, it had been a different apology. Sorry he hadn’t done anything to save her, but he’d since realised there was nothing he could have done. The kingdom’s best healers had been in that house since Alurié had first gone in. Childbirth was always a dangerous process, no matter how highborn the mother was. He was able to accept now that he couldn’t have done anything.
‘I’m sorry. I try to remember you in a gentler light, I do. You didn’t live to be remembered by your death. Every memory now, even the happy ones, is just so painful, because I know there’ll be no more.’ He stopped, halting the quaver in his voice before it could become a crack.
He tried to pull his mind away from those dreadful few words the healer had spoken to him. His first real date with her, on the rooftop at the impressive Riverside, just the two of them. Her way of crossing her eyes at him whenever he seemed to be taking an issue too seriously. A small smile spread on his lips as he choked back a quiet laugh. It wasn’t a sob. Her rich voice mumbled through potential names for their child, alternating between calling it a he or a she in the same sentence.
Mithé took another shuddering breath, straightening and lifting his head from where it had fallen to stare at the small palace garden below. He turned and rested his weight against the stone railing, looking into but not seeing the black depths of the palace, shadowed away from the moonlight. If it was daylight, and there weren’t other things playing on his mind, he would have been able to see the door to his son’s room from here.
He took another swig from his bottle and rested both elbows back on the railing, dropping his eyes once again.
Why was it that every time the eighteenth day of Spring came upon him, he could only ever think of it as the anniversary of her death? Why was it never his son’s birthday? He’d never thought himself to be a pessimistic man, but whenever the day was mentioned, it always struck him with a pang of grief.
He carefully lifted his eyes again, imagining the oak door he knew was there. In his mind’s eye, he could see the small figure behind it, curled up in bed and sleeping peacefully.
‘Blood of the goddesses…’ He didn’t know whether to smile or growl at the image. He wanted the boy to apologise for his mother’s death and immediately felt a wave of guilt wash over him. He knew it wasn’t the boy’s fault, and he wanted him to know that. He didn’t want him to feel responsible for his mother’s death… and yet Mithé couldn’t help but lay the blame on him.
He hung one arm around his middle and held his other hand over his face. He loved the boy, or at least tried to, and felt guilty for it, as though doing so meant he forgot Alurié. He tried to hate him, and felt guilty again. The boy was Alurié’s son as much as Mithé’s, and how could he hate anything she had borne?
Mithé tipped his head back to look up at the stars, trying to clear his mind and think of nothing, but even the stars were bitter in his mind now.
He pushed himself away from the railing and made his way back inside, cringing at his stiff legs. He stopped at the door to his son’s bedroom, staring down at the handle as he rested his hand on the cold brass. He should spend more time with the boy. He shouldn’t have waited so long to see him at the beginning. It had taken him a full eighteen days to first lay eyes on that tiny little face. He had been so scared of seeing Alurié’s killer instead of his son that he couldn’t avoid it.
Now, he had fallen into the same trap again. He hadn’t even seen the boy on his birthday until last year. If he’d just been there from the beginning, maybe he’d simply see his son.
Mithé took another deep breath, releasing it more smoothly and evenly this time, full of determination. He took another swig from his bottle and turned the handle, swinging the door quietly open.
Unpleasant tingles pinched at his skin as soon as his eyes fell on the shadowy lump under the covers. It was supposed to be the boy’s birthday, but try as he might, Mithé couldn’t think of today that way.
He closed his eyes and rested his forearm against the doorframe, thumping his head quietly against the wood. ‘I’m sorry, Nolryn.’