Chapter Text
They all lit candles.
Nothing could be heard except the rustling of the wind through the trees and soft sobs and gentle sniffling, the sounds coming together to make a symphony of grief.
They all lit candles.
The colours in the day bloomed before their eyes, vibrant in their blues and shades of yellow and red. But it was mostly shades of emerald, glinting in the setting sun, a garish sun, highlighting the colour of a curse of which he couldn’t escape.
They all lit candles.
Spring was in the air, and you could taste the change as the countryside was resurrected. Fresh and fleeting, like sipping a crisp glass of water before the air could warm it.
They all lit candles.
The wax dripped onto fingers, the warmth enveloping them, even as the brisk evening air settled.
They all lit candles.
No aroma of death, and the scent of dark magic had been gone for a year.
But so was he.
For a year, she had wandered, wondering when the pain would cease. “He had willingly given his life for the cause; he was willing to do something greater to save everyone.” No one had believed that he would fade, like the scar that disappeared from his skin.
He was the hero. He wasn’t meant to end. But finally, the string holding him up had snapped, the darkness had devoured his heart and soul, and his body, tethered to a fate he did not choose, had finally collapsed in a flash of green. A frame that had given reluctant hugs and jumped in front of hexes and curses and had not experienced enough life in its seventeen years could no longer withstand the assaults it had taken since infancy, and it gave out.
They had won by losing their hero.
And they had all grieved, immensely and viscerally, even her. But how long was it acceptable to grieve a sacrifice for the greater good? How long was it acceptable to hurt if you were needed to support those considered more valuable in the departed’s life?
The beloved of the fallen needed reassurance that he had always loved her most. Late-night communiques and tears over drinks and begging for attention, desperate to know that her flame burned brightest in his shortened life, that she was what he thought of when he fell.
The closest friend of the fallen demanded even more. Constant reminders that it mattered, that he mattered, he was as beloved as the man who lay beneath the earth. That his platonic love rang truest. That his grief was allowed to flourish due to his importance to the hero.
At first, she listened, she comforted, she embraced. Because that is what she did. She gave and gave until there was nothing left. Much like the boy whose memorial they were unveiling, she couldn’t stop giving until one day, her flame went out.
Why did her grief not matter? Was it because she wasn’t his lover or his best mate, who both begged to be confirmed of their importance to him? Why were her tears considered exaggerated while the two beside her were allowed to mourn in perpetuity?
Finally, she stopped. No more late-night whispers of condolences. No more reaffirming. No more socialising. No more smiling when all she wanted to do was cry and scream. No more pretending she didn’t choke on her tears, too.
At first, she couldn’t cry when his body crumbled to the abuse it had endured for its short time on this earth- shock thwarted her. But after the dust had settled and she had seen a boy walk by in round glasses while she bought groceries, the boy’s smile shy and sweet, the dam burst on rivers of tears that couldn’t be stopped.
Because there was so much left unsaid. She wanted to tell the mourners, who viewed her grief as cheap or inconsequential, that she was there through all the good, all the bad, never abandoning him. Even through his tirades and tempests, she was there. A selfish part of her wanted to tell them they had abandoned him numerous times: those followers crying over a boy they doubted, that friend who left a boy he envied, that girl who saw the boy as a prize rather than a heart and soul.
She wanted to tell them that he mattered in ways no one understood, that they saw him as the hero in the story, the weapon to be deployed, the ultimate sacrifice at the end of the tale. But the boy who was to live, whose moniker touted his ability to survive, collapsed under the weight of their need.
She wanted to tell them that his laugh was raspy. His sass was sharp, but he always felt guilt when he went too far. That he was brilliant and kind, and he loved with his whole heart.
She wanted to tell them he was imperfect. That his temper burned as hot as his love. That his sullen fits ruined peace. That he would avoid and fade rather than face others head-on.
She wanted to tell them that he was real.
But it was all unsaid.
That he was her closest confidante.
That she would have walked beside him until the end.
That she loved him and didn’t say it enough because she feared others would think the bond they had was corrupted or impure.
That she needed more time to assure him that he was loved, that he was brave, and that he did everything he could.
That the victory tasted of ash when she would turn to his place at her side, where he should stand, and he was never there.
That grief hurts most when so much is left unsaid.
Instead, she faded, isolated, and disappeared.
Shattered and silent, she left it all unsaid.
And they all lit candles.