Foregoing Bliss

[crazedpudding 2119]

FOREGOING BLISS

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[i] A painting of Eleanora Amador in mourning attire.

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Eleanora sat. It seemed all she did was sit, sit and remember.

 

    One simple word shattered her whole world. Cancer. What an ugly, horrible word. Eleanora could again feel her lungs scream for air and it was only then she realized she’d stopped breathing as if Kaustantin had told her just yesterday. She’d barely seen through her tears as she crashed to her knees. Someone had been wailing. A decrepit, crackling sound that seemed to pierce through Reinmar, and she recalled realizing it was her. Her voice. She was making that awful sound as she tore her hands through her hair. An endless list of questions had echoed through her mind. 

 

    Why hadn’t he told her? Wasn’t she trustworthy enough? Hadn’t she done everything he’d asked of her to the best of her ability? Hadn’t she sacrificed everything for his trust? For his affection? For his praise? What could he have possibly gained from keeping it from her? Why wasn’t she enough? What use did he have for lies now that one foot was set in the grave? Eventually, the questions narrowed down.

 

Why?

 

    The memory changed, and Eleanora placed a trembling gloved hand on an opulent coffin. He was gone, lost to the heavens until she herself met her end. Unhealthily pale cheeks were wet with tears as she struggled to keep herself upright. It felt like a piece of her soul had been torn from her, as if the world had been pulled out from underneath her feet. Her heart was empty, as black as coal as she stared at that coffin. No matter how much she begged and pleaded and prayed, she’d never see his strained smile or hear affirming words. No matter how terribly she wanted him to rise, he would not.

She again asked the same question in her mind.

 

Why?

 

    It seemed so meaningless now. What was the point of living if those you loved were ripped from you so cruelly? What was the point? There had to be a reason, though she could find none. And so, she sat. Eleanora sat on the balcony overlooking Aurveldt’s courtyard, amidst the potted plants and flowers. She sat as the sun rose and fell and as she was coaxed inside for restless sleep and meager meals. She sat, and she remembered. 

 

    Sometimes, if it got worse, if the questions were too much to bear, she cried. She screamed into the night sky and clenched her fists till her nails sliced her palms to shreds. She wailed until she was hoarse, forbidding herself even the smallest drop of water that would soothe the pain in her throat. The physical pain was barely even a drop compared to what lingered in her heart. It was like a disease, the same disease that took her father from her. The same question rang through.

 

Why?

 

    She remained inconsolable. Time passed and she found herself painting him, so she wouldn’t forget. Every little detail she could remember was drawn, every wrinkle and every stray hair. Not as he had been at the end of his life, gaunt and thin with illness. But as he had been when she was young, strong and sure. The man he had been when he’d let her cling to his sleeve when she was afraid, the man he had been when he hung her watercolor paintings in the hall of the family wing. Every waking hour was spent sketching, erasing, painting. She didn’t speak, she barely ate. She spent all her time covered in charcoal and paint and horsehair from the bristles of her brushes. She didn’t rest once she finished, only allowing herself a shuddering breath as she collapsed once the portrait was framed and hung.

 

    In the end, she still sat on the balcony. She hadn’t received an answer to her questions, nor had her grief ebbed any, but she forced herself to shed the black that had accompanied her unrestrained mourning and forced her grief into the little box she kept in her heart, pulling herself from the visible signs of despair. The bruises beneath her eyes faded and left, even if she still stared up at the stars and shouted into oblivion when no one could hear her.

 

She’d barely put her mourning clothes away when word arrived.

 

“Mea lady?” A maid murmured, and Eleanora looked up to spot the shaking girl. With a practiced, gentle smile, she beckoned the maid closer. “Mea lady, i-it’s vyr mamej.” The resulting sobbed wail from a chamber within Aurveldt seemed to echo for miles.

 

Why?