In Which Severin Notes How the Grieving Slumber

February 28, 1167

Alina hadn't said a word since they had seen Honora buried. She'd barely even breathed during the ride home, or so it had seemed to Severin. Ever silent, his wife had dismounted in the courtyard, leaving her horse with a groom--a rarity for her, as she had always preferred to take the mare to the stables herself. She'd ascended the front steps and slipped into the castle as the children entered through the stables; concerned, Severin had hung back and watched Alina through the windows as she retreated to their bedroom. He'd guided his horse into the stall, then hurried after his wife, whom he found seated on the couch, seemingly oblivious to his presence.

He'd stayed with her for a few minutes, then left to make sure that Adonis and his children were settled as best they could be and that their things had been brought to the correct rooms. He'd told the cook to start on supper, then forced himself to his study to attend to some census matters for a quarter-hour or so. After that was finished, he'd returned to the bedroom to check on Alina, only to find that she hadn't even moved.

It must have been a horrific sort of heartache, knowing that one would never lay eyes on the face of one's best friend again. He couldn't say he knew exactly what she was feeling--apart from Alina herself, he'd never really had a best friend--but such relationships seemed the sort that came few and far between. Perhaps a part of oneself died with a loved one? He didn't know; all his best beloved still lived.

Not for the first time, he'd wondered if they'd had long enough. Honora had been Alina's maid before they had left Dovia and as such had lived within the same walls, but since settling in Naroni, they hadn't seen each other nearly as much as either of them would have preferred. This was in part due to the moderate distance, and in part due to frequent pregnancies on the part of either of the two women--mainly Alina, Severin admitted as a wave of semi-rational guilt splashed his mind's shore. Had he so thoroughly monopolized his wife over the course of their marriage? She hadn't really had much time with many of the other people in her life, had she?

He crossed the room and took a seat beside her, at last earning the acknowledgment of a glance. Her pouty lip protruded like a swell and her eyes were the sickly pink of one who sobbed long after running out of tears. He hoped he hadn't disturbed her; on the other hand, he knew for a fact that there was a point when being alone with one's thoughts began to do more harm than help.

He reached over and took her hand in his, rubbing his thumb back and forth along the side of her palm. In response, she squeezed, her knuckle pushing his wedding band against the bone. He didn't notice the discomfort--it was far too trivial a detail to register.

She edged closer, leaning against his side and resting her head on his shoulder before pulling herself into his lap. As he kissed her brow, he wrapped his arms around her and began to rock her back and forth just as he had once sloppily done when she'd been only a baby and he, a mere child of three. Somehow, she had managed to fall asleep in his arms that day, but he knew she wouldn't be so lucky now; there was only one way those in grief could bring themselves to rest.

They cried.

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