Love sought is good, but given unsought is better. (OTA - backdated to yesterday)
It should have been a day of celebration, in some ways, because 'twas the anniversary of the day on which the world was blest with one of the fairest talents Kit had known. But 'twas also a day of sorrow, marking that day on which one of the brightest lights of his world hadst forever gone out.
He remembered each labored breath, remembered Annie's tears, remembered the frailty of his hand, whilst Kit had sat there, clinging to him, the image of the age he'd been when the knife had gone in his eye--the image of the age he still appeared today. Forever twenty-nine, whilst life failed all and they fell around him.
But despite that day, 'twas a blest day, for without the first, he'd not have had all the days in between before God took his Will away.
It felt like a day where tradition was needed, so he was in the pub rather than another bar. He wore his patchwork, many colored cloak, wrapping it around him both for the memories (that patch, right there, was the piece Will contributed), and against the sudden chill of the day after so many of warmth.
The rain was a fitting testament, as well, as if Heaven itself wept for joy and grief, both. There was a hole in his heart, as always on this day, but there was a smile on his lips as he sipped at his ale and let it and memories warm him.
"Happy birthday, my Will," he murmured softly. "And bless you for all the merry, merry days you gave me."
He remembered each labored breath, remembered Annie's tears, remembered the frailty of his hand, whilst Kit had sat there, clinging to him, the image of the age he'd been when the knife had gone in his eye--the image of the age he still appeared today. Forever twenty-nine, whilst life failed all and they fell around him.
But despite that day, 'twas a blest day, for without the first, he'd not have had all the days in between before God took his Will away.
It felt like a day where tradition was needed, so he was in the pub rather than another bar. He wore his patchwork, many colored cloak, wrapping it around him both for the memories (that patch, right there, was the piece Will contributed), and against the sudden chill of the day after so many of warmth.
The rain was a fitting testament, as well, as if Heaven itself wept for joy and grief, both. There was a hole in his heart, as always on this day, but there was a smile on his lips as he sipped at his ale and let it and memories warm him.
"Happy birthday, my Will," he murmured softly. "And bless you for all the merry, merry days you gave me."