"Charles, I'm home!"
Creak!
The door to 34 Hind Street opened with a grate, and in came a familiar figure wearing a white and yellow sundress.
"Welcome home, Isabelle. I was just—Ah!"
Thud!
With worry etched on her face, Isabelle forgot to take off her shoes and ran toward the sound.
She ran past the kitchen, the living room, the hallway, and the bathroom, and all the way to a vacant room next to their master bedroom. She stuck her head in and looked around. "You're painting the walls? What for?"
After backing up and removing her footwear, Isabelle walked in and stood by Charles. She placed her hands on her hips. "It has been getting flaky recently, but the problem is no one uses it." She reached an arm out and lifted her husband off the floor.
Charles, having narrowly avoided being splattered with paint, wryly smiled. "I don't really know why I painted it," he admitted, brushing his pants. "After coming back and not seeing you here, the idea just popped in my head."
He faced Isabelle. "Are you mad?"
"Why would I be mad at this?" She firmly shook her head. "I would support anything you do, no matter how trivial."
Isabelle lifted her sleeves and meticulously stepped around the paint. "Beige and white, really nice colors." Without being asked, the freckled woman picked up a brush and started on an unpainted section of the wall.
Charles observed her with a gaping mouth. "W–"
"Mrs. Lao says hi, by the way."
"The old lady?"
"Mhm. I met her while walking back home." Isabelle's face reddened. "She. . . she really likes to joke around."
Charles didn't probe why his wife's face got rosy. "Well, if you see her, tell her I said hi back."
Isabelle lifted the hems of her dress and moved to another wall. "Will do. Oh, and, do you have any extra dinars or qunats?"
Charles paused. "Should be some in my wallet. Though it's emptying by the day. . . What do you need them for?"
Isabelle's tone deepened. "I saw three starving little boys just past the market."
"I see." Charles immediately understood why she needed them, recognizing her somber tone. "After we finish this, let's go back to them together, alright?"
Before getting married, Charles was never one to habitually donate, even to the poor. Ironically, he had come from poverty himself, and his first interaction with Isabelle was her giving him enough money to pay for a meal.
He had promised two things to himself that day: he would marry this girl, and he would donate regularly, with or without Isabelle.
Isabelle placed her paintbrush down and leapt toward Charles. "Really? Both of us, after this?" She grabbed his shoulders and went on tiptoes.
With an intense gaze, Charles could make out faint streaks of red on her cheek.
He chuckled dryly. "For sure. Matter of fact, why don't we go right now? It raises the chances of us seeing them before they leave."
Isabelle's mouth widened. "Oh, Totem! I told them to take a carriage and leave for an orphanage! Do you think they left already?"
Charles didn't want to worry her. "Let's leave quickly then. There's only one way to know if they're gone."
He paused, voicing a relief. "Even if they are, don't feel bad. There are thousands of people in need. Let's hope that by the time we die, Isabelle, we've helped every single one."
". . ."
Isabelle couldn't contain her admiration for the fine young man in front of her. He was perfect. Seriously perfect. She was the luckiest girl in the world.
As Charles shifted his body to escape her grasp, Isabelle moved her hands to his face.
"Isabelle?"
All he could see were beet-red cheeks and watery eyes. She leaned in, simultaneously pulling his head down.
The sun's luminous shine covered the remainder of their affectionate moment. Pulling her face back, Isabelle kissed Charles's right cheek, then his left. Poor Charles froze.
"My angel," she said sweetly.
. . . .
"My angel."
Charles forced himself to look at the stone grave in front of him. Rain had fallen, hard.
The lightless graveyard showering the trio in anguish solidified Charles's worst nightmare: rows upon rows of stones embedded halfway through the ground, empty of life.
His wife was dead.
Claire held Emory and decided not to interfere, recognizing this was raw grief.
Love, truly, was something so vile. A parasite, latching onto your heart and never letting go. It slowly digs inside, leaving a hole only someone else's affection and presence can fill.
When they die, you are ultimately left with an incurable pain that eats away at you, only ceasing when you forget your memories with them.
It's supposed to be a feeling synonymous with happiness and delight, so who knew it could harbor such brutality when abruptly stripped away?
Perhaps true happiness is never falling in love at all.
Rubbing his eyes, Charles turned around and put on an obviously fake smile. "I. . . I'm sorry you had to see that."
Claire relaxed her neck and softened her tone. "Please don't be sorry, sir. Mourning the death of a loved one is difficult." She brought Emory closer; the child caught Charles's gaze.
Motioning his hands upward, Charles indicated he wanted his son back. Claire immediately handed the baby to him.
"Losing someone. . . it's a feeling you can never get used to," she muttered to herself, unaware that the man in front of her listened.
That must have been another breaking point for Charles, because he instantly broke down in tears. His grip loosened on Emory, who Claire instantly caught.
Faltering, Charles plummeted to the ground, covered his eyes, and cried out,
"Why did she have to die?"
A question not directed at Claire, but at the sky. His voice cracked and stammered. "She was the kindest, sweetest woman I've ever known! S–She always helped people! She always donated, always put people above herself. Why?! She didn't deserve to die!"
A fragile whimper escaped his voice: "I miss her."
". . ."
The group stayed silent.
. . . .
"I'm sorry you had to see that." Wiping the mud from his pants, Charles repeatedly apologized to the military officer.
Claire smiled wryly as she handed Emory back to his father. "Please don't be sorry, sir. It's alright, I promise."
The trio finally finished the funeral after Claire officiated to the best of her abilities.
Her speech brought fresh tears to Charles's eyes, but this time, he welcomed them. While he wasn't fully over Isabelle's death, he felt he could move forward without lingering regrets.
Claire was mainly to thank. She had spent time empathizing with Charles, letting him share stories of his wife.
She dug into her pocket and consulted her pocket watch with a stern expression. "It's getting quite late." After a minute of contemplation, she offered, "I can get us a carriage if you would like. I wouldn't recommend walking back, especially given Houtis's current condition."
Agreeing, Charles thanked Claire once again for her generosity.
Reaching for the sword's handle, she slowly unsheathed it and held it aloft. Clenching the muscles in her arm, Claire huffed before aiming the blade into the air.
"Obey me, Aglana!"
The murky, wet sky answered, "Yes, your Radiance."
The air current separated the clouds and exploded, emitting a sonic shockwave radiating past the cemetery. Returning her sword swiftly to its brown leather sheath, Claire nodded. "It will be here soon."
Charles watched the sequence in awe. Such power. . . Claire is a sorceress? He held Emory close and gently swayed left to right.
The group heard the wheels of a carriage spinning.
Claire glanced at him before taking the lead to enter the carriage, nodding to the driver on the way.
The father and son followed. While no bigger than the one Charles had previously ridden in, the carriage was much nicer. Golden-brown seats and a thorough cleaning added much-needed sunlight and color.
The trio sat together, Emory nestled between the two adults. Charles darted his eyes before slowly opening his mouth. "I'm sorry." He felt compelled to continue apologizing, especially after his breakdown at the funeral.
"Again, it is truly alright, I promise," Claire responded, not agitated at all. Her hand played with Emory's chubby fingers. The infant remained obedient; his fish provided an excellent companion.
When they reached 34 Hind Street, Charles and Emory slowly got out of the carriage.
"Thank you again, Ms. . .?"
"Claire," she replied.
"Claire Bersebus."
"Ms. Claire. That's a beautiful name."
After saying goodbye to Charles, Claire joyfully waved at Emory, who paid her no heed. Her face drooped as the door closed.
Charles entered the house with the child. He sighed before stretching. "That was a long day."
Emory started to suck on the fish, as if signaling, "Tell me about it."
What an adorable child.
"Let's go to sleep."
. . . .
In the middle of the night, Charles awoke with a gasp.
"Claire. . . Bersebus."
Lightning flashed across the sky.
. . . .
In a gothic castle located on an uncharted island, a portrait of a smiling man hung alone. Surrounded by nothing but royal assemblage, the portrait exuded order.
The man wore king's clothing and had a faint line of black running from his eye to the top of his lip. His smile was warm, genial. His copper eyes scanned the proximity in sympathy.
Slowly, and within the picture, faint trickles of gold amalgamated around his head.
To begin, a circlet set the foundation for a golden crown. Arches appeared, building the substructure. A golden mound formed in its respective place. Sublime ruby jewels stuck perfectly to each prong. A lining went around the outer edges of the crown, adding a stylistic touch seen by no other, while silver crests contrasted the gold, making it more kingly than ever.
Before the crown finished its creation, the man stood up. His rust-colored hair was slicked back, and his copper eyes scanned the area. He reached a hand toward his head and took off his crown, throwing it into the air.
He extended a hand, and dozens of particles formed an obsidian claymore.
While the unfinished crown was falling, the "king" cocked his arm back and pierced it with his sword. He watched the crown falter on the rim of his longsword, slowly sliding toward him. He picked it up and crushed it with his hand, unbothered by the blood seeping from his palm.
The "king" said in a deep, calm voice, "The Lord loves the world."
Another bolt of lightning flashed in the sky, and the picture the "king" was in vanished.