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When he buried his heart six feet into the ground, the day felt too bright. Right outside their little cottage in the countryside, right before the mountain's base began to climb so a deep thicket hung over them on one side. Ballister dug the grave in the front. It was not traditional, but it was where the flower fields grew. It had the view of the lakeside far below them. It was the beauty Ambrosius deserved.
Maybe that's why the sun shone gold over Ballister as he labored. Because Ambrosius still shone in old age, his hair holding onto its blond until the end. He aged as gracefully as he always had been in knighthood, and he fussed over his looks every morning, and during the days the arthritis stiffened the joints in his fingers. Even bedridden, Ambrosius asked him about his looks. Ballister always replied that he was gorgeous, and he was.
Ballister was grateful that his last words to Ambrosius were that he was beautiful, and that he was loved. He was grateful that he had not died in pain, but softly fell to sleep. Ballister woke in the middle of the night, an overwhelming dread aching in his chest. He knew his love was leaving him. But Ambrosius was peaceful, he was not scared as he slept. Ballister did not wake Ambrosius. He wanted to. He wanted to be selfish and hear his love’s voice, to hold on, demand that Ambrosius hold on too. Ballister couldn’t do that to him, so he crawled closer, and held him as kindly as he hoped Death would.
Ballister did not cry. He could not cry. There was work to be done, arrangements to be made. He himself had aged around his prosthetic, as it still held the strength to dig into the spring-thawed ground. He was lucky that it was not a day that his shoulder ached, or a day where the metal pinched against what was left of the nerves. He rose before the sun, not able to sleep much more, and he was digging well before the sun began to cast that rose-gold morning over their little paradise.
He carried Ambrosius to the flower fields, his love too frail in the end to hold onto much weight, and he had kissed his forehead. “You are so beautiful, Goldheart,” he had said. “I love you, and I’ll miss you.” He needed to say that before the grief dug past his shock and stubborn sense of duty. He did not think he would be able to be so poetic then. Ambrosius was buried completely an hour later. Ballister fell to his knees, his world crumbling as that sun still shone that beautiful gold. He wanted to believe that it was Ambrosius in some way. Perhaps one day, his grief would demand that he believe it.
Nimona came around daily at noon, something Ballister anticipated by eleven, when the rawness in his throat and pounding headache behind his eyes stopped him from crying for a while. He could dry the red from his eyes, and steel himself for the talk he needed to have with her.
Each day, when she visited, she put on a front of carefree brashness that he had known most his life. She had aged herself with them, but while they had reached close to ninety, she somehow only drifted into the late twenties, her punk style filling in a newly grown-up face. Her toothy smile was far from out of place, even as her eyes grew anxious and she watched Ambrosius deteriorate. They had become friends decades ago, to Ballister’s delight, but some gruesome part of him always wanted to be the one to remain to work through this with her. He wasn’t sure if she had ever witnessed something like this, and he just wanted to make sure she would be okay.
After decades, the inky black, those eyes, shining like a white void, tearing through the kingdom like something desperate for release, still haunted him.
He waited on their front porch for her, and she skipped up to him, her gait as heavy and carefree as usual. She entirely missed, or ignored, the plot of land freshly turned over on the edge of where the flowers began to grow.
“Hey Boss!” she said. He looked at her, and watched as her face fell, her body freezing in the middle of her stride forward. “What’s wrong?”
He patted the ground next to him. He could tell she knew what was coming, and knew why she stubbornly crossed her arms, becoming angry. If she sat, and let him explain, his death would become more real. If she never heard the news, then it must have never happened.
“No!” she said angrily, her voice trembling.
“Nimona–”
“No!” she yelled again. She turned, swiping at the tears forming in her eyes and grabbing at her hair. He stood, and took her hands before she could injure herself.
“Nimona, please,” Ballister said. “You already know what I needed to tell you. Let me help you through this.”
“Help me through this?!” she demanded, ripping herself from his hold. Her head turned to that fresh plot of land, but she whirled away from it. Perhaps if she looked at it too long, she wouldn’t be able to be angry. Ballister knew she knew how to deal with anger. Ballister knew it was easier than anything else at that moment.
“All I want to know is how he could do this to us,” she said. “All I want to know is why you aren’t as angry as I am. He left us and–”
“Nimona–” He felt helpless repeating her name to try and calm her down, but he was floundering for a response. She closed her mouth, and fumed. He didn’t understand why she thought Ambrosius did this on purpose. He didn’t plan to die, mapping out his sickness like it was some malicious scheme of his. He was frustrated at her for even thinking so. He wanted to snap at her. How dare she even think Ambrosius was that evil.
But had she ever gone through something like this, he reminded himself. As far as he knew, she only knew grief through betrayal. One thousand years ago, with who she thought was her friend. Seventy years ago, with Ballister. She never had someone she could lose, had she?
Maybe this was like her anger. She could deal with betrayal because she had felt it before. It was easier to manage the thought that someone would hurt you on purpose instead of them just fading. It was easier to put that wedge between you and them. It was easier to try and find the reason why this had to happen. Because that was easier than ‘people have to die.’ Especially when you ‘weren’t a people.’
He sighed, and put his hand on her shoulder. “He loved you, Nimona. You know he would never hurt you like this.”
“Stop,” she forced out.
“He thought you were so strong, and maybe the best out of all of us,” Ballister said. “He was so grateful to you when you were there for me, and he wasn’t.”
“Stop it,” she said, tearing at her hair again. She whirled on him, furious. “Why are you saying these things when he–”
“Because if he had the choice, he would never have left me, Nimona,” he said. “He never would have left you.”
She finally broke. Forced to acknowledge that her anger was built on an unsteady foundation, and it had crumbled around her. She tumbled forward, her legs giving. Ballister caught her, like he always did, and held her as her small body trembled with sobs. He realized she was now a little girl, perhaps to reflect how tiny and powerless she felt.
“Then why?” she asked, grasping for reason. “Why would he leave us?”
“People die,” he said. “There is no easy reason. But they don’t die to hurt us.”
“Then why does it hurt so much?” she asked. How could he answer that?
It would hurt because of the way Ambrosius would sing while he cooked them breakfast. Because of the way he tied his hair up in increasingly intricate ways. Because of the way he would act competitive during game nights, only to let someone else win. Because of the way he would still somehow be a sore loser.
It would hurt because of the way his hands cupped Ballister’s face, pouring as much love as he could into the touch as was possible. Because Ballister could try and hold onto the taste of his lips, but that would eventually fade too. Because Ambrosius’s arms would never be around him. Because the last time his were around Ambrosius, it was to carry him to rest, his golden hair draped over Ballister’s arm, head gently lolling into Ballister’s chest, as peaceful as if he were asleep. Because now, he would only ever lay among the flowers he grew.
“Because we still love them,” he said. His own resolve was crumbling quickly. He began to weep. “We still love him, and he’s gone.”
They didn’t need to talk after that. Ballister knew they only needed to cry, to grieve, before anything else could be settled. Eventually, they wore themselves out again, despite the pain not going anywhere. He invited her in for a calming tea, and nearly lost it at the empty, silent house, where no one sang idly and out of tune.
Eventually, they would talk more. At first, it would be about how much they ached, how much it felt like they had been gored open, how much it felt like they had sunk to some deep trench in the ocean, their arms and legs heavy, and their faces hot like they held a fever.
Then they would talk about Ambrosius, and all the things that made him theirs. Ballister brought up their dates back when they were young, and the way he found out Ambrosius was allergic to olives when he forgot to tell the waiter. He brought up the rooftops where they would sit and talk, the journey to the countryside, and the mishaps while building their cabin. The way Ambrosius would plant flowers, and marvel at how much more they spread down the mountain each spring.
Nimona brought up the board games, the pranks she pulled and the one time Ambrosius pulled one back, taking her by surprise, and how it started a war. How he would be the one to play video games with her while Ballister would turn his nose up at them. How he styled her hair more than once, despite the fact she could shift it into whatever she wanted. The time he went with her to a concert, and surprised her by singing all the lyrics along with the Riot Grrrl band that opened.
Ballister dreaded the conversation about his own passing, partly because of the anxiety that came with facing one’s own death, partly because of Nimona. Mostly because of Nimona, he realized. He feared how she would fare, if she would be able to handle it on her own. He knew she had a thousand years to herself, but he didn’t want that for her anymore.
One day, he told her gently that he would die soon too, and that he wanted her to be able to find other people. How the kingdom had made good progress in acceptance, and there were plenty of young people out there for her, that would love her for her. She told him she knew that already, and his anxieties nearly dissolved right there.
In time, his body would wear down. About five years after Ambrosius, at ninety three years old, Ballister passed as well. Nimona took it worse than the first time, as Ballister had once feared. With no one there to comfort her, she nearly raged back into that inky black beast.
But Ballister would be proud of her, because she didn’t. She buried him next to that one plot of land, now grown over with gold and blue flowers like Ambrosius would have loved. She grieved, she would linger for a few years, then she would seek other people. In time, she would love and be loved. It would become easier with the generations, as the kingdom moved closer towards love and acceptance. And in time, she would grieve again, and each time would be a little easier because she knew how to manage.
But for now, she stood over two graves, one fresh and one flowered, and cried, because she still loved them, even now. Even as they rested.
And for now, a man whose golden hair reached past his shoulder to his lower back, a man who had waited five years, with more patience than he ever had in life, stood, and took his love’s hand in his. And a man with a metal arm and a scar over his eye kissed his love, and savored his touch.