Beneath Starlit Skies

10

It takes courage to grieve. It takes strength to let go and move on. But how can one grieve someone they cannot remember? How can one mourn the loss of something that never was?

This thing that she cannot remember was once.

It was.

And then it was not.

Celeriel can recall the echo of a song; a faint voice which sings with the voice of a mourning lark into the darkness of twilight.

The twilight of her life.

A lullaby of tragic hope sung during a time of despair. Darkness would fall but dawn would rise again. It always did. But not everyone would rise again with it.

Celeriel doesn't understand her dreams. She doesn't understand the significance of the melodies engraved into her very soul. There are stories that live on inside her even though she cannot fully recall them. It's hard to remember. But even still she clings to what precious memories she does have; even if they are sad and painful.

What is identity if not the essence of memory and morals tangled together?

"Yal-di ha-tov veh ha-rach... Al ti-ra veh al tif-chad..."

She hums alongside the memory, humming until sleep finally claims her.

The woman in her dreams is warm and kind. Though her face is hazy, she can see clearly a smile on the woman's face. It's a sad smile. The woman sings and in her dreams she sings with her through hiccups and tears.

(He is dead.)

She doesn't remember everything.

Not yet.

But that's okay.

When Mairon pulls her close to his chest and she can feel his warmth and protection—-everything is okay.

Celeriel dives into memory knowing that Mairon will be there when she resurfaces.

::

"I'm sorry for your loss."

Pale faces. Dark colours. Solemn.

Tears fill up her glasses, spilling down her face. Without them she can't see, and a part of her almost prefers it that way. She doesn't want to see his inanimate stillness. His face is etched with sternness, an expression that will remain until the flesh has decayed. It doesn't look right on him, not when she can remember him dancing and laughing. He was never a stern man.

The funeral is a quiet affair.

He was beloved by many.

Even by people who are strangers to her.

She clutches her glasses in one hand, a tissue in the other. People walk up and down the chapel aisle to memorize his face before his body is buried. Without her glasses their dark figures look like shadows. Shadows come and go, saying their prayers and farewells, whispering over his opened casket one last time.

It's her turn.

She doesn't remember walking down the aisle. She's just there in an instant, the world fading away behind her.

Quiet.

Still.

He was never a religious man. A good man, but never religious. She had tried to broach the topic once or twice before but... It's moot point now.

She's religious.

He isn't.

She loved him regardless of their differing beliefs. Maybe she loved him more for it, hoping that her love might be enough to convince him, to save him. The sting of his passing is evermore painful when she thinks about souls, heaven, and damnation. The worst part is that if what she chooses to believe is true then he isn't at peace at all. And that's the most bitter pill she's ever had to swallow.