Essence of Purity [boyxboy]

Chapter XVII

 ~Sunday 7th February 2010~

The estate was quiet without him. Mourn didn't want to admit it, didn't even want to acknowledge it, but it was becoming unavoidable now. There was an empty feeling he was trying to ignore, a section of his very soul that had gone numb. Only a tiny portion, the smallest of slivers, and yet so painfully obvious. Work didn't distract anymore, making only flimsy barricades before the oncoming fog of misery. Honestly, Mourn wasn't sure what else to do. He didn't have any hobbies, nothing other than spending time with his husband or going for the occasional stroll. Even the thought of a bath did nothing for Mourn. Sitting alone with only his own mind as company sounded like more torment than treatment.

Tehlmar was busy, out of reach in his studio, having one of his moods. They were far and few between, days in which Mourn's presence only made his hackles rise. The signs were evident; most notably being Mourn waking to an empty bed. Typically, the moods came alongside inspiration. Tehlmar had a breakthrough with whatever project he was working on and he didn't want to be disturbed, not even for a second. Cicely was allowed, if only to take meals to His Majesty. Sometimes, those episodes lasted longer than a day and, in those moments, Mourn felt the familiar ebb of loneliness creep in. He wondered if Tehlmar was inducting some sort of revenge, showing Mourn what it was like on those long business nights. Perhaps he deserved it.

It would have been nice to use Tehlmar as an excuse that day but maybe it was best that the possibility was out of hand. It was hardly fair for Mourn to spend time with his husband solely to get the fae he was trying to forget off his mind. Mourn wallowed in his own company instead. He couldn't even find his sister either, not with Valencia taking the dealings for the evening. If he had changed their schedule it would have been too obvious. Questions would be asked, suspicions arisen. Mourn preferred the misery.

Mourn sighed where he sat, an overly dramatic sound that was awfully unlike him. Still, it felt satisfying, even if it was brief. He slumped back in his chair, tossing aside the pen in his hand. Ivory petals caught his eye, drawing his attention back to the bonsai presented proudly on the corner of his desk. It was mocking him. Those petals shimmering, dancing against the stems, fluttering every so often when Mourn's attention might just be slipping elsewhere. Mourn had never hated a plant before, he had never felt wronged by one, not until he was sat there scowling at the minute little tree.

He considered moving it, hiding the offending item away, and, yet, he made no attempt. Something twinged inside him when the thought crossed his mind, the same pinprick that he felt when he thought of Salem. It wasn't as though the fae had given him the bonsai, however, there was a link back to him. That was their beginning, and Mourn couldn't quite manage to score that out just yet. He would work up to it, reconsider in a few weeks, hope he could muster the courage then.

He caved soon after. With the bonsai too prevalent in his mind, taking up too much space, Mourn stalked out of his office. He wasn't sure where he was going, even considered wandering the halls aimlessly for a while in search of something to distract him. Surprisingly, he was hoping to run into one of the more vocal staff, some of the maids who might like to talk his ear off. But, of course, the halls were desolate. Mourn was beginning to feel pathetic, like some lost puppy looking for any sort of love. It wasn't the man he had been a month ago, even a week ago.

The hope that time would ease the passing, that distance would shift Mourn back to his regular self, that was dwindling. It hadn't even been a week, and he wanted to persevere, to pray that he was just overthinking everything. Mourn wanted to stay strong, even when every fibre of his being was withering away. He didn't like feeling so weak. It reminded him of past nightmares, Mourn wondered whether he should get in contact with his therapist. He hadn't been in years, but there had been that opened-ended goodbye that was there to coax him back if it was necessary. Surely that would be giving in, admitting his defeat. No, therapy was a bad idea. Mourn didn't even want to think of the fae's name, let alone explain his newfound obsession to a third party.