Grim (BL)

The Weight of Memory

The village outside was desolate, a constant reminder of the famine's devastation. Once busy streets were now eerily quiet, houses empty, and the marketplace where Azreal had met Valentine was in ruins. The plague had selfishly claimed countless lives. No one yet knew that Valentine was one of its latest victims.

Azreal, still ignorant of the true nature of Valentine's disease, had done everything he could with his limited knowledge and resources. The villagers had left one after another, hoping to escape the gnawing hunger and deadly disease. The village now was just a ghost of its former self.

As Azreal walked through the village after Valentine's death, he was greeted by deafening silence. Doors swung open in the wind, tethered skeletal animals roamed freely, and the fields, now barren, couldn't even produce enough for the semi-domestic livestock to eat. The weight of his loss bore down on him, each step a constant reminder of the love that had been stolen from him.

Azreal walked slowly, each step heavy with grief. Memories of Valentine, of their life together, played on an excruciating loop in his mind. Valentine's laughter, the safety of his embrace, the sparkle of his mischievous eyes—all those possibilities destroyed when Valentine took his last breath.

Standing in the remains of the marketplace, Azreal looked at the place where Valentine had sold his flowers. The majestic colors of the blooms in the gentle sunlight, Valentine's bright smile, even as people told him he was being impractical. The flowers had represented more in the dissolution.

As he continued walking, he saw the river ahead, where they had shared their burdens, finding peace together. Everything in the village was a painful reminder of what he had lost.

He stopped in the village square to really look around. Nothing but silence. Clutching his cross, he knelt on the worn cobblestone and offered up one last desperate prayer, his voice cracking from all the hours he'd cried.

"Please God, if you're listening, show me a sign. Give me the strength to go on."

Once again, he received no sign. His shoulders slumped as he stood up and began to walk again, dragging his feet through the streets.

At the village heart stood the church, almost like a second home. The church reminded him of when he was first appointed, the villagers coming to Mass hopefully, Valentine's mischievous smile when he joined the congregation. Azreal had believed it was a blessing to work for God.

Inside the church, the cedar pews were covered in dust. He hadn't had a chance to maintain the church since Valentine got sick. Azreal walked up to the altar, the place they used to talk about the future, naively believing they had more time.

He could hear a ghost of Valentine's voice, the playfulness and teasing in it.

"Don't lose that light, my angel."

In remembrance, he lit a single candle on the altar. The small flame reminded him of Valentine, a meager light in the vast darkness.

After the candle burned out, he started dusting the church. Underneath one of the pews, he noticed a tattered book. Picking it up, he saw Valentine's handwriting inside. He must have left it there before his condition worsened.

His notes, sketches, and thoughts remained on these pages. Even with him gone, Azreal felt a connection to Valentine through the journal. He sat down and meticulously read every page, tears occasionally blurring his vision. Valentine's voice and spirit seemed to echo through the ink, giving Azreal the strength to continue.

He stayed in the church until he had read every word. Stepping out into the brightness of the day, Valentine's journal clutched tightly in his hands, Azreal felt less alone. It was as if Valentine had left him a parting gift, encouraging him to go on, to face another day.

The village outside was still desolate, a stark reminder of the famine's devastation. Azreal walked slowly through the empty streets, each step heavy with grief and memories. He passed by abandoned houses, their doors swinging in the wind, and fields that had once been lush with crops, now barren and lifeless.

He reached the riverbank where he and Valentine had shared so many moments. The water flowed quietly, a stark contrast to the turmoil in his heart. He knelt by the river, clutching the journal to his chest, and allowed himself a moment of peace, remembering the times they had spent there together.

As the sun began to set, casting a golden glow over the village, Azreal knew he had to make a decision. He couldn't stay in the village, haunted by memories and surrounded by death. He had to find a way to honor Valentine's memory and continue living.

With a heavy heart, Azreal returned to the cottage one last time. He gathered a few belongings, including Valentine's journal, and prepared to leave. As he stood in the doorway, he looked back at the place where they had shared their lives. It was time to move forward, but he would carry Valentine's memory with him always.

Azreal took a deep breath and stepped out into the twilight. The journey ahead was uncertain, but he felt a renewed sense of purpose. Valentine's spirit would guide him, and he would find a way to bring light back into his life, even in the darkest of times.

As he walked away from the village, Azreal whispered a final prayer, not for a sign, but for the strength to continue. He would honor Valentine's memory by living, by finding hope in the midst of despair, and by keeping the light of their love burning brightly within him.

And so, with the weight of his loss and the hope of a brighter future, Azreal set off into the unknown, determined to find his way in a world that had been forever changed. the ink, giving Azreal the strength to continue. 

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