Pieces Fall Away

[Rance]

The bedroom had been locked and abandoned an hour before, and if the gods willed Urethelle Avarante even a thread of courage, she would never open that door again.

They were sobbing into her, bawling, heaving out their woes into the skirts of mother's gown, fisting knots of fabric against the sieves of their young eyes. The seven of the little ones were a halo all about her round belly, leaning into her -- branches of a tree. She was holding them as close as she could, one hand brushing streaks of hair from their wet faces, teasing toussled braids from their cheeks. .. The older ones were the support for one another, with Gladdis -- the eldest girl, nearly twenty years of age, senior to her eleven brothers and sisters -- at their tearful center.

Guards were scuttling all about the manor, some occasionally pausing to silently watch the emotion of an expansive family. It was the littlest one that did not fathom a thing. Held in the cradle of her mother's arm, cooing and gargling at the air, she was the infant image of her father. Black hair, cheerful eyes, wonderment.

Those were the things she would miss.

The body had been found three days past its death, when Urethelle had returned to the manor accompanied by her twelve children. A fine two weeks spent away from Myrken, it had been -- the life of the farm was her very heartbeat, and it was once a season that she brought the children there to escape the bustle of village life. When they arrived home, sun-burned, stinking of onion grasses, she had found her husband drowned in the blankets of the bed, bloated and gray, eyes blindly open at the whims of lids that had turned to stone. Sheets were stained with the brown-edged hues of rot, mattress alike.

Tetsi Avarante was dead.

In the cold clamp of his fist, there had been a paper. It took her minutes alone to dare pluck it free. It was scrawled in the familiar, frantic longhand of her husband, parchment still damp with the remnants of sweat. It had been so hard to read, through tears.

"Urethelle,
I feel so sick. I feel so helpless. I can't understand, and I cannot wish to -- to understand would be to fear it more than simply a fever, than but the symptoms of old age. I know it is more. I've known it was more. My wife, this is my apology.

Tell the children to be strong, to live in bliss, to support their mother in all her endeavors. Tell the children I love them. Tell them I always will. I wish I could see you, but I know you're smiling. I know you're out on the farm, and I would never disturb that mirth or those smiles of yours. It is now that I wish that perhaps I have been a terrible husband. Perhaps I have been a burden, a fool, a man without conscience -- then, I know when you find me, it will be a relief to you. I cannot stand to see you cry. I will be waiting for you, my love -- however long, I shall wait. And we shall for our children, and our children's children, if only to descend into rest together, as one.

I cannot wait to see you again, to see you smile. To hug you. To let you know how truly sorry I am. My love, always and forever...

Father, husband, councilor, and all-around pain-in-the-arse,
Tetsi

Oh, and if I've died in my sleep, Urethelle? Please tell me -- I'm sure I'll be very surprised when I find out!"

The house felt utterly empty without that fourteenth member, without her husband to bound about, drink in one hand, words full of optimistic cheer. The din was unbearable -- curtains seemed darker, candles did not flicker with their usual exhuberance. They had extracted the body in haste, the children had been crying, Urethelle had been aching, empty in her heart. The one place Tetsi could always touch.

It was in the den that the family retired that night, curled close to one another, a mastiff of blankets before a flickering fire, nightgowns and pajama-sleeves stained with the salt of tears. One by one, Urethelle sat in silent watch as the children began to sob themselves into rest, rocking those that came to her with open arms, petting the hair of the eldest ones.

She was their mother, after all -- she would not cry until they did not see her. Her tears would do nothing more to help the new, gaping holes within them.

"I'll see you soon, Tetsi," Murmured Urethelle to herself, head bowed before the dancing hearthflame. She cried until the daylight sun was chanting the grace of a new morning.