Ezrah - Grief

It’s warm today, yet Ezrah still feels cold under the shade of the old oak tree. He puts the flowers down on the grass in front of the simple carved grave.

A hero, they claimed you were. He traces your name in the uncaring stone and cannot feel any semblance of pride. He almost prefers you would’ve been a coward, had turned tail and run, left the village to its fate. He knows you never would’ve, though. You had always been too much like him.

Maybe that’s why the regret chokes him. Ezrah raised you to be good, to care about life, and all that did was deliver you to an early death.

Marcella had claimed she was worried about him last week. She said he wasn’t the same after losing you. How could he be?

Truly…how could he be? He’d love for anyone to actually answer the question. Instead, they keep spitting their concerns out, claiming he’s changed. Of course he’s changed, he wants to scream.

Every path in Kesdon is haunted by your presence, every room in the castle filled with your ghost. He sees you in the library, studying, and you’re gone when he blinks. He feeds your horse an extra carrot every time he visits the stables, and he can picture your smile.

You’re everywhere, your presence surrounds him, even though he knows exactly where you’re buried. Six feet below; that’s where you lay. Alone, cold, likely nothing but bone at this point.

It churns his stomach to think remains are all that’s left of the child he raised.

Your visage is burned into his eyes, a pale imitation of the gap toothed brat he taught to use swords. He touches the stone one last time as he stands, and still it doesn’t warm under his fingers. It’s as cold as you, as cold as he is now.

Stepping back, he doesn’t cry. He’s moved past that now. Instead, anger burns a pit in the very center of his chest.

There it is, he thinks. There’s the warmth.