The After Empty

Goneness

Sometimes she wasn't there. It was always very worrying. She never left the house without telling him. She had done that once and only once. His heart pounded harder for a moment as he thought back on it. He wiped his hands on the dirty dark grey apron he wore over his canvas loose pants to chase away the phantom feeling of blood coating his hands. He placed one hand over his heart, focusing on the texture of his linen shirt, and taking deep breaths. Now they always kept one another informed. But still sometimes she wasn't there.

They would begin their quiet mornings, always seemingly out of sync. He would rise early, to exercise or whatever he needed to do. One of the first things he did was light incense. She made them by hand, made to burn for over an hour, in a variety of experimental scents. They both preferred a smokey perfume to anything overly flowery. So, he lit a stick, breathing deep the musky smell [chasing away the last phantom wiffs of blood], and set it into the holder above the ever-growing pile of ashes. She would roll out of bed when she felt good and ready, moving into the lounge, enjoying the slowly drifting smoke patterns, lightly visible in shadows. She woke up slow, comfortable in the overly large mattress turned sofa. At any given point there could be at least a dozen pillows a half a dozen books scattered about. A hazard when she first flopped down but a convenience when she was comfortable and didn't want to move.

The books were all her classic favorites. The largest (with the sharpest corners which made her curse and question for only a brief moment why she left it there) was a collection of myths, a complete collection of legends which never failed to enchant her.

The only other book that was most certainly there was a book of creatures. He had found it and gifted it to her. He didn't have the heart to tell her it was probably fictious, she had so much hope about finding these special creatures. So, he let her enjoy it and occasionally sat on it.

When she had found a spot, book free, and in a nice sunspot, she would watch him move and adjust to the warmth. But her stillness and stare sometimes changed. She would fall into a slumped pose; a distant blank stare and he would worry. She was gone for a while. He worried because there was no way to bring her back, no way to wake her (though her eyes were [eerily] open).

So, he did what he could. He wrapped her in their softest blankets. Built a pillow fort around her, a nest so if she lost her posture, she would not really fall. He gathered her writing supplies and kept them close. He made sure a pot of tea could be quickly made. Then he went about his chores.

They split the chores relatively evenly, each doing what they did best, when she was there, present. He began with making a snack, something to give him energy, if he hadn't already made and eaten breakfast with her, which today, they hadn't done yet. So, he made a snack. Then he checked the traps outside. Some were meant for food, animals. Others for them. Then he checked the gardens. He never messed with them, he was horrible at keeping plants alive but he could make sure nothing had gotten in and munched on their harvest.

His next chore was inside. He organized her lab. It was meant to be contained to one room but bottles and ingredients slowly creeped into the rest of the house. She would mindlessly set things down while searching for something else or she would begin reading, pacing mindlessly, setting things down to have two hands to gently turn pages. So, there were spell components everywhere. He picked up each item with lots of care and brought them into her lab. He didn't touch the shelves or drawers except to dust and place things back where he had been instructed and shown.

She had created the organization system and kept to it strictly. She disliked the danger that could come with unlabeled and scattered components, and for a good reason. As he set a bottle of herbs onto the wooden shelves, he built but a month ago where the name on the label was carved into the wood, his mind wandered to her scars. More specifically, the one on her leg. It was a nasty chemical burn, a sick reddish-brown color, covering most of the front of her thigh, some spots and patches reaching her knee. She got it during a spill at an old shop, when she had less control. Before everything. Before it all was nothing except for them.

He heard a gasp from the lounge and he ran quickly to see what was happening. He saw her eyes briefly open, a smile, weakly replace the flash of panic as he came into her line of sight before she collapsed. The pillows keep her upright-ish and he was there in a flash to lay her onto her back.

He stepped away and began to boil the water already in the kettle. Then he double checked for her writing supplies.

Settling down next to her, he waited, slowly, brushing a hand through her unmanageable curls. He hadn't even had the chance to brush them that day before she slipped away. He found it helped her wake up slower and calmed, when he stayed close and got his fingers stuck in her mane while scratching her scalp.

This time she didn't have much to share or write when she woke. Sometimes she had fantastical visions of distant universes and time lines. Of endless fields or stars. Of specific destinations. Of specific people. Of Goddesses or deities. Of magics she would never control or those she mastered. Of books with dancing text. Of empty tomes and their authors. Of childish games. Of home. Of him.

Sometimes there was just nothing.

She would just step back, watching, maybe even trying to reach out, but she was stuck.

Today, she hadn't been there, but she also hadn't gone anywhere either. Which she told him softly in a broken rough accented rumble. Emphasizing her message with a swirl of fingers in a curling pattern across his skin.

They often spoke with their hands. For him, it was closest to replacing speech.

Sometimes though, she didn't want to lift her head or open her eyes, so they made something else. A series of circular symbols, simple and distinct, each with a meaning. A phrase or word. Meant to be drawn in one stroke, a finger across skin.

The one she drew now on the inside of his arm was a circle, followed by an X. It meant nothing or nowhere. An important, well used one he recognized with no trouble along with her words.

He grumbled back, or vibrated with a lack of noise, in discontent, swirling a soft apology onto the back of her hand. Embedded with the understanding that it was not his fault but he felt sorry. A circle crossed with a downward half circle. He hated when that happened. Hated knowing she had been trapped. She had explained that it had to do with magic, with her use of energy and he tried to understand. He did understand. But he didn't mean he liked it.

So, she hadn't seen anything new but him doing his chores like it had been a dream. She poked his frown lines and grinned, "at least your arse looks good in those pants from this seat." Her grin widened as he unleashed a mighty sigh with a signature playfully annoyed eye roll. He was happy she was joking though. But she was still tired, So, she sunk into the blankets, pillows, and the gentle hand in her hair, his other hand busy with pressing the message "I'm here" (a slow circle with a smaller circle inside) warmly into the back of her hand. She simply waited for tea and enjoyed being present.