The last goodbye was always the hardest.
He managed to get things as well arranged as he could, given how little time was left. Tried to make certain that something was set up for the Al Na'ir, made sure Everett would be cared for, sent a few letters out in hopes of at least thanking those who had made his life as good as it was.
When all of that was done, what was left was the most difficult.
First he packed up Lily's things, whatever was left in her room, and whatever he had left of hers amongst his own possessions. Each box labelled neatly and concisely, so that if she ever returned for those things, she wouldn't have any trouble figuring out what was where. The last thing was a ring box.
He didn't pack that box up to make her miserable; he just couldn't imagine giving them away or selling them to someone else. He had bought them not long after she left in the spring, and meant to give her the two simple wedding bands for Christmas, but Christmas never really came. Inside the box he tucked a note.
Once that was finished, he paused to get himself a mug of coffee and stand out on the porch. It was overcast and he could feel on the back of his neck the energy in the air that would come before a thunderstorm. Given that he hadn't heard thunder since last fall, he was looking forward to it.
It didn't make it any easier to go back inside; not the warm air, not the rising breeze, not the smell of rain and lightning. But he did anyway.
Then he tackled his own room.
Photo albums, books, knickknacks. Clothes. Uniforms. Writings and letters. Blankets and bedding. His tools of the trade, and then some.
It sort of surprised him how much he had accumulated here in Rhy'Din; on Earth, the most he usually had was his uniforms and a handful of other personal objects. Here, he actually had plenty of stuff to pack up, from years of making a home in one place.
But little by little he did it, again labelling each box neatly in case anyone ever cared to go through them. There were a few he made sure to mark for Archie only; mostly the Maritime's massive collection of blackmail photos and tapes. And, not surprisingly, his own writing collection, even if it wasn't that large.
Even with the surprising amount of stuff, it didn't take as long as he'd expected it to. He left only one thing out; Oughtlake's sword from Avalon.
It was a surreal feeling, to look at his empty room and then at the stacks of boxes on the third floor. Pacey, Sirry, Stacey, Lil....and now his own name amongst the organized cardboard.
He stopped there, and listened to the rain on the roof. Took a deep breath; old paper and some dust, recently disturbed, and under that the moisture and thunder in the air.
It was getting harder to go forward, but not impossible. He figured, probably rightly, that it was more to do with biology than anything else. It wasn't enough to stop him, though, and it wasn't even enough to slow him for more than a few moments here or there. For a cup of coffee, or a breath of air, or a wistful thought.
The last goodbye was always the hardest.
He hated goodbyes, but he respected them. He had little choice but to respect them; in a realm where people came and went; he always, always preferred a goodbye to being left wondering and hoping and waiting. It meant, at least, a little bit of closure.
This was the single hardest goodbye he had ever penned. But he penned it anyway, wishing that he had a way to just take all of his thoughts and feelings over the past thirty-four years and put them all in paper form. All of the good, all of the bad, all of the in-between; every joy, every contradiction, every hope and every fear. Whether those words were ever understood, or not, didn't matter.
But he couldn't do that. So he settled for the best he could, writing what he deemed to be the most important parts down. When he finished the letter, he left it on the bar, resting under Sir Oughtlake's sword.
The sky broke open, in an almost ironically apt display.
He was never prone to drama. In as such, he viewed death as being a rather matter-of-fact thing; at least, his own. That didn't mean he wanted to die, though.
It just meant that he was tired.
He figured that some people would be angry, or confused, or frustrated. Or that they would be stunned and hurt. Maybe they would be all of those things, and then some. He couldn't blame them if they didn't understand, and he wasn't going to be able to stick around to explain it all — there were no ghost-like hauntings in his future.
In the end, the only real judgment would have to take place between himself and God.
He was tired. He had been clawing on the edge for so long that he had forgotten what it was like not to. Always in that state where sometimes he could pull himself back up enough to be all right for awhile, but without fail, he would slip again and be left scrambling. It wasn't that he hadn't tried; he had tried everything he could possibly think of. Tried to stand and fight, tried to retreat, tried to just view life in terms of minutes instead of days or years. And a hundred things more than that, each day getting more frantic as nothing seemed to work.
Eventually, though, he just couldn't scramble anymore.
Eventually, he had to let go.
He stood on the dockside, in the dark and rain and thunder and lightning. He'd nearly died off of this dock once, so many years ago. But this time there were no second chances, and this time, it was his own choice.
He knew his timing was good — had timed it, in fact, to try to ease as much of the trauma as he could. It wasn't likely in the cacophony from above that anyone would hear the gunshot, and the tide was at it's fastest point of ebb; the sea could have him, and he found that fitting.
He tipped his head back in the rain for a moment, took one last breath...
...and pulled the trigger.
In the end, all that was left was a shell casing for a nine millimeter, a few diluted stains of blood soaking into the wet planks of the dock, and a Browning HP in mud underneath of it. The soul went wherever souls go.
The sea took the rest.
—-
((Muns - please don't interfere, if anyone's so inclined. No resurrections or miracles. Nine years is a good run; to all things, an ending. His choice. Not mine. Thanks to everyone who read.))
He managed to get things as well arranged as he could, given how little time was left. Tried to make certain that something was set up for the Al Na'ir, made sure Everett would be cared for, sent a few letters out in hopes of at least thanking those who had made his life as good as it was.
When all of that was done, what was left was the most difficult.
First he packed up Lily's things, whatever was left in her room, and whatever he had left of hers amongst his own possessions. Each box labelled neatly and concisely, so that if she ever returned for those things, she wouldn't have any trouble figuring out what was where. The last thing was a ring box.
He didn't pack that box up to make her miserable; he just couldn't imagine giving them away or selling them to someone else. He had bought them not long after she left in the spring, and meant to give her the two simple wedding bands for Christmas, but Christmas never really came. Inside the box he tucked a note.
Once that was finished, he paused to get himself a mug of coffee and stand out on the porch. It was overcast and he could feel on the back of his neck the energy in the air that would come before a thunderstorm. Given that he hadn't heard thunder since last fall, he was looking forward to it.
It didn't make it any easier to go back inside; not the warm air, not the rising breeze, not the smell of rain and lightning. But he did anyway.
Then he tackled his own room.
Photo albums, books, knickknacks. Clothes. Uniforms. Writings and letters. Blankets and bedding. His tools of the trade, and then some.
It sort of surprised him how much he had accumulated here in Rhy'Din; on Earth, the most he usually had was his uniforms and a handful of other personal objects. Here, he actually had plenty of stuff to pack up, from years of making a home in one place.
But little by little he did it, again labelling each box neatly in case anyone ever cared to go through them. There were a few he made sure to mark for Archie only; mostly the Maritime's massive collection of blackmail photos and tapes. And, not surprisingly, his own writing collection, even if it wasn't that large.
Even with the surprising amount of stuff, it didn't take as long as he'd expected it to. He left only one thing out; Oughtlake's sword from Avalon.
It was a surreal feeling, to look at his empty room and then at the stacks of boxes on the third floor. Pacey, Sirry, Stacey, Lil....and now his own name amongst the organized cardboard.
He stopped there, and listened to the rain on the roof. Took a deep breath; old paper and some dust, recently disturbed, and under that the moisture and thunder in the air.
It was getting harder to go forward, but not impossible. He figured, probably rightly, that it was more to do with biology than anything else. It wasn't enough to stop him, though, and it wasn't even enough to slow him for more than a few moments here or there. For a cup of coffee, or a breath of air, or a wistful thought.
The last goodbye was always the hardest.
He hated goodbyes, but he respected them. He had little choice but to respect them; in a realm where people came and went; he always, always preferred a goodbye to being left wondering and hoping and waiting. It meant, at least, a little bit of closure.
This was the single hardest goodbye he had ever penned. But he penned it anyway, wishing that he had a way to just take all of his thoughts and feelings over the past thirty-four years and put them all in paper form. All of the good, all of the bad, all of the in-between; every joy, every contradiction, every hope and every fear. Whether those words were ever understood, or not, didn't matter.
But he couldn't do that. So he settled for the best he could, writing what he deemed to be the most important parts down. When he finished the letter, he left it on the bar, resting under Sir Oughtlake's sword.
The sky broke open, in an almost ironically apt display.
He was never prone to drama. In as such, he viewed death as being a rather matter-of-fact thing; at least, his own. That didn't mean he wanted to die, though.
It just meant that he was tired.
He figured that some people would be angry, or confused, or frustrated. Or that they would be stunned and hurt. Maybe they would be all of those things, and then some. He couldn't blame them if they didn't understand, and he wasn't going to be able to stick around to explain it all — there were no ghost-like hauntings in his future.
In the end, the only real judgment would have to take place between himself and God.
He was tired. He had been clawing on the edge for so long that he had forgotten what it was like not to. Always in that state where sometimes he could pull himself back up enough to be all right for awhile, but without fail, he would slip again and be left scrambling. It wasn't that he hadn't tried; he had tried everything he could possibly think of. Tried to stand and fight, tried to retreat, tried to just view life in terms of minutes instead of days or years. And a hundred things more than that, each day getting more frantic as nothing seemed to work.
Eventually, though, he just couldn't scramble anymore.
Eventually, he had to let go.
He stood on the dockside, in the dark and rain and thunder and lightning. He'd nearly died off of this dock once, so many years ago. But this time there were no second chances, and this time, it was his own choice.
He knew his timing was good — had timed it, in fact, to try to ease as much of the trauma as he could. It wasn't likely in the cacophony from above that anyone would hear the gunshot, and the tide was at it's fastest point of ebb; the sea could have him, and he found that fitting.
He tipped his head back in the rain for a moment, took one last breath...
...and pulled the trigger.
In the end, all that was left was a shell casing for a nine millimeter, a few diluted stains of blood soaking into the wet planks of the dock, and a Browning HP in mud underneath of it. The soul went wherever souls go.
The sea took the rest.
—-
((Muns - please don't interfere, if anyone's so inclined. No resurrections or miracles. Nine years is a good run; to all things, an ending. His choice. Not mine. Thanks to everyone who read.))