A Walk in the Glen
Aiden doesn’t quite know how he ended up here. One second, the party is traipsing through the woods, Draz calling out every minute change in the compass, and the next he’s. Well. It’s weird. It feels a bit like there’s water in his ears, dots in his eyes. His balance, his center, is. Off. But it hasn’t been right for a while, has it? For so, so long, it’s felt like he’s been missing something, been missing someone, been missing-
What was he missing again? The question itches his brain, claws a bit at the back of his skull. His hands go up to his hair, tug sharply. It feels like if he can just, just remember, just remember, if he can take his hands and cradle the- the thought, the memory, the feeling, yes, the feeling, that he could-
“Aiden?”
He opens his eyes. He hadn’t realized his eyes had even been closed.
There she is.
Her smile is wide, soft, the warmest thing he’s ever felt, warmer than fire and brimstone and the bay of hellhounds, brighter than any flame he’s ever conjured.
And everything. Clicks. He drops his hands to his side, can’t even remember why they were raised. Can’t remember why they aren’t holding her hands, cradling her face.
She tilts her head a little, and quirks her lip up, amusement radiating from her tone, “Aiden, silly, what are you standing around for? I thought we were going to the glen.”
She reaches a hand out, beckoning him. It is not a single conscious thought that brings him forward. There is no hesitation in his movement, as if the very action of reaching out her hand called him to her.
He reaches out a single, clawed hand as he grows closer, and hesitates over the improbable, inane thought that if he touches her, she’ll disappear. That she’ll simply cease, not even a whisper in the wind, not even a smell in the air. But that’s silly, he thinks jovially to himself, as his clawed hand takes hers, and it's so, so soft, for they have to go to the glen. She can’t leave. They have to go to the glen.
The walk to the glen is beautiful. Every flower is a glittering jewel, and the grass is whisper soft, and it smells like every best part of spring, like his garden on the equinox as the sun shines high overhead, like the day will never end. It’ll never end. Every bit of the walk is warm chatter and heads thrown back in laughter, and Aiden’s voice feels raw, like he hasn’t spoken this much, laughed this much, in a long, long time. But that’s silly. He always laughs when he’s with Sam. And he’s always with Sam.
They reach the glen, and it's beautiful. It’s always beautiful, because it's theirs. The blanket is here, as it always is. It is soft and worn with use, and there are patches here and there that Aiden watched Sam sew on, patches that nearly didn’t get sewn on because he kept distracting her. As they walk into their glen, they pass their tree.
An old, grand pomegranate tree. Sam does the same thing she does everytime they pass it, and reaches up for a fruit. It’s just out of reach, as it always is, and the look Sam gives him as she turns to him, a put upon look of sadness that did not at all match the glint of knowing mischief in her eyes, is so, so familiar, it almost aches. But why would it ache? Because Aiden knows his part, and he presses one hand against the tree, right over the small carving they made one day, A + S, like a couple of lovesick teenagers, because, well. That’s what they are. And with the other hand he reaches up, and up, and picks the ripest pomegranate he can find. Holds it out to her with a small bow, as if they haven’t done this dance a hundred, thousand times before. And they will walk to the blanket and sit together, and he will lean in close and gentle, like a flower drawn to the sun, and she will place pomegranate seeds on his tongue.
They’re so tart, so wonderful, every seed better than the last. And her hands will grow red with pomegranate juice, and every time, without fail, she’ll drag them across his face, leave a red stain in their wake. She leans in close, and her breath smells like pomegranate and love, and says “You are mine, my own little bleeding heart.” Aiden’s eyes drift closed, warm and content, pomegranate and love on his tongue, in his stomach, in his chest, in his heart.
“Aiden?” He’s cold. Much, much colder than he was a moment ago. His mouth tastes like ash, and he feels. Well. Empty. When he opens his eyes, it is to the forest canopy, the concerned face of Draz looking down at him. He says something else, but Aiden feels his eyes begin to slip closed again. There’s no point in opening them. He knows she won’t be there. He hears no whisper in the wind. He breathes deep, no smell in the air. Aiden can’t even remember the last time he ate a pomegranate. He thinks if he did, it might make him sick.