One day more

Something like an illness had been stealing over him for the past few months, there was no disputing that. Rather, it would be more accurate to call it come illness of the soul instead of the body. Physically he was fine. Well... paler, certainly, he looked like he hardly slept, and he had gained a sort of... faded quality, but otherwise he was physically healthy in all respects. Even so, Herlinde caught herself half-expecting him to fade right out of existence some days. She fussed over him, loved him, found herself holding his hand a little tighter than she usually would, all to make sure he was still there. And all the time she worried, because his eyes barely seemed to register her some days, his smiles and laughter seemed to come from somewhere far distant, unearthed memories of merriment where no new ones could be made.

Ever since they had lost her brother, he'd been caught up in possibility of bringing him back. It had grown on him like an obsession born of grief, gnawing at him from the inside-out, but he had still been alive. He had still been... Lantfrid, odd as that was to say. But now something seemed to have started withering away inside him, some inner will that was fading, as if his very spirit was tired. He barely seemed to be part of the world any more. Had something happened in all his reckless experimentation? Or perhaps he was coming to the conclusion that he would have to give up, and it pained him too much for him to approach it.

The few days when he didn't look exhausted and distant, when his mind passed through the present again, he looked wrapped up in a strange agitation, watching her with worry as if she would suddenly die as well. On those days he seemed torn between wanting to hold her and being afraid to touch her, and every brush of her fingers or kiss on his cheek made him stiffen, shaking like a bowstring stretched to its very limits.

But today... today had been strange. Wonderful, oh, so wonderful, but strange considering all the months. He had kissed her, really kissed her, after who knew how long. And he had loved and laughed and seemed to put every effort into the living of one day, into making her happy and feel like a queen, from the first moment they had woken up. Better than a queen, in fact. She felt like his love again.

Every now and again, when he had been too close, or when he had held or kissed her too merrily, he'd pause for the briefest moment, as if having to put in the effort to pull away from her. But before she could wonder why he would want to, why a flicker of fear seemed to force him to, he would swing her about like he was a boy, and laugh so well she forgot everything. He made up for months, for years, even for a lifetime, though her life with him had needed no making up for it. And at the end of it all they had fallen, exhausted, arms wrapped around each-other and laughing as if it was their very breath, their very blood that was golden joy. At the end of it all, she had been more happy than she could ever remember being, caught up in a dream that would never leave her heart, even when she woke up the next morning.

The difference was, he never did.