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As the moon reached its zenith, twinkling in the light, a man pulled away from his lover. A million things ran through his mind, rife with emotions with names like regret, conflict, and broken hope. He tried not to look him in the face, tried not to worry him, but did it all the same—he was moving away like this for a reason, and they both knew it.
Nevertheless, with a heavy heart, he traversed from his (their?) room, away from a sad face, to a balcony overlooking a section between the West Side Park and Bilge Court. He stood, motionless, for some time (Minutes? Hours? The moon was silent, nary giving an answer). As if against his will, his cold hand moved into his coat pocket and pulled out his notebook, worn with age, and cast his blind-looking eyes over its pages as he opened it.
He read through the entries he had been keeping for the past months: aimless rambling, keeping his sanity when he knew he could do nothing but write or hunt, not even sleep; and rumination on his past (past? What past? A past life? A past time?).
Emotions rushed through his brain, though outwardly he kept still, as always he was trained, lest his father take a cane to him, or lock him into a cellar for days on end, nothing to eat or drink. A crashing flood ran through him, bottled against his chest, closing up his throat without his consent, and he cast his eyes to the starless sky.
For years, he charted the stars with only his mind as his guide, never the artist and only the thinker, ponderer, wonderer. He wished, so desperately, for the stars to show themselves, to help. They were always an anchor. He found himself muttering under his breath in prayer. To whom, he did not know—he knew it should be the Spirit, but things had shifted inconsequently so many times now he didn't know where he stood anymore.
When he opened his eyes, the stars were still covered: blanked out of the sky, like someone had stained dark ink into the clouds, impossible to remove, to cleanse.
The dam broke.
The notebook fell from his grasp, clattering lightly onto the balcony's wood, and his knees gave out. He barely caught himself on the railing by his arms—the only thing keeping him grounded and from falling, falling, into the black abyss that was so often made of his own thoughts.
A noise forced itself out of his throat, the water rushing up out of his mouth in a dry, desperate sob. No tears, came, however—nothing to indicate that he was still alive—only the sound that wracked his being. Then it came again, and again, and again, and soon he was dry heaving, his pale forehead pressed against the cool, wooden railing.
He finally allowed his thoughts to drift beyond Regalia. To his homeland, Etosil, and to the city for which he (and every other Vladno) was named, had grown up in. Where he had loved, for the first time, and where his heart had died.
That's why he pulled away from Alton: he had left his heart with a man long dead.
It took a long while, but he eventually quieted, and he couldn't even bring himself to be embarrassed despite the fact that anyone could have seen this breakdown, this breaking down of walls, of promises kept and lost.
He opened his eyes, staring at the wood he kneeled upon, and let out a trembling breath he didn't need, would never again need
His eyes fell upon the fallen notebook, open to the most recent page. His eyes skimmed over what he had written there, in Mirnoye.
I'm trying. I swear it.
He reached out with a shaky hand and took hold of the notebook. He reached into his coat and removed a pencil. He turned himself to sit back against the railing. And he put pencil to paper.
My love,
I'm sorry for being gone for so long.
He paused. He searched. He found what he wanted to say.
I know you're dead.
I know I can't save you. You can't save me, either.
I've always loved you. You were my first love, and I can never give that title to anyone else. You were special. You will always be special.
Thank you. For taking my life from the place it had been in, and pulling it out of the pit. For pushing against the darkness in my soul. For ignoring me and going on anyway, despite my protests. I can… never, never repay you.
He took in a shuddering breath. Pushed it out of non-functioning lungs.
I have to move on.
If I wanted to stay, I could have—I could have left that town and gone back to my cabin, to my olive trees. But
He forced himself not to look at the tattoo on his right forearm.
But there was a straw, and it broke the camel's back. I couldn't stay any longer, not because I had nowhere to go, but because I knew I had to. I had to leave. I have to leave. I love you so much.
He looked up from the words that filled the page, blinking away imaginary tears as he cast his eyes over the black sky.
Thank you. I can never forget you, and I shouldn't. But I can move on. I can use the life you gave me, I can keep going. I'll remember what you did for me. You saved me. You gave me the ability to love.
I hope you're watching over me. And I hope you're at peace. It's taken me a long time to find it.
I've always loved you. Thank you for what you've given me.
Now I can love someone else like you loved me.
He stood.
He closed the notebook.
He cast one last look over the inky black night.
The moon broke through the cloud cover.
"Goodbye, Pyotrosha," he whispered.
He walked back inside.
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