A Life Without...
1264 Words
Aeron couldn’t move.
He stood still, armour still stained from the road, mud drying on his boots, and stared at the woman holding a child in her arms like a shield. Her scent — god, her scent — still reached him through the crowd. Still the same. The wind shifted, and the scent hit him again—lavender and honey, warm sun and something soft and safe.
Her. Thalia.
His Thalia — no, not anymore.
She looked almost exactly as he remembered her: dark curls braided over one shoulder, slender frame. But it didn’t make sense.
Not with the child on her hip. A soft little thing with auburn curls and round cheeks. Clutching her tunic tightly. Not with his brother’s hand grazing the small of her back.
Aeron’s throat worked, dry and raw. He whispered her name before he realized he’d done it.
“Thalia…”
She flinched.
Just barely, but enough.
Enough for him to know she’d heard him. Enough to know she remembered. Her grip on the small boy in her arms tightened. The child, two? Maybe three? Gods, the numbers—don’t think about the numbers.
Her gaze slid away from him. Down. Anywhere but at him.
The child looked up, curious. His curls were a soft chestnut brown, his golden eyes—
Aeron nearly choked.
Golden eyes.
His brother’s eyes.
Theron stepped forward, positioning himself like a wall between Aeron and Thalia, a lazy arm wrapping protectively around her and the child.
His stance was calm. His message was clear.
The air was sucked out of Aeron’s lungs.
“What…?” he croaked.
But his mother’s hands found his arm, warm and grounding. She smiled up at him, and for a moment, it was almost easy to believe this was just another welcome home after a patrol. Her voice was bright and affectionate. “You must be exhausted, baby. Come, you need to wash up, rest. You’ve barely crossed the border, and they’re all over you.”
He couldn’t answer. His eyes were still locked on the shape of her. Thalia. Her shoulders were rigid. Her lips pressed into a line.
Aeron blinked. This had to be a dream. A fever-dream brought on by exhaustion. Maybe he was still in the woods, curled beneath a tree, tossing through half-sleep. Maybe his wounds had gotten worse than he thought. Maybe—
“I—” His voice cracked. “What… is going on?”
His mother tugged gently at him, chatting all the while. “Oh, we’re so happy you’re home. So proud. The stories we heard about you, Aeron, my brave boy—!”
He let her pull him. His limbs moved because she asked them to. Because otherwise, he might have dropped.
But he looked back. He had to.
He watched his brother take Thalia’s hand, and she didn’t pull away.
Their child clung to her neck, golden eyes blinking sleepily. Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, the boy reached for Theron, who lifted him easily into his arms.
A perfect family.
One that should have been his.
The warmth of his mother’s grip didn’t reach the ice in his chest.
~~~~*~~~~
The house hadn’t changed, still the one he used to sneak Thalia into, once upon a time.
That made it worse.
The halls looked the same, smelled the same. As if time hadn't changed for him. Then why? Why had everything else moved on?!
His mother flitted about the hall, talking too fast. “We thought you were dead for a while, you know. But I told them, I said, ‘My Aeron will come back. He’s stronger than all those boys on the frontlines.’ And here you are! See? Oh—”
His mother kept talking, her words forming clouds that didn’t settle.
“—so much changed while you were gone. But it’s good now. We’re all together again. The pack is strong. You’ll see, darling. You’ll be settled too. I’ve already been thinking of introducing you to Milena before the new moon—”
“What happened?” Aeron asked, quietly.
She blinked, turned away, and fiddled with the washbasin. “What do you mean?”
He turned to face her fully. “Why is Thalia married to Theron?”
Finally, she turned. He saw the flicker in her eyes. The crack in her smile. “Sweetheart. You were gone a long time.”
“That doesn’t answer me.”
“We thought you were dead, Aeron. We were told you were gone. There was a funeral. There were rites. I… I still don’t know what happened to the letters we sent. Maybe they were lost. Maybe…It was… hard for everyone. We thought—well, it doesn’t matter now.” She patted his shoulder. “Wash up, alright? You’ll feel better.”
And she left him there, in the same room he’d grown up in. In the same room he had taken her. Like everything was fine.
Like he was fine.
~~~~*~~~~
The silence was louder than the war.
He stood in the center of the room for a long time, unable to move. His chest hurt. Physically hurt — a deep, heavy pressure behind his ribs that felt like it would crush him.
He looked around the room blindly. There—by the hearth. That was where she used to sit. Back when they’d steal time in secret.
Back when she’d curl into him and whisper things only the stars and stones were meant to hear. Promises. Laughter. The scent of her skin, still embedded in the memory of this place.
What had just happened?
What was happening?
He pulled at the laces of his tunic, the blood-stiffened fabric rustling as it loosened. It dropped to the floor, forgotten. His body bore the scars of battle, the bruises not yet faded. But none of them hurt the way this did.
She had been his.
Not claimed.
But they had loved.
Hadn’t they?
They talked of homes, of children. Of after. After the war. After the duty.
His knees buckled.
He dropped to the floor, hands trembling as they pressed to his mouth. His breathing came in shallow bursts. No. No. No.
Why hadn’t she waited?
Why had no one told him?
Did she move on that quickly?
Was it easier with Theron? Safer?
Did she ever mean it? All those nights, all those words?
A soft laugh tore from his throat — bitter and broken.
A child. A whole damned child!
He imagined it — the swollen curve of her belly, her cries as she birthed him, Theron’s hand in hers. His brother — his brother who’d barely spoken of her before. Who knew how Aeron felt? Who had seen it? Who had watched them together and said nothing?
Had she cried for him? Had she mourned him?
Or had she moved on the moment he crossed the border?
Maybe it would’ve been easier if he’d died. At least then he wouldn’t have known she had chosen someone else. Chosen his brother.
Had they mourned him together? Had they kissed over his grave while he bled on a battlefield praying to make it home?
He gagged. Bent over, almost retching, but nothing came up. Just acid and pain.
He slammed a fist into the floor. Again. And again. The sharp crack of bone and stone didn’t help. Nothing helped.
He was strong. A warrior. He had bled for this pack, for this land, for them.
And now? Now he couldn’t even breathe without it hurting.
- Writer
