There is a violent ache in the center of his chest.
It throbs and pulses in time with his heartbeat.
Arrests all the air in his lungs as studies her the best he can through the gold that seeps out of his eyes.
It all hurts so much he can barely think beyond it.
But he remembers the way it felt when the bones splintered and broke and then how, mercifully, death had taken him. He remembers, quite vividly, how desperately he’d called out to her. How the apologies had bled out of him but had meant nothing at all. How angry she had been.
He looks at her now and all he can see is her confusion. Why would she have gone to the mountain? Because he had gone to the mountain and she was there and she was so angry.
He shakes his head woefully. Closes his eyes but it does nothing to stem the flow of his tears. “I went to the mountain,” he murmurs, “you were there.”
Then there is silence. Deep, impenetrable silence. While he remembers how their daughter had disintegrated, how he had been forced to kill her. How she had not been in the sea of faces who’d jostled around him in that cavern. How he fears that she might really be dead.
What happened?
He opens his eyes. Studies her face the best he can. Feels the ache in his chest deepen, widen, until it is a yawning chasm. “I heard Kennice,” he begins and it comes out strangled. “I followed her voice to the mouth of a cave at the base of the mountain. And then.” The voice catches and he has to look away. Looks down again at the puddle of gold gathering at their feet. The gold on her lips.
“I had hoped it was just some awful dream.” He shifts his focus back up to her face then, the expression plaintive when he finally meets her eye again. “Is this a dream?”