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I think if I were him, I would be all too eager to fill my home with color and warmth, especially if my days were otherwise filled with death and mourning.
“My home is located just a few miles north west of the small town of Caravath,” I answer. “It sits atop a small hill, surrounded by a forest and a neighboring apple orchard.”
I frown, wondering what else might help him distinguish whether or not he is at the right house.
“What is your father’s name?” Death asks, as if reading my thoughts.
“Leoric Goodwin.”
“Hmm.” He pauses for a moment, as if mulling over the information I’ve given him before nodding once. “Thank you, that will do.”
“Then you already know how to get there?”
“Yes.”
I chew my as he turns to leave before blurting out, “If you find a small book along the way, would you mind bringing it back to me? I think I may have lost it in the woods the night we met.”
He stops, halfway to the doors, his back still to me as he considers my request.
“Of course.”
“I wish I could accompany you,” I quickly add.
He pauses, his hand now on the door, before answering, “As do I, little one.”
The next second, he’s thrown open one of the doors and stepped out into the swirling mist, letting it slam closed with a heavy thud behind him. I stare after him for a long moment, half hoping he’ll return and take me with him.
But even I know that’s impossible.
I feel the loss of his presence as I move to press a hand to the doors, and can’t help but hope his journey is swift. Despite knowing that he’s traversed the realms numerous times, never mind the simple fact that he isn’t mortal, I find myself anxiously awaiting his safe return.
With a sigh, I step back from the door. Turning on my heel, I walk through the empty halls. The lone click of my boots does little to lift my spirits as I return to my studio.
Stepping inside, I set Death’s painting aside, replacing it with a blank canvas. I stare at the empty space for a long time, but find myself without my usual desire to create.
My mind seems unwilling to release me from its swirling thoughts. Settling onto my stool, I wrap my cloak around me in a warm hug as tears wet my cheeks.
I know I promised myself I wouldn’t wallow in despair, but I need a moment to grieve. A moment to process the fact that I will never see my father again.
In a way, it’s a relief to let myself crumble into a million pieces. Grief is quick to sweep in, but I don’t let it drown me. Instead, I give myself permission to feel, to let go of my anguish. It’s too great of a burden to continue to hiding it within my chest.
I need to let go, or I fear that by the end of my time here, I will be nothing more than a husk of myself.
What’s done is done, and I truly do not regret the choice I’ve made.
If I hadn’t come here, Father would have died, and I would have been sold off to Lord Payne to be miserable until the last of my days. This way, all of that has been avoided, and Father will have many happy years ahead of him.
Still, Death is right about about the value of life, and I will not allow myself to waste what little of it I have left. As long as I still draw breath, I intend to make the most of my time here, whether it be alone or by Death’s side.
Drying my tears, I straighten and reach for a brush, dipping it into a small pot of paint. Without further hesitation, I set to work with newfound vigor.
As my brush sweeps across the canvas, all else soon fades into the background of my mind.
Once again, days seem to slip past as I await Death’s return, my paintbrush my only constant companion.
I work late into the evening, only breaking for food during the day. Each night, I return to my bedroom to bathe and curl up beneath the thick furs to sleep.
Morning brings with it a new choice of dress, as well as the anticipation of Death’s imminent return. Hope and expectation sparking new and grander ideas each time I return to my art.
