Estingai sat alone in Uuchantuu's bunk long after the echoes of her sister's footsteps faded down the hallway, mingling with the faint steps of others. Then she dimmed her clearnodes and there was silence.

Somehow, that silence comforted her even as it weighed on her. Estingai found it was all she could do to hold herself still, to keep her eyes fixed on the old rug Koruuksi and Uuchantuu had put on the floor between their bunks, rather than where she wanted to look.

Eventually, she lost that battle, and looked past the curtain, across the room to the space she had shared with Svemakuu. She'd left the curtain closed, but it hung open just enough for her to see inside. The dark emptiness of that space tugged at the pit within her that the Deathknight had ripped open that night.

Estingai didn't know when she'd risen from Uuchantuu's bunk or crossed the room to her own space, but she found herself pulling open the curtain.

Seeing the unmade bunk—something she hadn't done since before Svemakuu had entered her life—made her legs tremble. The emptiness, the knowledge that Svemakuu hadn't slept there in weeks, and would never sleep there again, made her want to curl up and weep until she crumbled and burned away with the rest of Efruumani.

Yet she sat down on the bunk, taking the blanket in one hand and raising it to her face as she brightened her clearnodes. She breathed in deep, then choked out a sob.

She could still smell him, but barely.

Her eyes found his trunk, still next to hers. A thin layer of dust had gathered over it in the past weeks.

Estingai reached for it, then tensed as her stomach and throat grew tight. Swallowing hard, she shook her head and drew in a deep breath, then opened the latch.

She pushed open the lid and let out a sob as she reached out to touch his clothes and the other belongings he'd kept there. Estingai pushed aside a few outfits, pouches, and other keepsakes that tugged at her heart, until she found a dark violet, almost black shirt with the Knights' snowflake emblem on it. The shirt itself wasn't anything special—everyone that had lived in the Bastion had been given one to wear around the floating fortress—but it was his.

Svemakuu had let her borrow it a few times after they'd first met, when she hadn't had her own yet, and he wanted her to feel less like an outsider. Even after she'd gotten her own along with an entire wardrobe of clothes that were clean and actually fit her, Estingai had stolen it several times, wearing it to bed, or just when Svemakuu was off with one of his parents. That hadn't happened often, but it had let her keep a part of her friend with her. The few times he'd caught her before they’d moved past their own issues and admitted their feelings for one another had mortified Estingai. Yet even then, Svemakuu had made her feel better. He'd teased her about it, but in a manner that made her feel closer to him.

Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

She held it up and breathed in deep, shuddering, eyes hot with tears as it filled her senses with him. She brightened her clearnodes, breathing in deep once more, then rose, stripping out of her armor and uniform. She couldn't get the garments off fast enough, throwing them into the corner of the little room. When she stood in her underclothes, Estingai put on the shirt and hugged her arms to her chest.

It wasn't enough.

Estingai sat back on the bunk. She choked back a sob, squeezing her eyes shut as a single tear dropped free. Its path down her cheek left a trail of fire in its wake.

Estingai sniffed, trying to keep any more from falling free. Then she looked toward the trunk again and saw a glint of something that had been under the shirt.

Chest tight, Estingai leaned forward, moving the other clothing out of the way. She sobbed as she took the handle of the pan she'd made him so many years ago, and held it up.

She'd seen how much Svemakuu loved to cook, and had fallen for him the first time he'd cooked for her, so she'd made him a pan with georaural heating that needed no stove, just Auroralight.

As she turned the pan over in her hands, another tear burned down her face. He'd used the pan almost every day of his life since she'd given it to him, but it was still in incredible condition despite the few inevitable signs of wear like the coloring of the metal.

Estingai hugged the pan to her chest, then saw what had lain beneath it: a bundle of old letters strapped to a notebook.

He didn’t…

Estingai held the pan under her arm as she reached for the stack of envelopes and slipped one free of the frayed string that bound them.

As she opened the first, reading the contents, Estingai’s throat grew tight. She clasped a hand over her mouth as another tear slipped free.

She barely choked back a sob as she read the next one, then the next.

He kept all of them.

The letters she’d written when they were apart, and even the little notes she’d left in their room for him when their schedules didn’t line up.

Estingai couldn’t hold back the sob this time.

Eyes hot with tears, she looked down at the bunk, reaching down to run a hand over it.

She curled her fingers around the empty sheets, desperate. Estingai knew she shouldn't, but…

I need him.

She slipped under the sheets and lay down on her back, holding the pan and the letters and the notebook to her chest.

Estingai took a deep breath, and Svemakuu's scent filled her head. She thought back to the night before they'd left with Raima—the last time she’d had a moment alone with her husband—then brightened her orangenodes.