He ought to tell someone, he thought distantly as he stared at his wife's body, but he wasn't sure who to tell or what to say. And anyway, it was hard to feel any sense of urgency about it. She was already gone, he was sure — a healer rushing in now would do nothing to bring her back. He had time. Time to process, time to think, time to feel.
Or at least he thought he did. He was not expecting to be interrupted by the very wife whose death he was trying to process. He could not bring himself to speak when he saw her glide into the room. His mouth fell open in obvious shock. He didn't recover himself until he saw her reaching to try to close her own eyes, at which point he was so viscerally reminded of his own series of emotions on seeing his own corpse that he actually cried out to stop her — not that it had any effect.
"Oh god," he said, feeling as though he was going to be sick. (It wasn't a physical possibility, of course, but the nausea was no less real: what else was he meant to do with this churn of emotions in his gut?) He wasn't even seeing her, at this point. He was seeing his own neck bent the wrong direction at the bottom of the stairs. He was sitting in the upstairs room of the Flint house with Oscar, trying to ignore the body between them. He was falling into the mausoleum in Asphodel and finding himself surrounded by decay and unable to avoid picturing it all happening to his own body, down in the earth. "Dear god."
Or at least he thought he did. He was not expecting to be interrupted by the very wife whose death he was trying to process. He could not bring himself to speak when he saw her glide into the room. His mouth fell open in obvious shock. He didn't recover himself until he saw her reaching to try to close her own eyes, at which point he was so viscerally reminded of his own series of emotions on seeing his own corpse that he actually cried out to stop her — not that it had any effect.
"Oh god," he said, feeling as though he was going to be sick. (It wasn't a physical possibility, of course, but the nausea was no less real: what else was he meant to do with this churn of emotions in his gut?) He wasn't even seeing her, at this point. He was seeing his own neck bent the wrong direction at the bottom of the stairs. He was sitting in the upstairs room of the Flint house with Oscar, trying to ignore the body between them. He was falling into the mausoleum in Asphodel and finding himself surrounded by decay and unable to avoid picturing it all happening to his own body, down in the earth. "Dear god."
Fabulous set by Lady!