Author's Note: This story is a companion piece to the Earthling trilogy, and is set in that continuity, a short time after the events of "Heavensward." It is strongly recommended to read the trilogy first in order to understand the context here.

Furthermore, there are three other side projects to the trilogy in progress currently, because I can't seem to stay away from these characters, who long ago began feeling like friends to me. My muse for them comes and goes, but I'm doing my best.

I hope you enjoy reading. Reviews and constructive criticism are always welcomed.

DEDICATION
For Casey
In gratitude for the brief but wonderful light you cast into my darkness

ZAC 2082
Chapter 1

There was a knock at the door.

Dan Flyheight was leaning against the far wall with his arms crossed over his chest, facing his desk across the dim room and staring uncomprehendingly at it. It was a small desk, assembled from the hardy, dark-stained wood for which the Wind Colony's scarce but dense forests were rapidly becoming famous. It was a simple enough design, with little in the way of adornment, and was much like one his parents had once owned. He had spent many a contented hour seated at it over the last twenty some-odd years, drafting correspondence to friends, and the friends he considered family, who were flung far and wide across Europa.

Now, that desk was silent evidence of a world passing him by, piled high as it was with bills, notices, and paperwork dealing with such matters as benefits and pensions and cremations. There were, too, veritable mountains of greeting cards, consisting of a most unusual mix of congratulations and condolences. Even as he remained ensconced in this little adobe cottage, too overwhelmed to work or leave or even speak very much, life and time somehow marched onward. The few instances he contemplated this fact, it seemed amazing to him: how could anyone even continue to live, with her perfect starlight now extinguished?

He sighed heavily and ran his hand over his mouth, not noticing the several days' worth of stubble pricking at his fingers. There were so many pressing things to be addressed, endless matters to be taken care of sitting on top of that desk, but one task in particular was the one he dreaded the most. There was one card missing from the messy pile, he knew, one correspondent who had not written to express his condolences, because nobody had yet told him that Willow had died.

The knocking came again, rather more loudly this time. Dan, who had been so lost in his usual fog of grief that he genuinely had not heard the first one, looked up at the abrupt sound.

Maria padded silently into the room just then. Her feet were bare on the dusty tiles, and in one hand she held the blanket she always slept with. One ragged corner dragged on the floor. At eight, she was probably too old to still have such childish habits, but there was no one about to make her give them up.

In spite of the knocking, Van still seemed to be asleep in the other room. They all did a lot of sleeping, nowadays.

Maria yawned and regarded her father with those enormous brown eyes of hers. Willow's eyes. He still could hardly bear to look into them, even a month later. "Are you going to answer the door, Daddy?" she asked in her hushed voice.

Dan at last shifted from his post, at which he had been standing, without realizing it, for well over an hour as he had dazedly contemplated the piles atop his desk. "Of course, Maria," he said, his voice weak from lack of use. "Of course."

He stepped across the room to the front door and opened it, just as another round of knocks began. Light from outside flooded in. "Dan," the caller said, startled. It was Leon.

Dan regarded his best friend unseeingly for a moment, then seemed to come back to himself. "Leon," he said. Remembering his manners, he stepped back. "Come in."

Leon entered and stood awkwardly in the center of the main room holding his hat, then spotted Maria, still standing mutely in the doorway to her bedroom. "Hello there, Maria," he greeted her kindly in gentle tones as he walked over and crouched down in front of her. "How are you doing today?"

"I'm sleepy," she admitted, rubbing her eyes and yawning again. "Van cries a lot. And so does Daddy."

There was a pause, and then Leon rubbed at his eyes now, too, although for a different reason. "There are a lot of things you've had to adjust to," he told her, giving her petite shoulder a little squeeze. "You're doing a wonderful job taking care of your father. Just make sure you take care of yourself, too, alright?"

She nodded gravely at him, and he stood, turning back to Dan, who hadn't moved from the doorway. "Dan," he said. "Please let me help."

"Help?" Dan echoed, looking out the door and to the front yard as though expecting other visitors in addition to Leon. He seemed bewildered.

Leon looked around the dim room, taking in the drawn curtains, the disorganization, the slowly accumulating filth. His eyes alighted on the desk, with its teetering piles. "You're overwhelmed, Dan. This is so much for one person. I'll do whatever you need me to - help with the paperwork, take the kids out for awhile so you can get some things done..." He trailed off. Dan had turned and was looking at him, but there was little comprehension in his gaze. Those dark eyes seemed to be looking past Leon entirely, to something over his shoulder that only Dan could see. Then, they focused on him suddenly.

"I don't want to write that letter," Dan said emphatically, a small shudder punctuating the statement. "Please. I can't write that letter."

Leon went back across the room, took Dan's arm, and guided him over to the couch, upon which they both sat down. "I'll help you," Leon said. The pale winter light from beyond the front door reflected on the round lenses of his glasses. "You don't have to do it alone. And you don't have to do it right now. But...I do think you should do it as soon as possible. You would want to know, if it were you."

Dan nodded, staring miserably at the floor. "But...but writing it...it just feels...so final..." He swallowed hard, unable to finish the sentence.

"I know," Leon said softly, placing his hand on his friend's forearm. His heart was breaking. "I know."

A happy gurgling sound came from Dan's darkened bedroom just then; Van had awoken from his nap. Dan looked up, momentarily paralyzed with confusion. He made to rise, but Maria, who had remained in her doorway these last few minutes, simply blinked her enormous brown eyes and stepped into the shadows of her father's room, from whence her soft crooning to her brother could soon be heard.

Leon had watched this small tableau, and now turned to his friend. "We're all praying for you, Dan."

Dan exhaled, seeming to come to a decision. "Could you...could you please get me pen and paper?" he asked shakily. He swiped at his eyes. "Because you're right. He deserves to know. And avoiding this isn't going to change anything."

"Good man," Leon murmured. He stood and moved to the desk. Amid the piles, he retrieved the needed items, and brought them over, placing the pen in Dan's quaking palm. Noting this, he asked, "Would you like to tell me what you want it to say, and I'll write it out for you?"

Dan nodded, returning the pen. It was impossible to stop the tremors in his hands. He straightened his throat a few times, and when he finally trusted his voice to remain steady, he began, "Private Standhaft. Socracht, Southern Elemia Territories, Helic Republic." He took a deep breath. "Dear Phoenix..."

-.-.-.-

Phoenix waved cheerfully as Heinrich set off down the long dirt driveway, on his way home to his family after a hard day's work. The sun was a molten gold puddle at the end of the rows of apple trees nearest the farmhouse and Phoenix gazed at it for a moment, then swiped the back of his hand across his sweaty forehead, grinning to himself. The animals were happy, the countless trees and bushes and plants were healthy. Life was good.

"Red!" a voice called. Only his wife addressed him so; upon first meeting him many years prior, she had been so entranced with his red facial marking, ginger hair, and propensity for severe blushing that after a time she had begun using the pet name "red heart," which had shortened over time to simply "red." He turned, looking up to the farmhouse. Áthas was at the back door, waving to him. She had something in her hand. "A letter!" she added, holding it up.

Letters were not an especially common occurrence, unless one counted bills and other such uninteresting financial or legal matters. He jogged the few hundred feet to the back deck and delicately took the envelope from her. "Why thank you, my sweet," he said, brushing her blonde locks back over her shoulder and kissing her on her round cheek.

"It's from the Wind Colony," she informed him with a knowing smile. There had been a time, once, long ago, when Áthas had harbored feelings of jealousy towards her partner's unique relationship with that strange and beautiful woman named Willow. But such petty emotions had swiftly subsided when she was told the stories of how Willow's courage and caring had saved Phoenix's life, and on more than one occasion, as well. That her husband was deeply bonded with Willow was a fact to which Áthas had simply grown accustomed, and she had troubled herself no more about it. For at her core, Áthas was a fair-minded woman, and a trusting one. Phoenix was a person worthy of her trust; and on the rare occasions she had spent time with Willow over these last many years, she had learned that Willow was, too.

"So much the better," Phoenix replied now, his grin widening. Áthas smirked at him and gave him an affectionate smack on the rump as he set off back towards the fields, heading, she guessed, towards his favorite bench to read.

This was indeed his plan, and he settled comfortably upon it, a lemon tree's boughs, laden with ripening fruit, extending resplendently overhead. A lone bee, drunk with the lemons' fresh scent, drifted lazily by, on her way back to her hive for the night. It had been several years since Phoenix had last seen Willow, a fact which he regretted. Sometimes life just seemed to get in the way, and it was all too easy to allow one's priorities to fall by the wayside. Perhaps she had written in hopes of arranging another visit, a possibility that filled him with joy.

Phoenix noted immediately that the handwriting on the envelope was not Willow's. However, a glance at the name atop the return address read "Flyheight," and so he shrugged and opened the sealed flap.

It is with a shattered heart that I write you

His preternaturally green eyes leapt of their own accord to the bottom of the tersely-worded letter before he had even begun reading the body.

Willow passed away suddenly five weeks ago

Dan.

It was from Dan.

giving birth to our son Van

The sun was gone, hidden below the western horizon; ahead of him, to the east, the first sprinkling of stars was emerging.

His breath was gone, too, his heart pounding, as his eyes flew over this handful of words marching gravely across the page.

All of the friendship and love you had given her meant so much to her

"No," he whispered.

and to me, too

"No," he said again, louder. All the air in the world had vanished. His fingertips tingled uncontrollably and his stomach churned.

I wish you could have been able to say goodbye

"No!" Phoenix threw the letter savagely away from him. The cursed scrap of paper fluttered innocently to the ground, as though it did not contain the weight of a planet in the terrible words it contained. "No, no, no!" he screamed, falling from the bench, kneeling on the soft ground, clutching at his head and the unbearable knowledge now lodged permanently within it. "No!" He could not stop; the word tore from him in feral cries. His chest was collapsing in on itself like a dying star. "No, no, no!"

so sorry to tell you this

"Red!" Áthas yelled breathlessly, sprinting from the house upon hearing Phoenix's distress. "Oh red heart, what is it? What's happened?"

There is nothing left for me now

Áthas picked up the letter from where it lay serenely in the grass, several feet away from where Phoenix was bent over, clawing at his temples and shrieking.

and I don't know how to keep going when all I see is darkness.

She gasped, her hand flying to her mouth and tears springing to her eyes as she read the missive's short, grim contents.

Yours in sadness,
Maj. Dan Flyheight

The letter fluttered to the ground once more.

Áthas squeezed her eyes shut, struggling in vain to seal away the tears crowding there, but they stubbornly leaked down her cheeks, anyway. She took a deep breath and crouched down beside her husband. His anguished screams had metamorphosed into long, animal wails as he sobbed with a visceral force she had never seen in him before. "Come now, love," she said softly, voice shaking, as she placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Come now."

She remained there on the grass beside him for a very long time, her hand unmoving, maintaining contact, grounding him, as the moons rose and the stars began peeking out overhead and Phoenix gradually quieted.

When at last he turned his ashen, tear-stained face to her, the light that ordinarily danced so vividly in his emerald eyes was gone.