A/N: Another writer's block-breaking story. . . just something I had to get out of my head and onto paper, no matter what the quality.
Vi Hen Hith
Day has ended, dim my eyes,
but journey long before me lies. . .
Atrus paused a moment, staring out over the expanse of sea. The day had just barely begun, the rising sun reflecting against the smooth waters. He saw it slowly light up the tops of the trees, light filtering through the branches to rest on his weary face, bathing him in warmth. It was going to be a beautiful day.
He wished it was raining.
Atrus pushed the spade back into the ground again, lifting yet more dirt to add to the growing pile behind him. He had been working like this for days now . . . today was the last day. The last day. . .
He tried to concentrate on his task, mind focusing on one shovel of earth at a time. Each time, he felt as though it was growing heavier, harder to do. His tired muscles protested against the strain, but he continued on, trying not to think. He didn't want to think. . . didn't want to remember. His eyes, however, strayed to the simple stones that stood at the head of each pit. He paused in his digging, looking sadly upon the one stood guard over the already completed hole.
Achenar
Son of Atrus and Catherine
9432-9482
Light From Darkness
Carry You Home
"Achenar . . ." he whispered, "the end of the river. . . I thought you beyond hope, my son. But you saved my daughter. . . my precious Yeesha. . . and I never had the chance to thank you, or even really speak with you properly. . . I was too late."
Atrus turn his head to the other stone at the head of the unfinished grave.
Sirrus
Son of Atrus and Catherine
9435-9482
Darkness From Light
Open the Door
"Sirrus . . . I do not know what to say to you . . . I feel that I should be angry with you, hate you. . . but I cannot. I do not hate you. I wish . . . I wish things had been different . . . I wish that I could move the pieces of the chess set, see the wonders of Spire, read your journals without . . ."
Here he broke off, chocking back a sob, returning to his work.
It took all the rest of the day to finish the graves, to lower in the coffins, to bury them. With each shovel, memories of the past trickled through Atrus' mind like water, there and gone again. The good, the bad, it didn't matter. They were memories . . . memories of the sons he lost, his children.
He knelt on the ground between the stones, putting a hand on each one. The final memory. . . the final page. He remembered they day they were born. . . how beautiful the world had been, full of promise and hope, away from the past. He held his sons in his arms, watching them sleep, seeing them smile only for him. . . only for him. . .
"No parent should have to bury their child," he whispered.
Atrus cried.
And the first raindrop fell on Myst Island.