Disclaimer: Don't sue. Really.

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He finds a shirt of hers and falls to his knees; it still smells of the spiced soap she used to wash the stains of battle from her skin. His hands clutch it to his chest, the fabric wrapped around his calloused fingers, soothing his palms. He doesn't know how to stand, or to breathe, or doing anything without her. So he continues to weep until his throat goes hoarse. The carpet under his back scratches his skin until it chafes, stinging and red, the snow taps at the window with a biting cold and a small lying voice. But it all goes unnoticed to the soft cotton entwined in his hands.

It doesn't soothe him to think that the world she now rests in is is better than this one. All he can think about is the lack of violet in his life, and that he will never again look into the sharp, deer-like eyes that seemed purple in the right kind of light. No more all-seeing stares or candid truths to slip from her pretty mouth, no one to upstage the wind. Knowing that the best place she could possibly be is in his arms, he carries himself, heavy with loss, to his bed and blinks solemnly at the emptiness of it.

And the worst part is that he can't blame himself. No one can be saved from what they cannot be protected from. Just a like a ticking clock, like a rusty old grandfather clock whose every tick is one closer to the last. One with ornate hands and a clear, booming chime.

She doesn't come to him him in a dream, even though he sleeps as if he hasn't in years.

He misses the sound of her voice.