The Morning After

Estaria’s eyes fluttered open, his body tensing in anticipation of the familiar morning assault of grief. His muscles tightened, bracing for the wave of pain that had become as routine as breathing. But the wave never came.

Sunlight filtered through the forest canopy above, creating shifting patterns on his face. A mild ache settled in his chest as thoughts of Angel drifted through his mind, but it felt different - manageable, contained. He lay there, Sentinel’s steady presence still behind him, and deliberately brought Angel into focus in his thoughts.

The memory surfaced with surprising gentleness: Angel darting through the apple trees, auburn hair ablaze in the afternoon light. “Hey, Est!” she called, her voice light as wind through leaves. A small smile tugged at his lips as he remembered how that nickname had grated on his nerves. The familiar ache bloomed in his chest, but alongside it came something he’d almost forgotten - joy. Pure, simple joy at remembering her laugh, the way her eyes crinkled at the corners when she teased him.

His breath caught, waiting for the usual flood of overwhelming memories to crash over him. But they didn’t come. Each recollection remained distinct, contained, like turning pages in a beloved book rather than drowning in an ocean of loss.

He reached for another memory: Angel teaching Clara how to braid hair, her fingers moving with practiced grace while the little girl squirmed impatiently. The scene played out in his mind with remarkable clarity, bringing both the expected twinge of sadness and a warm fondness he hadn’t felt in so long.

Another memory arose: Angel covered in flour after a baking mishap, laughing so hard she had to lean against the kitchen wall. The sound of her laughter echoed in his mind, clear and true. His chest tightened, but not with the crushing weight he’d grown accustomed to. Instead, the feeling was bittersweet, like savoring the last bite of a favorite meal.

The dried tears on his face cracked as he smiled, really smiled, for the first time in what felt like ages. He wanted to stay there, floating through these newly accessible memories, experiencing them as the treasures they were rather than the weapons they’d become. He wanted to spend hours rediscovering every moment, every smile, every touch that made up their life together.

A loud growl from his stomach interrupted his reverie. His body, reminded of its basic needs after the emotional purge, demanded attention. For once, the interruption sparked irritation not because he needed to suppress his feelings, but because he wanted to stay with them longer, to explore this new landscape where memories of Angel brought both pain and pleasure in manageable measures.

His throat felt raw, his eyes puffy and tender from what might have been days of crying. His clothes were stiff with dried sweat and dirt. Physical discomfort made itself known in various ways - muscles stiff from maintaining one position too long, joints creaking in protest. But these physical complaints felt distant, secondary to the remarkable emotional shift he was experiencing.

Another stomach growl, more insistent than the first, pulled an exasperated sigh from his parched throat. His body’s demands couldn’t be ignored forever, no matter how much he wished to remain in this moment of discovery. The simple act of breathing no longer felt like fighting against a crushing weight. The air moved freely in and out of his lungs, carrying with it the rich scents of the forest - earth and green things and morning dew.

Estaria turned his head to find Sentinel’s intense gaze fixed upon him. The moment their eyes met, a visible relaxation rippled through the wooden guardian’s form, like a breeze through autumn leaves. The creature’s bark-like skin softened, its rigid posture easing.

Reaching up, Estaria scratched behind Sentinel’s ears, earning what could only be described as a long-suffering tilt of the head. The gesture, meant to convey dignified tolerance, was betrayed by the slight lean into Estaria’s touch. Yellow eyes half-closed in contentment despite the creature’s best efforts to maintain its stoic demeanor.

Near the obsidian obelisk lay a freshly killed boar, its size promising a feast. The sight stirred memories of harvest celebrations, and Estaria found himself chuckling as he gathered dry wood for a fire. His hands moved with practiced efficiency, muscle memory taking over as he cleaned and prepared the meat.

“You know, Angel once tried to catch a pig that got loose in old Thomson’s yard,” Estaria said to Sentinel, who settled nearby with attentive ears. “She had this brilliant idea to corner it with apple slices.” His knife worked steadily as he spoke, separating meat from bone. “Instead, she ended up face-first in the mud, and the pig ate all the apples anyway.”

The memory bubbled up fresh laughter, genuine and unreserved. Sentinel’s head tilted, yellow eyes tracking Estaria’s movements as he worked.

“Oh! And there was this time during the spring festival…” Estaria paused to arrange meat over the crackling fire. “Angel convinced Beth that the cream pies were actually cloud pieces that had fallen from the sky.” He grinned, turning a piece of meat. “Beth spent the whole afternoon trying to figure out how to send them back up.”

The forest air filled with the rich aroma of roasting pork. Estaria found himself gesturing with a half-eaten piece of meat as he launched into another tale. “Then there was the time we were supposed to be picking apples, but Angel found this family of rabbits…” Mid-sentence, a particularly vivid detail struck him as funny, and he burst out laughing. Bits of food sprayed from his mouth as he doubled over, falling backward onto the forest floor.

Sentinel made a sound somewhere between a click and a snort, watching Estaria roll with laughter. The guardian’s usual stern demeanor cracked just slightly, tail tapping against the ground in what might have been amusement.

“Sorry, sorry,” Estaria gasped, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. He sat up, brushing leaves from his hair. “But you should have seen her face when the mother rabbit started chasing her! She climbed that apple tree so fast, she forgot she was afraid of heights until she got to the top.”

The fire popped and crackled, sending sparks dancing into the air as Estaria continued preparing their feast. His hands stayed busy, but his voice carried story after story into the forest air. Tales of Angel’s failed attempts at baking, her surprising talent for mimicking bird calls, the time she convinced Clara that trees only grew at night when no one was watching.

Each memory emerged clear and bright, like freshly polished silver. The pain of loss still lingered at their edges, but it no longer threatened to overwhelm the joy at their center. Estaria found himself savoring details he’d forgotten: the way Angel’s nose crinkled when she laughed too hard, how she’d hum off-key while working, the precise shade of auburn her hair turned in morning light.

Sentinel remained an attentive audience, responding with subtle shifts in posture and occasional sounds that suggested understanding, if not quite laughter. The wooden guardian’s presence provided a steady anchor as Estaria navigated this new way of remembering, where grief and joy could coexist without threatening to tear him apart.

Estaria surveyed his filthy state with newfound clarity. Days of emotional turmoil had left their mark - dried sweat crusted his clothes, dirt caked his skin, and his hair had become a tangled mess that would have made Angel laugh.

“I can’t meet Streacresh looking like I crawled out of a compost heap,” he muttered.

Sentinel led him to a clear stream where the water ran deep enough for washing. The guardian positioned itself uphill, yellow eyes scanning the forest while Estaria stripped off his grimy clothes.

The cold water shocked his system as he waded in. He ducked under, scrubbing at his scalp and face. When he surfaced, gasping, the water around him had turned a murky brown. Moving to a cleaner spot, he worked methodically to remove the layers of dirt and dried sweat from his skin.

His clothes proved a greater challenge. He laid them flat on sun-warmed rocks, using handfuls of sand to scrub at the worst stains. The fabric resisted his efforts, but gradually began to resemble clothing rather than discarded rags.

“Never was much good at this,” he said, wrestling with a particularly stubborn spot. “Angel always said I’d wear leaves if she didn’t help with the laundry.” The memory brought a smile instead of tears.

The afternoon sun dried his clothes while he worked at untangling his hair with his fingers. Each pull and snag reminded him of the times Angel had tried to tame it, usually giving up with an exasperated laugh.

“You look like you’ve been dragged backward through a thornbush,” she’d say, tossing the comb aside in defeat.

As the day waned, Estaria donned his now-cleanish clothes, appreciating how the fabric no longer scratched against his skin. He arranged his few possessions carefully in his pack, taking time to ensure everything was in its proper place.

That night, he made camp near the obelisk one final time. The familiar routines felt different - gathering wood, starting the fire, preparing a simple meal. Each task carried a sense of completion, of closing one chapter before beginning another.

“Quite a change from when we first met,” he told Sentinel as they shared the evening meal. The guardian responded with a gentle tap of claws against bark, a sound Estaria had come to recognize as agreement.

Sleep came easily, without the usual struggle against memories and grief. His dreams were peaceful, filled with apple blossoms and Angel’s laughter, neither bringing pain nor forcing him awake.

Morning light filtered through the canopy, painting patterns on his face. Estaria opened his eyes, immediately aware of how refreshed he felt. His body moved easily, free from the tension that had become so familiar he’d stopped noticing it.

He packed his bedroll with care, smoothing out the wrinkles before securing it to his pack. A quick breakfast of dried meat and forest berries satisfied his hunger. He checked his appearance one final time in the stream’s reflection - clean clothes, untangled hair, clear eyes looking back at him.

Sentinel watched with what seemed like approval as Estaria straightened his shirt and adjusted his pack straps. The guardian’s usual stoic demeanor softened slightly, yellow eyes and posture holding a glimmer of what might have been pride.

Walking to the obsidian obelisk, Estaria ran his fingers over its smooth surface. The stone felt warm beneath his touch, alive with memories both painful and precious. He thought of all it had shown him - not just about Angel, but about himself.

“Thank you,” he said simply, his voice clear and steady. The words carried the weight of genuine gratitude, acknowledging both the pain and healing the obelisk had facilitated.

Sentinel moved to stand beside him, its wooden form casting long shadows in the morning light. Estaria took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the forest air. He turned away from the obelisk, squared his shoulders, and faced the direction they needed to travel.