In the days that followed Venti's passing, Avani sank into a deep depression. Not only had she lost her dear friend and mentor, but she also blamed herself for her death. The whole town mourned her loss, as was natural and fitting, and we four Guardians who had been her close friends for so long even more so. But none grieved as intensely as Avani.
The words of the townsfolk only added to her misery. Though kindly and well-meaning, they spoke of their loss without thought. Even Dolce and Amber, oblivious in their own grief, compounded hers with their heedless remarks. Dylas and I were the only ones who could see how much she was hurting, but Dylas, who'd never had a way with words even in the best of times, possibly made her feel worst of all.
After we found her collapsed on Venti's dais, wailing with grief, he and I took her to her room. There she had tearfully pleaded with us to leave her alone, and so we respected her wishes—though I insisted she at least have Baldur there with her. So I brought him from his enclosure to stay by his mistress's side, first popping over to my room to ask Sano and Uno to keep an unobtrusive eye on her, with instructions to notify me immediately if she had need of me at any time. When we left, she was sitting on the floor before her fireplace, her arms around her wolf, sobbing into his thick, soft fur as he whined and whimpered, licking her and nudging her shoulder with his nose. Sano and Uno sat upright in the two chairs on either side of the fireplace, their tails curled around their paws as they kept silent vigil.
The next day, Dylas and I met outside her door. She let us in, looking on the verge of collapse—as if she hadn't slept at all that night. She didn't say a word, just opened the door to let us in, then turned and stumbled slowly back to where Baldur lay curled before the fire. A quick check in with Sano confirmed that she had indeed spent a sleepless night. Dylas sighed as he looked down at her, then he knelt on the floor next to her and put his hands on her shoulders. "Listen," he said in a gentle voice, "I know it hurts. I miss her, too. But we can't just keep on moping around forever, can we? You know Venti wouldn't have wanted that, especially from you. She always loved to see you smile, same as the rest of us. So cheer up, okay? Even if you can't smile a genuine smile now, just... fake it. Eventually it'll become real."
Although it wasn't terrible advice, it was poorly timed and clumsily delivered. She burst into passionate tears again, pushing his hands away as she buried her face in Baldur's fur. "Oh, just go away, Dylas—you don't get it! You don't understand at all!" she cried, her voice muffled by her wolf's fur.
He rocked back on his heels, startled, then looked up at me. I just nodded, and he rose and left. At the door, he turned back and said, "I really am sorry, Avani. We'll all miss her... but we miss your smile, too, you know." Then he left.
I went and sat on the floor next to her and just sat stroking her hair wordlessly, letting her have her cry. Once her tears finally abated, I continued stroking her hair, saying as gently as possible, "It's okay, My Lady. You've every right to cry. Take as long as you need. I know how much Venti meant to you, and how much you meant to her, as well. I think she thought more of you than anyone else in her whole life. I believe Dylas was right in that she wouldn't want you to suffer on her account... but I think she'd understand, too—and I also think she'd be glad to know that you loved her so much. Don't worry about what others think or say or do—no one can tell you what you should or shouldn't feel. Just be yourself, and do things in your own time and your own way. And remember that your friends are here for you—that I'm here for you."
She sat up, though she avoided my gaze, and nodded as she scooted a little closer and leaned her head against my shoulder. I wrapped my arm around her shoulders and gave her a gentle squeeze, then kissed the top of her head. After a few minutes, she began to droop, and soon she was fast asleep, still leaning against me. I waited a few minutes before I carefully slipped away and stood, then I lifted her up and carried her to her bed. Setting her down gently, I pulled a blanket over her, drew her curtains, called Baldur over to lie on the floor next to her, and asked Sano and Uno to continue to keep watch over her. Then I quietly left to ask Volkanon to be sure she wasn't disturbed and to ask Vishnal and Clorica to see to her farm chores. After that, I quickly went to my rooms and picked up my translation work, then returned to her rooms to spend the day quietly reading and translating while keeping an eye on her as she slept.
After she awoke, I prepared some grilled shrimp for her and served it along with a slice of Volkanon's special chocolate cake that he'd brought for her earlier. She mostly just picked at her food, but she did at least eat a little of it. After that, she went to her storeroom, returning with her gear in her arms. She dropped it on the floor and looked at me. In a small voice, still hoarse from crying, she said, "I'm going to go do some fighting." I set my book aside and stood, saying, "May I come with you, My Lady?" She hesitated, then nodded, and I fetched my gear.
When she donned her gear, I was surprised to see that she had neither her dual swords nor her longsword—only a pair of Dylas's old gloves, well-worn but still usable. "My Lady?" I said, looking at her questioningly as she slipped them on and tightened them—they were far too large for her petite hands and needed a significant adjustment to the laces just to keep them from sliding off.
She looked up at me, her face expressionless and her eyes dull, and just shrugged. "I thought I'd branch out a little," was all the explanation she offered. She also went light on the armor, wearing only her new breastplate over her clothing. A few minutes later, we were heading to the airship.
I'd hoped that, given how lightly equipped she was and that she was using a less-familiar fighting style, that she'd pick someplace relatively easy. So I felt uneasy when she asked the pilot to set a course for the floating fortress. Although soldiers had been dispatched to take control of the islands, they had not been very successful, and bands of monsters still roamed the platforms. These monsters were powerful, far more powerful than I felt was wise under the circumstances. Still, I held my tongue, intending instead to provide all the backup I could for her. After all, my own guilt still rankled fresh in my mind, leaving me feeling as though it wasn't my place to pick her fights, as well as possibly hoping, albeit subconsciously, for the opportunity to expiate some of my shame.
As a priest, I had heard my fair share of confessions and confidences and helped many a grieving soul. However, I had experienced very little in the way of grief personally, nor had I ever been called up to assist a loved one suffering from the guilt of the survivor. My personal experiences were of little use to me—only my knowledge of human nature was of any relevance. Some people, I had learned, responded to the pain of loss with anger, others tried to numb it with alcohol or other substances. Still others turned from their sorrow by celebrating the life of those they had lost—especially with fond memories or with continuing some work or hobby that was important to them. And a common response to death was the urge to reaffirm life by finding solace in the arms of another.
Avani fell into none of these groups. It appeared that she chose to deal with Venti's passage by grimly staring Death in the face at every opportunity—as if daring him to come and take her, too. She fought coldly, ruthlessly... and to my alarm, recklessly. Had she been alone, she no doubt would have been in sorry shape, if she survived at all. Nevertheless, I admired her skill—despite wearing so little armor and using unfamiliar, inferior weaponry, she was like an angel of death herself, and she left a trail of devastation wherever she set foot.
This pattern continued for a few weeks. It took its toll on her—and on me, too, to be frank. She wanted nothing but to fight—she ate only when food was pushed at her, bathed only when I half-dragged her to the bathhouse, slept only when she was no longer able to stand. After the first week, she allowed no one to come near her but me—not even Dylas. And while she accepted my presence, even in her bed, she turned away from even the faintest suggestion of intimacy, shrinking from my embrace, brushing my hand aside if I reached out to her, turning her back to me when we lay in bed.
After three weeks, she had grown haggard and thin, though more muscular due to her recent surfeit of combat. And while she no longer wept, she seemed almost devoid of emotion altogether, as if all sensibility had been sealed away and she was becoming more mechanical than human. Clorica and Vishnal now did all her farm work for her, having been granted special dispensation to do so by Volkanon while Avani struggled with her overwhelming grief. So she rose early, ate if I gave her food—though even then only lightly—suited up in little, or at times, even no armor, and headed out to fight for the day. She fought until she was on the verge of collapse, stopping to rest or eat only at my insistence.
Due to her affection for us, Lin kindly gave me special permission to use the baths any hour of the day for the time being, so when we returned to town, I'd walk her to her rooms to drop off our equipment and get clean clothing—often just our pajamas and robes if the weather was warm and dry, since by that time everyone else was already asleep anyway—then I'd lead her to the baths. At first, I just left her to manage on her own, but I quickly discovered that she didn't really bathe, then. At most, she'd give her hair a quick rinse, perhaps splash her face with water. So, since there was no chance of interruption so late in the night, I began bringing her into the men's baths with me, so that I could be sure she washed properly and had a soak to ease her aching muscles. She tolerated my assistance, but neither did she request it.
Afterwards, I would tuck her into bed and then lay staring into the darkness, still and silent by her side, wondering how in the name of the Native Dragons I was going to help her through this. My own former worries and fears about the final battle against Ethelberd—how I'd taken Dylas and fled, leaving her to face him alone—had long since receded in the face of graver concerns.
Finally, as the one-season anniversary of Ethelberd's defeat and Venti's death approached, I decided that things couldn't go on as they were much longer. Not only was I worried sick about Avani, but Dylas and all the other townsfolk were deeply concerned, too. After the initial shock wore off, they had realized that their wistful remarks were, to Avani, as a twist of the knife blade in her heart. Afterwards, they refrained from their reminiscences and instead attempted to cheer her. But again, few comprehended the strength of the bond between the two. Even if their words caused less pain, they also brought no comfort, and she withdrew from them, holding her pain close within herself. Distressed by her decline, everyone endeavored to find a way to rouse her from her numbing grief. So with the help of the townspeople, I devised a plan.
On the day of the anniversary of both her victory and her loss, I refused to allow her to leave town, as had become customary for her. I reminded her that, for the past season, the butlers had been doing all her work for her. Then I told her no one was available to assist her that morning, so she would have to do her work herself. She allowed me to pull her out the door and to her fields, where I guided her through her chores. She had all but forgotten what to do, so at first she was slow and clumsy. But once again her limbs recalled what her mind had forgotten, and by the time she reached the last of her fields, she was moving with far greater ease and efficiency—though not yet back to her full capability.
Next, I walked her through her barns. She had expanded her first barn to its maximum size, and it now held five rooms with a total of twenty monsters. In addition, she had built a second barn and expanded it to two rooms, holding an additional six monsters. I handed her grooming brush to her and pushed her towards her eager, gentle woolies as they bleated and crowded in close to her, trembling with delight to see her after so long an absence. I continued on with her, taking her through each room and watching as she groomed each creature. At first she only brushed them—a brief, bare-bones grooming. By the third room, she was speaking a few words to each monster as she groomed it. Before she reached the last room, where she kept Baldur and her golden Hunter wolf, Fenrir, she was not merely talking to each as she groomed them, but petting them as well.
But it was when she beheld Baldur that it finally began to sink in. He was so utterly ecstatic to see her, whining and quivering as his tail thumped the ground hard enough to create tiny whirlwinds. He hadn't seen her since the night Venti died, and he'd missed her sorely. He was her especial, adored pet, and in some slight way, she was to the intelligent beast what Venti had been to her—a mentor, a companion, and a beloved friend.
When she saw him standing before her, so unequivocally overjoyed to see her, without a trace of reproach or hurt dimming the adoration in his cobalt eyes, she suddenly recalled how long she'd neglected him—neglected everything and everyone—and broke down in tears as she threw her arms around his neck and wept for the first time in nearly three weeks. Not the heartbroken, abandoned howls that had racked her night and day for the first day or so, but cleansing, healing tears. I felt then that all would be well... but I had yet to make certain.
After her chores were done, I took her to the baths for a long soak. I couldn't help her at that hour, of course, as there were other patrons coming and going. But I asked Xiao to keep an eye on her and help her if she needed it—and to be sure she got really clean. It turned out that she did fine on her own this time, and on the way back to her rooms afterwards, she even shyly took my hand and leaned slightly against my arm as we walked. I felt my heart leap into my throat and a haze of moisture clouded my vision momentarily, but I only smiled merrily at her as we turned down the steps to her gardens.
Back in her rooms, I selected an outfit for her that I knew she especially liked and that was flattering on her: a sundress in a pretty lilac floral print that brought out the soft green of her eyes. The style was very forgiving to her altered appearance—her sinewy limbs and gaunt figure were softened by the softly clinging fabric of the gown. I then called for Clorica, who happily combed Avani's still-damp hair and twisted it into an elaborate braid interwoven with fresh summer blooms. When she was done, she departed with a sunny smile in acknowledgement of Avani's timid thanks. I handed some heavy walking shoes to her, and was thrilled when she gave me a mildly reproachful look and put them back, picking up a pair of light sandals instead. It felt wonderful to see her show some interest in herself again.
"Well, then, My Lady. I think it's high time I treat you to lunch. How long has it been since we've been on a date? Far too long, anyway. So let's get a move on—the lunch rush should be starting shortly." She looked surprised, not to mention hesitant, but after a pause, she nodded agreement. She had spoken hardly a word, other than while grooming her monsters, but I didn't mind. She was slowly emerging from her shell at long last, and that was all that mattered.
We arrived at the restaurant, and I opened the door and hurried her on in. Once inside, she stopped stock still, staring. The entire town was there, cheering and exclaiming in joy at her arrival. Tables were laden with food and drink, and two massive cakes were displayed at the front counter: one decorated to depict a triumphant Avani, the other with Venti's visage. Since her feet appeared to have rooted to the ground, the people of Selphia instead came to her, each hugging her, expressing their gratitude for her victory, and remembering some little anecdote or other about her as well as about Venti. She stood virtually motionless, returning hugs and listening as if on auto-pilot.
Dylas waited until last. His hug was longer and more heart-felt than any of the others, and there were tears in his eyes as he spoke to her. He leaned down to give her a little kiss, and for once, she didn't turn her back to him or push him away. When he left, she turned to look at me, and tears shone in her eyes, too, reflecting pain and grief and joy and gratitude all at once. She opened her mouth to speak, but the words caught in her throat, and she turned and bolted through the door.
I'd suspected that would happen, and so I'd warned Margaret and Dylas of the possibility in advance while we planned this event. I chased after her as she fled towards her room, taking the longer route through town in her heedless flight. Back in her rooms, she turned to me and threw her arms around my neck, sobbing. I lifted her up and carried her to her sofa, then I sat down with her and let her cry. Once she had quieted a little, I explained that everyone had wanted to have a celebration for her as well as a memorial of sorts for Venti. I told her how everyone had been so worried for her—how deeply everyone cared for her and wanted her to be happy again.
She shook her head as she buried her face in my chest. "No... no, you don't understand. It's all my fault—I couldn't save her. I tried—I tried so hard, Leo. But my best... my best wasn't good enough. Even with everyone's help, I still couldn't save her. She's gone, and it's my fault she's gone, and everyone blames me for it. I know they do—I heard the things they said afterwards."
I cradled her face in my hands and looked into her eyes. "No, My Lady. You heard the words, but the meanings escaped you. No one—not one single person—blames you for Venti's death. Look at me, dear heart—I speak to you now not as your friend, though I am that, nor as your lover, though I am most certainly that as well. I speak to you now as a priest—Venti's priest, at that. Listen to me. Venti did exactly as she wanted to do. She was fully aware of the risk she took, but she chose to take it anyway. Not because she felt compelled, not even just to save you—though for that, too. She did it because it was what she wanted to do—because she was tired of sitting by and letting everyone do things for her, as she had done all her life. Because she wanted to know the exhilaration of risking everything for those she loved—for all of us—even if it cost her dearly. She had tired of the safe, sheltered life she'd always led. You aren't responsible for her death, you're responsible for the one chance of living that she was able to reach out and grasp. You didn't kill her—you set her free."
She broke down then, much as she had that morning when she saw Baldur. I sat and stroked her hair and her cheek and rubbed her back as she sobbed. When her weeping subsided, I leaned down and very gently kissed her. Somewhat to my surprise, she responded hungrily—finally awakening in my arms after so many weeks. And so we joined in a celebration and affirmation of both life and living in the time-honored fashion: embraced in each other's arms.
It was more than two hours later that we rejoined the party, and when we walked in, I could see relief in everyone's eyes as they turned to us and beheld her changed demeanor. This time, she went and greeted each villager in person, mingling and laughing as of old, and again her eyes sparkled—though there were new traces of both wisdom and pain contained within their celadon depths—and again her smile dazzled—though there was now a hint of bittersweetness in the corners of her mouth. And when she laughed, her laugh was no longer as the tinkling of a carefree, babbling brook, but more the melodious murmuring of a river that has endured the storms and prevailed. Like such a river, Avani was a survivor—and I knew now that she was going to be just fine.