ᅠ ᅠᅠᅠ⠀ ᅠ ᅠ ᅠᅠᅠ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ 𝖉𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 ⠀is ⠀ welcomed ⠀ when ⠀comes; but ⠀never⠀will ⠀he ⠀𝖞𝒊͟𝒆͟𝒍͟𝒅. ᅠ ᅠᅠᅠ⠀ ᅠ ᅠ ᅠᅠᅠ⠀

If he could just. . . Make her spirit visible. If they could just talk, really talk. If he could just say /goodbye/. Even now he swears he can smell daffodils — "Ilona?" He whispered, picking his head out of his hands. "Are you — are you here?"

"I know you're here, I'm — I'm so sorry," Ariel whispered, looking down at his hands, even as his cheek tickled and he brought a hand up to touch it. Tears welled in his eyes and pressed his lips together. "I'm sorry you have to see me like this. I'm — I'm trying so hard,"

"I — I wish you were here," he swallowed, pressing a hand to his chest. He felt so stupid, alone in their bed, pretending every brush and tickle was his dead wife. "Oh God, I wish you were here. I wish — I wish I had told you more how much I loved you, I wish — I wish so much."

"Oh, why didn't I tell you more?" Ariel shook his head, lifting his graze, brown eyes wet and watery, to almost meet hers. "Maybe it's useless, maybe I should just give up, let you go. It's selfish to keep you here. . . It is. I know it is."

Oh, husband always has time for a kiss and squeeze. He's coming to pull her into a hug now, tucking his face against her neck.

"Oh, love, you're the cozy one," Ariel laughed, squeezing her tight before pulling back to look at her. "Hello. You're beautiful,"

// “you made my life so rich”

Ariel rolled his eyes, and his cheeks flushed. "Oh, you're just being nice," he chuckled, shifting to wrap his arms under her butt, lifting her easily. "Your eyes are so dark, and rich, and your smile. . . Nothing quite like it."

favorite thing about watching my husband work is when he picks out a thread or a fabric or a texture piece he has me come look at it. and when each bit gets put together he has me come look again.

The worst part of Novigrad is how deceptively hot it gets in the summer.

if my brother's dead, i am not alive. if i'm alive, my brother can't be dead.

grief is, perhaps, the last and final translation of love. this is the last act of loving someone. and you realize that it will never end. you get to do this, to translate this last act of love, for the rest of your life.

He's eating some slices of cheese and apple in bed.

For her, of course. It's that fancy cheese he had to splurge on because is deep down, a rich boy.

He's immediately pushing the quilts back to let her join him, leaning over for a quick kiss before passing her the plate. "Uh, the occasion is that I have very little self-control around the cheese stall at the market," he laughed, leaning back against the mound of pillows.

"Even when I sell our last pennies for a nice stinky cheese?" He laughed a little, leaning closer to rub his nose behind her ear, fingers tickling at her sides. "It is good cheese! Not the best apple, but it's winter."

“𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘪𝘴 ᴘ͟ᴏ͟ᴡ͟ᴇ͟ʀ͟, 𝘱𝘳𝘢𝘺 𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭, 𝘪𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝗳𝗿𝗲𝗲 𝘵𝘰 𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘣𝘺 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 ?” ⤥ Franz of Thwyth, mage and inventor of little fame.