[PRP] He's Gone [Tristan x Blind Love]

[Nym]

He knew what he was doing was selfish. Of course it was -- there was no way he could convince himself otherwise. Sure, he really meant it when he said he wanted the best for her, but also it was killing him. He couldn't watch it anymore. She hadn't asked him to, either -- this was a self inflicted torture -- but, Tristan needed to do something. No, wrong, there he went again, acting as if his behavior was righteous. No; he didn't want to watch it anymore, and he refused to take the simple solution of just walking away. It'd be easier, sure, and perhaps more honorable, but...​

​

But he had never felt this way before. It had nothing to do with her, did it? It was about her, and directed to her, but she herself had never asked him to feel the way he did. He doubted she had ever even looked at him that way. She was so in-love with a ghost of a man she'd never see again, and it tore him apart knowing this. Knowing she'd wait forever until her final breath if nothing changed -- if no one told her. She had to know, deep down, that her misery would never find relief. At least not the relief she wanted. Was she in denial? No -- she had said it so many times with that look, that god damn look that tore his heart apart. She believed it, truthfully. Every fucking time she said it to him she believed it. ​

​

And he did too, at first. 'He'll come back", she had told him. Tristan couldn't imagine not, after all. She was so damn perfect, after all. So beautiful, so smart, so.... her. He'd come back, he swore. If he was that man he'd come back to her a thousand times. The days ticked, turning into months and then years, and then Tristan realized what he had known from the second she told him what her husband did; he wasn't coming back. The poor fuck was either dead or lost. Tristan knew how it went. His father had also been in the Royal Guard, and day he didn't come back. Left behind a beautiful wife and a single son. Left his wife to rot until her addictions took her and his son to grow up alone, for no one wanted an orphaned teenager with anger problems. ​

​

He found it ironic how in the end he fell in-love with someone just like his mother. What was that saying, anyway? You seek out what you see in your parents? He had rejected it, at first, like he did most good things. He didn't love the bleeding heart Alicorn, swallowed by her grief. It was cliché and familiar -- he hated it. It reminded him of the nights his mother stayed up, sobbing into her claws as the bottle rolled by his feet. The shallow grave dug by a poor town who had given up on her long ago. The cold night when he wished for her to come back. Just fucking come back. His dad had left, his mother had withered, and he was alone.​

​

So, when he found himself watching her longer than necessary he cursed himself. She was everything he didn't need; emotionally unavailable, married, and oblivious. At first it was easy to replace his feelings with anger, but it was just a band aid. It wasn't real, in the end, and he knew it the night he screamed at her and she just apologized. "I didn't mean to startle you," she had said, taking the blame for his irrational temper and never once seeking out an apology from him. He hated himself that night, hated himself for yelling at her just because she had asked for a book. Just because he couldn't stand the fact that when he saw her his heart skipped. He swore never to hurt her again after that, and he had kept that promise. They became friends, good friends, too. ​

​

Yet here he was, hurting her again.​

​

He stood at her door, cradling the books she had so kindly requested. The books about love and romance and all that gross shit. Probably her own form of medication -- read about what she once had. He tightened his grip on them, wings fluttering nervously behind him as he heard her footsteps. He could leave right now -- leave and say he was sick or something. Lie to her. He didn't, though, instead standing there like some sort of idiot as the door opened and, again, his heart ached,​

​

Fuck, she was beautiful. ​

 

[Nym]

It was killing her. She knew that -- she wasn't dumb. Not in that sense, at least. Her heart was slowly withering with each day, caving in on itself as she patched together clients relationships or began new ones. She always helped -- always ensured anyone who sought her out ended up with a happy story. It was her job, and she had thrown herself into it. It was always her passion, but now? Now it was something else; a way to cope, something to keep her going, and perhaps a punishment. ​

​

She had married Just Lance promising to never leave his side. Promising every ounce of her until there was nothing left. She had meant it, too, and still did. Maybe it was a bit unhealthy, she was the Alicorn of Relationships for crying out loud. How many times had she told other ponies to not lose themselves in others? That relationships were about give and take, and respecting yourself? But, she loved him, and still did, and she was willing to give everything she had to him.​

​

And she did. She loved him more than the world and he loved her too. They wanted kids and a family. Together, of course. He was the knight in shining armor, literally, and he had saved her countless times. Even when she didn't need it. He forgave, too, as he had forgiven the Changelings the time they kidnapped her. Maybe he never understood why she easily forgave them and even offered her love and support to the first hive founded, but he backed her up. Because that was him -- a perfect husband who always had her back.​

​

She knew his job was dangerous, but if she was honest with herself a part of her liked that. She wasn't immune from finding the idea of her personal knight being romantic. It was, wasn't it? He'd save her countless times, like she was a princess, and who didn't want to be a princess? It was like one of her romance books, but all hers and hers alone. That meant, though, to be a knight he had to serve the Queens, and often he was sent on dangerous mission after mission. He always came back, though, whether it took days, weeks, or months. He promised her he'd always return, and he had never broken that promise.​

​

When she married him she swore to trust him. To be his and he hers. To always have faith in him. She took that to heart -- so she trusted. He'd come home. He'd come home. Even as days turned into weeks and then months she waited, because that's what they did. He'd vanish and she'd wait. But the months continued, and doubt began to form. Was he coming home? Of course he was! She deserved the months for even considering otherwise! ​

​

And then it turned into years.​

​

She deserved the torture -- she hadn't trusted in him. She waited, and slowly time became a dagger, tearing into her sides and clawing at her heart as needles formed with each breath. As each client walked home happy, or found their beloved. As a family waked by her office with little hooves in tow. As her employees married and gave birth. It began to kill her.​

​

So she began to read. Anything to pass the time, really. Read and work. That's when she met Tristan; the tall librarian with a cold gaze. It was just how he looked, she learned -- he was actually a kind man. Their friendship began rocky at first, although she chalked it up to herself. She could be annoying, after all. It hadn't surprised her when he eventually snapped. She had always needed him, always lost in a mountain of books. Maybe if she had actually taken the time to learn the layout of the library instead of relying on him he wouldn't have gotten so upset, but regardless it ended up okay. They became friends, and his friendship was....​

​

She wasn't sure the end to that sentence. He was kind. So unlike any she had befriended before in how his voice never left that monotonous boom, or how his face rarely showed his feelings, but it made when he actually looked happy much more rewarding. She enjoyed it, and enjoyed finding the ways to make his face brighten. He seemed to do that more when the home visits began, where he offered her personal reviews on books in exchange for some baked good she had too much of. ​

​

It was nice, honestly, to have someone else in the house again. Someone using her cups and plates, or asking to borrow a blanket. Just not his blanket --the teal one with little with stars she had knit. Or his mug -- the golden one she had found at a flea market. Those were hidden away, as if kept a precious secret that couldn't be sullied by someone else touching them. They were his, and the last things she had to feel close to him.​

​

He was coming again for their weekend visit, where he'd slide forth another book meeting her current interests and she'd hand him a basket of goods. They'd exchange aimless chit chat and she'd offer a drink, to which he'd refuse, and then eventually he'd leave. Sometimes he stayed, and those moments felt different. She found herself hoping he'd stick around more often, for it felt less cold in the house when he did. She hoped, perhaps, he'd stay today, although lately he hadn't. Something had seemed wrong the past few visits, as if something was at the edge of his mouth. Something tight, that he fiddled with nervously throughout their evenings. She was afraid to ask what it was, worried it'd ruin the magic of their weekends. A part of her hoped it'd just go away, and they'd return to normal. The other part of her knew something was wrong.​

​

She was truthfully grateful for the sound of his knocking. It had grown quiet once more and he had arrived just on time. Could he hear how eagerly she ran to the door? She hoped not. The door flung open by her own hooves, revealing the large man. Larger than herself, that's for sure. Just like--​

​

"Good evening," she greeted warmly, noting his tightened mouth. It was back. "Come in, it's cold, isn't it?"​

​

"Yes," he agreed amicably, gratefully nodding as she stepped aside from him to enter. Cold radiated off him as he passed her, and for a moment Blind Love felt herself want to throw her nearest blanket on him. He set the books down gently on her entry table, carefully brushing his hooves off on the mat. ​

​

She resisted the urge to peer at the books. He liked revealing them himself. Shutting the door, Blind Love scurried past him and towards the oven, exhaling an excited sigh. "I think you'll like this one, it's almost done!"​