A Hundred Black Roses (AU II -Ciaran POV - 2020)

Black roses... hundreds of them, or was it just because he'd been drinking. He blinked. Yeah, there were only twelve. Twelve black roses with black ribbon. They'd been red when he brought them home... they'd died from lack of water, lack of care. It seemed fitting. They were the only thing around him from the funeral. Her funeral.

He tipped the flask of whiskey back, ignoring the sharp taste and the burning ache it left down his throat. Along with the fuzzy confusion it would give his mind and stomach. He didn't need the whiskey... he was stronger than that. Again he tipped it back.

"Where is the baby?" He's imagined the question, no one was here with him. She was gone and with her, so had every good thing vanished. The baby... what baby? Someone thought it was a perverted joke to come to him like this and bring up an infant. A soft hand touched his shoulder and he looked up. He didn't need to see her to know who it was. Who else would come to try to drag him out of the pit he'd dug? "Where is the baby?" The voice was too soft... too caring... too gentle. He'd prefer she yell at him, strike him, demand an answer and damn him if he remained silent. The repeats... soft and disturbing calm were too much. He moved to sip from the flask again. The hand stopped him, cold fingers curling around his wrist.

"Don't."

The cold reminded him of her... even though she'd always been warm. Warm, full of life and gentle. That smile tugging at her lips even as her eyes sparkled with something not quite mischievous and yet slightly rebellious. No... it reminded him that when he'd last touched her... she'd been cold. Her eyes. His own closed, he wouldn't think of her eyes. They haunted him... empty, lifeless and without the fire that had made her so beautiful. Dead. They had been dead.

He couldn't remember when the first tear leaked from his eyes, or if the sobs had immediately followed or had been a slow gradual leak. No memory of the floor meeting his knees as he fell or the flask dropping to clank on the tile. Only the sudden inability to hold it within himself. The last grain of strength used and forgotten. She was gone and the whiskey was not going to dull the pain... it couldn't take her place or bring her back.

He doesn't know what is keeping him from falling completely. It can't be a chair, it's too soft, but then again, it's not a person... it can't be, no one else is there. But the cold fingers are now rubbing soothing circles on his back and his tears, he sees them now... they have made a wet patch on the grey of her robes. She doesn't ask where the baby is again, merely pulling him to his feet, her strength surprising and yet also familiar. He used to be afraid of her; she's powerful after all. Green eyes are sharp enough to cut steel and she does not hesitate to use them as the weapons they are. But now, she's settling him into the couch. Her eyes are soft, not that he looks at them, he just know they are. She's like Kiara... but so different. Like mother like daughter, some might say.

"Rest..." she's speaking in Gaelic and he feels some small amount of comfort from it. She hasn't asked why he's sitting drinking in the centre of his house with his sons forgotten and the acrid smell of the cigarettes piled in the plate on the table. He hasn't smoked in years and yet now, he's finished a pack. He wants her to ask... to feel her anger for the negligence he's guilty of. He doesn't want the soft pillow under his pillow, her assurance just to rest. He wants the whiskey back and the blind grief it allows. He wants... he needs... she banishes those thoughts by smoothing his hair back from his face. He's shaved his beard away, always imagining Kiara's laughing face as her fingers dragged through it.

"Why are ya here?" Now he's asking, now he's talking. How long has it been since the funeral? He finds it odd that he can't remember. "You shouldn't be..." She ignores him; something she does best. He's left alone in the room as she goes to find the baby. Now he hears the soft wails echoing through the house. His son... Kiara's son... their child. He moves to rise to his feet, staggering as the room spins. That's what happens when you sit too long, he ignores the fact that it's more than that. His stomach heaves, but he won't allow the weakness. The baby is still crying, even if its only in his mind.

The steps hate him, nearly pitching him on more than one occasion, but somehow he makes it to the top. Somehow he makes it to the room. Kiara decorated it so well... preparing it for their stork, their little bundle. He smiles at the memory, seeing Kiara standing over the crib, beaming over the tiny baby. He blinks and she isn't there. Instead, its Eglantine and she isn't smiling. The baby is quiet, its little hand balled as a fist as it punches the air.
"Why?" he asked, not even sure why he said the word. Why did Kiara die? Why could he not bear it? Why did the world suddenly hate him so intensely? Why...why...why...why.

She doesn't reply, turning away from him. Suddenly, he's angry. The reason is lost to him... he's had too much to drink and the world is spinning about him. He can't see. The red of his blood pumping through his mind clouds everything. He wants to die, to join her. His angel... his beautiful Ara. A gasp, soft and nearly inaudible, breaks through his thoughts and he is shocked to find his fingers clenched around Eglantine's throat, holding her against the wall. His eyes met hers and for a moment he finds fear, shining like the sharp glass her glare usually is. She's afraid and suddenly so is he; because she is not suppose to be afraid of him. The hand against her throat doesn't look like his, he shakes his head. It isn't. But as he moves the hand, she is pushed further back, her head turning to the side.
"Owain..." she whispers. He looks down, finding his son's winking eyes on him. He's too young to understand, too young to even look... but he is and Ciaran is frightened of what he's doing.
"Kiara... how could she be gone..." Eglantine grabs his hand with hers as she moves to escape him. He is stronger, holding her more firmly. "How?" He shouted, the tears again leaking down his cheeks.

The baby whimpers, answering his question. How... complications. Life was full of them. Correction... life was them.
"Not enough time." he murmured, releasing her. He caught himself against the crib as he fell back, narrowly missing hitting his head. It's quiet save for the sound of the baby's soft cooing and Eglantine's gasped coughing. He can see her sitting on the floor, her robes billowed out around her. The baby's blue and yellow blanket peeks out, stark against the dark grey. The sounds change, the coughing subsides and the baby is quiet, his little fist yet waving about for his own entertainment. She's crying now, like he did earlier. He watches, frozen as she sobs over his son. Shuffling, or is it crawling... he moves forward and settles next to her. He knows she'll cut him to ribbons for the bruise on her throat, or she'll move away and leave him alone. Like he wants, like he deserves. But instead, she leans her head against his shoulder, sighing softly. Instead, she gives him a weak smile... instead, she whispers, 'There's never enough time.'

He watches as she gathers herself up from the floor. He marvels as she does what he cannot. Broken and shattered, he cannot stand. Maybe she's more like the cat form she often melts into; not human and not breakable. But what does it matter? That she's standing, tucking his son into the crib, while he sits on the floor, swimming in despair and agony. Does anything matter anymore? His stomach groans and he falls forward, retching painfully as brown liquid splashes onto the wooden floor. Again and again, he heaves, his stomach having no mercy, no compassion. He cries, like a young boy sick and frightened of the pain gnawing at him. The wetness soaks his pants and elbows as he trembles over it. He's cold, shaking as the wet breeze drifts over him.

A heavy hand touches his shoulder, so gentle, like the one before. The liquid vanishes from the floor and he is lifted, weightlessly as though he is a muggle ballon. He's put in bed... their bed. Whispers are exchanged between the couple hovering over him, but he doesn't care what they're saying. A wet cloth touches his lips, cleaning him even as the man smoothly forces his mouth open, pouring the smallest amount of a foul tasting potion within. He sputters and coughs, but the potion is swallowed. The confusion vanishes along with the vomit taste in his mouth and the pain in his stomach. But the ache in his chest... it remains.

Horatio does not allow him to rise as he holds him down with a single hand. He looks haggard and pained, broad shoulders sagging as though the world had suddenly rested on them.
"Tav is with Esis." And though he had not even thought of his eldest son, Ciaran now sighed with relief. How much had the boy seen? Of his broken father... he didn't want to know and yet he did. It was the irony of failure.
Eyes opening again, he looked between Horatio and Eglantine, wondering and waiting for the rebuke. He wanted it as much now as he had earlier; even more so. How foolish and selfish he had been, to lose himself in wallowing grief. He had lost Kiara, but so had everyone else. Tav had lost his mum, for the second time. Horatio and Eglantine had lost their daughter. But the rebuke did not come. Instead, he found himself forced to eat the broth given him, dipping the saltine into it as two pairs of weary eyes watched him.
"Feel better?" Horatio's question was unexpected, but he nodded quickly. He did. Although the ache that was his broken heart persisted, he had greater clarity of thought.
"Yeah..."
His uncle nodded.
"Good." Then came the rebuke; though its form was as unexpected as the soup. Simply and smoothly, Horatio punched him straight across the jaw, the clip strong enough to knock him from where he sat, but not enough to knock him out. He'd bruise quickly, if it didn't scar and the headache would be the least of his worries. "You know what that was for."
He did... if anyone had so much as touched Kiara, he would have done far more than just punch them. But Horatio had always been rather merciful with him.

"Promise us you won't drink alone." He nodded, eyes lingering on the gurgling infant his mother-in-law was bouncing.
"I promise."
"It's not good for you to be here by yourself, Ciaran. We want you to come live with us. At least until you get back on your feet." He nodded again. Kiara would be horrified to see him like this... he didn't want his sons to see him this way either.

An hour later he is tucked into a soft bed, staring out at the blue papered wall. He knows that Tav is playing checkers with Horatio downstairs and that Owain is sleeping in the next room. He knows it has been two weeks since Kiara's funeral, and that it will have to be many hundreds of weeks till he can join her. But she would want it that way... and that lulls him to sleep.