Chapter 16 #2
The memory of the day she left surfaced with sharp clarity.
After debating trade agreements in a summit with the Prime Minister, I had returned to my private study, exhausted and seeking a moment of quiet, only to find the severed wine cork sitting in the center of my desk.
I had stared at it, unable to comprehend the silent finality of the message.
I had assumed she had simply retreated to her family’s coastal cottage to clear her head.
I had assumed she wanted a grand gesture, a royal decree, or an expensive piece of jewelry to remind her of my resources.
Foolishness had consumed me entirely. I had treated her like a political complication. I had countered her emotional starvation with outsourced gifts.
She had returned her wedding band much later, slamming it down with the divorce papers in the treaty room.
A simple gold circle. It was the only piece of jewelry I had given her that actually mattered, a relic from before my father’s death, before the weight of the crown and the court duties consumed us.
The elaborate anniversary diamonds, the emerald necklaces, the platinum bracelets, all of them remained untouched in the palace vault.
She had only ever valued the gold band. And she had given it back.
Another stone slammed into the wall, the impact jarring my elbow.
The memory of that gold ring on the treaty table fueled a sudden surge of energy.
I grabbed stone after stone, hauling them from the pile and fitting them into the structure.
I ignored the screaming protest of my muscles and the blood seeping through the tape.
I worked with a frantic intensity, securing the foundation beneath the cliff holding her sanctuary.
I would protect this place. I would rebuild this village stone by stone if it meant keeping the ground stable beneath her feet. I could never buy her forgiveness. I could only bleed for it.
The foreman blew a sharp blast on a whistle, cutting through the roar of the wind.
“Wrap it up,” he yelled. “The tide is cresting. We are done for the day.”
The other laborers groaned in relief, dropping their tools and trudging toward the trucks.
I stood slowly, my spine cracking in protest. My legs were stiff, encased in mud up to the knees.
My jacket weighed me down, saturated with freezing rain.
I looked at the progress we had made. A solid section of stone, five feet high and twenty feet long, stood defiant against the crashing surf. It was ugly, raw, and strong.
Tools lay discarded in the muck. I gathered them up, tossing the sledgehammers and trowels into the back of the foreman’s truck. The smell of wet wool and stale tobacco drifted from the open cab.
“You put in a solid shift, Henry,” the foreman said, leaning out the window. “You look like you’ve been run over by a freight train, but you don’t quit. Be back here at six tomorrow.”
“I will be here,” I said.
The truck rumbled away, tires crunching on the gravel. The other men drove off in battered sedans and rusty pickups, heading for warm houses and hot meals. I remained standing in the freezing rain, alone on the shoreline.
Up on the cliff, the golden light in the workshop window clicked off, plunging the structure into darkness.
My chest tightened. She was done for the day.
She was retreating into the warmth of her loft, wrapping herself in blankets, completely unaware that I was standing fifty feet below her in the freezing mud.
I wanted to climb the cliff. I wanted to pound on her door, drag her into my arms, and demand she come home. I wanted to use my authoritative, commanding voice to end this separation. Enough. You need to get a grip. This is unreasonable.
The words rang in my mind, a ghost of the man I used to be. The man who had driven her away.
Forcing the arrogance down, I unclenched my jaw. I was powerless here. My bank accounts, my titles, my influence, none of it mattered on this windswept coast. I was just Henry the mason, a man with bleeding hands and an aching back, standing in the cold.
The small, unheated shack I had rented sat on the edge of the village.
I trudged toward it as the wind whipped across the water, driving the rain horizontally into my face.
The scent of salt and rotting seaweed filled the air.
I stripped off my soaked canvas jacket and let it drop to the dirt floor of the shack.
The smell of wet earth and old wood permeated the small space.
I peeled off my gloves. The friction tape was soaked and peeling, revealing the ruined flesh beneath.
I walked over to a rusted metal sink, turned the knob, and plunged my hands under the freezing water.
The pain was sharp, a brilliant spike of agony that cut through the numbness of the cold.
I scrubbed the dirt and blood from my palms, gritting my teeth until my jaw popped.
A rough cotton towel hung near the sink.
I dried my hands on it and grabbed a fresh roll of tape and bound my wounds again, wrapping the white fabric tightly around my palms and fingers.
Tomorrow, I would tear them open again. Tomorrow, I would lift more stone.
Tomorrow, I would build more of the wall.
The springs of the narrow cot creaked heavily when I sat down.
The shack was freezing, devoid of insulation or comfort.
It was a brutal contrast to the palatial estate I had abandoned.
I stared at the peeling paint on the wall, my mind empty of everything except the lingering ache in my shoulders and the memory of the golden light in her window.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the gold wedding band. It sat in the center of my bandaged palm, catching the faint light from the streetlamp outside. It was simple. It was real. It was the only thing I had left of her.
Metal bit into the raw flesh of my hand as I closed my fist around the ring.
The pain grounded me. It tethered me to reality, pulling me away from the sterile illusions of my past. I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees, and stared at the floor.
The wind battered the thin walls of the shack, a relentless assault of freezing rain and ocean spray.
To earn my way back, I had to prove that the rot of neglect had been ripped out by the roots.
I had to cut a line between the man who had outsourced his marriage and the partner she deserved.
I would tend this glass, protecting the fragile flame of our connection, even if I had to freeze to death doing it.
Pushing the ring back into my pocket, I stood up.
I grabbed a dry flannel shirt from a duffel bag and pulled it on.
I grabbed a pair of stiff, clean work pants and stepped into them.
The coarse fabric scraped against my chilled skin.
I picked up my mud-caked boots from the floor, pulled them onto my feet, and laced them tight.
I opened the door of the shack and stepped back out into the storm.
The darkness was absolute, save for the solitary streetlamp swaying in the gale.
The ocean roared in the distance, a chaotic clash of water and stone.
I walked back toward the cliffs, my boots finding the familiar path through the freezing mud.
Surging tide water crashed against the newly laid stones at the base of the seawall. Freezing spray washed over my face, stinging my eyes. I walked over to the pile of uncut fieldstone, locating a massive, jagged boulder I had left behind earlier. It was huge, requiring two men to lift properly.
I knelt in the mud, wedging my bleeding fingers underneath the cold stone. I braced my boots against the slick earth. I tightened my jaw, feeling the muscles bunch in my neck, and hauled the boulder upward into the freezing rain.