I would miss Warren's eyes most of all, I decided.
There was something about the way they changed colors, depending on his mood. They were ice blue when he was a protector, a soldier, fending off whatever evils there were. They were warm brown when he was a peacemaker, a witty diplomat whose quips could save the day. And they were green when he was a best friend, a childish daydreamer who drank tea in the summer and watched the stars.
But now they were grey, cold, and distant. At least, that's what the nurse told me. I was never fond of her, with her chestnut hair and wide, muddy brown eyes, looking like a baby deer who was seeing the world for the first time. She looked too innocent for who she truly was, pretending to match green-eyed Warren's whimsy to disguise the sickening person that dwelled within. I went back to visit in December, when he spent his last days with those green eyes. I didn't even stay an hour.
I remember walking home, through the forest, finally sitting beneath a pine tree. I watched the gold flare from the windows, and I bit my lip, choking back tears. But then the cold came, and the tears flowed like a river, reminding me of the woman with old eyes. Much too old for my liking, but he took to her quickly. She acted young, but she really wasn't. She was old. Older than Warren, I figured, even though he'd say otherwise. But he was lying. That's what he always did - lie. And he broke my heart with those lies.
But then I found green eyes again. Not light green, like Warren's, but forest-y green, similar to mine, but less brown. One slightly lighter than the other, and even still, you didn't notice it unless you looked really closely. And I was pretty sure I was the first person in a long time, if ever, to look at them closely. And these eyes, these beautiful eyes that made me think of adventures yet to be had belonged to the most kindhearted person I'd ever met. More kindhearted than Warren had been when we first met, all those moons ago, more tender than when he'd hold my hand to walk me down the dark halls when I was afraid, and more real than the many dreams of euphoric moments that I convinced myself were memories. The keeper of these eyes listened to me, the keeper of these eyes welcomed me, the keeper of these eyes held me when I cried and stood by me when I needed support and helped me bandage the wounds that others had left, kissing them gently until they turned to scars, and began to fade. The keeper of these eyes understood.
The keeper of these eyes took my hand after I wandered home from the makeshift hospital Warren had stayed in. The journey took several months, and he was standing there, waiting for me, when I returned.
I woke up from a dream the other night, remembering the pain of when that nurse took what little sentiment I had left to Warren. I woke in a similar trance to that of the day I started to give up, the same song drifting through my head. And I sat up, seeing the keeper of those beautiful eyes next to me. This sight reminded me that the past was in the past, and I was safe.
My eyes let tears drip down, but they weren't hurting tears, or shameful tears, helpless or angry tears, they were happy tears, joyful tears, thankful tears. I laid back down, closing my eyes, and fell asleep.
Hello, new day.