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*Baz’s POV*
I always thought that he was the sun, and I’ve never been proven more correct than now. The fire in the distance has made the smoke and fog around us hold sort of a golden haze, and the sunset is setting peacefully in the distance; unaware of the chaos happening so far away. Lighting up the golden boy in front of me. His stance is wide, his sword out. I’ve never seen such a fire in his eyes- usually it’s mine that hold the embers. His broad shoulders are tense, ready to jump. His ever-messy hair is strewn all about, and it almost reminds me of how he looks when he first wakes up. It’s just much, much different, this time. (If I try my bloody hardest I can imagine we’re back in our beds, getting ready for classes.)
I’ve only seen him look like this once, and it was when we were fighting the Chimera. The only difference is that he was focused on protecting me, then. (What I would give to go back… to the beginning, this time.) Now, he’s facing me. Readying for the war we both knew was inevitable. I’m sure I’ve the same stance, but I think I feel a bit like I’ve given up. It’s been… a long time. A long time of just waiting. Waiting to fight Simon Snow. Waiting for our last day together. Waiting… for death, quite honestly. My sleeves are rolled up - something I’ve not done in a long time - just so I can look down at my wrists. The scars there, some old, some new. To mark my skin like a painting and I’m Picasso. A fucked up masterpiece.
I’ve won enough fights with Snow. So no, I won’t be winning this one. And I think we both know it, deep down. I won’t go down without a fight… but I’ll go down without enough fight. (Gladly, for him. I’d die at his hand 1,000 times before I hurt him.) Besides, I can’t do this anymore. I don’t want to. The fighting. The hurting. It’s all too much, and it’s made me want to stop fighting, permanently. So that’s what I’m about to do.
All around us, the war rages on. But as we stand, facing each other, it feels as though we’re the only two here. Maybe it’s always been meant to feel that way. (I’m briefly reminded of when we’d first met. The Crucible gave me him, and I think it always intended for it to end like this. In flames.)
Neither of us have moved a muscle. (His eye contact is nearly too much… but if this will be the last time I’m graced with his presence, I’ll endure it. I’ll endure it gladly; always for him.) But in order for me to die, we have to fight like we were always destined to. (I was always convinced that the world conspired against me. I think now that it’s always been leading me up to the biggest blessing of all. Death. And at the hands of Simon, no less.) So I lift my wand. And start our last fight that we’ll ever have. (How I desperately long for our morning bickers about his tie.)
I don’t have to yell when I cast “Bend over backwards.” I know hundreds of spells that could render his sword and him useless. Yet I use a child’s spell. My father would be ashamed, but I think it’s a little late to be concerned about letting him down. About seven years too late, really.
Simon bends back in a way that shouldn’t be physically possible, but then springs back up. I think, for a moment, his eyes might be shining. With tears, perhaps? But then I look again and think it must have been hate. Because who would cry over me? He runs across the clearing to me, haphazardly swinging his sword around. He’s never been one for plans, I suppose. But I can’t let him think I’m letting him win. After all, what would that do to the Chosen One’s pride?
So I cast “Fly me to the moon” and he’s shot a few yards, landing with a sickening thump on the ground. With every spell I fire at him, the more I wish he’d end me now. (It’s been like that every day for a… long time. The wish more and more that I wouldn’t survive the day. I’ve never been so lucky, until now.) When he gets back up, he runs at me again, and I decide to let him come this time. Maybe now I’ll let him maime me? But maybe I’ll make him dance a little more. (He’s so beautiful when he dances this way. I’d like to let myself admire it for a little longer, if that’s quite alright.)
When he swings his sword around near my head, I duck. He’s skilled with a sword; he should be being more tactical. Even though he’s more skilled with that kind of blade, I know I’d win if I tried. A sword is nothing compared to the well of magic I hold in myself. “Light a match and blow on the tinder” my mother always said. Only now, I’ve run out of matches and I don’t have the will to keep blowing on tinders. Perhaps I’m letting my mother down, now. But again… I might be thinking of that far too late. (Eighteen years too late.)
“Try harder, Snow!” I spit at him. It sounds more like a plea than an insult, and he staggers.
“B-Baz?” I don’t let him continue. If I hear his voice in copious amounts, I might give up and stay. Spell myself away to live in shame for the rest of this miserable existance. But the need to go far outweighs the want to stay. He’s better off without me, anyway- everyone is.
I fire a spell - I’m not sure which one, I can’t really hear myself - and he doubles over in pain. (I know if I see him in one more second of pain I’ll kill myself for him. I’ve only held off thus far so I could die at his hands.) When he’s collected himself, he rages at me while I stand still. I think it throws him for a moment, but he continues on. Instead of plunging his sword through my heart (metaphorically and literally, of course), he only takes a swipe at my arm. The familiar sensation of a cut stings at my skin. One more for the collection. At least it allows me to feel something… anything other than the heartache settled deep into my bones.
“Fight back!” He pleads. Who am I to deny him? So I cast a half-arsed spell his way, which does nothing but knock the sword from his grip for a fraction of a second. When he gathers it back, he comes closer to me, holding the sword to my throat. “Why- why aren’t you fighting harder?” I laugh a bit at the thought of him thinking I’m still plotting.
“It was always meant to be this way, wasn’t it, Simon?” He inhales shakily, and lets out a big breath. (Mouth breather.)
“What way?” He seems like perhaps he’s not been waiting for this moment since we met. But I have. I have been waiting for my demise since I was turned into a monster. I lived for death. I lived for him. And now I die for him.
“Simon Snow. The Chosen One. You were always meant to finish me off, weren’t you? Destiny, Snow.” He shakes his head and relieves some of the pressure from my neck. Pity.
“But I-”
“Hush, now. It’s alright, I’ve been ready for this for years. You didn’t think I could actually kill you… did you?” He looks like he might say something, but I shake my head. “Your sword won’t kill me. But I know a spell to cast on it that will.” His jaw is set like it is before he eats all of his scones. Heartbreakingly beautiful. He seems scared, almost. But I’m not scared. I’ve never feared death- only welcomed it, like an old friend. I’ll be brave enough for the both of us.
“What is it?” He asks.
“A spell to make the blade contain flame. The further… in, it goes, the hotter it gets.” Ironic, this. Dying by the very thing I’m made of. (Love or flame, I can’t decide. Perhaps both.)
“But…” He gulps and that showy Adam’s Apple of his bobs up and down. He doesn’t stop looking at me. “You’re flammable.” His voice is watery, and I offer a knowing smile. I put my hand over his and lead the sword away from my neck, lifting my wand up to it. I don’t break eye contact.
“Exactly.” I cast the spell. (Eternal flame- only to be cast when deeply in love. Not that he would know.)
His blade gains a sort of red glow around it, just like Simon. (I let myself admire for a moment how beautiful he truly is. How alive. He got my share of it. I gladly would give it to him again.) I drop my wand. I wrap my hands around his on the hilt of his sword. I guide his hands and let the tip touch my stomach. Maybe I’m doing it for attention. Maybe I’m not. But either way, here I am, burning in the hands of Simon Snow. (I knew it would end in flames… didn’t I?)
But it doesn’t feel hopeless, or lonely. No- it feels like coming home. Whether that comes from death or from Simon, I’m not sure. Perhaps both. For a moment, I feel like I’m losing myself. Then again… maybe I was never really ‘found’ in the first place. Maybe I’ve been lost since I was born.
I help him press the blade further in. It doesn’t hurt, exactly. But it’s burning a bit. I look down briefly and see that I’m bleeding. When Simon looks down at it, he tries to pull back. I keep him steady. At least this is externalizing the internal hurt I’ve felt for bloody years.
I push him further. My body is begging me to stop. But do I care? No. Not if it means that Simon Snow survives.
“Baz?” He mutters.
“Shhh.” I take his blade and pull him closer. If it were an open flame, I would be alight.
He looks hesitant. “I just-”
“Hush.” I’m softer than I’ve been with him before. He’s tearful. (I am, too. But I wanted this.)
“I worry-” His voice cracks right in the middle, and it hurts to see him in pain like this.
“Don’t.” What’s the point of worrying? He’s never before. Not worth it, anyway. (I’m not worth it.) I’m not worried. How could I be? I’m finally to die- and in the arms of the one I love. I’ve lived a truly charmed life.
“But-”
“Simon.” He takes a breath, and looks as though he doesn’t want to do it. (I can feel the burning warmth spread through me steadily.)
“Baz?” He’s wavering, now. Unsteady. His voice, his stature… him. (How can one person be so beautiful surrounded by such chaos?)
There’s a beat of silence; silence which holds thoughts, and words, and him. I drink up the last time I’ll lay eyes on Simon Snow. I smile. Let my fangs pop a bit. Squeeze his hands with mine. “Here.” I whisper, stepping softly- slowly forward. Doing it myself so that he doesn’t have to. Enduring the pain; always for him.
I wonder, briefly, if I’ll go to Heaven. I never believed in it before, but in my last moments, I believe maybe I do. But after everything I’ve done… everything I am… well. I suppose the odds aren’t in my favor. (They never are.) Then again, the last eighteen years of my life have already closely resembled Hell, so what’s a few more years?
He’s close enough now for the hilt of the sword to be touching my stomach. And he’s so close, and I’m so dizzy. So I do the only thing I’ve ever wanted to do, and with what little strength I have left, lean forward and press my wet face to his. The kiss is soft and emotional- everything I had never thought it would be. I can’t keep my eyes open much longer. Goodbye might be the sweetest word I know.
And I’m proud to say that my last words are, “I love you, Simon Snow.” As I fall, a tornado of internal flames and turmoil and so much misery… I see and think of nothing but blue eyes.
Bronze curls.
The fact that Simon Snow is alive, and that nothing could ever touch him.
Especially not me.
*Simon’s POV*
He said it was inevitable. That it was destiny that we end up this way; him, dying in my arms because of my own blade. But this wasn’t fate. This was my fault. And I can’t stop the tears from flowing as I hold him in the middle of the war. I’ll stay with him until he’s gone. Until someone comes to rip him out of my hands. Because I was so in love with him… and I could never tell him. And now he’s gone. Forever.
Goodbye . It might be the most heart-wrenching word in existence.
Goodbye.