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Why can't I die?
The smell of burning fur clings to everything, thick and greasy where laser burned all the way to the bone.
The pain is unbearable.
But all I feel is you.
Your hand is on mine, still holding tight, your glove so badly burned I can see the skin beneath.
But you never let go.
And I can't die.
How long have we laid here together now? Minutes? Hours? Days? The battle is over, but I'm still fighting to breathe.
However much I want to stop.
But I can't.
I spent my life chasing you, every waking moment trying to be worthy of you. This tenuous grasp is not enough. This fragile bond between us now is too little for how much I need you.
So I roll. Fur and skin peeling off my back where they stuck to the molten floor, but I feel nothing but need. My free hand, white glove grey with the ashes of me, scrabbles at warped metal as I drag myself towards you, inch by inch, hair by hair.
My hero.
Did I do okay?
You can't hear me asking, I have no voice left. Just pain and ash, but I wish you'd answer me as I scrape towards you, my heart crying out as I squeeze your hand.
You never let go.
And I can't die.
Is this my fault?
I wouldn't ask even if I could. I know you'd lie if it was.
I know I'd still believe it if it wasn't.
My other hand finds you at last, and I push myself into your chest, your fur harsh against my ruined cheek. I feel so small next to you.
And I still can't die.
Tears spill from my eyes for the first time in years. I'm a child again, alone and confused and the world doesn't make sense and everything hurts and I'm sorry. You never stopped running and I never stopped chasing you because you were my everything. The family I never had, the friend I never knew I needed.
And I caught you at last.
Because you never let go.
So I lay there, listening for your heartbeat.
Why didn't you let go?
Why didn't you listen?
Why can't I die?
I can't ask, and you can't answer. The one time I asked to be abandoned, the one time I couldn't chase you, you stayed with me.
And I stayed without you.
How long has it been since I ran out of tears?
I still can't die.
So I stand.
One last time I carry you, your hand in mine, never letting go. One last time we run together, the ruined landscape stretching out in every direction, your killer's trail literally gone cold but no less obvious.
But I fly the opposite way. Away from fighting, away from killing, away from him, towards warmth and peace and memory. To home.
And there you sleep, napping beneath your favourite tree, peaceful at last. Still holding my hand.
I find fresh tears as I break your rigid fingers to reclaim my own. I find more as I mouth three words I wish I'd said to you more.
Then I leave you sleeping.
Because I am still at war.