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He stares down at her shaking, bloodstain hands. He clutches them, bringing them to his chest. In a try for comfort. Where before he could always feel the buzzing light, there is now but a dull ache. When he meets her eyes, they beg him.
For forgiveness?
For hatred?
Which one would be easier for her to receive?
For love?
That one would be the easiest to give.
For peace?
For companionship?
He knows none of them. And yet, there are no other things he wishes more that he could grant her. The need for it was buried deep many centuries ago. Now, it is tearing a hole in his chest.
For so long he felt certain. He does not anymore. A string of choices led him here. There is nothing else for him to blame. And yet, in this moment, it feels inevitable.
His grasp — on her, on reality, on everything — starts to falter. Maybe she feels it too, for she fists his kefta and drags him closer. Her lips inches away from his. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.” Her voice cracks. He shuts his eyes close — it does not keep the guilt at bay.
He forces himself to reply. It is the least that he can give her. “No. Perhaps. What does it matter anyway?” He manages to choke out. She does not seem to find an answer. Perhaps there is none to be found.
So they stay there in the silence. Trying to find something to anchor ourselves in. Come back empty handed.
She places a hand in the nape of his neck. In support. In a threat. After all these years they have started to taste the same. And then she pulls him in. Wraps her arms around his entire being. Properly. With a warmth that he has never known or just forgotten.
"In the safety of the night, I always wish for something else." She whispers it into his shoulder. Barely loud for him to hear. Perhaps she does not want him to. All the same, it drags the air from his lungs and the blood from his brain til he is no longer sure who he is or what he was supposed to be. She remains the only purpose. One he could not fulfil.
And in that moment it takes everything in him not to fall down to his knees and beg her in return. For love. Forgiveness. Hatred. Peace. Companionship. Mercy. A knife in the heart. Anything would have been gentler than this everlasting silence.
Though, he is not sure if begging would be a kindness or a cruelty. Perhaps it does not matter. They too taste the same. And he cannot muster enough strength to find it out.
Instead he just stands within the borders of her reign and let that be enough. All that exists is her steady arms and the faint smell of iron and tears that might be hers or might just be more of his own blood.
With the next breath he feels the blade now placed between his ribs.
He pulls back slightly, studying her face. Now there are definitely tears in her eyes. She avoids his gaze. He moves his hand to place the palm against her wet cheek. Not caring that the movement hurts more than it should. He rests his forehead against hers. Breathes her in. Letting his thumbs brush her tears away. New ones follow in their wake. There is an odd sense of comfort in the certainty that it all is coming to an end. By her hand. By her mercy.
But amidst that solace, that same piercing guilt manages to find its way back to him. He is acutely aware that he is now leaving her alone in a country that has done nothing but seek harm.
He wishes he would have been able to give her safety. Wishes that some small part of his heart did not whisper that his passing would be the one to grant her that.
She wraps her fingers in his hair then. Pulls him closer still. Lets her lips graze his in a shadow of a prayer.
Merzost brushes the outer rim of his consciousness. It is a gentle caress. More comforting, more familiar, than it has any right to be. It tastes of greed and hunger and power and a warm bed and caring touches. It stays there. Its tendrils wrapping around his lungs. Dragging him towards her. Keeping him for just a minute longer. It is not enough. It has to be. She seeks his hand then, fingers interlocking. For a second, he is somewhere else.
And then she breathes and the merzost loosens its grip. Yet it still lingers in the periphery. A temptation he cannot afford to touch. Too late, perhaps, has he realised his place in the universe. His shadows might have been present in the making of the heart of the world. That does not give it the right to stay.
"I am sorry." A promise. Too late. Just in time. Not sure who was the one to voice it. Not sure if she would have meant it, if it was her. Sure he would not dare to ask.
"I loved you." A confession as much as it is a plea to all the saints for forgiveness. A plea for peace and an easier way forward. A plea for second chances, for the reversal of time and choices that seemed easy and were anything but. A plea for knowledge of the right path and strength enough to walk it.
"I know." I know you. I know your soul and your heart and the path your fingers trace in the safety of the dark.
"Would it have made a difference?" Once again a plea to someone that stopped listening long ago. A hope for something else, something kinder, something safer. And a wish for certainty that it would always have ended up this way. The need to feel the comfort in knowing that we did our best.
"No." A lie. One confided to a grave forever watched over by a saint.