Work Text:
We fall.
We rise.
We run to our dying body.
We are scared, but we know what to do.
The flame of the body’s soul is rapidly dimming, flickering and fluttering. We gather it up in our hands and it burns us, but we barely notice.
We pin, we bind, we devour.
The pieces don’t fit together yet. They rattle against each other, pushing and pulling. The burning hurts.
But we can make it work.
Our arms—too weak, well-practiced. We grasp the sword. We move, but—
Camilla watches us. Her face is stoic as ever, flecked with blood and dust. She does not cry. We do not smile back.
The sun comes crashing in, shards of bone and light falling around us. An arm of the beast towers above us. We are not scared anymore.
One hand grasps the sword and the other lifts to meet our enemy’s hand. One small touch and the beast comes undone, bone by bone, a clatter and a crack and a shower of dead dust. The sun pours in around it.
We see once again—or perhaps for the first time, clearly—the stage of the terrace, the curtains of the great windowed white walls, the ruins of the battle, and the shockingly small figure of our enemy.
She gazes at us almost unthinkingly. She is covered in her own blood. Her eyes are glazed and bright.
We are not scared anymore.
She says, “How do you feel, little sister?”
We say, “Ready for round three. Or round four, I think I lost track.”
We do not hesitate. We know what we need to do.
The blades between us spark and fly, the tracks of muscle memory guiding our movements. We burn as we move, and so does she. She festers. We know what we need to do.
We luge and she is speared through upon our sword.
We are one flesh.
The fetid fire roars to life at our touch and devours her fully from within.
We are one end.
And she smiles.
And she falls.
We just stand there for a second, relief and adrenaline aftershocks pulsing through our body.
We try to shove down the burning, try to pretend that it is fading with the blood drying on our clothes. But we—
I turn and run back to your body, sword forgotten, arms suddenly useless and legs sore at the joints. You lie as I refuse to see you lie, heart pierced upon a point of the old fence, limp. I try to pull you off—
A shock runs through your body as you touch my corpse. My corpse. Why are you crying?
Why am I crying?
We weren’t scared anymore.
We let ourself collapse to the rubble-strewn stone, burning from without and within, hot blood running down our face from places it shouldn’t. We place our hands on your chest and on your head and try—
Try—
Pin and bind and devour—
We are one flesh.
Why are we crying?
Pin and bind and—
Implode and shrink and burn and smolder and go cold.
Solidify.
We let ourselves burn.
The sun feels so warm.
We are one end.
We are not scared.