The crippling pain of broken bones and damaged organs, dry mouth tasting of iron. The defiance that often danced like the devil on the tip of his tongue now drowns in blood, and he knows it is over.
Thoughts drift on, despite the numbness that has already started to take over. Usually, he recalls, giving in was easier; however proud he could be, his wit never failed him, and every single time it was more than clear that it was over. Just like now. But his mind goes on, travels through blurred memories and leaves them behind, only to meet a single question: is he still alive? The battle on the gates already came to an end, but the war keeps on raging. Is he defending the inner circles? Or would he be on a mission? Still in Cocytus, perhaps?
He will never know – even if he tries and reaches for whatever trace of him he can grasp, only to laugh at his own failure, grimacing as every muscle in his body seems to disagree with the action. He will never know, but still he can hope – ah, such irony – that the claws of the harpy will lacerate as many filthy dogs as possible. Somewhere in his mind, Valentine stands triumphant over a pile of corpses, and he appreciates the image.
(It is not, however, the one he clings to as his consciousness begins to fade.)
The taste of chocolate, the usual pace of his heartbeat. Pink over ivory, a heart so light not even him could taint it. He feels cold, and even that reminds him of Valentine. And for the first time, the idea that there will be a new cycle speaks of something other than revenge.
They will meet again. And he will remember everything.
Summer feels unbearably hot; there is no possible way to stay inside – though he would argue there is no possible way to live, if not immersed in fresh water. Since that is not an option, however, he drags himself to the backyard, seeking the shade provided by the single sycamore tree in the area. Even the occasional breeze feels hot against his skin, and he curses under his breath, runs his hand through long hair to tie it up in a bun.
A bird lands on a branch and chirps, turning its head in what seems almost like curiosity. Sitting on the ground, back against the tree, he looks up, gaze meeting the lark above.
The song he hums is not like anything he has ever heard. It comes from deep inside his chest, not his mind, and flows as easily as if he had known it since forever.
A shiver runs down his spine, albeit the weather. There is a gust of fresh air, but as soon as the bird flies away, it is over – and the song is gone with it.
(In its place, however, his chest remains as if empty.)
“I should have said goodbye.”
The words are muttered against his ear, a whisper of a story that belongs to them and no one else. None of them dares to let go; surplices certainly are not meant for embraces, but they are stubborn enough to ignore how uncomfortable it feels. If anything, they are more than used to, even if their bodies are now barely adjusted to their old cages, muscle and bone still sore under their weight. Everything is new, everything is the same.
Arms still passing over Valentine’s shoulders, he puts some space between them, just enough so he can look him in the eyes, study his features. He wonders if they really look the same, of if his mind is simply connecting memories and concepts to what he sees now. It is the first time he thinks about it.
“Why say goodbye, bird?” He asks, and his voice is warm and low, music even when there is no melody. “Save that for someone you won’t be meeting ever again.”
One could say there is no happy ending to that. The point, however, is that, for better or worse, there is no ending at all.
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