@alunyna asked:
It is through a doorway that she sees him, so human in the late afternoon sunlight that her steps halt and her breathing slows. He sits before her like a memory, untouched by the grief that had turned him into a stranger. He is a ghost, a trick of the light meant to pluck cruelly at her still-torn heartstrings. He is her failure, her mistakes. He has haunted her since well before his end.. His love, its sincerity, all reminders of the guilt she had taken to bed with her each night since it had become theirs. Only when she realizes that he is looking at her, not through, does Nyna realize that before her is neither ghost nor griefless man. She swallows bile, becomes suddenly aware that her hands have begun to tremble. How he stood before her did not matter, it was that he did at all. What words could she afford to a dead man, what excuse or apology could even begin to undo the damage that she had done. That he had done in her name. What good would it do, to tell him that she wishes she could have loved him, knowing that even now she cannot? But her feet do not move, do not allow her the cowardice of running. She has fled from everything now; from her home, from her heart. She knows that he does not deserve to see her run from him once more. "They told me that you had died," her voice comes out a whisper, still too loud for the silence that hangs like smoke between them. "They said..." Her lips press thin, that recounting of his final words still branded on her widow's heart. "I shall not trouble you for more than this," Nyna swallows, fighting the ache that tightens her throat, "how?"
to love someone for any length of time is to attend a thousand funerals for the people they once were. to mourn the people they simply cannot be any longer. he wonders how many of his own funerals she attended, before they finally told her he was dead.
it was what he wanted them to tell her, of course. better to let her think herself free of him. he feels as though he attended a dozen funerals for himself, long before he had suffered injuries grave enough that he should be dead anyway.
it is not her job to hold him accountable for the man he could not continue to be. still, the betrayal of everyone else pales before the betrayal of the woman before him.
she is, in a word, everything.
that does not change. when he caught sight of her, oh, of course he assumed it was a coincidence. some trick of the eye, a woman who just had a similar bearing. but looking closer, no, of course it is her. he would know her anywhere, and as always he cannot keep his eyes off of her.
he has a mind to flee, then, feet already turning to lead him away when he sees she's caught sight of him.
when she speaks, it is an agony. like desire itself is agony.
"as they should have," he replies, and his voice is gruff, stilted. like each word is something he's trying not to choke on. a man who desires to leave home must be rid of all he has. what he cannot be rid of, he must bury. what he cannot bury, he must burn. what cannot be burned must be carried with him. and, oh, what comes with is always so heavy. shapeless, like regret.
she inflicts hope, she inflicts life. he cannot bear to stay in her presence.
"i nearly succumbed to my injuries on the field. i let them think i did. i crawled away from the funeral pyre and... i did not look back."
his eyes finally meet hers. "why have you come here?" it is not an accusation, only a question most sincere.
