☠ saga
☠: One thing my muse would tell yours before kicking the bucket.
mood music: [x]
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Her body was scorched and disfigured by the time they were through, a blackened shell of what she used to be. Her vision was fading, growing fuzzy as the blood pooled in the broken flesh, as the life literally drained from her veins. Still, she could make out the motion, the way he brought his free hand to hold his nose, to hold back vomit. Her thought was fading, too. Everything was numb and hot and painful at the same time but she felt like she was floating and fading away into that light the humans seemed to romanticize so much. She figured she must have stunk like a burning corpse.
The thought was far away from the front of her mind, the full brunt of her consciousness had retreated to the back of her head, in a last ditch effort to save itself from the oblivion that was quickly taking her over. But that small part of her that would not be saved curled in upon itself and cried, wept that the person she loved most had to see her in this state.
The tears flowed freely with the blood from her eyes, and she could feel it, faint against her frayed nerve endings and peeling skin, the warm tears of someone else. He was crying over her, pressing his forehead to her collarbone and holding her body closer to him, supporting it now with two arms in his lap as he hugged her close. She couldn’t hear his words anymore, couldn’t even lift her arm to touch his hands softly with her own fingertips, to whisper soft promises in his ear and tell her how much she really loved him.
That hurt more than that blast of flame ever had. It hurt her more than knowing that she was the first one to go. She felt ever so guilty, knowing that he’d be in more pain than she ever would, that he’d be the one that would have to shoulder the pain and grief of losing a loved one. They had reached the point where they were resolute: each would rather the other die first, if only to save them the pain of having to live a life in which the other no longer existed.
The chance of a ghostly revival was just that, a chance, never a given. It was perfectly possible that after she fully slipped away, that would be it, she wouldn’t see him again, would no longer have the capacity to remember his face or his smile or the years of their lives that they had spent together.
Her last few breaths escaped in a long, drawn out sob, and with the last of her strength, she nudged his chin with her fingers, let him raise his face to hers and rest his forehead against her marred cheek. Her last words came out in a squeaking whisper, her throat had been torn away from the blast as well. It was a miracle she was still able to speak.
“Smile for me again. This will be the last time I see it.”
And he did. It was forced and he bit at his bottom lip and choked back something that may have been tears or vomit or his heart and he felt it fall to the pit of his stomach, weighted like lead.
And the light faded from her eyes. She went totally heavy in his arms. She didn’t even get to say that she loved him.
