sender rests their forehead against receiver’s.
There's a strange feeling in the air ... He's felt things like it before — resolve, determination, spite — but it's different here, heavier. He understands what's at stake, and so does Winston ( it was his idea, after all ) , but everything is finite. John knows that, the High Table knows that, the Marquis knows that, ... Caine knows that. ( Those who cling to life ... ) This cannot and will not go on forever ; it will end ... and someone will fall to their knees to offer up a life in exchange for the Table's stayed hand. ( The mess he has left in the wake of his grief — consequences. )
For now, it's simply about the climb there, to the summit. ( Sisyphus and his boulder. ) To simply see the sun rise ... So here he is, being ferried through the Underworld, beneath the streets of Paris — their Ferryman no longer with them. The talk is bleak, yet content. ( ' Long Live the King! ' the Bowery King declares, as boastful and proud as ever. ) The topic at hand leaves John lost in his own thoughts ... how to sum up his own life ... A life filled to the brim with blood and death and violence and only flickering glimpses of light ... But he's stirred from his thoughts as a hand touches his arm lightly and he looks at Rhiannon who sits next to him in the small boat.
Her gaze isn't necessarily meant as reassuring, and she must already know where his mind is. ( They both know the end is nigh— for better or worse. ) Rather, he reads something in her face that acts as a stern reminder to him — ' Don't lose yourself at the last hour. ' He can hear her, younger and less tired, telling him to focus. And John blinks and looks away once again, giving only the slightest indication that he is, as they begin to come to their stop. ( The gateway. )
' Don't be late, for all our sakes. ' His eyes fall squarely on Winston for a moment, silently acknowledging their timetable ( he's more concerned about it than he might appear ) . John steps off the boat, feeling it rock as he does. But before he approaches the exit to the surface, he turns ; he offers a sentiment, more open and vulnerable than many see him : ❝ ' Loving husband. ' That's what I want on mine : ' John, loving husband. ' ❞ And it's silence for a moment in the presence of Jo.hn W.ick facing down his own mortality, and acknowledging the idea that, one day — even long from now — he will die. ( For the Baba Yaga is nothing but a story, an old wives' tale, meant to scare children ; he is only a man. )
He's prepared to turn and leave, now, to enter the final gauntlet — but Rhiannon stands quickly and steps off of the boat herself, approaching him. He stops himself. Once again, no words are spoken between them ; not aloud at least. Their eyes meet and John sighs, his chest falling. He slowly holds out a hand toward her and, without even looking, she reaches forward as well. They lightly grip each other's forearms : a gesture from better days, long ago, to say many things. And they stay in that, briefly, almost transporting themselves back ...
John watches Rhiannon step forward until their foreheads meet and rest there for a moment. His eyes don't close right away, but fall down to where their hands hold onto one another. Then they slip closed for this fleeting moment. It could be a goodbye, it could be a ' good luck ' — it could be that, and everything in between. So many years, fighting tooth and nail, side by side, through this world they had no choice but to call home. Now, the ending is in sight ( though to be decided through a coin toss ) . She was there when he left, turned his back on her and everything they knew, in favor of a life considered a fantasy ; she is here now as he holds fast to his goal ( a simple one : freedom ; existence unchained ) .
One more breath and John stands straighter as they part. Their hands leave one another. He sees Rhiannon's expression is even harder now — not pleading ... demanding ( ' You will walk away from this. ' ) . His chin dips down, maybe in some semblance of a nod, but he turns his body as it does. ( No promises ... no predictions ... Fate is proving herself the worthiest, most merciful — and most cruel — of adversaries in his way. ) He turns his back to them all and slips away out of the light to enter the darkness of the nighttime streets.
@decimatlas / rhiannon clarke.
