“is the blood on your hands dry? is it slowly disappearing? mine isn’t.”
— Ashley Mares, from “Psalm of Scattered Ashes,” published in Luna Luna
TW: death, violence, blood, guns, pregnancy
A pain surges long before the sharp execution of a bullet through his chest. An agonising ache in which Saint had known as if it were old friend, and it’s one of loss, of mourning, a dull and harrowing sting he’d thought he’d gotten used to by now— but no. No, not this time, the void in his heart rips through tissue and muscle until he’s left gasping for air. Starved of oxygen in a world where his reason for living is suddenly ripped from his grasp, and it’s all his fault. Carelessly impulsive, from the moment panic makes itself known in the manor, Saint had climbed from his bed and professed himself an instrument for battle. This is what he was made for, after all, born into an existence painted red by nature, where he should learn to act as the weapons his parents created in steel-toned factories. He’s just that, deadly, or so he’d thought, a soldier made to embrace the front lines of the war in the knowing that it was his family that founded such a concept.
The second Horsemen carried a sword, whilst riding a red horse and was the creator of War.
Blood and glory stain his vision, the will to protect his family, his legacy, engraved into him like any other hopeless mantra in which Gabrielle cooed to him in French. And it brings him here, with his grip clasped solid around his gun, an extension of his being, as he empties rounds targeted towards men shielded in the cowardice of bullet-proof vests. Stubbornly, Saint doesn’t move, jaw clenched even as red lights adorn his own body, snipers aimed towards him with the warning from an electronic voice that they’d shoot. Only as they do, he feels nothing, not at first anyway, not until it’s too late and the dull thump of a body pulls his rage and bloodlust away from conflict and towards her; Kitty. With brunette tendrils of hair falling to mask her face, he moves to catch her, only to be met by a similar fate.
“Kitty,” he exhales, the taste of iron thick on the back of his tongue and he uses his last ounce of energy to move closer to her. His hand presses to her collarbone, a mirrored injury as Kitty had mindlessly utalised herself as a shield in the attempt for him to survive. And Saint can’t help but see the irony in it, in what loving him had done, coming at the price of her bloodied heart that struggles to beat under the pressure of professing itself to a Saint. Because what good had worship ever done? He wonders, pressing his forehead to hers, her skin still warm against his own, gunpowder lacing the last weakened breaths he manages to take into failing lungs.
Saint had always intended to die for War and his family, but now that’s not true, he dies for Kitty instead. He lets go because there is no life worth living without her in it. And as he lies there, he experiences it all over again. Saint falls in love, hard, like a fallen angel whose banishment from the heavens lands him into the arms of something much sweeter than that of what God could ever have offered to him. And it's peculiar, what the mind does to soothe the punctuation of life for its mortal body. Because as Saint closes his eyes, he experiences it all over again. He sees her sat at a table, at the first truce anniversary. Then again, on a dancefloor, her affections always paid towards another as he's met with nothing short of disdain. Soon though, she graces him with her attention, and when she does it's a domino effect. Countless secrets forming, drawn to the other like a magnet until eventually, it's only her he'd ever wanted. Then they’re married, and she doesn’t take his last name, but he could hardly care when the evidence of their unity lays clear on her ring finger. And it doesn't stop there, as her stomach swells and they welcome a daughter into the world, and then a son, their names both as ridiculous as their parents. Tiger-Lily and Zephyr, resembling their mother with darkened features and perfectly poised devilish grins. Most importantly, they're happy. He's happy, in the knowing that he'd had a family of his own, and a purpose outside of the gunmetal and ammunition that would tear the future from them and give him this instead. Kitty gave him meaning outside of what he were meant for, and she still does now, even in their death.
His gaze flickers open again, meeting her brown eyes as he captures the last face he'd see. And they both smile, lips parting, and breaths slowing. "I'm yours, I'll love you, forever," the blood warms his hands, wet and viscous as it continues to pour. "Forever," the other agrees, professions that would turn into vows in the absence of their alter. The reaper beckons on the horizon, a dull calling that should punctuate the end. But there’s comfort in it still, in the knowing that he could rest with her forever without the indignation of their forbidden union. No one could take them away from each other now, not really, as souls intertwine in perfect harmony, spirits evaporating in a synced agreement. The last thing he does is kiss her, her lips far more seraphic than any afterlife that would come after, and it's there he would stay, in her embrace forever. Holding onto the adoration they held for each other so it would be bright enough to engulf them both. The vail pulls over him, and it's heavy, as his surroundings slip from his senses and are replaced with the eternal stretch of nothingness. Much like before birth, an emptiness that was neither terrifying nor joyous. It simply was, vacant apart from a spark, starlight in the shape of them destined to shine in the sky.
In the end, the apocalypse is quick. As was life. As was love.