[ Initially, she withdraws into herself, arms wrapping around her. The world itself feels cold despite the heat of the chamber around them, as cold as the day the sky turned red and the last thing she'd seen were the stars. Her mind suffocates from what this defeat means for her future. Terminal, again, despite everything she's tried, everything she's sacrificed, of others' souls-- and her own.
A month ago, she had worried when others would notice her not aging. Now, she won't have to. She'll be gone by the time anyone suspects something's amiss. It will be cold, she's sure, as cold as last time, and she'll be forgotten (a blessing, it's a blessing, she wouldn't want to burden anyone, anyway)--
But then his arms open to her, and she all but takes the invitation, reaching for him in kind. Weakly, fingers curl into cloth, and she buries her face against his chest, sharing the dampness upon her cheeks with the rough fabric of his shirt. A muffled, torn sob escapes her, then another, until a steady stream of tears falls.
What's next, then? Acceptance-- acceptance that she cannot be strong enough to protect others, or herself. Acceptance that her time will end. But if she can try handle that end as gracefully as how he appears to have accepted his death... then maybe she'll be worth remembering. Metaphorically, that is, because she'll be wiped from living thought.
Like this, she'll take the compassion of his embrace for all it's worth: a place of security and comfort, warm in a way that offers to understand but not to yield. Steady as mountains and present like the sun. Firm in the conviction of the sacredness of life-- the likes of which she's never seen, much less had extended to her own.
It's more than she's ever known, and it feels as if it's tearing all of her apart. Because if there are souls like his that offer such kindness, then they absolutely should be cherished. Honored and respected for what they offer to the world. Protected. Only now, she won't ever be strong enough.
It takes minutes before she calms, after which she can only murmur: ]
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A month ago, she had worried when others would notice her not aging. Now, she won't have to. She'll be gone by the time anyone suspects something's amiss. It will be cold, she's sure, as cold as last time, and she'll be forgotten (a blessing, it's a blessing, she wouldn't want to burden anyone, anyway)--
But then his arms open to her, and she all but takes the invitation, reaching for him in kind. Weakly, fingers curl into cloth, and she buries her face against his chest, sharing the dampness upon her cheeks with the rough fabric of his shirt. A muffled, torn sob escapes her, then another, until a steady stream of tears falls.
What's next, then? Acceptance-- acceptance that she cannot be strong enough to protect others, or herself. Acceptance that her time will end. But if she can try handle that end as gracefully as how he appears to have accepted his death... then maybe she'll be worth remembering. Metaphorically, that is, because she'll be wiped from living thought.
Like this, she'll take the compassion of his embrace for all it's worth: a place of security and comfort, warm in a way that offers to understand but not to yield. Steady as mountains and present like the sun. Firm in the conviction of the sacredness of life-- the likes of which she's never seen, much less had extended to her own.
It's more than she's ever known, and it feels as if it's tearing all of her apart. Because if there are souls like his that offer such kindness, then they absolutely should be cherished. Honored and respected for what they offer to the world. Protected. Only now, she won't ever be strong enough.
It takes minutes before she calms, after which she can only murmur: ]
How...How did you do it? Accept your death?