Experiences of Love

Dark pressed in around him, thick and suffocating, the weight of the sky collapsed upon his chest. The man lay still, his breathing ragged, each breath a fight against the searing pain that cut through his body. The great keep lay in ruin around him, shattered by the onslaught of the night before. The memory of which had long since left him, now just a tear-filled view, masked with a crimson haze of blood and death.

Deep gashes marred his body, two on his head that still pulsed blood out, and several others dispersed across his body; each one a searing brand of the battle's toll. Blood dripped from his fingers, staining them a deep carmine -- he hated the feel of it, but he had no choice, he had had no choice.

“Just a shame it wasn't worth it,” he exhaled, hollow voiced. His gaze drifted to his left, landing on a sky-blue helmet, slick with blood. He sighed again, the sound resounding through his skull, an echo of past memories.  

The air was cold and damp, heavy with the scent of iron and rain; somewhere in the distance, the world went on without him. But here, in this silent void, only one thought remained–her.

Cherry-blossom-tressed girl, her smile was a breaking storm cloud lit with sun, she held his heart with so fatal a grip that even now, life ebbing from his torn body, she alone was what he wanted.

Cruel, he thought, that above all things it should be the memory of her laughter, soft and ringing like wind chimes in the spring, clung to his mind and not the pain or even the fear of the abyss drawing closer. He closed his eyes, and he could see her–the way her kind eyes softened whenever she looked at him, the way her soft hands once traced his palm absent-mindedly as they talked, as if memorizing the lines of his fate.

He could almost see her clearly, the warmth in her eyes when she called him sweet, that playful glimmer when he teased her in return. He could hear the lilt in her voice, the way she would sigh his name when he said something particularly charming, as if exasperated by his kindness, yet unwilling to turn away from it.

She would scold him for lying still, giving in to fate so easily. She would cross her arms and call him stubborn, tell him he must always have the last word, must always be the noble one. And then, in that way only she could, she would kneel beside him and touch his face, her fingers feather-light against his skin.

But she wasn't here.

And perhaps that was his biggest sorrow of them all.

Ah, my sweet… he thought, it is a greater pain to be apart from you than any sword I have ever known.

He closed his eyes and let the memories unravel before him in threads of gold across the dark. He saw the night they first spoke–the way her voice sounded like something he had known, something preordained. He remembered how the world quieted when she laughed, the lessening weight of his loneliness by her simple proximity.

He recalled those evenings beneath lantern-lit skies when a sliver of time felt like an eternity, and the space between them filled with a glance of knowing; words half-swallowed in hesitation. They would map their similarities with precision, as an astronomer traces constellations in the sky–first slowly and carefully, or so it seemed, for fear that to acknowledge them too boldly might shatter the delicate balance between them.

"You're too sweet," she had told him once, pressing her fingertip against his forehead as if branding him with the accusation, her expression somewhere between fondness and exasperation.

"And you, my angel… are perfect," he had murmured in return, his voice softer, almost reverent. Because she was— divine, untouchable, radiant in a way that made the rest of the world seem so dull in comparison.

If only he had told her the truth, spoken of the ache in his heart whenever she wasn't there, of every glance that had seemed like a prayer, never finding its answer; if only he had told her he knew, long before he could admit it, what he had become: all hers. Cruel thing, time was; love never uttered was lost.

A sharp pain tore him back to the present, a fresh wave of agony burning through his body, forcing him to gasp. His fingers twitched, desperate to hold onto the image of her, but it was slipping, fading, like petals torn from their branches and carried away by the wind.

Would she remember him? Would she know how much he had loved her, even in silence?

The frozen rain had begun, the ominous clouds from the night before finally yielding, releasing their sorrow upon the shredded earth. Water rushed from his trembling fingers, their twitch one of the final signs of life in him. The cold felt nice on his skin and slowly washed away the stain of battle-- not that it mattered anymore. How could it? 

A single tear traced the curve of his cheek mingling with the icy rain, cleansing his face of blood. A shuddering breath left his lips, each inhale laced with pain, yet he took in as much air as his failing body would allow. 

With great effort, he tilted his head forward, his gaze returning to her helmet-- cleaned once more,  glistening beneath the pale, merciless sky. Slowly agonizingly, he raised his hand, reaching for it. His fingers trembled as they turned, revealing a faded tattoo-- two initials entwined amidst a heart, a promise inked into his very skin. He exhaled one final breath, surrendering his will to the silence. 

The darkness closed in around him, he could do nothing-- Only whisper her name.