There's a boy across the river, with short black curly hair
He wants to be my lover and I want to be his peer
There's a boy across the river, but alas, I cannot swim
I never will get to put my arms around him
Alas, I Cannot Swim – Laura Marling
It's near sunset, and the troops have coalesced for the day – grieving, wounded and full of brittle pride or hate or shame or perhaps all of those things. He just stares blankly at the faces of those around him, not seeing, not wanting to see because that means he will see who is missing.
Perhaps because of this, at first he doesn't recognize her. She looks so different, with her hair grown a bit longer and hiding her eyes, wearing that dusty, desert colored coat meant to help you blend in, her hands calloused and her eyes haunted. She has changed so much - not just in appearance - since he saw her last, that even though there's something vaguely familiar about her that nags at the back of his mind, he can't put his finger on it.
Of course, he doesn't really get to see her up close at first; just a fleeting glimpse of those soft eyes sharpened by the things they have seen.
When he does realize who she is, the recognition comes so sudden that it hits him almost as though he has been punched in the stomach and he gasps, just managing to keep himself from stumbling backwards. After a long moment of shock the questions start flooding his brain, rushing in an overwhelming tide, crashing through the flood gates and dams of rational thought. (What is she doing here? Why is she here? How long has it been since I saw her last? How much has she changed? How much have I changed?)
She murmured hello, that familiar shy smile coming over her face and he wondered how he didn't recognize her before, even though he knows the answer. (This is the last place in the world he would have expected to find her, here with blood staining the ground you walk on and sand tasting gritty between your teeth everytime you breathe in.) She fumbles over his name, his rank unfamiliar when paired with his last name.
He doesn't know what to say, because although she has addressed him – properly this time, as though they don't know each other, as though he hasn't seen the softness of her features when she sleeps or the enchantment on her face when she crept out into the thunderstorms to greet the rain – the only name that comes to his mind is – Riza, darling, and all those things that he knows her as – not right, he doesn't know her rank though of course – of course! – she knew his.
"I'm here for my own reasons, of my own freewill," is her response when he gives in and lets the torrent of questions come surging out, words blurring together in a confusing jumble. It sounds rehearsed, as though she feels the need to justify herself to him, to herself.
He reaches out, touching her cheek, feeling her skin (soft, smooth, a reminder that there is an outside world that knows nothing of fear, doesn't know the feeling of life leaving the body of a friend, the tears streaming down your cheeks and leaving dirt tracks on your dusty face when you see someone you don't know die in your arms) beneath his fingers. The sky above is orange, streaked with pink and red, a softer combination of colors than he has become used to. It is almost dusk, that time of day when the sun fills every crack and crevice, gilding the barrels of rifles and the steely edges of swords, casting purple shadows over the city and its dead.
She flinches and turns away (He thinks she knows what he's done, and she can't bear the touch of someone so monstrous, so terribly monstrous), afraid he'll realize what she's thinking, afraid he'll see the reason she is here in her eyes, afraid he'll see into her soul because she feel so transparent when he looks at her. She is here for him, here to make sure he makes it to the other side, makes it out in one piece. Here to make sure his promise will be fulfilled, to make sure they will have other promises to make.
Other promises.
He recognizes something in her that day. (Strength, a force of will and determination that is utterly damning in its foolishness, in its hope)
It's the same thing he sees in himself.
A/N: This an expanded version of one of the little snippets I included in Right as Rain. :)