Title: Final Requiem
Prompt: # 1 - Finish
Rating: PG
Word Count: 371
Summary: Love is contained in the body's lifeless eyes and life is contained in the ribbons that bind the hands. Beyond Birthday makes his gift a thing of impeccable beauty.
Notes: Not all of the prompts will be written in this style; I just got finished reading The Pearl, and it just happened to spill over here. The "ribbons" are only figurative if you want them to be. Written slightly from B's point of view.
Dedicated to Jess (silvereyesish) for being a great friend and fellow role-player.
He ties the ribbons loosely. This is his gift, after all. The ribbons are limp against pallid skin. He does not dare tighten them.
In theory, he can wrap his present in extravagant coverings, adorn it with burnished, wonderful things. He can paint over it entirely, even. But these things will never do -- the ribbons are quite enough. Red strands decorate the body, hang from various places. He had loved these places once, but now there are the ribbons and the ribbons only. The silk brushes under his fingers, hands gliding against the cloth; his touches are feather light. He had loved these places, hands and feet and wrists and ankles.
The small expanses of exposed skin are cold, chilling to touch as he moves his hands over them. The skin is cold, the skin, lifeless.
There are no ribbons concealing the face. He'd hated the face the most -- no love is contained there, for the tongue is deceitful and the lips even more so, and he had been swayed by these things many a time and they were by far the most influential aspects. Tantalizing kisses had made him a weak man.
Ribbons are wrapped around the eyes several times because the eyes are never false, and he knows this and the body knows this. Beneath the layers of silk, the eyes remain open so that they can see red and only red for the rest of eternity, and the hands are clasped together as though in prayer. It is a final requiem.
His gift is to be admired, he thinks. A few locks of dark hair escapes the ribbon confinement, and he touches them and then touches the ribbons. The hair is still warm, and the lips are still warm from the heat of his own. The lips can make no statement, but he feels the words, and they burn through his fingers and lips and bleed from his eyes until he cannot see.
A final requiem of solace, a conclusive song of bittersweet sorrow that lingers in the air and on his tongue. The ribbons are tied loosely so that even the clumsiest of hands can unfasten them. And the requiem continues far beyond the finish.