He's so pale, is my first thought. But he's always pale. He's practically famous for it.
Still...that's the first thought I have when I see him stretched out on the ground next to the old man.
So pale. So still.
God don't let him be dead.
I push my way past the incompetents who should have been making sure this didn't happen and fall to my knees.
He's sleeping. He's not dead. I hold on to the thought with all my might, but it slips away under the onslaught of the utter stillness that greets me when I look at him.
I don't know how long I've been kneeling there, afraid to touch him. If I touch him, it'll be real. He'll be dead and there will be nothing left for me.
Please I'll do anything don't let him be dead.
My hand reaches out without my willing it, to stroke the silken ebony hair. That, at least, death cannot touch. Then it slides over his face.
Chill. Cold. Dead.
And then my face is in my hands and I'm screaming, screaming like I'll never stop, and in that moment I know that I never will because he's dead and without him I'm nothing, and he'll never tell me it'll be okay again and how will it be okay if he can't tell me so?
They're staring. Let them.
We never told them, refused to let them touch this one pure, forbidden thing we shared. Refused to let them tear us apart.
Fat lot of good that did us.
Bring him back damn you haven't I lost enough?
There's a gentle touch on my shoulder and I wrench away. I don't want comfort. I sure as hell don't deserve it, but it persists and after a time I decide it's easier to just let it be than to fight it.
And then I'm curled into her, soaking her robes with my tears, and her arms are soft around my bruised body as she murmurs softly into my ear.
After an aeon, I pull away and look at him. He looks peaceful, was it death or victory that did that?
I'll be sure and ask him, when I see him next.
I plant a gentle kiss on the chill lips. He tastes of ashes where once he tasted of chocolate, and more tears drip onto his still face.
My fault.
They are waiting for me to make it right again, fix their broken little world again. They need me.
Fuck them.
The wand is smooth in my hand – his, not mine, and unfamiliar, and for the second time that night those two words pass my lips.
Lovely words, beautiful words. Forbidden words.
Wait for me, Love. I'm coming.