DeWitt had bright eyes, but he wasn't innocent. He was far from innocent. He was between drowning at the depths of the ocean and touching the horizon, she was his hope, his savior, but he didn't love her (couldn't was a better perspective, he wasn't capable of it). He had let her go, given up her ghost, and stopped whispering her name. He lived in an empty room, a mattress on the floor, booze bottles and dust for company. He let doors stand in his way, but she was always reaching through them.
They were eating croissants in Paris. He was hungry. She supposed the food tasted good. To her it tasted like ash. She poked at it with her folk, barely touching what was on her plate. He was hungry in every way. In the way he drew breath, held his gun, kissed her…He rested his forehead on hers, panting, "Rosalind." She had her hair down and he couldn't look away.
"DeWitt…"
"Call me Booker."
Booker was a sinner, a redeemer, a bastard-in his words, he whispered in her ear, calling her terrible things-a liar, a killer, a Shepard leading his flock to death, alive…dead. He didn't remember her, but she always knew him. She pushed him down onto the bed and straddled his hips. "Do you love me? How much?" Rosalind rubbed him. She thrust into him. Her cunt throbbed and her corset was coming undone. His fingers twisted strands of her red hair and his lips were at her throat, mouthing things that were best forgotten.
There were constellations in her skin. He laid his head on her chest and listened to her breathe. It was the most comforting sound. He traced her freckles until she told him to stop.
Robert.
Robert used to do that.
Robert held her in his arms, drawing stars in a sky where there were none. He caressed her pounding temples and told her the only words she wanted to hear.
They weren't saints. They couldn't forgive even as they were fading. They weren't ghosts, but they stood in shallow graves.
She watched she waited until the sky of every world darkened. There was no rebirth, only ruin and forgetting. The Shepard led the lamb astray and he would know truth in her blood.
"Do you love me? How much? This much," It wasn't enough.