Zed has learned that the human corpse takes only a few hours to go cold. The season is Spring, the weather is fair, and the wind is soft but desperately unwelcome. Shen's body grows increasingly cold with every soft, passing breeze.
The Order expected their Master to hold the head of the Eye like a trophy. Higher than anything, against the sun, against the mob of fighters who did just that–fight, teeth and bone and nail to see that macabre sight. The Kinkou have fallen for good, and so their leader's head must rise apart from his body like an object of righteous victory.
But Zed holds Shen's head in alignment with the rest of his body. Blood from the severance soaks deep into his clothes, yet Zed keeps the head and shoulders still over his lap. The torn flesh makes a soft squelch at the sound of Shen's head returning to where it once was, only to fall off again once Zed lets go.
He takes deep breaths. Shen smells like blood, death and metal, but this is not how Zed remembers him. The top half of his body leans over, hands blindly taking hold of the other's to fold them over the corpse's impaled abdomen. Shen's face is completely masked by Zed's shadow, eyes still shot wide in the disbelief of his last moments.
Zed lifts his mask just enough so that no one but Shen can see him. His empty eyes seem to stare straight through him, as if Zed were not above him at all.
His lips tremble with the threat of regretful words. A barely heard sound takes his breath in a shallow gasp before he bites his lip. He presses his teeth harder into the skin as his hands grip around Shen's tight enough to break more of his bones.
They are so close now. This is what he wanted. This closeness, this severed bond made anew. Every part of him is with every part of Shen.
His lips are there, where he's always watched them move and talk and say his name. Sometimes Zed is said in monotone, sometimes it is said in anger, in rage. Now it will never be spoken again. The lips are still, frozen and paling to a suffocated blue.
One kiss.
Could he be granted such a thing? Of course. Zed has won. He can take and destroy anything he wishes, but in his hesitance Zed only abuses himself more. Blood drips from his lip where his teeth have bitten down in his tension. What blood is his? What blood is Shen's? Does it matter?
Zed closes Shen's eyes with a gentle touch. Stinging lips inch closer to a dry, open mouth. To the victor go the spoils they say, but the spoils are rotting.
Shen's lips are cold. What did he expect?