The Black Butterfly
There's just too much that time cannot erase...
I've tried so hard to tell myself that you're gone...
But you still have all of me...
---My Immortal, Evanesence
When he hears she is dying, he runs.
They say an old man can't run. Well, maybe that might be true for other men but not him. Not him. He's been running every day since he was two years old. No amount of years or old war wounds or what-the-hell-ever is going to stop him. Not when she is dying and he has only days before she disappears completely somewhere he can't follow.
He runs. He runs past his daughter, he runs to the edge of his farm. He runs down the path and through the road (no sentries, not any more, not since the war ended) and across the fields. He runs, an old man with a stick, until he can see the lights on the water and he knows that the city isn't far away. He runs down to docks and he runs to the nearest ship. They don't want to take him. Let's face it, who does? But he persuades them anyway, works off his passage as best he can. Tearing rope for oakum, cooking, sometimes even navigating, once they work out he can use a map better than the captain. They put up with him: the demands to go faster, the snapping and snarling and the silent watches he spends by the prow, staring out. Waiting. Waiting for what? They don't know.
He doesn't know either. All there is inside him is the fierce yearning, the hope that sometime soon they'll sight land and he can see her, spread his fingers through her hair and see her small bemused smile.
They arrive on the third day. He's off the boat before they have the rope tied around the bollard on the dock. He's off and running and they don't stop him. They don't even try because they know now that to even think of it is to court Death. Instead they leave him be, the old man with his crazy wanderings and tie the boat down in time for unloading.
He doesn't wander though. Despite what they think, he isn't mad. He feels completely sane, completely normal. Unless that its self is a form of sanity. Unless loving that woman was a form of sanity.
They are reluctant to let him in at first. They baulk at his strange clothes. Eventually one calls for the superior officer. He comes. He is puzzled.
"Who are you?"
He shakes his head.
"What do you want?"
"A meeting."
"With whom?"
He says her name. They gape.
"That is impossible."
He shakes his head again. Take me to her. She won't refuse me.
They shrug and nod. They lead him through the corridors, up the staircase. A knock on a door. Her husband comes out. Red-rimmed eyes glare at him resentfully. It is funny how such a powerful man can still act like such a child.
"What do you want?"
"She is dying. One more time, for pity's sake."
The husband glares at him. "She chose me."
"Yes."
"Remember that." The husband steps aside. The way is clear.
He walks into her rooms his heart hammering.
Everything is as he imagined it. Clean. Sober. Neat. Just as she liked to be seen. But now and then, as he crossed the luxurious wool carpet, he catches glimpses of the girl he became infatuated with. The girl who wasn't always calm and neat and caring.
The bed dominates the room. He moves towards it, holding his breath. Praying.
She is as still as a doll on the sheets. He hair is spread over the white pillows. Her hands are hanging loose by her sides. It is strange to see them so helpless. When he knew her, they were always busy. Now they just lie there.
He kneels down. Arthritis make his joints ache. He looks like a penitent about to confess his sins. He takes her hand as if it were the benign hand of a goddess. Holding it desperately, afraid to let go.
Her eyes open. They don't flutter, they don't blink. They just open. The movement, like her, is plain and unadorned and beautiful because of it. His grip tightens.
She hacks, harshly. A handkerchief is pressed to her lips and when it comes away he can see the blood. She nods, tired, pain-filled eyes meeting his own.
"Does he know? How bad it is?"
She laughs, a harsh husky sound. "It he does, he has not heard it from me." Her eyes gobble up his face like a starving man. "You came."
"Did you think I wouldn't?"
"I didn't know." She coughs again and he would give anything for the linen to come away unspoiled. "I seem to get more ignorant as I grow older."
He remembers the meeting in Ba Sing Se. How she had threatened to kill him. How he'd kissed her and laughed. How she'd hesitated every time she raised a hand against him after that. How he'd exploited that weakness like the hot-headed fool he had been. How she clung to him later when they kissed alone and how he had wanted to cling to her but had been afraid.
"You were born wise. It seems only fair that you would die stupid." As soon as he says the word, he wants to curse. The far away look comes back into her eyes.
"I do things backwards then. It makes sense."
Nothing about her made sense. That was why he was here, begging her to stay. "Don't do it."
"Do what?"
He feels a rush of anger at her bland innocence. "Don't die on me. Don't you dare do it, woman."
"If I live I go back to my husband."
"I know that." She would always do her duty. "But if you…"
"Die."
"If you die, you go somewhere I can't reach you."
She looks at him. Her thumb strokes down the side of his hand. She says his name once. Very softly. "I am dying."
"Not you're not."
"Yes I am. I can feel it. It's like a numbness creeping into my bones." She swallows down more blood. He wants to stop her, to tell her not to do that. But she has a mind like a donkey, stubborn and contrary. "I hoped you would come. I wanted to tell you…" Coughing overtakes her again.
"It's all right."
"No, I…" She rolls over. The coughing fit is worse than the last. She spits up the blood into a basin by her head. All the time, her hand never leaves his. When she rolls back, her eyes are bright with fever. "I want you to know…"
"You…"
"I want you to know. Even when I chose him, it was always you. I always loved you."
His other hand reaches up. Strands of hair are brushed off her smooth high forehead. He says nothing but then he doesn't have to. She swallows and leans into the action. It's as soothing as a mother's hand but callused and cracked and rough and just like him that she wants to weep, she who has never cried. His lips whisper down. They brush off her forehead, whispering the words he will admit to no one else. Her name is like a drop of honey at the end.
She sighs. "I'm scared." She breathes softly. Her head feels light against to the creased and crumpled pillows. "I scared to die now the time is here."
"I will call him."
"No!" Her hand catches his. Nails dig into his skin. "Please."
"He is your husband."
"He is sensitive. He has had too much grief in his life. He would not be able to…" Her eyes speak volumes. He pinned by them, a fly struggling against the wave of the inevitable.
"Why me?" Why did you choose me, from every other person who has loved you?
"Because you are the only one who can give me the courage." She lies back. She looks absurdly young, her high necked nightgown more like a child's than a woman's. "I need courage."
He is not brave. He knows that. But she thinks he is, because she brings out the best in him. She brings out the pious hero, the soft-hearted carer, the gentle lover. He is none of these things but for her he will pretend.
She can tell by his stillness that he has agreed. Her husky breath eases out. Her gentle squeeze along his hand thanks him.
Stiffly, he stands up. She can hear the hitch in his breathing as the old war wound catches him on the hip. He looms over her like an ancient vengeance-carrying angel.
"Jet…"
He runs his fingers down her pale cheek. She catches the palm and kisses it.
"I love you, Mai. Always have. Always will."
Jet bends down. His lips press against the Fire Lady's, gentle at first then passionate, stealing her breathe away, giving her his. He is still kissing her as Mai's life eases out of her body and her heart stops beating.
When he comes away, he can taste her soul. And he knows she is gone.
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