With Your Hand In Mine
By Lily M.
And the truth was that he had no courage to ask him about the last ten years.
He had been stalled in time. Still looking like a fifteen year old, still thinking like a fifteen year old. Nothing had changed. He hadn't grown taller, nor had he grown smarter. His eyes were still wide and clear. He had not experienced ten years of solitude, or hardships, or any tragic changes.
So who was he to question the one that had almost slipped by him, the one he had almost missed as his best friend, Gilbert Nightray?
It was easy to accept. Easy to say, "Nothing has changed, so let's move on." It was mere ignorance on his part, wasn't it? Blissful ignorance and denial.
Ada was a grown-up girl now. Beautiful, enchanting – and in love. And she had presented him with a hat he held so precious, they had remained attached to each other, still walking hand in hand along the path of time.
And he was still fifteen years old.
He had seen tragedies and sorrow and blood – but those memories were not his own, were they? They were not his experiences, they were not his tragedies or sorrows. What had Gilbert seen? What had Gilbert felt?
His eyes had narrowed, his breath now scented of smoke, his clothing almost obscuring him from view along with the shadows. Raven. Whatever happened to you.
Oz touched his scar, the one he was reluctant to show, the one he kept protecting his master from. But silly Gilbert, don't you see it's the only proof I have of what once was? That you're still Gilbert, scared Gilbert, fragile Gilbert, dependable Gilbert.
Wasn't it true, that they were masters of each other? He wanted to reach out for him, ask him to please, please continue guiding him. Because Gilbert was trustworthy, he'd do silly things and get locked up, he'd cry for him, he'd bleed for him, he'd kill for him.
And the clock in his chest indicated that time, his time, was finally moving forward. He was not stuck anymore, he was not falling behind while everybody ran ahead.
He called his name, his name, not hero, or Jack, or anything else that wasn't him. Held his hand close to his chest, not close to the scar, but close to his heart.
Whatever had really changed?
He smiled that one smile, full of sincerity and trust and something that Oz had never been able to name. If he voiced all his fears, that it was his fault everything had happened, that if only he were there, if only things were different, then Gil would be upset and switch the blame to himself, somehow, and they would go on and on endlessly.
And didn't this game of blame just mean how much they cared for each other?
In the dim light, Oz was falling asleep, the warmth of Gilbert's body so close, so overwhelming, so real. And he couldn't as much as see his hand as he could feel it intertwine with his own, whispering something that was probably not meant to be understood.
The clock in his chest continued to move forward.
With your hand in mine, let's take our steps together? I want to hear it, your story… And then, we can walk towards tomorrow.