Matthew was empty.
So were a few other things, come to that. So was the clearing in this godforsaken forest, the only place he'd been able to find with flat ground, uncovered by any sort of flora. So was the waterskin he hadn't bothered filling before he left camp. So was this whole island, it seemed, empty of everything and anything but fog. And so was the hole he had just finished digging.
He had no earthly idea how long he had been at digging the damn thing, no idea when he started, only knew that time had seemed immaterial once he had plunged the shovel into the earth, resuming its usual pace only once he had finished shoveling, scraping, hacking out a long rectangular hole with perfectly smooth sides.
He stood now, and if anyone had been watching him, they would have been tempted to say he was admiring his work. If they had taken a closer look, however, they would have seen something different; they would have seen the glassy pallor that had replaced the usual sparkle in his eyes; they would have seen the total lack of expression on his face; they would have seen how his shoulders slumped as though they were supporting the spirits of every poor, melancholy bastard who had met their end on the Dread Isle.
Matthew moved away now, wandering a short way back into the forest. He made no move to conceal his presence, no attempt to lighten his steps, no effort to stay close to the shadows that he had been taught would keep him alive. Leila always stayed in the shadows, he thought, and what had that gotten her?
He was spared yet another torrent of heart-wrenching agony by the sudden occurrence of a stone at his foot. Without changing expression, without uttering a sound, he dropped to the ground next to the head-sized rock, produced a knife, and began to carve. He held his breath as much as he could. It hurt less when he wasn't breathing.
Time slowed again as he slowly chiseled away at the makeshift grave marker. It was springtime, but there were no birds singing. It was daytime, but the sun could not be seen. It was the Sabbath, but he was working. There was nothing but Matthew, the stone, and a knife that seemed intent on cutting his hands to ribbons. He didn't care.
At least he didn't think he did. But he looked again at the fresh wounds, at the brilliant red of the blood spilling forth, and he saw other things. He saw Leila's hair lit by the dusking sun, twirling as she danced and laughed. He saw Leila's lips lit by flickering torchlight in one of the secret passageways that catacombed Castle Ostia. He saw Leila's cloak lit by bright sunlight as they had parted ways in Caelin. He saw the pool of blood underneath Leila's limp, hanging body, barely lit by anything at all…
And he now saw the marker was as suitably inscribed as he could make it. Leaving the dagger where he dropped it, he hefted the stone in both hands and turned back toward the clearing.
The stone was heavy, but he did not labor with its weight. Laboring was for full people. Matthew was empty.
But the clearing was not. It was not empty because it had a hole, and a pile of dirt that had been cast aside to form the hole, and a shovel, and Leila's corpse, and a large, gaunt-looking wolf tearing into Leila's stomach and ripping out anything red or pink or gray inside…
Matthew made his first sound in many hours. It was not a word, it was not a scream, it was not a sob. It was a horrible, soul-turning animal roar, and it was empty. Empty, that is, of everything except pain and anger and a sorrow that scared even the giant brute of a wolf into the underbrush and out of sight.
Now Leila was empty. She was empty of her soul, empty of life, and empty, empty of her- of her- Matthew could barely bring himself to look. There she was, laying askew on the ground, pale face a beautiful as ever, lips even redder now, flecked with blood, the slice on her neck that had destroyed her, and… the hole where her stomach should be, the hole that was another thing that was empty.
The clearing was less empty now. There was Leila's something, something of Leila's, something that should have been inside Leila, stayed inside Leila, made Leila not empty. But there it was, glistening and wet on the ground where the beast had apparently abandoned it for a tastier organ.
Matthew ignored it. That was not the part of Leila he had loved. The part of Leila he had loved was gone.
And gone was the emotion that had ripped its way from Matthew's chest the moment before. Now he was not feeling, not thinking, not doing anything but placing the gravestone at the head of the hole and kneeling next to Leila, holding Leila, cradling Leila, stepping down into the grave with Leila, slowly laying Leila down against the bottom, stepping away, retrieving the shovel.
Matthew was empty. The hole was not, not anymore, not as he used the shovel to scrape the displaced earth back into the crater, not as he lay next to Leila as he covered himself and his love with earth.
The clearing was empty. The only sign of a disturbance was the patch of freshly-turned ground, even now fading behind the mist, and the fragment of intestine of a young woman, even now fading into the forest floor. Yes, the clearing was most definitely empty.
Matthew was not empty. He was not empty as he lay in darkness next to Leila, not empty as he reached inside the hole the wolf had left and grasped her heart, not empty as he closed his eyes and prepared to spend the rest of the time in the world with his love.
No, Matthew wasn't empty anymore.