Title: The State of Kings

Main Characters: Natara W., Mal F.

Synopsis: One thing stands between this type of love. Well, two things. First, place. They weren't in the same place. They were too far away for her liking. Second, people. And that's where he came into play.

Inspiration: Thomas Edison's last words were, "It's very beautiful over there." I don't know where "there" is, but I believe it's somewhere and I hope it's beautiful. Like you.

Author's Note: Well this took an unexpected turn. Damn these characters and their tendency to get themselves into such trouble! I apologize for them in advance. Review anyway?:c

Dedicated to Christine and Clarissa. Because they deserve perfect lives too. ;*

Chapter Eight:

They tell me what he said. We are in different hospital rooms, so we can't see each other yet. He isn't doing well at all, but as soon as he is conscious, he wants to know how I found him.

I got his phone call, they say. I pieced it together.

But they tell me what he says.

"I didn't call anyone," he says. "My phone was broken."

I lie for hours on end in this hospital, this place I hate. There is nothing to do here but think. And as most of my thoughts are negative, or afraid, or angry, I try to occupy myself with memories and facts.

"How will I ever get out of this labyrinth of suffering?" Simon Bolivar said. Those were his last words. And I think of the note in the used biography that was written next to those words.

Straight and fast.

Eventually, I can stand up. And when I can, the first thing I do is sneak over to Mal's room. He's sleeping, but restlessly, so he wakes when he hears my footsteps.

"Hey," he says. His voice is still hoarse.

I nod and take his hand.

"I don't get it, Nat. I didn't call you."

My eyes drop to the floor. I shake my head slightly and a tear escapes my right eye. I don't understand it either.

"Do you hear it, too?" he asks quietly, and I meet his eyes again, confused. I tilt my head to the side slightly in question. "The screams."

The screams. Of course I still hear them. My screams, his screams, Genevieve telling me to talk. I hear it all, awake or asleep. I nod slowly. Of course I still hear them.

"They probably didn't tell you," he says. "They don't want you to get upset. But they don't think I'll make it."

It's only been about a day since Chandler brought backup and saved us, or I think so, anyway. My sense of time passing is still on edge. We're both still covered with some dirt and dried blood. They were afraid to move us too much to clean us up yet.

I shake my head again. He would live. He has to, I didn't do that for nothing.

"Natara," he starts again, but I cut him off by leaning down to meet my lips with his.

How long has it been since we've kissed like this? Only four or five days? It seems like an eternity as he moves his lips with mine.

Someone finds me and pulls us apart. Someone takes me back to my room. In my memory, that kiss never ends. No one interrupts, and we kiss like that with me leaning over his bed forever.

Every morning I wake up and try to speak. Every morning I can't.

It's been a week and I'm feeling a bit better...well, cleaner at least. They've let me shower and change into my regular clothes because I was "impossible to deal with otherwise".

Two weeks, three.

I shape my lips to form his name again as the doctor comes into my room. I do this every morning, and she always knows what I'm asking. She always just shakes her head. I can't see him. No progress on his condition, but nothing worse has happened either. Three weeks. I'm not the patient kind of person.

But today she doesn't shake her head when she comes to check on me and I ask my unspoken question again. She just stares at me unmovingly, her eyes blank.

"Mal," I struggle again and finally a light rasp escapes my lips. The doctor looks mildly shocked, but still doesn't shake her head. "Mal."

She nods slowly. A nod? What does a nod mean? What does she think I'm asking?

"Mal."

I spend another month and a half in the hospital, and they grow more worrisome every day. I don't feel myself deteriorating, but I suppose I must be, because their expressions get darker every day.

I can still feel the last kiss we shared hovering on my lips. The way it tasted: like blood and sweat and tears and relief. They say he'll never be quite the same, partly because of the shock, and partly because of the actual damage done to his body, but he can still live. I want so badly to hug him, to kiss him, to comfort him. I want so badly for this to not be all my fault.

But it will always be my fault. It will always be my fault that 1. He can't have a normal life and 2. He has to live with pain for the rest of his life and 3. I can't help him and 4. I make it harder for him because 5. I am dead.

The End.