Chapter nineteen
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As a rule, Nicholas D. Wolfwood had never feared the terrible claws of death. In an occupation as dangerous and uncertain as his own, death was lurking around every corner, like a stray cat or secret lover, ready to rip and tear - and once it had a hold on you, it was ever so difficult to free yourself. Fearing that final end simply made one paranoid, which more often than not sped along the object of terror as it made it's way inevitably towards your soul - death came and went as it pleased, and if it passed you over, you had escaped, and if not - why worry? That was how he had always envisioned the struggle to survive, anyway. A rather foolish endeavor on this hellish planet. Death... Sometimes it was seen as release, sometimes as a friend long away, and more often than not as the epoch of life and the grand finale of all that was existence.
So Wolfwood, priest, gunman, mercenary - had long courted death in his lifetime, and now that he could feel it breathing harshly down his neck, sending ice through his stomach and mind... It was almost relaxing, the certainty, the knowledge that in mere hours everything would be alright. Gone. Endless nothingness, no pain, no fear, no thought -
This planet was hell. Oblivion could be no worse.
Of course, it was impossible to be sure that oblivion indeed would welcome souls - Wolfwood mused silently as he dragged himself down the street, too proud to call for help and too obsessed with the relief that was only moments away to concentrate on something more real - like dressing his wounds. A prisoner in his own mind, his throat clogged and his heart pounded, shoulders and chest aching with his injuries and the weight he bore. The Cross Punisher dragged behind him, leaving a trail of skid marks in the dust as testimony of his passing.
The only item needed to make the allusion complete was a crown of thorns perched across his head.
Death was, Wolfwood sighed as blood trickled down his chest, like the final battle in the last act of a famous play. If he fought the ice and frigid blankness, then he would eventually lose - and somehow, some small part of him wanted that final fall into the void to be peaceful. As many times as he had smirked at the thought of going down in a burst of sparkling flame, there had always been a small voice in his mind, whispering of old age, joint ale, sand-cough. If you fought, you would lose beyond a shadow of a doubt. If you let the current of fate take you with it into the abyss, well, that wasn't a loss.
Grandchildren... The very thought was like something out of a dream - or maybe a nightmare, in it's own little way. Or a little of both - the difference between light and dark had disintegrated when Vash entered his life, and these days Wolfwood was lucky if he could get away with anything without being stalked by morals and concerns for other souls, choices left unmade, decisions that could have changed the world. Almost like a disease, Vash's soft words and gentle smiles...
It was seeping down his undershirt, licking and staining his stomach and chest a dark crimson - it was even seeping through the already-charcoal hue of his suit's jacket... Warm, like the sand and sun, but not like Vash, no, Vash had never been anything but deep and dark and inviting.
Dripping on the dusty ground, now, spattering in little droplets across his shoes, the cuffs of his dark slacks. Wolfwood looked down and tried to focus on the growing pool in the dirt beneath him, while his breathing seemed fainter and fainter, knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that he needed to get somewhere, say something - didn't most people want to leave something behind when they died?
He closed his eyes for a moment, secure in the knowledge that he would leave nothing but bleached bones and bitter memories. There was no future, and no past. Nothing mattered, just...
Now, something needed to be said - he looked up woozily and blinked as the buildings of the shadowy town grew up around him - he was moving, unaware as one foot plunged before the other, sinking into the sand and then rising again, shifting weight, shifting pain.
Vash...?
Vash. So maybe he had one regret, or maybe two, or ten thousand - he didn't know anymore. Maybe life was regret, maybe that's what history was, a fabric of could-beens and would-beens and regret that couldn't be appreciated until opportunity and second chances had died away.
After all, how many times had he shied away from kissing? How many times had he skirted the words that might have at last brought Vash's slender body to rest in his arms? How many tiny mistakes had given birth to arguments and destruction...?
It didn't matter, nothing mattered anymore.... but...... where was Vash? "......he......"
More blood hit the ground, but Wolfwood was too detached to notice it, wiping blood and bands out of his eyes, looking up as best he could as the pain shot up and down through his torso. Everything seemed so far away, untouchable... He swung the Cross Punisher up over his shoulder and shifted again, groaning as his stomach coiled in agony.
It hurt...so badly. Like a thousand stabbing knives...
The irony of it made Wolfwood chuckle and collapse into a fit of bloody coughing.
It seemed like ten thousand years, but there he was - Vash, leaning against the car, his head in his hands, probably crying over something, the priest guessed. Caine. Wolfwood stood a bit straighter, even as his wounds protested - death now had him in it's claws, and he had no desire to escape it. To seek a way out of this fate would be to forfeit his final battle, and he couldn't do that - not after the life he had led. All the people he had killed had gone silently, and those who had pleaded and struggled with his gun to their head - he had less respect for them than he did for the silent, prepared victims of his bullets. He would not be one of those who sobbed and clung to this worthless life...he would not treat these wounds, allow himself to be crippled and injured. He would rather die than...die...
Wolfwood stopped in the midst of his pilgrimage, and watched Vash, a soft smile on his lips. "What's wrong?"
"I...failed to save another life."
Of course. Caine was never the stable-est of Gung-ho Guns, silent and emotionless and pale... his end didn't surprise Wolfwood all that much - but Vash's reaction touched him, as it always did. Was it really just minutes ago that Wolfwood had challenged Vash in one last attempt to be who he was supposed to be, to avoid the noose that this love had slung around his neck? The pain in Vash's eyes had mirrored what he displayed now... He cared as much for Caine as he had for Wolfwood, when the priest had trained his gun on Vash and fired - missing, intentionally, but only barely. Vash's eyes had taken in his struggle, put him in his place as they always did...
"That's alright," he whispered. Of course it was, because everything was alright. Everyone died, what did it matter if they fell a few years earlier, or later, or escaped it in youth only to be taken by wheezing old age? Nobody could truly be saved from that eternal ending.... "Just be more careful next time."
Vash's glasses hid his eyes from view, but Wolfwood knew they were not turned on him - they were far away and distant now. No, if Vash had seen his condition he would not be contemplating his morality - and that suited Wolfwood quite fine. He didn't need those eyes boring into his soul now, with their veils of sadness - he would remember them as he had seen them so rarely, pools of happiness, contentment... how many times? Once, maybe twice? "I can't... I can't just..."
No, you can't, can you? Wolfwood felt like he was falling - so he whispered a response to Vash's words, words that dissipated before his eyes. There was nothing to focus on, and he barely kept himself from sagging against his cross and giving up.... with a wry half-smile, Wolfwood whispered. "So let it get to you. That is also the human way of life..."
"Human..."
Oh, Vash. Nobody can help you if you won't help yourself.
And, before he left and finished making his way towards the one edifice that seemed to be calling his soul, Wolfwood felt words leaving his lips. "Knives is in Demitrihi." It was just as well that he say that - and live a few honest seconds in Vash's presence. Out of months, almost years, let him have three seconds to witness the realization, before he slipped away... With nothing to lose, he would give Vash all the knowledge he could - which was only...only...
That statement slipped out and hung tangible in the air as Vash and Wolfwood sat, neither meeting the other's eyes - and then Wolfwood turned beneath the oppressive dessert sun. To escape the heat of those eyes, forever. **That's all I could do for you in the end, Vash.**
**I'm so sorry.**
No goodbyes.
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~~~~
It was cooler than outside, and that was all that really mattered to his tortured body, the cool dulled the pain that laced delicate arcs through his skin as he staggered forward. Birds seemed to be everywhere, behind him, in the eves of the abandoned church - but even the presence of small mindless souls could not dull the holy glow of the alter at the head of the aisle. Wolfwood sighed softly as dust motes swirled through his vision and began walking forward again, through the snow of a thousand days of disuse.
It was easy now that he had a goal to reach. That alter....
He had never really been holy, had he?
**You know.....in spite of my profession....I've never made a confession.**
Who knew? God? Wolfwood felt himself smirking at his own sudden burst of piety, though that half-grin failed as his legs gave out and he sagged to his knees, blood beginning to pool beneath him. What a joke.
God, the ghost of a belief in religion had long ago stirred in Wolfwood - because crosses were safe and always present. He could remember so long ago, just barely, warm arms and a necklace of silver, nothing but a cross on a tiny chain. He could remember when it was bigger than his hand, before Chapel, before Legato, before Midvalley....hanging onto the smooth sparkling chain around a woman's neck, a dream to reach up and snatch in his fingertips. He had loved that cross once... And had sworn his soul to what it stood for, once. And had fallen.
Mother? Father? He had never known, nor felt a need to know. But now that he was on the threshold of another world, Wolfwood found himself wondering...
The blood had saturated the outer layer of his coat, and he fumbled desperately for one more cigarette. The match flared with a sulfur-scented pop, an then died away moments later.
A soul.
Were they scared, when they could see the darkness looming up before them? Or was it nothing more than a simple welcome-home to those loving parents he had never met?
Death.
"Still...I feel really happy with myself." A tired smile as birds rushed out of the darkness, through the filtering fog light that cascaded through stained glass windows, doves as white as snow or sun-kissed sand. "Now that I think about it....there are plenty of ways to save everybody..." Hadn't Vash been right then, Wolfwood smiled, as the cross came to rest on his shoulder.
He had let Chapel go.
For a moment his gaze flickered across those figures in his life that had once been so important - it was not a flashing of his life before his eyes, for all he saw were a scattered handful of happy moments, few and painfully far in between. The girl he had loved, her soft lips and eyes, Midvalley's saxophone solos late in the evening, a warm fire and Chapel's company when he was neither drunk nor angry... The children in December with hopeful eyes that hurt so much. Milly and her smile.
Vash.
I...
Oblivion, eternity without Vash - it was bitter and cruel, and the priest staggered forward, lifting one hand as if the gesture could attain what he had never managed to earn in life. "No....I want to stay....with them..."
Oh, God. He *did* want it, like he had never wanted anything before. Vash.... This hell, this superheated pit of filth and suffering... he would endure it for another thousand years if it meant a few more minutes in smiling company, at their side.... Knives could never take that friendship away, could never destroy that bond.
Why had Wolfwood been so afraid of fleeting physical pain? Why hadn't he been strong enough to throw off their dark influences and explain...tell Vash that he loved him more than anything? That he always had, that he would never be away from him. Tell Vash that it would be alright, and that he could win if he tried, and that Wolfwood had always, always known that he was right. You were right, Vash, and I was wrong. And I believe in you. I love you more than life, more than the children, more than your brother, more than whatever God watches us as we cry. More than anything, I love your spirit, your soul, your body, I want to worship you forever...
God, what a thing to realize now, when nothing could be changed. When life was being sucked away so quickly, he had finally found within himself the ability to care so much, and had never given it voice....
......to tell him that......
"If I'm reincarnated," he murmured into the hazy, cool darkness, such a relief from the heat. Soft and cold. "...someplace green....with the girls, and with.... him..."
It floated so tantalizing, that vision of pastures and children, of Vash's lips and arms, Milly's company. A dream-fabric that could never be...
Maybe it was a gift from God, a final mocking part from the deity he had always sought for and never discovered. All his life, in the faces of the children, in Vash's eyes....what had he wanted but reassurance from a higher power? God had promised people a land where they could be happy, and delivered this, this miserable ball of sand. Wolfwood had always hated that God so much...
That was why he carried the cross. To kill in the name of God. To show people the truth behind sparkling promises and commandments, that it was as much of a lie as Wolfwood himself.
A weight had settled in his chest, and the pain seemed to cease it's throbbing, leaving only his pounding heart, so slowly winding down like a broken clock.
"Does....."
Maybe then, God was giving him this last confession, this last moment to understand what he had become, to question.... no.
No, he wanted to sob. No, please, why now? Why did he have to really *believe*, beneath all layers of himself, in his soul - why did he have to fucking believe in this God, in Vash? Nicholas had always known that hope led to disappointment, had always known, and yet...
God had disappointed him more than anyone.
And yet... maybe.....
Tears rose in his eyes, burning sharply - and he inhaled, the nicotine relaxing, but not enough. They threatened to squeeze loose, those tears, and betray him now at his final moment....
"Was I wrong? Does this mean I was wrong?"
Had *he* disappointed? Had *he* been the one falling short of expectations, not God or Heaven or even Vash? He had justified, he had explained, he had vindicated, but maybe in the end, none of that mattered. Sin was sin, and redemption....
Nicholas D. Wolfwood cringed as the lead in his body seemed to pull him closer to the ground, burning it's way down through his body.
He had let Chapel go, even if it meant dying for Vash's angelic cause, saved the man's life almost automatically. And....maybe....he'd been saved, too, when Chapel had gone free.....
"I suppose it would be foolish to ask for forgiveness now," the priest whispered brokenly, the well of his soul breaking open. It was his fault, then. Every little death and despair he had ever committed, nothing but blackness on his own fault - sin. It was all he was, that burning, endless sin.
Salty tears plunged down his face, softly touching the ground and fading, like the match had, like Wolfwood's life, short and sharp and gone. He had never used to cry, had thought it was weak..... He had broken, then, lost his nerve and fangs, indeed.
Ah, well. A failure in everything, then. He let his forehead fall against the cross.
"I...can't stand....this..."
Nicholas D. Wolfwood didn't know anything, just that the darkness was so soft, and he had wanted to wait for someone, but couldn't. He had never been pure, had never truly lived or loved, had never truly kissed or prayed or dreamed, had never hoped, never confessed how scared and lonely he had always been.
But he would. One more breath. One more thought.
**Forgive me...my Father.... for I have sinned.....**
He was drowning in a sea of gold.
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~~~~
As a rule, Nicholas D. Wolfwood had never feared the terrible claws of death. In an occupation as dangerous and uncertain as his own, death was lurking around every corner, like a stray cat or secret lover, ready to rip and tear - and once it had a hold on you, it was ever so difficult to free yourself. Fearing that final end simply made one paranoid, which more often than not sped along the object of terror as it made it's way inevitably towards your soul - death came and went as it pleased, and if it passed you over, you had escaped, and if not - why worry? That was how he had always envisioned the struggle to survive, anyway. A rather foolish endeavor on this hellish planet. Death... Sometimes it was seen as release, sometimes as a friend long away, and more often than not as the epoch of life and the grand finale of all that was existence.
So Wolfwood, priest, gunman, mercenary - had long courted death in his lifetime, and now that he could feel it breathing harshly down his neck, sending ice through his stomach and mind... It was almost relaxing, the certainty, the knowledge that in mere hours everything would be alright. Gone. Endless nothingness, no pain, no fear, no thought -
This planet was hell. Oblivion could be no worse.
Of course, it was impossible to be sure that oblivion indeed would welcome souls - Wolfwood mused silently as he dragged himself down the street, too proud to call for help and too obsessed with the relief that was only moments away to concentrate on something more real - like dressing his wounds. A prisoner in his own mind, his throat clogged and his heart pounded, shoulders and chest aching with his injuries and the weight he bore. The Cross Punisher dragged behind him, leaving a trail of skid marks in the dust as testimony of his passing.
The only item needed to make the allusion complete was a crown of thorns perched across his head.
Death was, Wolfwood sighed as blood trickled down his chest, like the final battle in the last act of a famous play. If he fought the ice and frigid blankness, then he would eventually lose - and somehow, some small part of him wanted that final fall into the void to be peaceful. As many times as he had smirked at the thought of going down in a burst of sparkling flame, there had always been a small voice in his mind, whispering of old age, joint ale, sand-cough. If you fought, you would lose beyond a shadow of a doubt. If you let the current of fate take you with it into the abyss, well, that wasn't a loss.
Grandchildren... The very thought was like something out of a dream - or maybe a nightmare, in it's own little way. Or a little of both - the difference between light and dark had disintegrated when Vash entered his life, and these days Wolfwood was lucky if he could get away with anything without being stalked by morals and concerns for other souls, choices left unmade, decisions that could have changed the world. Almost like a disease, Vash's soft words and gentle smiles...
It was seeping down his undershirt, licking and staining his stomach and chest a dark crimson - it was even seeping through the already-charcoal hue of his suit's jacket... Warm, like the sand and sun, but not like Vash, no, Vash had never been anything but deep and dark and inviting.
Dripping on the dusty ground, now, spattering in little droplets across his shoes, the cuffs of his dark slacks. Wolfwood looked down and tried to focus on the growing pool in the dirt beneath him, while his breathing seemed fainter and fainter, knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that he needed to get somewhere, say something - didn't most people want to leave something behind when they died?
He closed his eyes for a moment, secure in the knowledge that he would leave nothing but bleached bones and bitter memories. There was no future, and no past. Nothing mattered, just...
Now, something needed to be said - he looked up woozily and blinked as the buildings of the shadowy town grew up around him - he was moving, unaware as one foot plunged before the other, sinking into the sand and then rising again, shifting weight, shifting pain.
Vash...?
Vash. So maybe he had one regret, or maybe two, or ten thousand - he didn't know anymore. Maybe life was regret, maybe that's what history was, a fabric of could-beens and would-beens and regret that couldn't be appreciated until opportunity and second chances had died away.
After all, how many times had he shied away from kissing? How many times had he skirted the words that might have at last brought Vash's slender body to rest in his arms? How many tiny mistakes had given birth to arguments and destruction...?
It didn't matter, nothing mattered anymore.... but...... where was Vash? "......he......"
More blood hit the ground, but Wolfwood was too detached to notice it, wiping blood and bands out of his eyes, looking up as best he could as the pain shot up and down through his torso. Everything seemed so far away, untouchable... He swung the Cross Punisher up over his shoulder and shifted again, groaning as his stomach coiled in agony.
It hurt...so badly. Like a thousand stabbing knives...
The irony of it made Wolfwood chuckle and collapse into a fit of bloody coughing.
It seemed like ten thousand years, but there he was - Vash, leaning against the car, his head in his hands, probably crying over something, the priest guessed. Caine. Wolfwood stood a bit straighter, even as his wounds protested - death now had him in it's claws, and he had no desire to escape it. To seek a way out of this fate would be to forfeit his final battle, and he couldn't do that - not after the life he had led. All the people he had killed had gone silently, and those who had pleaded and struggled with his gun to their head - he had less respect for them than he did for the silent, prepared victims of his bullets. He would not be one of those who sobbed and clung to this worthless life...he would not treat these wounds, allow himself to be crippled and injured. He would rather die than...die...
Wolfwood stopped in the midst of his pilgrimage, and watched Vash, a soft smile on his lips. "What's wrong?"
"I...failed to save another life."
Of course. Caine was never the stable-est of Gung-ho Guns, silent and emotionless and pale... his end didn't surprise Wolfwood all that much - but Vash's reaction touched him, as it always did. Was it really just minutes ago that Wolfwood had challenged Vash in one last attempt to be who he was supposed to be, to avoid the noose that this love had slung around his neck? The pain in Vash's eyes had mirrored what he displayed now... He cared as much for Caine as he had for Wolfwood, when the priest had trained his gun on Vash and fired - missing, intentionally, but only barely. Vash's eyes had taken in his struggle, put him in his place as they always did...
"That's alright," he whispered. Of course it was, because everything was alright. Everyone died, what did it matter if they fell a few years earlier, or later, or escaped it in youth only to be taken by wheezing old age? Nobody could truly be saved from that eternal ending.... "Just be more careful next time."
Vash's glasses hid his eyes from view, but Wolfwood knew they were not turned on him - they were far away and distant now. No, if Vash had seen his condition he would not be contemplating his morality - and that suited Wolfwood quite fine. He didn't need those eyes boring into his soul now, with their veils of sadness - he would remember them as he had seen them so rarely, pools of happiness, contentment... how many times? Once, maybe twice? "I can't... I can't just..."
No, you can't, can you? Wolfwood felt like he was falling - so he whispered a response to Vash's words, words that dissipated before his eyes. There was nothing to focus on, and he barely kept himself from sagging against his cross and giving up.... with a wry half-smile, Wolfwood whispered. "So let it get to you. That is also the human way of life..."
"Human..."
Oh, Vash. Nobody can help you if you won't help yourself.
And, before he left and finished making his way towards the one edifice that seemed to be calling his soul, Wolfwood felt words leaving his lips. "Knives is in Demitrihi." It was just as well that he say that - and live a few honest seconds in Vash's presence. Out of months, almost years, let him have three seconds to witness the realization, before he slipped away... With nothing to lose, he would give Vash all the knowledge he could - which was only...only...
That statement slipped out and hung tangible in the air as Vash and Wolfwood sat, neither meeting the other's eyes - and then Wolfwood turned beneath the oppressive dessert sun. To escape the heat of those eyes, forever. **That's all I could do for you in the end, Vash.**
**I'm so sorry.**
No goodbyes.
~~~~
~~~~
It was cooler than outside, and that was all that really mattered to his tortured body, the cool dulled the pain that laced delicate arcs through his skin as he staggered forward. Birds seemed to be everywhere, behind him, in the eves of the abandoned church - but even the presence of small mindless souls could not dull the holy glow of the alter at the head of the aisle. Wolfwood sighed softly as dust motes swirled through his vision and began walking forward again, through the snow of a thousand days of disuse.
It was easy now that he had a goal to reach. That alter....
He had never really been holy, had he?
**You know.....in spite of my profession....I've never made a confession.**
Who knew? God? Wolfwood felt himself smirking at his own sudden burst of piety, though that half-grin failed as his legs gave out and he sagged to his knees, blood beginning to pool beneath him. What a joke.
God, the ghost of a belief in religion had long ago stirred in Wolfwood - because crosses were safe and always present. He could remember so long ago, just barely, warm arms and a necklace of silver, nothing but a cross on a tiny chain. He could remember when it was bigger than his hand, before Chapel, before Legato, before Midvalley....hanging onto the smooth sparkling chain around a woman's neck, a dream to reach up and snatch in his fingertips. He had loved that cross once... And had sworn his soul to what it stood for, once. And had fallen.
Mother? Father? He had never known, nor felt a need to know. But now that he was on the threshold of another world, Wolfwood found himself wondering...
The blood had saturated the outer layer of his coat, and he fumbled desperately for one more cigarette. The match flared with a sulfur-scented pop, an then died away moments later.
A soul.
Were they scared, when they could see the darkness looming up before them? Or was it nothing more than a simple welcome-home to those loving parents he had never met?
Death.
"Still...I feel really happy with myself." A tired smile as birds rushed out of the darkness, through the filtering fog light that cascaded through stained glass windows, doves as white as snow or sun-kissed sand. "Now that I think about it....there are plenty of ways to save everybody..." Hadn't Vash been right then, Wolfwood smiled, as the cross came to rest on his shoulder.
He had let Chapel go.
For a moment his gaze flickered across those figures in his life that had once been so important - it was not a flashing of his life before his eyes, for all he saw were a scattered handful of happy moments, few and painfully far in between. The girl he had loved, her soft lips and eyes, Midvalley's saxophone solos late in the evening, a warm fire and Chapel's company when he was neither drunk nor angry... The children in December with hopeful eyes that hurt so much. Milly and her smile.
Vash.
I...
Oblivion, eternity without Vash - it was bitter and cruel, and the priest staggered forward, lifting one hand as if the gesture could attain what he had never managed to earn in life. "No....I want to stay....with them..."
Oh, God. He *did* want it, like he had never wanted anything before. Vash.... This hell, this superheated pit of filth and suffering... he would endure it for another thousand years if it meant a few more minutes in smiling company, at their side.... Knives could never take that friendship away, could never destroy that bond.
Why had Wolfwood been so afraid of fleeting physical pain? Why hadn't he been strong enough to throw off their dark influences and explain...tell Vash that he loved him more than anything? That he always had, that he would never be away from him. Tell Vash that it would be alright, and that he could win if he tried, and that Wolfwood had always, always known that he was right. You were right, Vash, and I was wrong. And I believe in you. I love you more than life, more than the children, more than your brother, more than whatever God watches us as we cry. More than anything, I love your spirit, your soul, your body, I want to worship you forever...
God, what a thing to realize now, when nothing could be changed. When life was being sucked away so quickly, he had finally found within himself the ability to care so much, and had never given it voice....
......to tell him that......
"If I'm reincarnated," he murmured into the hazy, cool darkness, such a relief from the heat. Soft and cold. "...someplace green....with the girls, and with.... him..."
It floated so tantalizing, that vision of pastures and children, of Vash's lips and arms, Milly's company. A dream-fabric that could never be...
Maybe it was a gift from God, a final mocking part from the deity he had always sought for and never discovered. All his life, in the faces of the children, in Vash's eyes....what had he wanted but reassurance from a higher power? God had promised people a land where they could be happy, and delivered this, this miserable ball of sand. Wolfwood had always hated that God so much...
That was why he carried the cross. To kill in the name of God. To show people the truth behind sparkling promises and commandments, that it was as much of a lie as Wolfwood himself.
A weight had settled in his chest, and the pain seemed to cease it's throbbing, leaving only his pounding heart, so slowly winding down like a broken clock.
"Does....."
Maybe then, God was giving him this last confession, this last moment to understand what he had become, to question.... no.
No, he wanted to sob. No, please, why now? Why did he have to really *believe*, beneath all layers of himself, in his soul - why did he have to fucking believe in this God, in Vash? Nicholas had always known that hope led to disappointment, had always known, and yet...
God had disappointed him more than anyone.
And yet... maybe.....
Tears rose in his eyes, burning sharply - and he inhaled, the nicotine relaxing, but not enough. They threatened to squeeze loose, those tears, and betray him now at his final moment....
"Was I wrong? Does this mean I was wrong?"
Had *he* disappointed? Had *he* been the one falling short of expectations, not God or Heaven or even Vash? He had justified, he had explained, he had vindicated, but maybe in the end, none of that mattered. Sin was sin, and redemption....
Nicholas D. Wolfwood cringed as the lead in his body seemed to pull him closer to the ground, burning it's way down through his body.
He had let Chapel go, even if it meant dying for Vash's angelic cause, saved the man's life almost automatically. And....maybe....he'd been saved, too, when Chapel had gone free.....
"I suppose it would be foolish to ask for forgiveness now," the priest whispered brokenly, the well of his soul breaking open. It was his fault, then. Every little death and despair he had ever committed, nothing but blackness on his own fault - sin. It was all he was, that burning, endless sin.
Salty tears plunged down his face, softly touching the ground and fading, like the match had, like Wolfwood's life, short and sharp and gone. He had never used to cry, had thought it was weak..... He had broken, then, lost his nerve and fangs, indeed.
Ah, well. A failure in everything, then. He let his forehead fall against the cross.
"I...can't stand....this..."
Nicholas D. Wolfwood didn't know anything, just that the darkness was so soft, and he had wanted to wait for someone, but couldn't. He had never been pure, had never truly lived or loved, had never truly kissed or prayed or dreamed, had never hoped, never confessed how scared and lonely he had always been.
But he would. One more breath. One more thought.
**Forgive me...my Father.... for I have sinned.....**
He was drowning in a sea of gold.
