Passing
As he walks by he hears a small cry. This is not a new thing; he is, after all, at a barricade, and people are dying all about him and he should be used to it by now.
But can anyone really be used to death?
Something in the cry is different, and that same something catches at his throat, and against his wishes he turns and finds – her. A girl from the streets – a girl with a pale face and dirty hair and torn clothing.
She loved someone, once. As I did.
The thought comes to him and that same instant he bends down next to her and finds her hand without looking for it. She is bleeding – bleeding so much that he knows nothing can be done, that there is no hope – but still he prays for her life, because should an innocent life ever be lost, really?
No.
She lets out another such cry, but this one is not so much of pain as of surprise, perhaps surprise at finding him there? at finding that he cared, even a little?
It is a cry of relief, a cry in joy that she will not die there alone, fading off into oblivion without even someone to calm her, to tell her it will be all right.
Even if it won't.
Life is still with her, if only for a short time, and he holds her hand loosely for fear it might hurt her, but she draws closer – she can barely move and he feels ashamed, ashamed that he did not think to move himself, rather – and she whispers huskily:
"Hold me tighter, please…"
Her voice drifts off and he puts a strong arm around her shoulders and supports her as she falls deeper and deeper into her last sleep.
A tear drips down his cheek and lands in her hair and maybe she feels it, because she stirs.
"Don't cry," she manages to say.
"Don't talk," he whispers into her hair. "It's better not to."
"But I want to – I need to," she says quietly, fighting his words with her last strength.
"You don't have to."
His voice is low and worried. It is as if they are lovers, alone behind a backdrop of death and destruction and anger.
A glimmer of hope – or maybe peace – in a troubled world.
She winds her hand around his shoulders and the two are partially intertwined.
"What are you doing?"
He speaks roughly, but his tone is gentle. He allows her to remain in his embrace.
"Be here. Be here for me." Her voice is fading rapidly, as she is.
In a moment their lips meet in a kiss, the war-made lovers, and both are overcome by so much emotion that they cannot continue.
And at least the girl does not.
The kiss is her last.
"I must go."
"I know."
Still in his arms she passes from the realm of life to the underworld and he lets himself cry for a moment. Only a moment.
He places her gently on a hidden patch of grass – amazing how plants can go on growing in a time like this – and stands up. He does not allow the tears to continue to fall.
It is another death. Another one who once loved.
In a war that would cause the passing of thousands.
~Fin~