Hitomi awoke in a sumptuous bed, the feel of which brought to mind the wind on bare skin, and the smell of goldenrod and grass was carried to her nose like a beacon. Her heavy eyes opened and she found herself surrounded by worried faces. Her emotions were at war; she was supposed to be dead, just like -

And then she saw him. His hair was a bit longer than two years ago, and hung round his face in unruly waves that escaped the hair tie in the back, at the nape of his neck. His face was shaper, thin and pensive. There was an underlying something that Hitomi couldn't place, something not right, but at that moment she didn't care.

"Van!" she cried, and sprang up to hug him. Or tried to. Her voice sounded unused, raspy and soft, like sand. Her body wouldn't respond, only a slight twitch of her hand was all she could manage. So she focused all of her energy on reaching out those few inches, knowing that if she could just feel the touch of his skin again, everything would be allright, everything would be forgiven.

The entire room watched the agonized progress of that quivering hand, Van staying as still as a statue, understanding the need in Hitomi, to do this thing herself, to not depend on him to finish anything for her.

She felt the most pure joy in her heart as she touched him, and then felt it obliterated in horror as she met his eyes, and saw there the memory of what he had done, the memory of the innocent blood he had spilt.

Her eyes rolled up in sorrow, and she collapsed again on the crocheted cover, her hand almost, but not quite, touching the sullen king to her side.