A/N : Angst, angst, drama, drama. This came to me while I was -trying- to fall asleep last night. It really touched me, so I wrote the thought out, and it turned into this.
The last that ever she saw him
Carried away by a moonlight shadow
He passed on worried and warning
Carried away by a moonlight shadow.
Lost in a river last saturday night
Far away on the other side.
He was caught in the middle of a desperate fight
And she couldn't find how to push through...
Moonlight Shadow by Mike Oldfield
How…? How could this have possibly happened?
He held her body close to his, his cheek touching hers. Why? How could someone murder the one thing that mattered?
He could feel her crimson blood flowing softly through his tense fingers, surrounding them in a pool. His pants and shirt were soaked, but it was of no matter. No material thing could matter now…
Her soft eyes were closed, and her full lips parted slightly. She was still beautiful, so how? How did you kill Beauty herself? Even he, as what he was, could kill such a holy woman. Holy in spirit, not in body. How could someone do what he had thought was undoable? How? How? How?
No… he couldn't think that way. She was still alive! Her chest heaved with obvious effort and blood bubbled and frothed from her lips. Her pale skin was so easily stained with her own fluids. He kissed her, despite the blood, despite the pain and hurt he felt. This was the first… no, only second. This pain was old, familiar, and he hated it. He cursed every god there was under the sun, and it never made the pain easier. Not even giving the same pain he felt flowing through his fingers made him feel better.
He brushed hair from her face that was sticking from the sweat pouring from her. The effort to stay alive… it was killing her. A cruel irony and he could do nothing but hold her weak, depleted body.
She coughed again, and her whole small frame shook with the effort, and even more blood pumped out. God, was there ever an end to the blood? Please, keep her alive… please… he would not be able to handle her loss… the only love… no…
He could feel the tears sliding down his chiseled face, and see them drip onto her round, child-like one. She had been such a tomboy, with her beautiful heart-shaped face and her competitive nature…
He didn't even bother to wipe the tears away. He just slowly, shaking, brushed her sullen face, smoothing his finger down the contours of her face, the other hand buried in her thick hair. She still smelled like honey, even as the smell of blood overpowered the environment.
She finally gained consciousness, and he could see her open her eyes behind thick lashes. She looked up at his face with love, through dulled eyes. She was crying. God, even now… she was crying.
Her lips parted again, as she struggled for words. "…love…" she choked out, before another coughing fit. She recovered fast, determined to get the words out. "I… love… you…"
It was like a pang to his heart, a silver-blade into his cold soul. The words were so beautiful. He could not ever remember hearing them before, but he must have. Even now, he remembered them.
"I'll always love you." He said, his voice miraculously as it always was; low and monotonic. But she knew he meant it, he just always sounded like that. His voice was that of a trained aristocrat, just like his features. As if chiseled by a master sculptor. Perfect like a Roman statue.
She reached behind him, and he complied, handing her the object. She had always said she wanted to die with it in her arms. Then she would joke and say he had damn well better be there too. He was more important. She didn't want to die with him in her arms, because that would mean he was dead too, and she could not bear the thought.
Who would've thought their love would even have blossomed? Such a strange, opposite pair they were. But, as they say, it had been a match made it heaven. Fire and ice, sun and the moon… they were born to hate, and destined to love.
"Goodbye." She said softly, through the red froth, and her eyes dimmed to a gray, leaving him alone. He tucked his head in her neck, breathing in her smell. He was torn apart of course, but his heart… it had turned him numb. His true emotions… if he felt them now, he would fall dead by her side.
"You will always be my angel." He said, and shut her eyelids gently, the blue and red eyes never to open again. Never to see herself in a mirror, or him on their bed, waiting for her eagerly. He tugged at his midnight vest, now soaked in her life. He cried again, silently. He stood up, towering over her, her body perfect in every way. She had been ashamed of her scars… but they were so beautiful. He had been ashamed of his tears… but now they flowed freely. Who was around to care? God himself could be watching and he would still just cry. What should he care of God? God had done this to him… he would always curse his name…
He looked down at her body, the only person he had ever cared about outside his family. She had died fighting, like she wanted to, the murder weapon thrown yards away in his anger. She had died holding on to her mother, the Kalina Ann wrapped in her tiny arms that had been full of strength. The large gun was as tall as her… should he make it her grave marker? Who would have thought he could think these things, looking down at her pale, dead body, and not have his own heart burst under his coat?
How would he live without her? Now, the grief was gone. But what would happen when it came back? She would've said not to worry about it. She had lived life moment by moment, and he had always planned ahead. So different, yet so alike. He would try to live, for her. She would have wanted to that. Not to dwell on the past? It sounded so easy, and hurt so much.
"Goodbye Mary, my angel, my Lady."
Vergil silently walked away.