Chapter 8.
The strength within the man that stands before me is what many have tried to control by force. No one understands, not even him, that you must fight anger and hate with love and compassion.
I stare into his shined eyes. He is soft, warm, and alive. I can feel his pulse in his callused hand as it briefly clutches mine.
"I just want to live Riddick. That's all."
His face is smooth. I watch as the muscles dance under my touch. His eyes flit all across my face.
Why can't he see I am not here to hurt him?
Finally, his eyes lock with mine. Again, there is guilt written in them.
"Stop Riddick." His jaw tightens; his stare hardens.
" I don't blame you for what happened to me. I died so others could live, so you could live. Something I learned from Fry."
He turned his back to me as if to walk away. "She wasn't supposed to die for me." He stated.
"Neither was I, right?"
"No, you weren't," he admitted solemnly over his shoulder.
"I'd do it again if given the chance, Riddick."
Turning quickly to look at me, "Why would you die for me again? It got you real far this time, didn't it?"
I smiled warmly at him. "You're still alive, and I'm still with you aren't I?"
He moved back to the bed and sat on the corner; his hand rubbing the top of his head. He was lost in thought.
"What will happen to you when we reach the Underverse?"
"I will become flesh and blood, but" I paused to look at him, " I will be just like the Lord Marshal was. Half alive and half… something else."
He turned his head and met my gaze.
"That is why he kept putting off the trip to the Underverse for the others. He liked being the only one with powers. He was on a power trip, Riddick. He knew they would all, one day, become like him. He knew he wasn't special."
"Explains a lot. I've wondered why it is that they've never been there."
"It will be painful for them - the living necros. They have to die to be reborn."
I finally take a seat next to him on the bed. And we sit in silence for a long time. Both of us gazing at the floor between our feet.
Slowly, he reached over and took my hand, turning it over in his; his touch gentle and soothing as he brushed the back of it with his thumb.
"You're not cold to the touch like the others."
I shook my head, unable to speak. His gentle caress of my hand made it difficult to think, let alone form words.
Slowly, he raised my hand to his lips and gently kissed it.
"I'm sorry, Jack," he whispered into the back of my hand. For the first time since my death, my eyes began to fill with tears. He turned his head, pressing my hand now to his cheek. "I'm sorry, Kyra."