Disclaimer: The characters belong to George, the song to Rammstein, the twisted idea to me.
Don't Die Before I Do
The night opens her lap
The child's name is loneliness
It is cold and motionless
I cry softly into time
I don't know what your name is
But I know that you exist
I know that sometime
Someone will love me
--- Stirb nicht vor mir, Rammstein
It came suddenly, without a hint of a warning and without a shred of evidence that it had an origin. Starting out quite mundanely, it was dismissed as no more than a mutant strain of influenza, nothing current technology could not handle. There was, however, a worrisome detail: the fact that it spread faster than flames. In the space of mere days, the entirety of the galaxy's inhabitants was infected. The most pertinent antidote, harder to come by than any jewel for death could not be bribed, proved to be utterly ineffective – so the New Republic, in a frantic but futile attempt to calm its slightly crazed people, told everyone to wait it out.
The fever and chills set in with a stony, merciless grip. It was then that the people began to realize that no one was striving to find the cure, and with good cause. It was time to abandon all hope, sparing oneself the disappointment. The people on the news speculated that this new virus, the disease of all diseases, had come from the Emperor's personal storehouse of biological weapons, dispatched as a belated parting gift. Until there was no one left to speculate.
The next stage struck swiftly. Within hours, it was harder to breathe and air was poison on the tongue. Then the blood started to seep from their bodies, through any exit it could find. It was the fatal blow. Only Death herself could bring it to an end, for she heals all wounds.
Some succumbed earlier than others. Even now, there is the very rare, near extinct species of survivor. Very few have been strong or (un)fortunate enough to have lived on this long.
He is a young man, but this does not matter. Young, old, human, non-, with the Force or not, none are excluded. His face was one of the most recognizable, but not so anymore. His Jedi weapon hangs worthless at his hip. It will not protect him.
This plane is cold and empty with funereal quiet, solitude enough to drive the sanity from him. He shivers as the truth numbs him again. The world feels vast and desolate, a stranger to him. If only there was someone to talk to. Someone to love. Force, even someone to despise. Everyone has faded but the stale reminders remain. Things left behind, dark blood thickening on the otherwise spotless floors. Whispering to the deceased does him no good.
Drunk with fever and cold as a void, he wanders the palace, the New Republic's forsaken throne. This section was deserted before disaster struck. He knows not what he will find. Anything deadly will not hurt him.
Somehow he has made his way to the top of a spire. His perception of time must be off. One less thing he can trust. In this cruel new world, there is no time. Indeed, he finds himself in a room of glass.
Everything can be seen through - the floor, the walls, the ceiling, the pillars, the statues, the vases and the delicate flowers inside them. And the large mirror at the end of the room, flat and polished, like still water. All is there, yet is not. He is out of place.
Then he sees that he is not alone. His heart flutters like a frail, wounded bird as he lays his eyes on her. She is beautiful, even in her last hours. Long hair that would have been a brilliant shade of red clings in damp strings to her alabaster skin. Her emerald eyes are exquisitely bright with sickness or tears, he cannot tell. Her flawless body will soon be yet another decaying corpse. Her white skin will be mottled with grays. Her eyes will be dark holes, staring emptily.
She is a stranger; she does not have a name. She does not need one. She is alive, and that is all that matters. To hell with customs; the have died as well. She is alive, and only that makes her worthy of his love.
She is sprawled on the cold, insubstantial floor and waits for merciful, painless sleep. Summoning what strength he has left, he picks her up and carries her to a corner, where they crumple against the wall. The corner is not safe. Things can watch through the glass…but no loathsome creature can harm them.
She lifts her head and gazes into his eyes…And in her pupils, he sees something else. They are in a dark room, sitting on a sofa; she is leaning against him. Her belly is swollen; a spark life is growing within her. Her face glows warmly in the candlelight; her eyes sparkle as their lips touch…
Her flesh is ice in his arms; her breath is acid arctic wind. Her eyes are haunted. Her cold blue lips open but fail to form a word.
"What is it?"
"Are you afraid?"
He shakes his head with a slight sadness.
"I'm not afraid either…'
Her lips are bright red and glistening with wetness. A crimson tear streaks down her cheek. She touches his face.
"Please…Don't die before I do."
"Never." He kisses her forehead. Sleep, my love.
In the window, the frigid sun is setting. He stands and walks over to the mirror. He touches it. Not glass, but water. The ripples expand and disappear. He walks through it, and all freezes. Not water, but ice. Were someone left alive, they would have seen him, frozen in time.