The aroma of the incense and the hum of the brethren's chanting drift through the air, the only reminders that I am not where I seem to be. Time is growing short, and although the day the gods show me has not come yet, soon it will, and I must prepare.
The vision is dark, as always, lit by fires that have not yet been set. They paint the man's skin golden - a man I've seen many times now. His skin is tanned, his hair a shade or two darker, and his muscles are well-defined, as any soldier's should be. I have yet to see his face clearly, and this time my eyes are drawn away by the sword he carries, before it vanishes into the flame. The sword I have seen many more times than the man, and not in his hand; I've seen the hilt in slender fingers tipped with sharp nails and adorned with rings - I've seen her dancing with it, this blade she kept long ago, and gave the name Fandango.
It is the blade that will show the way, it whispers. You will know him by what he wields.
This was the message of the prophecy, and now that it has been relayed, the vision is not so taut; the threads of time and fate and what-may-be and what-might-come unravel before my mind's eye and twist into what I have already been told will come to pass.
I do not need to see it again. I do not.
But the Dark laughs, and it shows me again anyhow.
A different man, one whose face I know well, but paler. His lips are red with his own blood, but he smiles weakly as he reaches a hand up to touch... me? Or a ghost I left behind in this cursed city?
The sun is rising behind him, causing the dark stain spreading from beneath his shirt to blend into the darkness of the rest of his crumpled form, sitting against the wall. The blink of an eye, against the glare of the sunrise, and he becomes no more than another handful of flickering motes, invisible against the dawn.
I do not need to see this, and the Dark laughs again as it gives way, the blood vanishing from his lips and the dim light of dawn replaced by thirteen candles as he steps forward in alarm to catch me as I collapse.
When I wake with a start some hours later, we are alone in my bed; his hand is at my cheek, in the midst of brushing away a hot tear. "What did you see?" he asks, his voice low and concerned.
The vision of the man and the sword was mine alone, and the rest...
When I open my mouth to speak, I find that nothing I can say is coherent.
He pulls me closer, carefully, and winces as I raise my hand to stroke across his bare chest, to his ribs, to feel and to know that the skin has not yet been pierced by any blade - only to find me piercing his skin myself, having forgotten myself in my desperation. I have no fingers with which to feel anymore, and he will not let me say anything, if I would apologize, for his lips cover mine, mercifully tasting of cool water and not of blood.
His fingers are kept busy brushing the tears away, to my shame, and for a moment he draws back, looking down at me in worry. "...Should I stop? I don't want to hurt you..."
Then you should not be so damnably kind.
Then you should not be in my bed.
Then you should run away, far away, while you have the strength to run.