A/N Numero two. Spoilers for the end of the whole series.

Prompt: #66 Rain

Title: Alone At The End Of The World

Rating: K+

Words: 1231

-x-

Just let me die.

How many times has he asked that, now? Too many. Too many to count, at least. He's sobbed it into his hands, screamed it through cracked lips, and whispered it in his sleep. More than anything, he has sat here and thought it so loudly that he is surprised the headstone hasn't cracked under the pressure.

Let me die.

He isn't sure who he is asking. Not God. He settled his mind on that matter long ago. The sky above him is empty of anything but the rain. There are no pearly gates hiding just behind the next cloud. No angels with silver wings waitfor him with open arms. No one cares whether he takes his next breath or whether he leaves the world behind. Only one person had ever really cared about that.

And he shouldn't have. If he hadn't, Cassian would have been able to give his life for the one thing he had believed in, would have been embraced by the velvet arms of oblivion. Instead, he has survived. He had tried to save the man who lacked silver wings but had been an angel anyway. And he had failed. And Jizabel had died. And each day since tears into his heart like a dirty blade.

Please. Let me die.

The headstone remains as solid as always. He's sitting on the ground beside it, so as not to lie on the mound of earth that is barely noticeable, these days. He had been smoking until the rain soaked through all of his tobacco and so now he rolls some idly between one thumb and forefinger. It feels disgusting, more like a solid lump of rock than anything else. But it helps. It helps him focus the silent plea.

The rain is cold and is only getting worse. Soon, the trees will be creaking with the wind and his clothes will have stuck to his skin, the cold penetrating through to his bones. He knows this because it has happened before. It always seems to rain, when he comes here. It feels as if the weather knows why he is here and what he is going to not say.

It never used to rain, not at first. The day he buried Jizabel the sun had been shining. For the first six months, the clearing had always been bright and teeming with life. It had been the perfect place for the doctor to rest. It had been the perfect place for Cassian to remember. He would lay on the grass and think about all the little things he had forced himself to ignore at the time. The beautiful things. The dangerous things.

As time had passed, he had started to think of the other things. The things he hadn't said. The things he had refused to acknowledged. The painful things. The heartbreaking things.

That was when the rain had started. Obviously, it had stopped in between. Another six months have passed since it began. It is just that, each time he is here, the rain begins to fall.

It's always cold. He never brings a warmer coat and always sits in the same spot, away from the shelter of the trees. The animals are silent when he is here. They wait for the rain to stop and he knows that cannot happen until he leaves. At first, he'd leave after a few hours. Recently, he's been waiting until nightfall.

Tonight, that isn't good enough. The sky darkens and the rain keeps falling and the man in the borrowed skin sits as still as if he was carved from stone. Water droplets cling to his eyelashes and hair before running down his skin, perhaps trying to erode his blank facade and get at the raging mess that waits inside his head. The tobacco he had been rolling between his fingers has now disintegrated. He continues rubbing his fingers together anyway, the skin raw but white with the cold.

Just let me die.

He wonders what the rain is. If God doesn't exist then it can't be the tears of angels. But he wants it to be tears, wants to feel as if something out there can feel the pain he struggles with every day, every night, every breath.

Are you crying? he doesn't ask the headstone. Is that what this is?

Silence. Of course there is silence. But he sees something. Perhaps the combination of the cold and the sleepless nights are doing something to his brain. Maybe it's because he hasn't eaten properly in months. Or it might have something to do with the empty bottles littering the flat he somehow manages to rent and the blood staining his floorboards.

Maybe he's losing his mind. But it doesn't matter. Because what he sees is hope.

Something sitting on the headstone. A bird. A dove. He can see straight through it to the dark outlines of trees in the distance but that doesn't seem to matter. It watches him with gentle eyes and he wants to reach out to it but can no longer move. His joints scream against the cold. He tries to part his lips to speak but they won't move, the flesh blue and splitting.

Is that you? he thinks, as loudly as he can. Have you come back for me? Did you go away? Is that why the animals stopped coming? Where did you go?

He topples forwards and cannot move his arms in time. Turning his head, his cheek thuds into the wet grass and he lays facing the headstone. He can't see the dove anymore but as a new wave of biting icy air washes over him he thinks he can feel wings brushing the hairs at the nape of his uncovered neck. His eyes flutter closed and he breathes water out of the grass and into his nose and mouth.

If you are crying, he can't say, then don't stop. Not yet. Keep crying until you've drowned me in your tears. Take me with you to wherever it is you went. And I'll make sure you never have to cry again. Just...

The rainwater has made it to his lungs, now. He can feel it freezing him from the inside. Nothing is warm anymore, nothing but the burning passion in his skull, a fading echo of the flame that had driven him before he was left alone at the end of the world.

Just don't...

The clouds begin parting. Stars watch through the gaps, watch the tiny figure sprawled on the grass in the clearing.

Just don't stop yet...

The rain lessens, lightens. So does Cassian's breathing. Water runs from between his lips and pools in the hollow of one outstretched palm. It ripples in the wind. Cassian thinks he can feel a dove there, eating grain from his hand.

Jizabel...

A strong gust of wind buffets leaves and twigs against his legs and torso. He doesn't feel them. He feels nothing now but through his closed eyelids he sees someone. Someone walking away.

Wait for me...

The stars have to turn away in shame. They cannot cry for him. Nor can the clouds. But somewhere, someone is crying. He can feel it, like raindrops on his skin.

Just let me be with you, he says, unaware he can no longer use his voice.

And he sleeps. At last, he sleeps.