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He struggles as he stands, shaking, entirely too vulnerable. Your instinct now, despite your wants, your desire to condemn him, is to help, to rush forwards and support him, keep him from hurting himself further if he should fall. But you do not. You simply look at him, trying to remain as stoic as you can manage despite the ripples of pain (‘my sorrows for my mistakes do not heal you, why then did you appear?’), of anger, across your heart. “Should they?” You nearly laugh for all their insignificance, their hollowness. What could his sorrows be in the face of your own? That he lost you entirely? Hurt you? You cannot fathom that either of those had not been a reason to do those monstrous things to begin with. But you shake your head, your eyes lifting to find his defiantly.
“I saw a dying man.” What would your convictions mean now, if they had meant nothing to him then? “When I realized it was you, there were parts of me that wished I was too late. I have dreamt of it, wanted it, craved it—“ your voice trembles suddenly with the weight of your guilt, the same cloying emptiness keeping your face turned from him now, blind, so that you may not see his anger, his rage, his hurt. “I have wished you dead, Misael, if only to have one less man to look at and remember her.” It is only now that it all becomes too much, your body trembling as you release a stuttered sigh, brows knitting together as the truth of it all hits you.
You do not understand why now, now when you have struggled for years, now when it is finally him hearing it for the first time, him that may finally comprehend all the time in between, why it is so difficult to admit. Maybe it is because, for the very first time, it is your choice. You know that, should you leave him, he will die. He will die. You cannot help but wonder if anyone would miss him, if he had remained alone all this time like you could not, and if he had, how empty he must be.
Without hesitation you move forwards, lean into the lukewarm muscle of his neck, embracing him as gently as you can manage. You know your decision was made the moment you had found him, know now that a very large part of you could not stand to see him die, to know you had any part in it. Your eyes close as your magic sparks to life, pressing your lips to the flesh of his shoulder, breathe into him so that you may save him.
Moments pass until you feel it is safe to stop, though you do not immediately pull away. Faintly you can feel his heartbeat against your own chest, hear his breathing, the ridges of the singular cut you had left as a reminder, as you stand still against him until it becomes too much, until your eyes begin to water (would you ever learn how not to cry?), and you abruptly move away, the cold that finds the places he had been too bitter. It is moments still before you have the courage to look at his face again, pushing all of those feelings down, crushing the memories of what it had been, how easy it was, to love him for who he pretended to be. “Do you want to know something?”
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if there's no one beside you when your soul embarks
