...And all the flowers will bloom...

She is half-sprawled across his lap, his hand in her hair, soothing through singed and uneven, brittle strands ever so gently.

Perhaps it is that she thought it might be over by now, one way or another. Maybe she had the idea of a noble sacrifice and unleashing herself upon him once he had, as ever, strayed far too close. Possibly, she might have thought she might not have lasted as long as this.

(Did she come here hoping for another of their twisted kindnesses towards one another? A final favour. Mercy at his hand, for the sake of the terrible truths that have passed between them without a word.)

Emet-Selch bows his head to press a kiss to her forehead, which she answers by managing to lift her aching, burning, dead weight of an arm and curling her fingers into his hair to tug.

He does not curse, nor smile that sharp little smile, nor allow his eyes to brighten with delight.

Her supposed enemy-captor-damnable lover simply watches her, sombre and somber, masks stripped away.

“Not long to wait, now…”

He knows. Of course he knows. He can feel it.

“...What makes you think I won’t take you with me?” she rasps out, relinquishing her hold to make herself more comfortable, a rattle of bitter laughter struggling to break free as he only attempts to be more accommodating, moving to cradle her against him again on what she tells herself is not a bed.

In the candlelight darkness, there is only silence.

They both know that she has not arrived here in search of any aid but a terribly final one.

And if that is not to be granted her, there will be no begging.

But in that quiet, and in the absence of some sardonic refuting of the possibility, another truth that has long lingered at the edge of her awareness makes itself known.

That it is precisely what he wishes.

He does not demean them both by denying it, but quirks a weary little smile and murmurs, “Once you have feasted upon much of this forsaken shard, perhaps you will be capable of such a thing…”

(Where ‘perhaps’ is synonymous with 'I pray'.)

“What is a tiny miscalculation in an otherwise perfectly executed plan?”

Gathering her closer, he lowers his head to whisper in her ear and lay one final piece of blame upon her heart.

“...You did not take true advantage of the others, after all…”

No. It has come to this. She could not manage what she should have done. Could not bring herself to do it, for reasons she barely understands. Instead, she dragged him down into bed and let him make a home in the heart that has barely functioned for year upon year.

Once she has no heart to stay her hand and is bereft of true consciousness…

He means for this dead star to become his tomb.

While she…

What? Drifts forever in a sea of Light?

“Coward,” she levels at him, on the heels of a dying gasp.

There is a bright and bitter agony in golden eyes as brushes Light-tainted tears from her cheeks with the backs of his fingers and reminds her…

“My dear hero… Like calls to like.”