Aeal

Wound

Fire― I look at you, my whole body as if in flames, red flecks dancing in and out of vision. I know you. Or did once. Teruto, what does it mean? Tell me, erudite of blood, what does it mean to you? With bloodstained hands you hold me as if I were dead. Let go, I do not want you. I want to look away, but I am drawn by your eyes, so clear, reflected black and red. I am lost in them, must go to them, as moth to flame, though knowing it is death, must still fly on into the searing flame.

Gaping cuts, opened by your sword, drip with the crimson tears that my eyes cannot shed. Teruto. I cannot show pain, sow weakness, show fear. Or I will lose, not my life which is already lost, but that which goes beyond even death.

Teruto.

It is the word that your blade whispers as my blood rolls off it in steady lines. It is a beautiful blade, well made. Beautiful, to look at, to kill with, to touch and caress. Blood does not stain it, so sharp so smooth, like silk,

like rose petals, like life, like truth. Teruto. Death dwells in your eyes and in your heart. But the flames that envelope me keep its dark form away. Lovely flames, that burn with such pain. Flames of blood to cleanse your sword, make it beautiful, and complete. Your breath on mine, you are so close, so warm, warmer than the flames, for it is human warmth. Teruto. You are so beautiful, an angel sprung from my blood,

rising out of the crimson waves. My flesh cries out to you, invites your blade. Why do you do this? The fire is hiding your beauty, you are consumed by flame. Soon you will be gone and all will be red for me. Then black and black. Your sword strikes deep and

true. Teruto. Teruto, traitor.

Teruto; it is your name,
and mine.


Do the words one utters before death tend to be truer, or can they be a lie?
--Subaru, X/1999