The Loss - Tied up in guilt

He sat by the door, waiting in the dark for her to return. She had left after the last meal they had shared. He hoped – prayed, something he didn’t often do – that she would return.

He didn’t know what he’d do without her.

The door opened, and he stumbled back, shielding his eyes against the light from the torches outside. She was carried in, head hanging limply. He leaned forward, opening his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

The men bound them together, one wrist and one ankle, the chains heavy between them.

He saw red on her chest before the door shut again, leaving them in darkness once more.

“Evie?” He murmured quietly, leaning over towards her. He reached out to run a hand along her cheek, thumb going under her eye. She was crying, in that quiet way she always did when she didn’t want to worry. She was whispering something, so he leaned in closer.

“I didn’t see him. They wouldn’t let me see him. I didn’t see him. Oh darling, where are you…”

“Evie,” He gathered her up into his arms as best as the chains would allow, before her hiss of pain stopped him. “Where does it hurt?”

She took his hand, and rested it against her chest between her breasts – he was certain she was wearing a shirt beforehand – and he felt the blood he had only glimpsed before. “It hurts in my head too.”

He cleaned her up as best he could with a rag from his pants, and gave her his shirt. They stayed curled up after that, huddling away from the outside world and focused on each other in the dark. They could survive this, if only together.

The fever set in several meals later.

He started giving her more of his food, encouraging her to eat and keep healthy. He curled up with her, holding her as she shivered and shook as if she was cold, despite the fact that she burned to his touch.

“You’re not going to die,” he whispered one evening, but they both knew he was lying. He had tried to help her, calling on his Light to heal, but it was the same sensation as before, that he was trying to fill a bottomless hole.

Before something in it decided to start dragging him in.

She had been strong enough to knock him out of it before, just as she had been strong enough to plot and talk about escaping.

The fever moved far too fast to bring anything to fruition.

They lay together, her with her head in the crook of his neck, arms clutching his chest, nails digging in and breaking off, leaving bloody streaks and furrows when she dug too deep.

Her breath rattled in her chest, blood flicking out from her lips every time she exhaled, and onto his skin. She was wasting away far too quickly, and he wondered whether or not it was because of the place, or what they had done to her.

She shook and cried.

Then, one time she raised her head far enough to look at him. At least, he thought so. He could see the sweep of her nose, the shadow of her gray eyes in the darkness, her cracked and bloodied thin lips.

“Dory,” she whispered. “Dory.”

He watched her, reaching up to palm her face, and run his thumb under her eye. She was crying.

“I hate you.”

She lay her head back down, and died.

They found him like that, a dead woman clutched to his chest. He kicked and screamed when the tried to take her away, until they held him down and removed the chains and the body.

They hauled him up to his feet, as the cultured man stepped inside the cell. He said ‘too bad’, ‘had so many hopes for her’, and ‘we’ll have to start again’. They cut him, made him bleed and took it away. They bound up the cuts, and lowered him – almost tenderly – to the ground.

He coughed, and hiccuped, but didn’t cry.