I touched his face one last time, feeling warmth spur through my hand and down my body. It was a kind light fire of which I had never felt before, and I hoped I would never feel again. It seemed to burn my flesh and I looked down at my arm, only to see it as untouched as it had been before. Maybe it wasn't my skin it was burning, but my insides. Charring me in and out like and unstoppable flame, with no fear of being relinquished or put out.

It didn't matter though. I knew why the pain had come.

I sat down beside his body and rubbed my hands together quickly. It might have been funny of how I could feel so cold, yet inside I was being burned alive. I found nothing humourous about it though. At the time I wouldn't even acknowledge that I was in pain. I felt my stomach twist and looked back down at the blood oozing from my fresh wound.

I touched it lightly and winced. If I made it out of here alive, I'd be lucky. Or unlucky as it may seem, because I didn't think my pain would ever go away. A horrible ache loomed over me, and I looked at him again. He was at peace. He was always like that. I don't think anything scared him.

My throat started to throb. After all these years of fighting, after all this suffering, I had built myself up to that status: that almighty state of which my father had been so proud of. I had achieved the destination you reach when nothing matters, when you don't care about anything. I had not felt the slightest bit of fear in the last seven years.

Well, I'd like to think that. Father died, and soon after, Mom died of a broken heart. My sister left with her, still unborn and not ready to be salvaged. I had nothing left to fight for, except my revenge.

Then he came.

I rubbed my knees and shivered. It was so dark in here, so cold. The rock walls only seemed to lock in the winter temperature. He used to keep me warm, but how could he now? Now I only burned when I touched his skin.

My jaw locked as a flood of my old dreams hit me. My dreams of raising a child in a peaceful world were shattered with one thrust of a knife. In one day I had lost so much, and yet there he was, still smiling as if he was going to wake up sometime soon.

Ah, he did look like he'd awaken. I suddenly expected him to stretch out his arms and yawn, like I had seen him wake up so many times before. I knew that wasn't going to happen. I think I knew. No, I probably didn't know. I wasn't even aware of the thick crimson liquid flowing out of my side and dripping onto the cave floor. I only noticed when I reached to stroke his face again and caught a glimpse of my hand.

My hand was smeared with blood, and I moved my head slowly to see the puddle I was laying in. I knew then that I wasn't going to live. I couldn't live without him anyway, so why did it matter at all? I wanted to touch him again, to tell him everything would be okay, that I was coming for him, chasing after him. However, I did not let myself smudge his sweet expression with my blood. Instead, I settled on laying down on the hard ground beside him, muttering things even I couldn't translate.

My mind grew faint. My pain started to lift out of my body. Had the fire ended? Had it yet eaten everything it found worthy inside of me? Had my heart been singed and blackened?

No. Not a thousand fires could do that. I would still come out of it loving him. Today I just had to face my greatest fear of all: losing him. He was dead, not even warm anymore. He looked white, and I knew this was because his own blood was leaking through the dent made in his back. I looked down at the pool of red that both of us lay in. Which was his blood? Which was mine?

It wasn't mine or his, but ours. I scooped some back up into my hand and pressed it against my stomach, as if I was trying to put it back into my body. I was feeling very weak now, and I let myself lay down next to him again.

I could not hold back the tear this time. I had so many that never reached my eyes. No one had ever seen me cry, because I didn't cry. Now I cry. "I love you."

Closing my eyes, I let myself fade away.