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…Looking into the mirror, he can barely recognise himself.
Covered in blood, filth, and rotting flowers – was that really him?
Was this thing… really a human?
Corrupted, tainted, and mutilated.
Could you even claim that it was ‘alive’?
…This wasn’t life.
Such a creature must be a husk – a poor imitation of a living being.
There is only one natural conclusion;
-he must’ve died.
The mirror shatters. All he can see is red. It’s maddening.
His eyes fail him, and the world turns hazy.
His ears fail him, and all he hears are the screams.
His voice fails him, and all he can let out are growls.
A mongrel that destroyed everything it saw – a wild monster that could only kill.
That was what he’d become.
…A weapon.
How long had he wandered these lands? How many times had he died?
How many times had he taken a life away? How many swords had he carried to that place?
No matter how hard he tried, he could not remember.
A monster should behave as one.
He tells himself that this is his punishment – that his arrogance had a price.
To wander this earth without a promised end;
a fitting punishment for someone who had desperately clung to life.
…
They found him on a rainy day.
He remembers how the droplets stung upon his burned skin.
Looking at his blood seep into the puddles around him,
his vision growing dimmer and dimmer;
-he must’ve died.
When he woke, he saw her for the first time.
She held a black umbrella in one hand, and crouched before him.
Even with all the madness in his mind, one thought appeared in his head.
That she was more beautiful than anything he’d ever seen.
Her eyes seemed as though they contained the secrets of the world itself,
yet, he noticed that they seemed so very sad.
He had wandered the stars alone, seeking death no matter the cost.
He had long lost the appreciation for beauty that he had once held.
A monster has no need for such pleasure, after all.
Red, the colour of their blood, and the flowers that sprouted from his body.
Black, the lonely nights, and the darkness that he crawled into.
Gold – the beast that hid inside his mind.
Those were the only colours he could remember, across those lonely centuries.
The colour of her hair struck him as something he shouldn’t taint.
Ethereal – holy. He didn’t feel worthy to even gaze upon it.
It was silly. It was only purple – yet, to him, it seemed like a magnificent shade of violet, like a blooming flower.
When had he seen such a sight?
-when had he remembered what such a thing looked like?
Under the dim light of the moon, she had offered him her hand, and a final death.
When he took her hand, it felt warm. Warmer than anything he’d ever felt.
-a feeling he thought he’d forgotten, all that time ago.
…to die by her hands would not be an unpleasant end.
…
A familiar sensation.
The throbbing in his chest – the teardrops he feels falling on his arm.
The sword that pierced his heart;
-he must’ve died.
How many times has she killed him?
With her gun, eighty-seven times.
With her sword, fourty-one.
With her voice, thirteen.
With her hands, once.
The monster within begged to be unleashed. If his control slips for even a moment, it pounces upon his body and seizes it for itself.
He thought that his curse resembled that of a rabid beast.
Ultimately, she was always the one to put him down.
It had never felt painful when she killed him – it was oddly calming, in a strange way.
To die by the hands of someone so alluring,
to die by the hands of someone who, even if it was only an act, seemed to care for him?
It wasn’t an unpleasant feeling.
…though it didn’t seem that she felt the same.
Every time she killed him, it seemed to hurt her a little more.
She hadn’t cared at all, at first, treating it like one would the act of reloading a gun, or washing their hands.
As they spoke more, and spent more time together, that changed.
She was never scared, nor did she hesitate – after all, she could never feel fear.
But he could tell that each time she pierced his heart – slit his throat –
it hurt.
That it made her sad.
A blade does not need to be cared for.
It can be broken to pieces and put back together countless times.
Even from a million shards, it can be melted down and forged once more.
That was why he never understood her sadness.
No matter how many times he told her that his deaths were meaningless, she didn’t stop caring.
…
Wherever she goes, a storm seems to follow.
The pitter-patter of the rain against his back,
the blood flowing from his throat,
the fact that she was stained red once more -
…he must’ve died.
Her sword is lodged firmly into his neck. He must’ve lost control once more. He would have to apologise once this was over. He can barely see the figure in front of him, and everything starts to feel numb – yet, distinctly, he can feel something rolling down his face.
…For whose sake did he shed these tears?
…
“…Please.”
His body is cold – unbearably so. If it was anyone else, she would recoil, and refuse to touch them.
But it’s him.
A man who, despite knowing nothing of her, listened to the stories she told, and of the things that she loved. He followed her in every waking moment with absolute loyalty, and took every measure to prevent her from dying.
For someone who proclaimed to be a weapon, he was more than willing to act as a bodyguard – a cook – a pillow – a partner. Someone who, in spite of her faults, gave her comfort that nobody else would.
…which made this all the more painful.
She’s killed him countless times. She remembers every single one – they’re burned into her memory, never to be forgotten.
It never gets any easier.
She holds him close, feeling his heart slow, and his body grow freezing. There’s no warmth or comfort to be found – his body seems to grow more lifeless with each death.
“…stop making me do this.”
It’s not his fault – not wholly, at least. The mara within couldn’t be restrained by his willpower alone – but she knows that, deep down, there is a part of him that can resist – that he is giving up far easier than he should.
He was a selfish and cruel man, to force her into this. He rushed head-first into death, knowing that it would fall to her to kill him once it was over.
The rain washes away his blood from her clothes. The only proof of their suffering that remains is her katana, still stuck directly into his throat.
“I don’t like killing you, dear.”
He lets out a weak noise. She supposes it must be rather hard to speak with a chunk of steel embedded within one’s vocal cords.
“…I mean it. Do you think I like having to watch you die?”
No response.
“…talk to me, please?”
Silence – and then a wet squelching noise as her partner finally responds, slowly ripping her blade out from his wound, dropping it onto the gravel floor with a clatter.
The stains of crimson are quickly washed away by the downpour above them. The patches of blood seemed to form clouds in the water around them, as though the setting wasn’t quite saddening enough.
At last, he speaks.
“…if not you, who else will kill me?”
“Why do I have to kill you at all?”
“I would have ripped you asunder if you did not.”
The rain only grows heavier.
“You give up too easily.”
“I know.”
“Giving into the mara isn’t the only way to fulfil our scripts.”
“It is the easiest.”
“Does this seem easy to you?”
There’s a certain venom in her words that she only now realises is there – a level of spite, of anger, of… sadness. Disappointment that he thought so lowly of himself – that he believed killing him truly meant nothing.
Her words seem to reach him on some level, and he cannot meet her eyes. He looks down at the pavement he sits upon – it is broken and murky, covered in his own gore and the water that falls from the darkened sky.
He seems remorseful. It’s not comforting at all.
“…why is it not?”
“Would you find it easy killing me?”
“I would never kill you – you are mortal. I am not. There is a difference in the value of our lives.”
“And if I was like you? Would you kill me then?”
“…No.”
“Why?”
She waits for a response.
He does not give one.
“…let me see your face, dear.”
She reaches out, holding his chin up with her hand. His face is a mess, and his hair is unflatteringly wet – but it’s still him. His eyes are closed, and she finds that he leans into her touch.
…it was hard to stay angry at him.
Slowly, and gently, she gets up, dragging him to his feet with a little effort. Both of their outfits have been ruined by the fighting, weather and blood – but, strangely, it doesn’t bother her as much as it should.
“…answer me, please? For my sake, Bladie?”
“Because I do not want to kill you, Kafka.”
“Why?”
“…I do not know.”
“…you’re a selfish man – did you know that?”
He nods slowly.
“I know you want to die, but this isn’t going to get you there any faster. Try to restrain yourself a little, would you?”
“…why?”
“Even you should understand why.”
-because I don’t want to hurt you.
because I hate the feeling of your blood on my hands.
because seeing you die is truly painful.
The walk back to the ship is silent until the very last moment.
“…Kafka.”
She waits.
“Does my death truly bring you such sorrow?”
She doesn’t give him a response, hoping that he’ll be able to figure it out by himself.
Somehow, he does. A strange look passes his face.
“…I will try to restrain myself better.”
…progress.
The bare minimum, but it was progress, nonetheless.
She remembers every scar that she’s given him, and she can recall exactly how she gave them to him. He has never hurt her – not even once, yet she must’ve taken his life hundreds of times.
He had once told her that his scars were reminders of her – that he would never forget them so long as he lived.
…he was a strange man. Brutish, poorly-spoken, and suicidal to a fault, yet, somehow, she found that his company was truly wonderful.
Perhaps she was going mad – or perhaps she had always been mad.
She hopes that today will be the last time she has to kill him – that, one day, they will be able to finish a script and return to their home without his blood stained on her gloves.
…that she will be able to hold him without his blood seeping into her clothes.
A fanciful, idealistic wish – but one she holds, nonetheless.