"And very sweet it is to knwo he still is warm though I am cold." Royai. Deathfic.
And strewn with rushes, rosemary and may
Lay thick upon the bed on which I lay,
Where through the lattice ivy-shadows crept.
He leaned above me, thinking that I slept
And could not hear him; but I heard him say:
"Poor child, poor child:" and as he turned away
Came a deep silence, and I knew he wept.
He did not touch the shroud or raise the fold
That hid my face, or take my hand in his,
Or ruffle the smooth pillows for my head:
He did not love me living; but once dead
He pitied me; and very sweet it is
To know he still is warm though I am cold.
- Algernon Charles Swinburne, 1837-1909
Though I am Cold
Somewhere deep in her consciousness, Riza Hawkeye had always known she would die long before her time was due, in the violent manner most soldiers fell to. Perhaps she had even known that it would be protecting one Roy Mustang from himself and the rest of the world that had it out for him.
What she had not known was that it would be today, in this very hour when all their goals were achieved; when their long nights of hard work, all their sweat and blood and tears were coming to fruition.
Now as she lay on the steps of Central Headquarters, her lifeblood seeping out to color the concrete an angry red (and to stain Roy's uniform a deep purple) all she could think about was that it looked as if rain was on it's way.
She was shaking in his arms. Or maybe he was shaking. She couldn't even tell where her bloodied uniform ended and his began. He was talking to her, gently, like he would have to a child, but she didn't really notice.
"I think I'm in love with you," he said. Or maybe he didn't. Maybe she had felt in the way his mouth moved against her forehead, his lips rough and chapped.
But she knew.
She would have told him she had always loved him, but the coppery tang of blood in her mouth stilled her tongue. She felt a drop of rain on her cheek, another just above her eye.
And then she realized it wasn't the rain. It was Roy.
All she could do was smile up at him, and that alone took most of her strength. The last, she devoted to assuring herself that he was unharmed. There could be no rest, if he was hurt.
But the blood smeared across his cheek and soaking into his hands was her own, and she closed her eyes.
She was grateful for his arms, holding her up. They seemed to take the edge off the chill that was settling into her toes and the tips of her fingers.
Il est fin