Butterflies

Silent Voices

He knows that today is the day he dies.

They both agree that there is a certain irony that it is his heart, and its failings, that will kill him.

She had thought his lifestyle would be the death of him, he remarked that he had expected venereal disease; Which, they both agreed, was more or less the same thing.

He is young to die. Even for his kind, such a short lived race.

It does not seem quite fair, and what a strange thing for she to use such a word, that he should be cut down while still in his prime.

He quips that his greatest grievance is that he will not live long enough to enjoy his own infamy.

Though, he adds with a strained smile that does not quite hide the chasm of fear in his eyes, at least he will leave behind a handsome corpse.

She does not say anything as she looks on his ravaged, gaunt face. He is no longer handsome. Death is never beautiful.

When the pain leaves him short of breath he attempts to order her to leave him.

She does not know if it is vanity or a misguided attempt at chivalry that motivates him in this request.

She refuses him.

They both agree that this is something she has rarely ever done in all their years together.

Happy years.

She wonders if he really knows what that means to her.

They both know that there will be others after him. She will only be alone under her skin, yet in future years others will walk at her side.

He diverts his mind from pondering his imminent demise by setting mandates in regards to these future companions.

They must be witty and erudite, he instructs her, as you like a man with a clever tongue, he adds with a saucy wink.

And, he continues mischievously, they should be none too bright, as it would not do to have her 'new man' figure out too soon that she was the power behind the throne, as it were.

After all, it had taken him twenty years to figure that out.

They must be adventurous, because a woman such as she deserved to be kept constantly entertained.

He pauses for a moment as the pain takes him; she watches the light and vitality stutter behind his eyes.

Soon there will be no more humorous reflections, no wicked and criminal thoughts percolating behind those almost sleepy bedroom eyes.

Your new man, he tells her when he gains his breath, can be honourable, dare he say- noble- at times, but – and this he stresses very firmly, not beyond reason as he will not be out-done in this regard.

And she must not rest on her laurels either.

He expects her to mourn him as befit their professions and their natures by taking up with another as soon as he is cold in his grave.

His laughter turns to coughs and, almost involuntarily, he reaches out to grip her hand in his failing, numbed grip.

This is taking too long, he grates out frustrated. If he has to go at all he would rather it is over and done with quickly.

She says nothing, her thoughts drifting to another request made and refused.

Terrified of the prospect of a long and protracted death he had, in a moment of weakness, asked her to help him find a faster way out.

One last daring escape from a painful death, he mocked.

He asked too much of her, she had said. If he would choose his own way out, she would not stop him, but she will not be responsible for his death.

If he had asked her to join him in his quick death, that would have been different. But he expects her to live once he is gone.

Despite his words the denouement draws close with ever increasing speed. His words stop, every fibre of his being concentrated in dragging every last shallow breath of air into his lungs.

She hates and praises every tortured inhalation and exhalation.

Each one could be his last, and every successive breath keeps him grounded in his flesh a moment longer.

For all that she is well acquainted with death, for all that she has delivered the killing blow to many a foe, she has never before witnessed death in its every obscene detail, every second transcendent in its agony for both of them.

She does not think she will do it again.

There will be a great many things that she will never do again, once this is over.

As if sensing he has neglected her in his attentions, he resurfaces from deaths shallow waters, turning his head fractionally as he gulps air like a landed fish.

His eyes speak to her in the language of silent voices they have between them.

He tells her, now that the pain has left him and his heart has all but stopped, that he is sorry for her pain, but he did tell her not to stay and watch.

Slow death is hardly an enjoyable spectator sport, after all.

One of his hands rests against his chest, the chest that has not risen in breath and likely never will hence, she touches the back of that hand gently with her fingers, they dance across the rings on his fingers, warm from body heat.

Thank you, she tells him without uttering a word.

Thank you for being my friend.

The pleasure, he replies, was all mine.

And she thinks that she would see the warmth of his smile in his eyes, except that he has gone now, already, and his eyes are fixed and vacant.

The sun is warm on her skin when she ventures outside, the ocean's song a sonorous murmur brushing her ears.

Under a golden birch tree a cloud of butterflies dance in the warm sun and dappled shadows of the late afternoon.

With the stealth and tranquil grace she was blessed with from birth she moves towards that static cloud, inching closer until she is enveloped.

Standing as still and impregnable as the ancient tree; the cloud of multicoloured butterflies dance around her.

Pink and blue.

Green and gold.

The insubstantial fluttering of their feathery wings in her hair feels like the quick, clever fingers of one who will ever more be memory.

Pink and blue; green and gold.

She has no interest or inclination toward tears.

She knows that a Desert Queen, many years happily married with heirs apparent enough for three thrones, will shed covert tears enough to satisfy his vanity.

Pink and blue; green and gold the butterflies, children of the warm sun and carefree days, she knows, they will fall with the first frost.

They are beautiful and fragile and they do not last.

Pink and blue; green and gold.

The butterflies leave her with a last quick kiss of ghostly wings, dancing away on the warm sea breeze.

She looks down at her right hand.

Pink and blue; green and gold

They adorn her fore and index fingers, just as he once wore them, the bands of metal warming against her skin.

She will not mourn him, and she will never forget him.