“It’s time,” she said. The sweet countenance I gazed upon was so at odds with the duty she unwillingly accepted.Her hair, a lustrous auburn, fell almost lazily around her face, framing it as a lover’s hands should. Her eyes, a warm and embracing hazel, seemed to search the very depths of my being. Her lips, red and full, parted slightly as she held her breath. How often had I seen this face and dared to hope for more, and feared the very idea?
“There is much here I must do,” I said, knowing it was in vain. But the old, familiar line brought forth a sweet smile, a ray of joy within the twilight I found myself in.
“Duty is no bar to this call,” she said, moving her perfect body closer to mine. Her hands, so delicate and soft, traced lazily up my chest.
“Not for duty,” I said, closing my eyes in the futile hope that the memories would not find me. How we first met, our first dance, every dance. I wondered briefly if she knew how much she meant to me.
“Nor is honor,” she whispered, her breath light against my neck.
“Is love?” I asked, my voice soft as hers, and weakened by my racing emotions.
A pause. “Nor is love,” she said finally, her lips almost touching mine.
A slight tear of pain tricked from my eye. She knows now that I am hers. Our lips meet, and I know no more.
* * * *
Days later, as my body is mourned over, my friends and family notice her, but know not who she is. When questions, she offers a bittersweet smile, but says nothing. She stays until every mourner is long gone. Finally, she kneels at my grave. A single, priceless tear, fled down her cheek.
“Fare thee well, my love,” she murmured, an unfamiliar pain gripping her very soul. I will miss our dances. The way you always used to grin when I came near you. You where the one thing I wish was constant in my existence.
And the Angel of Death mourned at the grave of the man who had taught her how to love. She mourned for the passing of the one soul who understood her, and who she understood in turn.