My heart aches.
It is the kind of pain that could only be matched by the force of his sword through my chest. But no, it is worse than that. The pain throbs deep inside me, in the cavernous space that is my soul, a place no weapon could ever reach. My stomach bashes itself around inside me, sick with grief. Perhaps time will heal this wound, but for time to heal you must be absent from that which causes you pain, I never wanted to be absent from him.
Even now, as we stand on the stairs leading down to the battlefields below, my feet burn and twitch with the need to run away from him and the war cries outside, but my heart holds fast to something—someone—I can't let go just yet. The air is cold, but looking at the smooth caramel of his face and the curve of his mouth, I am flooded with such a warmth it makes me want to take a step back.
He looks like a soldier, with the heavy garb of battle draped around him. I want to take it off and see the smooth skin underneath, but I can't, not this time. Soon it will be the only thing keeping him alive out there. I wonder if he sees how this is tormenting me, how nothing I can say will make him throw down his sword in the mud and run away with me. I suddenly hate him for that, I hate that he loves his country more than me.
I am so furious I want to spit on the cold stone of the stairs. I want to yell and scream and lock him away until this damned war is over. Why did he come up here? Why did he have to rub salt in my wounds with his own hand? He could be out there now, with the thousands dead and the thousands still fighting. But he is here, looking at me with the greenest eyes I have ever seen filled with concern and pain-laced. Just like mine.
“Don’t go.” My voice is broken glass on metal. Hours of pain and grief have done this. It is my last attempt to change his mind, to let me hide him from the enemy, but I know it will do know good. Still, I cannot help but scrap a small piece of hope together, just to keep myself standing upright.
“You know I can't leave my brother down there to defend himself alone.” his voice is regretful and filled with something like worry.
“To hell with your brother.” I cross my arms in defiance. The wave in pure pain the crashes over me makes my vision blur for a moment. He reaches out and touches my braid, letting it fall through his fingers.
“If I thought you meant that, I would be angry,” he says in a voice so flat I could have eaten off it. I shake my head as he tried to smooth some stray hairs out of my eyes. I don’t want the cold scrape of chain mail on my face.
“Take this off if you wish to touch me,” I say, throwing his hand back at him. He laughs, unaffected by my protest. It makes me want to hit him. Then, our eyes meet and he smiles the smallest smile that he used to give me when we watched each other while I ate with my family and he stood silently by the door. I want to kiss him right now, and this could be my last chance to do it.
Suddenly, our gazes are broken apart by a harsh cry erupting from the battle field below. So loud that it sounds clearly over all of the clashing swords and screams of dying men. It reaches the far off windows of this castle and echos in our ears. I close my eyes against the onslaught of fear the crushes me. I know that cry, I have heard it too many times. It is the dead mans cry. Thousands of my fathers men will die today, and I would trade all of their live right now for the man I love not to fight today. But I can't and we both no it.
Our eyes meet again, this time in fear and sadness rather then in passion.
“Please,” it is a pitiful plea, but it is all I can muster now. He looks at me with such determination that he needn't say anything more. I choke on the sob that has welled up inside me. This is unbearable, I cannot look at him any longer without dying from the fear. I stomp down my hearts protests as fast I can and allow my feet to start carrying me up the stairs, away from him and his death below. But he doesn’t allow me passage, he grabs the blue velvet of my dress and holds tightly to my hand. He could either gather me against him now or throw me down these stairs, and it thrills me. He presses it against his chest and I try to imagine the heart that beats there, the one I have felt a thousand times.
I press my forehead against the cold stone of the wall and breath in the musky sent of mildew. Please just let me go, I want to beg him, but I don’t. My heart has reared it's head and it shovelling the pain into me. I can't let him go just yet. He presses his face into the warmness of my sleeve and takes a deep breath, as if he can breath me in and keep me there with him on the battlefield.
“Will you be here when I get home tonight?” his voice is soft and tender, he sound nervous and worried. A sudden though occurs to me, what if he survives? Will I be standing at the top of these stairs waiting for him again? Yes. The answer is a question that needn't be asked.
“Of course,” I say. I hear him let out the breath he had apparently been holding, and then he lets go of my hand, it falls limply to my side.
“I love you,” he says as his turns away from me. He starts walking away without waiting for an answer, I should run after him and let him hold me one last time. But I don’t, because I don’t think I could leave again. I wait until the clang of his armour if almost inaudible to my ears before I turn around shout as loud as I have ever shouted before:
“I love you!”
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