Ink

INK.

It had been a curious, completely unavoidable feeling. He had held that body in his arms that first time and had known, with utmost certainty, unblockable clarity, that this was the only thing he wanted, the only thing he had ever wanted, the only thing he would ever want. The only thing that he would kill for, without hesitation.

But then, at the same time, a red wave had burst over him with the unyielding knowledge that he would lose him. It was inevitable, despite what he knew he needed. Despite what the other person would whisper to him in the dark, the golden future he would paint for them before it became too light for him to pretend. Because he knew what it was really like. He knew what had to be. In the beginning he would just hold him, revel in what he had for the moment whilst the blackened army would advance, screaming, into the edge of his mind. He would hold the other and listen to his lovely, useless mutterings and would whisper back, Yes, Yes, Yes.

But then years passed. The other person kept up his pure reassurances, and he in turn began, tentatively, to believe in him. He could imagine that perhaps it could, it would, come true. They began to have conversations that started with "when it's all over...", "when it's finished...", "when we're free..."

But it was a curious thing, indeed. To hold the only thing you ever wanted, and to know that you will lose it.

And he did lose it.

***

When Master comes home at last, he is dead.

The garden is cold, but he does not feel it. When it rains, he does not move his hand to brush the rushing, tickling drops away.

He sits and he sits, but he never notices anything. The months change, but for us who are with him, they move so slowly. The summer grows colder, and the frost begins its creeping, washing the path and the grass. The moon comes out bright and full and sharp, the sky is a rich dark blue. Beautiful, some would call it. But Master does not see it.

Master sits on his bench. Although he is dead he is still breathing, and the fog arrives, ghosting his dreams around his face. As the frost begins to creep and everyone outside has agreed that life has gone on, Master's breaths become shallower. They begin to happen further apart.

Master still eats sometimes, but he never asks for it. He does not ask for anything anymore, and he never will again. I do not know if Master sleeps. He lies on his bed sometimes but I have never yet seen him close his eyes.

Master leaves the house, and Master sits on his bench. Master may remember to eat and drink, perhaps, that day. Sometimes, Master looks for bottles of ink. When he finds one, he smashes it.

And when the new Master sees the broken bottles that Master- now gone- had hidden, he clucks his tongue.

-Tut-tut,- he says, shaking his head. -A mess, a mess indeed. Well, well- clear them all away, if you please!-

And so they clean up the ink and the glass, and cook the meals, and dust the furniture, and tend the garden. And they bow respectfully to the shockingly silent portrait as they pass.

And years pass. And...

Life goes on.

END.