Whispers

A breeze rustles the dying leaves, its whisper drowning the calls of the last hearty insects; it whistles across the grass of the field, stirring a cloak and twining long tresses with wild locks. The rising crescent moon paints the scene in shades of grey, muting vibrant reds and golds to cold, frosty blues. Only the stars are at peace tonight; only they are far enough away.

A foreign sound intrudes:

"James, are you afraid of death?"

Two figures lie side by side under a cloak, disrupting the even plain of the grass. They stare up at the sky, perhaps wishing they could be as far removed from their world as the unconcerned stars.

A long pause.

The wind resumes its aural preeminence.

"I'm not sure... Are you?"

The first three words are hesitant, only an accompaniment to the murmur of the surroundings. The last are pregnant with meaning that their two syllables can barely contain.

"No." Brusque and short.

The boy turns slowly, his gaze now upon his neighbor. His whispered "why?" is barely audible.

"Why bother?" she asks the stars. "It's part of life; it's going to happen anyway, probably sooner rather than later."

"You don't know that," the strange duet continues: his words again hushed and slow, only secondary to the ambient sounds; hers are clear and confident, defying the world to disagree.

"Don't I, James?" Her head snaps to look at him. "Wouldn't you die for this? Wouldn't you die to end it?"

She is ghostly pale in the half-light, her features drained of their usual warm coloring, but her eyes burn, fiery and passionate.

Another pause.

"I would," he declares, firm at last. His own eyes gleam with an echo of her zeal as he holds her gaze.

"So would I." Her whisper is no less fervent.

"But I would be afraid. I'd be willing to die, but I'd still be afraid..." He matches the whisper, but not its intensity.

A soft hand touches his face. "That's okay," she breathes.

"How can you not be afraid?"

Their faces are impossibly close, their words felt as much as heard. Even the forgotten breeze could not eavesdrop on this conversation.

"I have to believe in something more, something better... This can't be it." For the first time, her face is serene, at peace, her eyes distant.

"But what if it is?" He almost implores her to come back to reality, back to him.

"Then it is. If there is nothing else, then I will have escaped all of this mess, and hopefully have done something to help make it better."

His eyes hold hers again, both sobered by her words.

"Is it so bad, Lily?" The faintest question yet. She can tell he is afraid of the answer.

"Not all of it, no," she murmurs with a soft smile, pulling him into a close embrace.

His last words are muffled in her hair, intended only for her:

"Don't die yet, Lily. I'm not ready to be alone..."