The support beams rock and give, shattering me with debris. It is only little worry, for there is no physical pain now. I've called for my strange little family. I've called for him… a cry that was less of a calling and more of a goodbye. Hurt can run deeper than that of the flesh, and though I am accepting of this fate, I am still troubled with echoes of my unspoken confession.
He told me once that regret is part of being alive but to keep it a small part. How is one ever supposed to do that? Regret is consuming and I've lived my life with it as an every reaching, every controlling shadow that threatens my spirit.
As a child I was never been like the others. A dark miracle in itself. One of many identical embryos and yet mine was the soul that harboured the need to fight, to argue to reap vengeance against those that wronged me. Those that wronged the worlds.
And there is my first regret.
The regret over the flaw in my character that seeks trouble over harmony; war and anguish over peace and serenity; for if I'd have been more like my sisters, more like my beloved Zelda, more Auronar, then perhaps none of this would ever have happened. I would never have been there, never have met him. Never have ended up crushed on a cold, snow-capped rock, mindlessly alone.
I cough out the dust in my throat and realise that as I do there is another flaw in my character, one learned by association, for I think it is a very human flaw that I've developed; the ability to blame current circumstances on what couldn't have been helped. On what couldn't have been foreseen. It's not regret, it is self-pity. If he knew I was thinking like this, then I know he would have words along similar lines as he had about regret. Demonstrably. Yes, he would say that self-pity was a part of being alive, but it should be suppressed. Ruthlessly. It's a weakness. And if there is one thing he dislikes, for hate is too stronger word when in relation to one who is blank, it is weakness.
Emotions are weakness to him. So is love. For him, pureness is the lines of a machine; the rationale of one moment to the next; on and off. To be in the centre of all things that make sense. He has no time for the mists that cloud around those definites: doubt, dreams, fantasy… want.
If he has ever felt those things, then he shut himself off from them a long time ago. His beloved Anna. The last link to his broken childhood. I smile through cracked lips and the blood flows… for this is how I see him, as something broken. Sadly to me, it is not how he sees himself. To him the experience of loss has only made him stronger, less troubled with worries that do no good and do not achieve anything. He was hurt by her, but now she's gone, and there is only his purpose. His drive. And if he does want anything now, it's power. The power to be alone and live as he wishes.
I regret this in his character. As I regret in my own that despite this, I still love him. Have loved him from the very first. I try to be like my people, their nature quietly similar to his own on the surface, but with a gentle contemplativeness beneath that could never compete with his ruthless drive; his singular existence.
It is something about him I've always known. Something that I could never usurp... so why punish myself now?
The darkness is crawling up into the still frantically living parts of my body. They struggle and then calm under death's cool hand and I have no fear now. As these last breaths come, I realise that I've been sending these things all along… and only to him. I have no idea what he thinks in return, for my power has never worked that way. Regret comes again, for now I'll never know.