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Within the meld, with memories and lies in shreds around them, he still reached out. Two broken fingers in the darkness. Cold heart beating wet and meaty in his hands. It was like a blood kiss, like a strangled man hardening as his tongue blackened, a masochism so profound it revolted even one who understood. The brokebacked puppy whimpering love beneath the euthanasia needle. But, no, worse. Worse.
The killing meld was but a thought or two away from the marriage bond. But a breath and a twitch of the hands. He had known T'pel like this, T'pel this deep. His will wrapped round her medulla--except then he hadn't squeezed down, made her heart stutter in her chest--T'pel!
He was murdering this man. This man whom he knew as intimately as a lover. This man who loved him. This murderer.
The simplicity of it all blazed through their brains like stars upon stars. White light drenched them. His hands were burning, his hands were covered in blood, his hands held a naked life, helpless and wriggling, and squeezed knuckle-white and he wasn't fighting him, why wasn't he fighting him, didn't he know he was going to die?
His hands clutched. His hands spread like hawk wings over the desert. He was dying. He was dying too, naked together with him in the endless sand. Muscles clenched all their lives were slacking. His life was good, his ship solid, his sun hot. Somewhere far, far away black eyes stared half-lifeless at the ceiling, at the opening gates to beyond, as with one last silent scream he tried, tried to finish it.
He couldn't. He failed. He sprawled dry-mouthed in the sand for the vultures.
The meld snapped with a flailing. The murderer who loved him was still alive. He could not, could not, go on.
The killing meld was but a thought or two away from the marriage bond. But a breath and a twitch of the hands. He had known T'pel like this, T'pel this deep. His will wrapped round her medulla--except then he hadn't squeezed down, made her heart stutter in her chest--T'pel!
He was murdering this man. This man whom he knew as intimately as a lover. This man who loved him. This murderer.
The simplicity of it all blazed through their brains like stars upon stars. White light drenched them. His hands were burning, his hands were covered in blood, his hands held a naked life, helpless and wriggling, and squeezed knuckle-white and he wasn't fighting him, why wasn't he fighting him, didn't he know he was going to die?
His hands clutched. His hands spread like hawk wings over the desert. He was dying. He was dying too, naked together with him in the endless sand. Muscles clenched all their lives were slacking. His life was good, his ship solid, his sun hot. Somewhere far, far away black eyes stared half-lifeless at the ceiling, at the opening gates to beyond, as with one last silent scream he tried, tried to finish it.
He couldn't. He failed. He sprawled dry-mouthed in the sand for the vultures.
The meld snapped with a flailing. The murderer who loved him was still alive. He could not, could not, go on.
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