[10] All Good Things...

The window presents a bruised shade of sky, mauve and cloudy. He'd like to think that this is what keeps him uninspired -a dull environment promises a blank canvas. But in all other occasions, it would provoke the opposite. Auron does not admit it to himself, but he cannot even paint the feelings away; they remain in him unresolved, stagnant. Nothing is the same. Change yields uncertainty, and that is what he dislikes. He could not blame her though, he could never blame her.

She is on the balcony when he approaches, with her arms wrapped around herself to keep out the late August chill. It's one of those odd days that feels like a premature autumn, with a breeze that riffles through their hair like rough fingers. Auron offers her his coat, but she doesn't take it.

'Maybe I should leave', she says. Her voice is distant, heavy with accumulated thoughts.

Seeing that she is being stubborn, he places the coat over her shoulders like a heavy cape and leaves his hands resting there because it is as if this moment has occurred years and years ago, and old fears have been resurrected despite his best efforts to bury them. He wants to tell her to stay, but if he did, she would entertain reasons with meanings he did not intend. He is not selfish enough to let her fall victim to those feelings once again, especially now that it seems she has tried to quell them. Instead he asks, 'Where would you go?', and he wants to sound rational but it comes across as indifferent, and it pierces through her heart.

'I don't know', she murmurs. 'I don't have anyone else. You don't need to remind me of that.'

'That wasn't my intention' he says, and it feels like he's making all the wrong moves in this delicate game. She nudges off his comforting grasp and steps away from him, for it pains her heart too much to bear his touch any longer.

'What is your intention?'

She distrusts so easily now, but has not meant to. Auron forgives her for it, and knows that it comes from defending an injured heart.

'Only to protect you, to do what is best', he says.

'To do what is best for whom?'

It is a simple enough question, and yet he cannot answer it. He does not want to.

His hands, now bereft of her, find their way into his pockets. Perhaps this is how it should be. When he speaks it is out of painful wisdom, and perhaps wry humour that seemingly evades all of the answers she seeks, but in truth, answers them all. 'You are certainly Braska's daughter.'

'And you were his closest friend.'

'That is why, Yuna.' And his voice is ragged with multiple meanings, all of which she understands. He has been conflicted for so long with duties to the dead, duties to her and duties to himself, and for once in his life, Auron wishes he was not so honourable.

There is unflinching silence and many steps between them, leading apart instead of forward. He crosses them towards her anyway, if only because this feels like a goodbye. She smiles shyly, sadly, because this is the least she can give him for all the hurt his kindness has caused.

'I'm sorry', he says, but she shakes her head as if to dismiss it. She could not blame him, she could never blame him.

'The heart wants what it wants', she concedes. But I wish it didn't.

End