The first ray of crepuscule

The tip of his bottom barely sitting on the bed, I gaze down at his legs and gratefully thanked the cloak for obstructing the water from staining my bed in my heart. Under the lighting of the room, I finally manage to see the war breaking out. Hesitation mixed with desire. The slight quiver, which accentuated the golden center of his hazel eyes.

Before it gets more dangerous, I retreat and went inside the bathroom to snatch the backup towel hidden in the closet. The subtly demure peach flowers on the linen towels making me rethink my choices. But, there is no other choice as the other less feminine towel which was filled with swirling patterns was used.

When I return, his legs are leisurely crossed on top of each other, it seems that comfort has come to him. Though, not fully as he still sits at the edge of the bed. Before he could fall to slumber, I throw the towel toward him without bothering to control my strength. Unsurprisingly, the man managed to catch it with ease, in credit to the turtle speed of the towel.

''The cold is wicked. Dry yourself, or do I have to do it for you?"

I give him a stern stare. Tone as if chiding a child. Without arguing much, the man obeys, sliding down the cloak to his torso and slowly wiping his body from his shoulders. I hold back my shock seeing the wounds across his arms, and upper body. A detail I had missed under my previous panic and lack of light.

The scars are like a quill mark on a perfected painting. Abstractly obliterating the slightest trace of innocence in the pursuit of soul-deep corruption, a usurpation that was built on broken trust and trampled yearnings. The layers of lashes- proof of the abuse he withstood.

"Are you afraid?" Noticing how my eyes lingered on his body without the shyness appropriate of a young lady, he asks. I feel my throat turn dry, an oppressed sense of sorrow clawing its way into my tear glands. The vulnerability was gone the moment I saw it, a glimpse into what was within. "Spare me the pity and direct it to those who inflicted it instead."

I come forward, taking the towel from his hand. In the lack of breeze, the flame of the candle is stable, yet the room feels like it had dimmed. To show my lack of repugnance toward him, I take the initiative to dry the remaining moisture on him, starting from his chest to his abdomen.

In response to my touch, the man unnaturally stills. Obviously affected by every second but trying to pretend otherwise. I bury every bit of hatred I have towards the preparators deep inside and focus on the reality in front of me. On the crevice, they left within him.

After several times, rubbing the cloth across his tattered front, I went around him to clean his back merely to be even more shocked by the scene I saw. There is nearly any space that is untainted, everything across his skin a ravaged mess of people's creation. An imprint so deep, so frequently made it has yet to fade.

"What happened to those barbarians?" I try to utter without letting the choke interfere with my voice, how tortured must he have felt in the construction of these wounds. How betrayed and broken. In a fear of hurting him, my swipe was gentler, circular motions fully fending the drops off.

The man in front of me stood up and faced me, donning a sardonic grin unbefitting his detached expression, the sole thing that wasn't taken away from him. Detest. And loathe. I reached out to straighten out that twisted smile, only for him to steal the towel away.

I am made to observe him expunge the trail of water on his contrastingly unmarred neck, the way he drops his head bringing about a melancholic demeanor. An impression that is soon obliterated by the time he raised his face and looked down at me. A bloodlust that swerved from the confines of his shadow.

Even without a sword in his arsenal, I feel the glint of a blade coming down at me. As if it had been thrown in my direction and barely missed my cheek by the slightest distance. I swallowed the saliva gathering in my mouth, the terror of his presence dawning on me. In a desolateness that sent shivers down my spine, he bend down and compassionately stroked my cheeks.

A realization so contradictory, I never thought I would dwell on it.

"In their graves or pleading to be there." The warmth of his hands makes the sharpness equipping the words feel like a lie. I assesses him once more. This man of contradiction. The shrouded breath of a yearning unfulfilled. "Barbarians. Such a trivial word, yet a comfort in the dearest ways. Knowing of what I've done, do you consider me to be one too?"

I press his palms assertively on my face and relax my expression. The very notion of apprehension demolished from my stance. Age may have weaned him longer than it did to me, but at this very moment, he is on the verge of being broken. The lifelong chip embedded at his shoulders piercing all the way to the core.

One more push and he will be nonexistent.

For a moment I wavered if this was truly the right path. If lifting this burden will lead to the destruction of many. But alongside the soothing of self loathe, I encase him in an everlasting prayer. In memoriam of the harrowed soul he still is. The fastening of crepuscule in his world of midnight.

"Nobody may judge rightly, Maister door blocker. In the end your and mine are subjective truths. The weight of blood on your hands, and the weight on mine may be the same in the end. Stop hating yourself, or it will destruct you."