Last Christmas
by Siarade
Characters herein belong to Marvel. No money is being made. For entertainment purposes only.
See notes at end.
The cold was burning now. It had finally managed to kill time, so she couldn't be sure how long she'd been sitting in the snow. The cold had already gripped her legs, and began climbing up her back. She couldn't remember how long ago she'd collapsed, letting her body fall under him as her arms finally gave out. His back was cradled against her chest, and her legs lay stiffly stretched along the outsides of his; his head had lolled to the left so his ear lay listening to her heart.
Everything was frozen. The sky, too, it seemed. The stars were nothing but the first dots of ice, water made solid by the darkness. The trees were locked into place, and no wind dared to move them; no animal seemed to be alive to make tracks in the snow. With her arms under his, wrapped around Nate's chest and fingers clasped numbly together, Domino watched her puffs of breath disappear into the dark, and felt the cut-white moon staring.
She had left tracks. Large, lumpy, unmistakable tracks, laced red. In practically a straight line. The thought to turn her head and glance at those tracks touched her; she let it fall as a warning came up at her: don't. There was a sensation in her neck, somewhere under the cold, that reminded her not to move. The skin felt tight there, as much as she could feel it; and covered in something. Something that was cold itself. She thought to reach up and touch it with her fingers, but that would have meant letting Nate go.
And besides, she knew what it was, as well as she knew what the dark circle surrounding them was. It had colored the snow; the moon's frosted light couldn't hide so much red. And the red on the side of her neck, trickling down in lines. Cold muffled the burn of an open wound, and slowed the bleeding, but that was no gift. Cold didn't give her anything. Never had.
Bleeding to death. Eventually. And cold wouldn't help her.
The toes of her boots looked like bloated black tombstones in the snow. Nate's looked like old ones, maybe centuries old, knocked over by the weather, laying on their sides in some strange defeat. Her torn uniform was bleached of color in the moonlight, given an all cats shade of gray, and even the tears didn't seem to show too much. But they were there, she'd felt each one being made. And the last one, the one on Nate's chest -- she'd felt that too.
She tipped her eyes back up to the sky. There was only one question -- what did you expect? -- and the answer it deserved was a vague mental shrug. She knew. She'd always know this is how it would end someday. Nate knew, too. There wasn't too much to question. No asking, no begging, no pleading or wishes. The cold began creeping into her shoulders, tapping along the back of her neck like the fingers of a stranger.
She realized, as the cold suddenly reached her eyes and tried to make tears start, that she was beginning to shiver. Little, blurry flits from those standing tombstones. Soon, her thighs started it too, and her torso as her whole body tried to fight off the cold. Nate's poor, bloody chest began to shake as if there was life still in it.
Straight ahead of her, the snowy meadow met an embankment of trees, all shadows and dark. Somehow, the moonlight couldn't reach those needles and branches, couldn't reflect off. It wasn't really that far ahead. Just enough. A day ago, an hour ago, the soldier in her would have immediately said, "cover," and gone for it. But some things were already dead, and she looked at the wall of tall Evergreens and thought of Christmas.
It was supposed to be Christmas. It _is_ Christmas. This is my last Christmas tree. Trees.
A part of her thought it would be nice to remember something from last year's Christmas, or maybe her favorite Christmas, but her mind couldn't turn to look back any more than her neck could. She kept on staring straight ahead, at the black mass before her.
The silence had long ago closed in, leaving the drumbeat of her heart in her ears. And her breathing, ragged and jittering. She _wanted_ to think of Christmas, to have the kind of images you should at the end of your life. Think of the good times. Let them slide through your memory, tilt your face with a smile before you die. So you can die happy.
Finally, a Christmas song came to mind. The only one she could think of; she was suddenly sure it was the only Christmas song that existed. She took a deep breath, feeling cold lick the insides of her lungs.
"I wonder...as I wander...out under the sky..."
Nate's head moved as her chest expelled the last note, giving a little bob. His silver hair, made so much more silver by the moonlight, sent bright flashes, like shooting stars, up at her. Her arms stayed tight around his chest, holding in what was left of his blood, which had soaked her gloves and dried on her cold, numb hands. The blood on her neck, her own blood, remained shiny and moving. She couldn't feel her legs anymore.
"How Jesus...the savior...should come for...to die..."
Her eyes closed; half the stars seemed to sink out of the sky and realign inside her eyelids.
"For two lonely people...like you...and like I...
"I wonder...as I wander...out under...the sky..."
She wanted to hold onto Nate a little bit tighter, just enough to trick herself into thinking he might wake up, but her hands, her arms, her shoulders and all the muscles of her body wouldn't move beyond their constant shuddering.
She looked at the trees, that long, widening wall of forever, and pictured Nate pushing it aside, using his massive shoulders to slide through and bend those ancient trunks. Reaching for her. She hadn't opened her eyes.
Smiling as he reached for her.
"How Jesus...the savior...should come for to die,
"For two lonely people...like you and like I."
Reaching for her with his hand, his shoulder still holding back the trees. Smiling as she sang.
The other half of the stars fell into her eyes, chasing away the moon.
"I wonder, as I wander, out under the sky. How Jesus, the savior, did come for to die. For two lonely people, like you and like I." She said it fast, as if she squeezing it in just in time. The cold pushed on her lungs, trying to make her stop, this horrible violation of the air -- this _sound_, when everything should be silent and dead.
His hand closed around her wrist, and gently shook her free of the body she held; she fell onto her back so all of the stars, in duplicate, swung over her eyes.
"I wonder..."
fin
I'm not sure why this story came to me; it's short, dreary and definitely not an uplifting Christmas tale. But somehow I was compelled. I'm mostly sorry for writing it. But Merry Christmas, everyone. Even if I seem more like a Grinch for posting this story five days before Christmas.
Siarade