There is no reason for him to venture to the river.
Except that sometimes he still fantasizes about casting himself into the water, surrendering to the current, letting it carry him away to someplace else.
He knows better than to go on believing it capable of drowning him.
Death cannot touch that which is already dead, he knows.
He moves quickly. Not from any real sense of urgency, but because the muscles do not tire. Because the chest does not heave with want for air. There is nothing to slow him down and this is the most natural pace he can find.
He happens upon her quite by accident. And perhaps the heart would have leapt at the idea of company some years ago, but he feels absolutely nothing now, as he ventures closer and drags those dark eyes along the surface of her scarred flesh. By the look of her, she has lived just as long as he has. Which feels like forever most days.
He would have drawn in a shuddering breath some years ago, before death came for him – or he came for it, it’s hard to tell anymore – but there is absolutely no need for it now. So, he merely rolls to a stop and studies her from a few feet away. Remembering in some abstract way what that first swallow of water had felt like after so much thirst.
“It doesn’t appear as if life has been kind to you,” he says, the voice thin without breath to buoy it. And there is no inflection, because the heart in his chest is nothing but a solid block of ice and it is so much better to feel nothing at all.
@[City] i'm so sorry for the delay!