Áed opened his arms, and Ronan fell into them and buried his face in Áed’s shoulder. Áed held him close, and the child trembled desperately. It seemed wrong that there should still be an Áed without a Ninian. But here was Ronan; he needed Áed to stay.
Ronan sniffled. “It’s my fault.”
Áed shook his head. “No. Don’t say that.”
“I should have done something.”
“There’s nothing you could have done, Ronan.” He pulled the boy back to look at him, and found that his tears were mirrored on Ronan’s face. “Do you understand?”
Ronan nodded minutely, but he, like Áed, had nothing to say.
✽ ✽ ✽
Neither soul moved from the flat, and neither stole anything more than brief, painful glances at the body that lay on the floor. The body whose russet hair flared out from its head like a halo and whose thin, strong arms lay motionless and stiffening by its sides. Whose eyes were open just enough to make the living uneasy.
Áed needed to do something about Ninian’s body.
Áed couldn’t stop his hands shaking. The haze of smoke over his vision was anger at Morcant, who had so casually struck the blow that robbed Ninian of life and robbed Áed of Ninian. The heat that sent shudders through his body was anger at himself for failing to see the extent of the damage. Was there truly nothing he could have done? His attempt to help had been useless. Crying was useless. The world had already taken everything he had, and now it had taken Ninian.
He needed to take care of the body. Respectfully, like Ninian deserved.
And here, he found himself hobbled. He fell short, like always.
He slammed his hands into the table, making Ronan jump, and felt pain course up his forearms. He drew back and did it again, and again; he felt bruises form on his left hand, and agony speared his right. With every blow, his scarred bones felt sharper against their stupid, ruined joints, and more tears brimmed in his eyes as he slammed his hands down harder, harder. He began to punctuate each blow with a word and brought them down faster and more forcefully: “I can’t—even—dig—a fucking—grave!”
He stopped and braced his hands on the table with straight arms, trying to let the pain distract him from his grief.
Ronan was staring at him with his mouth hanging open. The boy blinked, closed his mouth, and swallowed hard.
Áed let his eyes flutter closed and drew a deep, steadying breath for the sake of Ronan, who was innocent and afraid. He extended an arm out to the side and felt Ronan tentatively nestle into it. “I’m sorry,” Áed murmured, and Ronan leaned on him, trusting him.
“S’okay.”
“We’ll just…” He took another unsteady breath. “We’ll make a pyre instead.”
Ronan sounded afraid to speak, but his voice piped up anyway. Brave child. “Where will we get the wood?”
“From the building next door,” Áed replied, surprised to find the answer on his lips. “We’ll find a way.”
✽ ✽ ✽
After his outburst, Áed’s hands would scarcely move for him. He cursed them silently as he and Ronan ripped exposed wood like scabs from the abandoned tenement beside their own and dragged them outside. It was good to have something to work at, something to think about other than Ninian’s body lying on the floor of their flat.
So far, Ronan was being uncharacteristically quiet, but Áed knew the boy’s mind was swirling like his own. Áed could scarcely deal with his own thoughts, much less those of an intelligent, vulnerable child who relied on him almost entirely. Gods, too much. It was too much.
The light was ebbing from the sky, snagging on the bottoms of the mournful clouds, by the time they set the final beam into place. “Right,” Áed said quietly, knowing Ronan was listening. “It’s time for Ninian to join us.”
The trek up the sagging stairs seemed longer than usual, and the familiarity of the route grated against the sensation of something forever altered. Ninian’s body lay where they had left it, but Áed still had to stifle surprise at the sight: He’s still here? He never stays in one place so long. It sent a cold fist thumping into his stomach. Ninian’s body looked tranquil, and Áed slowly knelt beside it. Finally, he mustered the strength to brush Ninian’s eyelids down. Ninian’s face was relaxed in death, something it never had been in life. Now, finally, he hadn’t a care in the world. He was beautiful, with his straight nose (how had it survived so many fights intact?), his angular jaw, his high cheekbones, and full lips. He looked like a lord, like he ought to be seated on a throne someplace far away. He didn’t look like he should be cold on the floor of a dirty tenement flat.
Áed had thought he was done with tears. He was wrong.
He hooked his elbows under Ninian’s arms and bore the brunt of the weight as Ronan guided Ninian’s feet. Áed found himself drinking in every last detail of Ninian’s body, even ice-pale in death. This was the last time that he would see his love.
When they reached the pyre, Áed asked Ronan for some water and a cloth. There was one final gift Áed could give. When Ronan returned, Áed mopped the blood from Ninian’s flesh and worked the rag around his stiff fingers to cleanse the dirt and blood from his skin. He gently wiped Ninian’s face and brushed back his hair to remove any trace of his trauma, save for the dark bruise on his chest and the clean laceration below it. Áed worked mindlessly and regarded himself as if in a dream as he did his best to make Ninian look whole.
✽ ✽ ✽
Áed didn’t know how to light the pyre. Ronan had used all the matches the night before, back when Ninian had still been breathing, and Áed couldn’t light the pyre without them. How he’d missed this fact was beyond him; he didn’t think he’d forgotten, but some strange faith must have possessed him to believe that this part would resolve itself. The light faded from the sky while Ronan stood pike-straight and silent by Áed’s side, and together they regarded the unlit pyre, helpless.
The last thing that Áed had wished to do, a respectable farewell, was undone.
He leaned against the pyre and bowed his head in dismal apology. I’m sorry, Ninian, that I could not give you even this. The wood was so dry, so ready. And there was enough fury inside of him that it seemed that the warmth of his fingers would be enough to set it alight.
He struck one of the timbers as a tear tracked down his cheek, frustrated and despairing.
The pyre remained cold.
Áed stepped back dejectedly and put his arm around a shivering Ronan. The boy’s eyes shone with tears as he looked up at Áed.
A thread of smoke coiled over the ground toward their feet. Áed blinked and stepped forward, sure that he was seeing things, but then before his eyes, an ember flared to life at the base of the pyre. The miniature tongue of fire was no bigger than a candle flame, but to his astonishment it grew and licked hungrily at the wood. One tongue became two, became three, until he could feel its warmth on his skin. “What the…”
Ronan’s eyes danced with the firelight, full of astonishment. “How did you do that?”
“I—” Áed stopped himself from saying ‘I didn’t.’ Something in the statement felt wrong, as if he’d be lying. “I don’t know.”