I Met You After Death

He was a night sky and she was the moon, and together they fit perfectly.

He didn’t have a shape, because he had left his body long ago. She, however, had a preference to own a form. She remembered, like an elderly woman’s old, treasured memory, that she used to love the moonrise. So she curled over, hardening her edges until they formed a sphere.

Each crater and imperfection reflected her scars from the war, when they were both body-bound. She was a moon, and she would catch the end of each sunset and rise at the dawn and dusk of every day.

He, however, chose to remain boundless. He wrapped her in safety and comfort, empty space that was not really empty at all.

Both could remember the way that power felt, the way some had thirsted for it. They remembered the way anger and rage and wrath felt, and sometimes it had felt good, because heated blood made the killing easier. And when their blood turned into ice, that made things easier, too.

They also remembered that they had power of their own, dark, brilliant power, but they used it for good, or for what they thought was good. But history is written by victors, not victims, so maybe they were wrong.

Their story was something like this.

Two soldiers in the same kingdom. Two soldiers in the same unit. They did not like each other so much at first, because he was an angry young man and she was a thoughtful young woman. They did not agree on anything, be it tactics or strategy.

But then they learned to compromise. And he learned to think. And she learned not to.

It was a delicate balance, and though they were not perfect, they could try.

They remembered these things, but it was faint, distant.

If someone were to remind them, they would be told that though their kingdom won the war, the casualties did not make it worth it. They would tell them that the war could have been won without them, but their dark power, the sorcery in their blood, made it easier.

If another person were to remind them, they might say, though your kingdom won the war, there are undercurrents of anger. Rebels. That this war may come back to haunt the kingdom, or it could be forgotten.

But it didn’t matter anymore.

They used to converse, too, late at night. Consider different views and theories. They thought about life after death, as well. He was convinced there was one. She thought there was not, and was a staunch unbeliever in the sort.

The average conversation would go something like this.

“What is evil?”

He looked up. In this particular instance, she had not been paying attention. “What do you mean?”

“Is it the maker of the sword, knowingly creating something to kill?”

He smiled. He had grown comfortable with her constant theorizing. 

“Or is it the hand that uses it? Perhaps, then, it is the soldier that kills.” 

They both frowned, not quite liking that one, so he turned his head and said, “But what of the king that commanded it?”

And it went on like that, until they decided that evil was the dark impulse inside everyone, and it was no single force, but collective. 

“I don’t think you have a lot of evil,” she said to him after.

He was troubled. “I have more impulse than most. And much of it is… disagreeable.”

Then they shared a secret smile as they recalled an instance where his temper had gotten him in trouble.

“Still, you also have the impulse to do the right thing. It balances out.”

“Does it? Would you rather there be only a little evil, and only a little good, or lots of both?”

She considered it. “I think the latter might end up destroying the world. But I don’t think I could only live with a little.”

“Why not?”

“Because… if you, for example, were so agreeable, I would not be in love with you. I would like you, but that would be all. There is no sky without sea, no height without depth.”

“No light without darkness.” He smiled at her then, because he had understood her analogy and they often went over his head.

“No love without hate.” And then she took his hand, because there was love between them, and that love was great and beautiful.

Now, their love was all they remembered. A simple love, a subtle pulse of contentment and peace below the skin. And a swell of something that felt a little like giddiness, but really, it was love.

And though they had known each other before, when they had skin and teeth and limits to their sight and touch, they met again in death. Their love story began again, simpler, sweeter.

She met him in a wheat field.

They still had human forms, because they hadn’t realized they did not belong in bodies anymore. They both had red string wrapped around their hands, and they had followed the string a long time to find one another. It might have taken an hour, or many years, but time wasn’t real, so it might have been no time at all..

In the beginning, they talked;

He said: “Did we win?”

She said: “We died. Does that mean we lost?”

“Then we are all losers.”

“But that could make us all winners, too.”

“Must it be a competition? I think I have had enough of…” that for a lifetime.

“We won’t do it again…” This life… death?

Existence.

This existence will be easier. We don’t need to…

…Doesn't matter here…

This is-

-Enough

…

…

First, their words faded. Then it was their thoughts. Soon, it will be their memories, until all they have left is love and peace. And love is different than desire; love does not fade, because it is a subtle art that has nothing to do with fire and passion, but everything to do with the way one can sit at a dinner table and hold their lover’s, or maybe their father’s, or sister’s hand. How they can look at each other and feel a calm, quiet joy. Have it spread through them.

Or maybe they don’t hold hands; it might be the way they cook for you, or wait for you, or laugh with you.

It was enough.