You wish you could say that your last few moments with Verity passed in a muddied blur of horror and panic; that the seconds fell too quickly away to the foggy depths of memory, to be revisited only in darkest dreams and plaintive prayers. Oh my goddess, how you wish. But, as is so often the nature of these things, they do not. Every frame is branded into your mind, each whimper and cry and convulsion etched into every inch of your eyes like unforgiving scars.
But you know now that, for better or for worse, nothing lasts forever. The rich, warm smell of cooking leaves your clothes after a few days, taking the last of the bloodstains with it. The stench of death begins to disperse a week or so later, alongside the feel of Verity’s praying hands within your own. The exact layout of the Bastion’s sleeping quarters. The crack of a gunshot. The faces of your companions. The ringing in your ears. And, in time, even the deepest of scars can begin to heal over.
In time too, of course, you will earn ever more, though the form they take may continue to change. By the time you and I reach the Sanctuary, stumbling largely directionless through desert and mountain alike for an indeterminate passage of time, you are almost unrecognisable; clothes in various states of disrepair, hair grown long and wild, and exposed skin turned tanned and dirtied.
There is something almost religious about such a pilgrimage, and the transformation it may bring. Suffering feels holy if you do it just right, if you try just a little bit harder, and maybe prayers only matter if your knees are bruised from their pressing into the floorboards. No one knows that more than…
You find your hand reaching into your pocket, at times like these, fingers curling around the empty glass vial within. The rough, reddened skin around the palm, burnt away by spilling poison, stings with every touch. You allow yourself to wonder, for a moment, if the matching mark decorating Verity’s face stings in much the same way. Would that be better, that she lives still, in whatever form she may be, escaped and wandering alone, or that your botched attempt on her life had succeeded? You try not to think about it. You still check every corpse that passes through your infirmary for that telltale scar.
You wish you could say your last few moments passed in a sated peace, or in a gentle hope for what may follow. But, as is so often the nature of these things, they do not. You are scared. And you are haunted.
And, above all, you are sorry.