Grief. Bereavement. Guilt. The shock of loss, of mutilation. The memory of torture and terror. And above all, guilt, terrible guilt even at being alive, alive when those he had loved were dead….
For a moment Lew fought to shut away Regis’ awareness, to block him out, too. Then he drew a long, shaking breath, raised his uninjured arm and pressed Regis close.
… you remember now. I know, I know, you love me, and you have never betrayed that love. …
“Goodbye, bredu,” he said, in a sharp aching voice which somehow hurt Regis far less than the calm controlled formality, and kissed Regis on the cheek. “If the Gods will, we shall meet again. And if not, may they be with you always.” He let Regis go, and Regis knew he could not heal him, nor help him much, not now. No one could. But perhaps, Regis thought, perhaps, he had kept a crack open, just enough to let Lew remember that beside grief and guilt and loss and pain, there was love in the world, too.
And then, out of his own forfeited dreams and hope, out of the renunciation he had made, still raw in his mind, he offered the only comfort he could, laying it like a gift before his friend:
“But you have another world, Lew. And you are free to see the stars.”
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