Perhaps he should run. Fast and far, like how innocent men caught in unfortunate accidents would. He had come to sort the new shipments, the lantern in use was faulty and that was what set fire to the cellar; the tale was on his tongue, as easy and natural as second nature, yet he still felt a burning tingle against his skin, not unlike the heat of crackling fire around them. Strange: it wouldn’t have been the first time he needed to come up with some elaborate ruse, after all.

His footsteps echoed against the stone floor alongside the sound of rapidly spreading fire, almost desperate to make up for a heartbeat that wasn’t there. He stopped in front of where she lay, knees buckling underneath their own weight as if only just now registering the enormity of what he had done. His long fingers shook as they skimmed along the cracks in the ground where blood had 

Carefully, he cupped her head, the other hand slowly slipping underneath her knees and shifting them both slightly so that she settled in his lap, her head slumping limply against his shoulder. She had not yet grown cold, nor could he think she would have the chance to, anymore, not with the sweltering heat surrounding them on all sides – somehow, that was a comfort: The cold never suited her. Their position was surprisingly intimate, though it served no other purpose but to bring a sardonic smile to his lips; tender he was to her now, as if she would accept it after the offense he had caused her, as if something so paltry could reach her where she had gone. Blood was starting to ooze into his outer coat, soaking the expensive material, but he was only ever gazing into the hollow citrine of her eyes, frozen wide in shock and fear. 

He opened his mouth to say something before the flames ate up any and every word, his jaw clenching shut with a trembling sigh. Instead the palm of his hand found her cheek, a thumb gently tracing the outline of her cheekbone. His eyelids fluttered uselessly, the way humans did, if they were to cry. 

The way he would have. Though with the way the haze of smoke stung at his eyes and nose, he’d nearly deluded himself into pretending he could, too. 

So this was what he found, at the end of countless decades of hope and searching.

He turned his face to press a lingering kiss to her forehead beside the wound he had inflicted with his own hands, feeling the coppery salt of blood on his lips; the taste seeped into every fiber of his being like a poison. His stiff fingers still found their strength as they clenched into her flesh, curling defensively over his most prized treasure. 

Bright fire licked at his back. The pain was white-hot, nearly blinding his vision. He gritted his teeth to trap the wounded hiss deep inside his throat, fighting to keep his body still despite every nerve rebelling in favor of self-preservation. The foolish puppet’s body still wanted to live on, even if his mind did not.

“Je suis navré.” He murmured quietly against her skin, the words barely audible over the roaring blaze. “I’ll make things right next time.”