Take My Hand

         “Take my hand.”

         Her voice was cool, sweet water upon his fever, and it cast his fugue from him. They stood together, she and he, alone except for each other at the end of the world.  The heat from the fire baked the sweat from their faces as ash stung their eyes and darkened their skin. Her hair was disheveled and beautiful, and the wind tossed it about her face with turbulent fury. The roar of the impending finish vibrated his teeth.

         “It’s over,” he yelled through the cacophony.

         She nodded and smiled something sad.

         “It’s over for now, my love, my sweet. But what’s after the over is worth waiting for. We’ve waited long enough, haven’t we?”

         He wiped tears from his cheeks and noticed she didn’t have to yell.

         “Okay,” he said. “That sounds pretty good.”

         She smiled an angel’s smile and wiggled her soot-darkened fingers.

         “Take my hand,” she said again, and so he did. Hand met hand and they said no more, just shivered and waited for the end to end.