The last thing you gave me was a torch - your torch. I hated what it meant and every time it saved my life I remembered how you'd given up by giving your light away and walked out into the empty town square to be swallowed by everything that feared the sun.
Baines, haints, caoineadh and worse all wait right where the light doesn't go which is usually exactly where you need to pass through. They laugh in the voices of everyone they've killed and it takes everything you've got to not break down and remember them all.
One of them sounded like you. It was a few days ago but when it called me a ghrá, I knew they'd got to you. I only wish I knew when, not that I wanted you to die as soon as you left but I just don't want to think that you lived long enough to suffer and die all alone.
I should hate you for leaving me, by all means I should despise you for being a hero when my own torch broke and saving me instead of saving yourself but I can't do it. I never could stay angry at you back then and I still can't now, not even when the walls drip with blood and your voice calls to me from the mouths of the monsters outside.
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