This was no different from simulations. Another likeness of wine and dreams. Lark was gone. The Talian was dead. The flesh and body was long gone.
The memories remained like ghost of him.
This is cruelty, Verre thought.
But Verre was only human.
Fresh flowers, still bleeding sap through their severed stems.
Pure wax, harvested from washed honeycombs, melted and free-flowing.
The mould, in the shape of him. The other mould, in the shape of Verre himself. Inside the moulds, the wax wrapped around the fresh blooms.
In Verre’s dreams, the wax figures moved. Talked. Inquired about love and death. They fell in love, just as he once did. Their wax bodies threated to become undone by their acts of love.
In fear, Verre took the wax figure of himself, held it in his hands. The wax Verre looked at Lark with such sorrow in his eyes, that Verre was sure that his own gaze was the same.
He twisted the wax figure in his hands.
Flower petals fell, heavy clumps inside softened wax. The Verre of wax, in many pieces, became still on the desk.
The Lark of wax turned his gaze to the Verre of flesh.
“You are the same as him, aren’t you?” he said in the voice oh-so-familiar to Verre’s ears. “The same being. In different shadows. I shall love you the same.”
“You can’t.” Verre mumbled. “You can’t, this isn’t allowed. None of this is allowed.”
Lark coughed. Red petals in his mouth, chewed and swallowed back into his body. Peony, spider lily and chrysanthemum. See-through inside his wax body. A full flower visible in his abdomen like a glazed wound.
He was no longer the was figure that fit in Verre’s hands. He was the same as the Lark of flesh, who bravely loved, knowing the ending to their story.
“I’m sorry,” Verre said, “you are not my Lark.”
“Then,” Lark said, “let me die from this. I regret nothing. Certainly not loving you.”
Flower petals, heavy with frost of wax, fell from the wax Lark’s mouth. He coughed violently. Wax skin tore on the face and in the throat, on the chest and in the shoulders.
The wax was warm in Verre’s arms.