That she did not love him in return, but loved another, did not seem
to matter now. Nothing mattered except that he must see her, and speak
to her, and tell her what she meant to him. Then he would be content,
and gladly lay down his life.
With tears still wounding him, he searched the niche in the adjacent
wall, until he found the tinderbox that he had left there. Against all
odds its contents were intact. The rotting straw beneath it was dry,
as was the piled driftwood he had gathered and stored so long ago.
Clearing a level space in the sand, he built a waiting bed of straw
and thin slivers, then struck flint to steel, shooting tiny sparks
into the heart of it. Again and again, until with the aid of his
living breath a single tongue appeared, and began to spread. Then with
the knowledge acquired of a lifetime, he fed the fire slowly, nurtured
it, until at last it grew and swelled into a living, warming blaze.
He hung his head and wept outright. The lingering flame of his life
and his love still remained. He groaned, and in a torment of joy and
suffering, said her name.
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