It is my sorry duty to tell you that when the boy – the man – with moon-saucer eyes meets the thief, it is by his own hand. But when they do, there is a struggle. How else could he die but in how he lived – a struggle? There is a conversation. A revelation.
For the first and last time, the thief delays his task by a few moments, and converses with the one that does not speak without words, but with thoughts. They spin out of shadows and paint the air between them in sooty ash, telling – telling stories, telling explanations, telling impossible things. There is no miracle. The man with moon-saucer eyes does die. But just maybe, something important comes out of this. Just maybe, although one is fated to die, two are saved from unspeakable destinies – the destinies born from all-consuming guilt. Maybe it is not a miracle, but at the same time, it also is.
Finally, I must make a confusing point, and then explain it. The two Moon-Saucer saved were his death and his blood. For the thief is Death’s; the master is Death himself. And the blood?
From the day Moon-Saucer died, the thief no longer felt guilt.
From the day Moon-Saucer – my brother – died, neither did I.