who we are and all that we're trying to be
There was half a second where he thought he had it; the landshark would be decimated, the unicorn safe, and he could move on with his life, with his brooding, with his foreboding, ominous essence. Steel hit and sliced; but then more and more came upon, teeth sinking into flesh, into skin already lacerated and torn, muscles suddenly pulled away from marrow and bone – his lungs choked into a deafening roar, a guttural groan, an audible twist of pain and anguish, nothing more to do but loosen a primordial howl. Exhausted and drained, he presumed that was the end again, his finale, his curtain call, not by the poison seeping into his veins, not by the fire scorched over his frame, not by the insects’ and their gnawing fangs, but from some random circumstances. All he’d wanted to do was run back to the Spire. All he’d wanted to do was help.
And now all he was doing was falling apart, piece by piece.
He could see Kiada coming, but it hardly mattered – no matter her protective efforts, he’d already kindled and incensed his own mortality. His breath rasped down the burning wares of his throat and could do more, not in the blinding terror, not in the blistering agony. Even as the landshark perished, still entangled along his arm, it didn’t matter. He’d likely be joining it sooner rather than later, when his blood pumped dry, or when gangrene set in, settled over his roots and ate him whole.
He didn’t cry for help. He didn’t do anything but bow his head and wonder when he’d succumb.
The Reaper didn’t expect the unicorn in front of him, the narrowed eyes, the sudden command echoing through his skull. He raised his head as best he could, staring straight into its gaze, softening into its demand because there was naught else he could do but wait for a scythe to cut into his own life. Her horn lingered near his decrepit arm, with its bones sticking out, with its ichor draining, with its ruined, decrepit eaves and arches. Perhaps he’d never swing a sword again. Perhaps he’d never hold a shield properly. Perhaps he’d sink into the stones and the earth, never awaken, poor Kiada left to tell everyone he’d perished for being a colossal, ineffectual, useless, vile coil of ash and dust. Useless, his tempestuous mind echoed. For all his strength, he’d truly become nothing.
Then the unicorn was doing something, and he watched, eyes widening, as Stygian auras and sable endeavors bled into the scene, as his flesh was knitted back together, whole, renewed, as if it’d never been touched, and his frame, his figure, surged back into vitality, as if he’d never been marred, ruined, or touched by the prowess of fire. It’d been like Isla’s light and fervor in the cave, and he was unworthy, undeserving, of the unicorn’s efforts. “Thank you,” he whispered, standing there, stupefied and bewildered, hand instinctively reaching for its ears, then refraining – uncertain what to do, his voice thick with reverence and loss and uncertainty.
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
