Out, Out

by Vicky

They sit side by side, watching the candle slowly melt away. She shivers slightly but the cold does not bother her so much. It is peaceful here and here she can sit and talk to him about things past. They talk about all the old ones; about Bill and Kit and even about Belor. About better times; when all of them were better people. She tells him how she misses them and he talks of how he wished he could have saved them. All the while the stars shine brightly and beautifully above. Not the real stars, mind you, but good enough for their purpose. Somewhere deep inside a part of her yearns for this night not to end. It hopes that the candle might burn just a little longer, for there is so much more she wants to tell him. She knows when it reaches the bottom of the wick and the light finally flickers out they will have to return to the fight. Perhaps they will not survive till tomorrow evening and even if they do she knows he does not plan on returning to the city with them. She wants to take the time whilst it lasts to tell him how much she will miss him. She searches deep inside herself to muster the confidence to tell him to his face how much she loves him but even as she searches to find the right words the light begins to fade. All too soon they are back where they were before, standing in front of the burning gate. They must fight on. For tonight, once again, there just isn’t enough time to say everything she wants to say; there never is.

… She lies on the ground bleeding slowly out. Her vision is hazy but even in her delirium she can see her companions strewn out across the Ashen Plane. This is really it, she thinks to herself, we are going to die and he is going to win. There is no pain as her life slowly seeps out; she suspects the wound has gone too deep to hurt anymore. Somewhere above her she sees a bird gliding, its beautiful and brightly coloured wings so very out of place here in the realm of ash and death. She wonders if this is merely a madness brought on by death. A woman bends over her and breathes life back into her broken body. As electricity cracks throughout her, her torn sinew and broken bones knit themselves back together. She has just enough time to crawl over to where Carlos lies before she is cut down once more. She clutches his broken form to her breast, desperately trying to put her shield between him and the unending rain of blows that fall down upon them. She is bleeding from every limb but the pain is nothing compared to the terror she feels for him. She reaches out to grab his arm and then cries out in horror, as her hand finds nothing but a bloody mass and tattered clothes. At last she sees Adi out of the corner of her eye finish off the necromancer. At that same moment a Burning Gate opens and she sees a figure confront Bairoth. She feels sick to the stomach as she pieces together what has happened. That woman, the one that saved her, she suddenly realises who that was. She can only scream his name helplessly as she drags him away. She can’t save him. She can’t save either of them. There just isn’t enough time to try and help him; there never is. … At night the High Priestess sits silently in the chamber of the confession room. She pours herself over the pages of her book but the words do not interest her. She will keep a candle lit, not for her sake but for any lonely soul who would come into the temple late at night to seek solace. From time to time she forgets to relight it, for she needs not its light. When she does so a cool breeze will blow through the shutters. Not a cold harsh breeze but that sort of eerie, unnerving wind that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. It caresses her shoulders like the soft touch of fingertips and on it she can almost her the soft whisper of a voice she knows all to well. “I always loved you,” it says. She drops her book, startled by the words and replies, “wait, Bairoth!” There are so many things she wants to tell him. She wants to thank him for saving her and for salvaging the mission. She wants to tell him how much she misses him. But the breeze dies down and light fills the chamber. “Pardon my intrusion, your Grace. I saw the candle had gone out,” the young novice says as he bows his head slightly in a show of respect. “Thank you,” she replies. Just another minute, she thinks to herself, I could have had time to talk to him. There just wasn’t enough time; there never is.

misc/fiction/outout.txt · Last modified: 2011/04/05 19:25 by osj01
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