I wake with a start.
midnight has spilled across the sky,
and I should be dead.
the stars shimmer, mocking.
a warm breeze crawls around us,
us… yes, we were many —
none stir beside me,
though our blood has mingled and dried.
memories wander into mind:
Aisen, my love.
I see her, though I left her.
why are you weeping?
it tastes of iron, I spit.
I’m on my back, the spit returns to me.
I draw breath, finding it scarce.
what has become of me?
either I cannot bear to look, or I cannot move.
I hear the distant fighting.
I recall the charge, the endless dwarves.
spears, axes, shields. there were too many.
we tried to hold the line,
that’s all I remember.
I look down at myself: mostly intact.
a stale wound in my side…
and then I feel it.
just as I had when he impaled me,
like glowing embers within.
I am dying and it is cold.
terribly cold, and the shivering will break me.
another cursed breath comes.
I hear voices drawing nearer,
but I can’t make out the words.
Aisen —
come to me now, at the end.
there she is, kneeling beside me.
she sees my state, and I am sorry.
her hands touch my face.
“this is not the end,” she says.
oh, but it should be. all is well, I think.
a heat returns, enveloping me.
vision betrays me, light erupts.
“you look different,” I manage to say.
breath comes easier now.
the woman above me is not mine.
she gifts me a gentle smile anyway.
“do not move,” she tells me.
sorrow takes me, heaven slips away.
I hear a man crying, his tears slick my face.
the darkness calls me again,
but I cannot reach her.
panic shares my prison,
I cannot stop shaking.
damn it all,
why must I persist?
I am done. leave me.
“oh no you don’t,” she whispers.
her hands are cold, but fires consume me.
again breath invades my lungs.
a long moment passes,
anger becomes only one of many aches.
my weeping subsides.
“is it over?” I ask the cleric.
“for now,” she tells me with grief.
“you are one of the few to survive.”
“I should like to have died.”
she strokes my cheek and smirks.
“better luck tomorrow, then.”
my dreams are filled with Aisen,
my body is broken and worn.
purgatory continues.
sleep take me, but don’t let go.
Lady Tila of Amnus,
Anastomancer, second class,
of the Order of the Second Dawn.
to mend the shattered form
she would know his pain,
and pray for the stranger in her arms.
he is slipping, but her faith remains.
“Dearest Father,” she whispers,
“Dragon of Law and Light,
“lend us thy compassion, witness our plight.”
in an instant, her call is answered,
and she sees what once was:
through the eyes of the dying —
battle, disorder, sickening hatred.
high above, the Liftmagi rains fire.
scattering dwarves, the sounding of horns,
a cheer of triumph interrupted
and she feels the cruel axe’s head.
it crumbles bone, tears the lungs.
the enemy retreats, but so too does vision.
the knees buckle and blood fills the mouth.
back in present, she gags.
it never gets easier, but now it is done.
she watches him, sleeping, weeping.
she strokes his cheek again.
for a while, she would sit with him
— mourning his rest denied.
image credit: Egyptian Fantasy (1760) Hubert Robert, Canadian Officer Killed (1918) by Alfred Bastien
Lovely