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|Caves of Narshe Forums > Site Submissions > Going to Hell in an Angel's Arms, a Tactics fic|
|Posted by: chevleclair 2nd April 2019 02:26|
| I sometimes just pound out some story or another spontaneously. Often times, it's something like this. As usual, I hope you like it. Also, feel free to comment on it.
This is simply written for fun, not intended for profit- badly or not so badly,
It didn’t hurt anymore. At least not his body. His skull had been mostly crushed by his father’s foot, and he had passed out long before his father had finished. All he felt was the matted blood everywhere on his person, and the vague slapping of his eye against his cheekbones. He moved his jaw, feeling that it could work. He could no longer see, and his hearing was hampered by the ringing and whooshing all about him. His nose didn’t work- he had to breathe from his mouth. He lifted his hand to feel the wall behind him, and forced himself to a sitting position. Stars and lights pinwheeled in his darkness, teasing his mind into reaching for the light of the real world. Bursts of pain accompanied those lights. He groaned weakly.
“Help me. Please.”
He heard nothing.
“Please, help me!”
With a grunt, he threw all of his effort into rolling to the side. He had to find help. It wasn’t coming to him. His right arm wouldn’t move, and a savage pain dug into him. He grunted again.
He didn’t want to die. That’s what Izlude Tengille thought as he leaned against the castle wall.
The Heretic had been telling the truth. His father and some of the heads of the Church had lied to him. Had betrayed him.
He couldn’t weep, his body wouldn’t let him. He had injured so many, in the name of this lie. He had killed.
How many of those who died at the end of his sword, or at his word, were innocent? What of the girl he captured? The Heretic’s sister? She was most certainly innocent- and so young. His father- who would once had never dreamed of hurting one so innocent- would do something that, even in his state, could scarcely imagine.
He heard the door to the great hall open, only a few feet from where he lay. With all of his breath, he called out, hoping.
He heard an audible gasp. Like that of a young woman. It was the Heretic’s Sister!
He felt her warm presence next to him and heard her breathing. She felt the warmth of her hand as it touched her face. He also felt the odd sensation of his useless eye going back into its shattered socket.
Wonderful girl. Showing compassion to him, even though he hadn’t done the dame for her....
Stupid girl! In the massacre here, she was given a chance to flee! Why is she wasting time with him! She had to flee! Better yet, take that cursed stone with her, and give it to the Heretic!
“My sword,” he groaned. “Give me my sword.”
He felt its comforting metal against his hands. His ice cold hands.
“In my pocket, is a stone. Take it.” He muttered, struggling to hold onto the life slipping from him.
“Tell my sister, Meliadul, I love her. That our father still loves, her, somewhere.”
He felt her soft, warm hands on his face, and a tear fall onto his dying hands. He felt his body going numb the rest of the way, and his ability to think and talk retreating from him. The grip of death was tightening around him with strange speed.
“My soul is forfeit. It will belong to the wastes of Hell for doing what I did...”
“Be still,” She whispered. “You’re not lost yet.”
“At least I could find you once more,” he continued, ignoring her words. “To tell you I’m sorry. And to say thank you. My last moments, when my body is suffering beyond pain, have been spent with an angel. Now go. Please go. Before any more suffering falls upon you.”
She sat there a minute longer, and watched Izlude Tengille’s body shudder one last time and go limp.