Time of Dying

         This doesn’t hurt.  She will tell herself until she believes it, or until she goes insane.  Or until she dies.  It really doesn’t matter at this point.  She feels disconnected as she lies on the cold stone floor, a pool of red soaking the slashed cloth around the gaping wound in her back.  Several minutes have passed since the short sword penetrated her flesh, though to Kita’s mind it has been only seconds.  It’s hard for her to tell if time has simply decelerated, or if it has stopped altogether.  It could be both.
         She knows that her injuries will prove fatal unless she gets treatment, and she doesn’t care.  Being a healer, she knows her body better than her own name, and can catalogue her trouble spots with a high degree of accuracy.  Her left lung was lacerated by the blade, and is already collapsing.  Massive internal bleeding, possibly caused by a tear in an arterial wall somewhere along the aorta.  The heart may also be damaged, since the rhythm is becoming increasingly slow and erratic.  Judging by the fact that she cannot move her legs, the spinal cord has also taken a hit.  If a patient had come to her for healing, the best she could have done was repair the injury to the lung, and possibly seal the arterial wall.  Without treatment, it was a toss-up: would she die of blood loss or suffocation?
         Even though no time has passed, the event is already becoming foggy.  She recalls passing him in the echoing stone hallway as light filtered in through the stained-glass windows of the citadel.  He wore his usual floor-length silver-white cloak, though today he did not have his hood up.  Their only daughter awaited her in the nursery; little Sheba, only seven months old.  There had been no warning, just a sharp pain as the thin sword is slipped upward under her ribs.  He grabs her shoulder to prevent movement, then twists the blade inside her.  She can feel the flesh tearing, coming apart both inside and out.  She cannot help the shocked, strained gasp that escapes her lips.  Then, just as suddenly as it entered her body, the sword is ripped from her.  He releases his grip and she falls forward, the floor rushing up to meet her as the merciful blackness fails to come for her immediately.
         Her mind screams in denial.  It cannot be him, she tells herself.  And yet, it must be him.  He was the only one in the hallway, and she would have heard someone coming up behind her.  She can feel this death-dealer kneeling down beside her, senses a hand hovering just above her head.  Grabbing a handful of her long, black hair near the scalp, he yanks her head up, twisting her to face him.  She does not want the truth of her attacker’s identity, but she cannot look away.
         Cold.  His eyes--glacial in their intensity.  There is no feeling in him for this brutal act, no remorse in his bearing.  How could no one have seen this lack of feeling before now?  She tries to speak, but no words come.  Her vision begins to blur, and there is a slight dampness on her cheek and around her eyes.  She can do nothing to erase these signs of pain and weakness.  One word surfaces in her mind, projecting out to him: why?
         He leans closer, until his mouth is nearly resting on her ear.  His voice is almost robotic as he speaks the words, the answer she did not wish to hear.  Because you are nothing to me, that voice said.  You’re in the way of my destiny, the power I am meant to wield.  You’ve already served your purpose, and couldn‘t even do that properly.  But no matter; our child may not be a boy, but she can still serve as the heir I will never need. 
         He releases his grip on her hair, allowing her to fall to the floor with a soft thump.  He lifts a flap of her royal blue gown and wipes the sword upon it, leaving no sign of his treachery but her paralyzed body.  Rising, he gazes down upon her for a moment, his eyes still free of emotion.  As he turns away, he whispers something upon the telepathic frequencies, a last message to a living corpse: Goodbye, Kita.
         Even though she cannot see it, she feels the stain of red on the stones beneath her growing ever wider, a liquid puddle of her life.  There is no reason for her to fight the darkness.  Her soul is fragmenting as life slips and her body grows cold, yet it is all happening to someone other than her.  She can hear screams from other parts of the citadel, hears the sounds of battle ringing through the halls and feels the empathic waves of pain, fear and anger, they are no part of her.  No one will seek her out--no one will even notice that she is missing amidst the turmoil.  No, she is drifting, letting the shadows take her away from this cursed body, away from the pain she should not feel.  With each labored breath she fades, willing herself to die.  Her last thoughts are for the daughter she will never see grow up, longing to hold her one more time.  Will Barak take care of her?  It sounded like he would, at least, not kill her.  May that be true.
         Almost gone.  Her heart has slowed, and her breathing is imperceptible.  At the instant she leaves the shell, she reaches for her daughter’s mind, knowing that she will not hear.  Sheba, she thinks, and sings straight from her soul.  A song of memory, of longing and sadness.  And of love that reaches beyond the abyss.  It translates only roughly into English: I will not die, I’ll wait here for you.  I feel alive when you’re beside me.  I will not die, I’ll wait here for you.  In my time of dying…