Blood

The blood was bubbling from the ragged puncture in her chest in crimson waves, soaking into the hungry ground. He pressed his palm against the wound, but it did little to stem the flow.

Her fingers clutched convulsively at his sleeve, biting into his skin with a strength that bordered on desperation. ‘I don’t want to die,’ she gasped, the air rattling in her throat as she fought for breath.

He tried to speak, to reassure her that he would never let her go, that death would have to cut him down before he let it take her. But, he knew it was all a lie and the words caught in his throat.

‘Please don’t let me die,’ she whispered again, her eyes losing their focus as the colour drained from her face. She was choking on her own blood now. It trickled out of the corner of her mouth, obscenely bright against the pallor of her flesh.

This wasn’t right, none of it. He was the one who should have fallen with a curse on his lips and a sword in his side. Not her. She should have slipped away a half a hundred years from now, surrounded by the blessings of her children’s children, not bleeding out into the dirt.

Her fingers tightened and her eyes cleared for a moment, locking onto his with a terror which clutched at his heart. ‘You promised,’ were her last words, ghosting from her lips as the final breath tore from her body and her fingers slipped from his arm.

Her blood was already drying on his hands, rusty flakes dusting off as he twisted his fingers through her hair, her hand still warm where it had fallen against his thigh.

In the weeks that followed, he could still feel the ghost of her touch pressing on his arm.