- Pronouns
- He/Him
GrapeFlavDragons
Evil
The night was a time to recollect.
He was not sure when the sword went through him, nor who it had belonged. The black veil of the sky cracked starlight, but the moon did not have the strength to do the same. The tunic smelled of ash and iron, still. He felt frail, even when laying still.
The gash up his shoulder sent another spring of pain, and he could not enjoy the dusk for long, he knew. The wound had healed, but the pain never left long. He ran a hand along it, shabby linen keeping a barrier as finger trailed from shoulder to breast.
He began to wonder if he'd died yet.
He grabbed a mint leaf from a pocket, and slowly started to chew, letting his eyes shut. He heard screams again. The smell of burning, tasting the iron of blood in his mouth. He never felt the sword, though. Only the fall, as he plunged into the cold mud. It caked around him, and slowly dragged him into the earth, no matter how he struggled, who he screamed for. The earth filled his nose and mouth, and restrained his arms as he descended further. Another hand grabbed his, and yanked so hard he felt every bone in it begin to break, fragments.
He opened his eyes again, wheezing. There was no one there. Not tonight, either. Not for any since the siege. Still, he was haunted. The stars faded into the dawn.
Westley had died in that battle and risen.
He was not sure when the sword went through him, nor who it had belonged. The black veil of the sky cracked starlight, but the moon did not have the strength to do the same. The tunic smelled of ash and iron, still. He felt frail, even when laying still.
The gash up his shoulder sent another spring of pain, and he could not enjoy the dusk for long, he knew. The wound had healed, but the pain never left long. He ran a hand along it, shabby linen keeping a barrier as finger trailed from shoulder to breast.
He began to wonder if he'd died yet.
He grabbed a mint leaf from a pocket, and slowly started to chew, letting his eyes shut. He heard screams again. The smell of burning, tasting the iron of blood in his mouth. He never felt the sword, though. Only the fall, as he plunged into the cold mud. It caked around him, and slowly dragged him into the earth, no matter how he struggled, who he screamed for. The earth filled his nose and mouth, and restrained his arms as he descended further. Another hand grabbed his, and yanked so hard he felt every bone in it begin to break, fragments.
He opened his eyes again, wheezing. There was no one there. Not tonight, either. Not for any since the siege. Still, he was haunted. The stars faded into the dawn.
Westley had died in that battle and risen.
