Chapter Text
The wound existed before he did, as most intangible things do for most undeniably tangible people. It existed before the silver knife, it existed before the-- apparently well-trained assassin--who had been sent out to murder him, and it existed before the large white coin in the sky he was looking at. He needed to pass the slow and rather painful clock of death. What else can you do with time but ask it to forgive you, what else can you do with your life but will it change? Everyone exists for the intangible to claim, and tonight he happened to claim a more-fatal-than-he’d-originally-thought kind of wound in his rib.
Fate had a funny way of unraveling her threads like that.
Himmel hadn’t taken the knife out, and like a rose stained pearl it glittered from the black leather bound in his chest. One, it kept him from bleeding out faster than he already was (which was always preferable in these sorts of situations) and two, he liked to think of it as a souvenir.
The dead bastard crumbled to the ground just a few yards from him died before he did, which, again, was always preferable. One shouldn’t be too picky about that sort of thing.
Goddess, Himmel, you’re dying for the first time in your life and these are your final thoughts? You should’ve become a sage. Maybe then you wouldn’t have found yourself in this position.
The elven man knew exactly where he’d gone wrong, and it was almost shameful to recall it; had he any more dignity at his disposal Himmel knew he would’ve cringed at the memory. A misstep. A rookie mistake; the wrong place at the wrong time.
The grass was nice at least, stained indigo by the night. “Call the stars boldly to your side, Himmel, I’m sure the dark creatures will have their fill of my death. I only regret not pursuing and pining for the adorations of the Goddess, maybe then I could at least live on as a flower.”
A pause, a beat, “Or a tree. I’m not that picky.”
He was a romantic at heart, with a romantic’s penchant for the rose-gilded poeticisms on death and had he the inkling he was half-decent at it, Himmel no doubt would have written a book. Ah, no time for that now though. He was dying.
A bitter laugh precedes the keeling lurch of his body, a litany of coughs shaking his breathing like an ominous procession of drums. It was as if someone was wringing the man's heart dry, and truth be told he didn’t care for it much. Himmel had always imagined himself living centuries into the future, watching kingdoms rise and fall. It seemed fate had other plans for him: a most unsatisfying death for an elf.
“Fucking hell.” Less romantic.
He'd journeyed this far into the dark woods to seek an ancient ruin once left behind by his people. A magical sword, said to be the vanquisher of darkness and the bringer of a star's late wish; frankly he didn't trust humans much with that sort of power. Newborn races had the meagerness of a lamb but the gluttony of a wolf, and he couldn't imagine anything good coming from a human getting their hands on such a coveted item.
Scarlet ribbons blossomed from the corners of his lips and pooled between his fingers, thick tendrils of blue hair whispered against his cheek; Himmel's vision was beginning to blur, and he was wise enough to know when death sought him. He had danced with death before, but never was met with the opportunity for their tango to reach its climax. It seemed tonight he would have such a chance.
"Oh my."
A soft voice twinkled through the air like a bell, and the last thing Himmel could remember before drifting away was the brush of cool fingers against his cheek and a smudge of silver in his periphery.