Not even carrion birds broke the solemness of the ravaged caravan. A ragged, bloody cover waved lazily off of a broken spar, shadows shifted, and here and there small fires still burned.
No living thing however, was there to break the silence.
Except for R’elend.
The mid-day sun bakes down, and he feels the first effects of dehydration as he sits, motionless. A slow, pulsing headache, that builds, grinding behind ones eyes. It as if one’s head is being wrung as a sponge, the desert squeezing out every last drop, leaving a dry husk where a living thing once was.
He had urinated earlier, after finishing the graves. A pitiful amount really, coming out as a dark, almost black spurt. It hit the beastman’s dark scales with a hiss, and before a moment had passed, was gone, baked off by the sun. It is the last urine his body would produce.
Other parts of his body were acting as well. Last ditch, desperate attempts at forestalling the inevitable. With every breath he could feel the air drawing the moisture from his throat, water his body could not longer replace. Dryness turned to pain, a pain that traveled down his throat.
He smiled, a morbid thing, and a new pain, as his lips cracked anew. A fitting end for him, he’d given so much to this desert, this sea of sand. Now it seeked to claim what little remained. He didn't bother searching for water, all had been burnt or smashed. The chocobos were long dead as well, targeted first by the beastmen.
He was alone, his garrison malms away still. Not that there was anyone left to send. All who were able had rode with him, towards the smell of fire and blood. Only the sick and wounded were left now, and none could make the journey, or even knew they needed to make it.
No. This was the end.
There was a certain peacefulness at that thought. It was a life of giving, some would think that an unlikely path for a Blade, but it came easy to him. He gave to tribe, then Ul’dah, then his men.
He gave to the traders, the explorers, the desert. He had kept giving, and his life had been slowly eaten away through the years, as his water was being sucked away now.
There was nothing left now. He had given it all.
He laughed, or at least made an attempt. More of a dry hacking wheeze. He laughed at the absurdity of at all, and after a moment, realized it was weeping instead.
How similar they are, weeping and laughing, when your body has no more tears to give. He wondered if there ever was a difference.
“Fuck them.†he says, among his tearless shuddering, “Fuck them all.â€
With his last aching movements, he curls into a ball, wracking with silent sobs as he dies. “Fuck them…â€
He closes his eyes, and he drifts off to the sound of stirrups and footsteps in the distance.
No living thing however, was there to break the silence.
Except for R’elend.
The mid-day sun bakes down, and he feels the first effects of dehydration as he sits, motionless. A slow, pulsing headache, that builds, grinding behind ones eyes. It as if one’s head is being wrung as a sponge, the desert squeezing out every last drop, leaving a dry husk where a living thing once was.
He had urinated earlier, after finishing the graves. A pitiful amount really, coming out as a dark, almost black spurt. It hit the beastman’s dark scales with a hiss, and before a moment had passed, was gone, baked off by the sun. It is the last urine his body would produce.
Other parts of his body were acting as well. Last ditch, desperate attempts at forestalling the inevitable. With every breath he could feel the air drawing the moisture from his throat, water his body could not longer replace. Dryness turned to pain, a pain that traveled down his throat.
He smiled, a morbid thing, and a new pain, as his lips cracked anew. A fitting end for him, he’d given so much to this desert, this sea of sand. Now it seeked to claim what little remained. He didn't bother searching for water, all had been burnt or smashed. The chocobos were long dead as well, targeted first by the beastmen.
He was alone, his garrison malms away still. Not that there was anyone left to send. All who were able had rode with him, towards the smell of fire and blood. Only the sick and wounded were left now, and none could make the journey, or even knew they needed to make it.
No. This was the end.
There was a certain peacefulness at that thought. It was a life of giving, some would think that an unlikely path for a Blade, but it came easy to him. He gave to tribe, then Ul’dah, then his men.
He gave to the traders, the explorers, the desert. He had kept giving, and his life had been slowly eaten away through the years, as his water was being sucked away now.
There was nothing left now. He had given it all.
He laughed, or at least made an attempt. More of a dry hacking wheeze. He laughed at the absurdity of at all, and after a moment, realized it was weeping instead.
How similar they are, weeping and laughing, when your body has no more tears to give. He wondered if there ever was a difference.
“Fuck them.†he says, among his tearless shuddering, “Fuck them all.â€
With his last aching movements, he curls into a ball, wracking with silent sobs as he dies. “Fuck them…â€
He closes his eyes, and he drifts off to the sound of stirrups and footsteps in the distance.
