Tenderness was felt upon tired features. Calloused fingertips brushed heated flesh, running a languid course down the bridge of her nose, to partially divorced lips. There he felt the lifeblood escaping her, dribbling from the thick lower lip, which trembled ever so slightly. She was dying, and he felt each weakened breath escape her. “You're dying,†his voice resonates quietly into the air, into this dark, cold ambient.
“I know,†Rivienne replies as her eyes opened into the velvet nothingness, which began to melt away and reveal a lush forest. She was greeted with the soft caress of the wind, the smell of Azeyma roses. She did not see him, but she felt him there, his warm body ever so close. His voice was comforting, but it was a sound that did not exist any longer. “I want to rest, let me, with thee..†Lashes sank as weariness ensnared her, and the tendrils of the dark, threatened to pull her down.
“Not yet, it's not time,†Marceloix whispered upon her ear. When he turned to her, he was in his youth once more, the young man trapped in a time she held on to.
“Let me have this.. freedom.†She speaks in the same, mumbled, fashion. In his golden eyes, she saw her reflection, a very young girl, reaching out for him. But he soon began to fade, and her image was enveloped in shadow.
There was nothing but silence. Silenced she welcomed. A silence meant for her only. For as she slept, and sank deeper into the frigid embrace of death, the world around her came to life.
Lifeblood spilled around her from the wound, staining her attire entirely, filling the air with the aroma of her vitae. Chaos spreads like wildfire, erratically, as knights soon entered the gape of this cave, knights that were not under Carvallain's command. Their blades sang this day, as night began to fall, and the howling winds resonate their song into the cavern. They claimed the beasts, their lives were forfeit. These same men were sent, by coincidence, to investigate Dravanian activity.
Among these men, Lanceloix, son of Lairemont and Gabrielle Delacroux, twin sibling of Louix, brother of Marceloix, counted the bodies he slain with his lance, nearly passing over the slumped form of a golden haired maiden. Rumors were heated with talk of a woman using the corpses of the fallen to perform deeds against the people of Ishgard. One could imagine the pain that surged through his chest at the sight of a face he had loved, one all too familiar after all these years. As men cried out their victories, he removed his helm and tossed it carelessly aside. From his gold crown, long hair framed his scarred visage, now twisted with an expression of grief. Hazel eyes softened when the gruesome display painted a clear picture. Behind the deceit was his own blood, something he could not speak of, a shame embedded and carved into his existence.
Down to a knee he fell and swept his eyes away from his deceased mother, to the woman who had sunk her chin to her clavicle. He saw the arrow that claimed her, and figured she was but another casualty, for she was not dressed like the others. Carefully, he sought her cheek and jaw twixt steel-covered fingers and lifted to see the face of the woman caught in the entire ordeal.
What he did not expect, was a vision of the past.
Air emptied from his lungs and he felt agony return twofold. She was broken before him; the young girl he begged not to take up Marceloix's training, the young lass who blossomed into a woman, the woman who he swore to protect in the end.
“Rivienne, Rivienne,†he whispered mournfully and moved a free hand to her chest, where the arrow was embedded. The blood was warm, staining his gauntlet as it spreads across her leather garment, saturating it. She was bruised; her flesh turned a nasty shade of plum, it was evidence that she was physically involved. Swallowing, the knight lowered himself on the adjacent knee before her and held back the sorrowful sob lodged in his throat. His forehead fell to her own and tears formed in the basin of his eyes.
The world around him died along with her this moment. He will never be able to see her smile, hear her sing taught by their mother, bicker. He would never know the reason she had come to this desolate, frigid wasteland. Already, he began to pray to Halone and pressed his lips to her brow, only to hear a small, ragged breath from her lips. Immediately, panic stirred within him. She lived. And lived on a sliver of life.
"You're dying."
“I know,†Rivienne replies as her eyes opened into the velvet nothingness, which began to melt away and reveal a lush forest. She was greeted with the soft caress of the wind, the smell of Azeyma roses. She did not see him, but she felt him there, his warm body ever so close. His voice was comforting, but it was a sound that did not exist any longer. “I want to rest, let me, with thee..†Lashes sank as weariness ensnared her, and the tendrils of the dark, threatened to pull her down.
“Not yet, it's not time,†Marceloix whispered upon her ear. When he turned to her, he was in his youth once more, the young man trapped in a time she held on to.
“Let me have this.. freedom.†She speaks in the same, mumbled, fashion. In his golden eyes, she saw her reflection, a very young girl, reaching out for him. But he soon began to fade, and her image was enveloped in shadow.
There was nothing but silence. Silenced she welcomed. A silence meant for her only. For as she slept, and sank deeper into the frigid embrace of death, the world around her came to life.
Lifeblood spilled around her from the wound, staining her attire entirely, filling the air with the aroma of her vitae. Chaos spreads like wildfire, erratically, as knights soon entered the gape of this cave, knights that were not under Carvallain's command. Their blades sang this day, as night began to fall, and the howling winds resonate their song into the cavern. They claimed the beasts, their lives were forfeit. These same men were sent, by coincidence, to investigate Dravanian activity.
Among these men, Lanceloix, son of Lairemont and Gabrielle Delacroux, twin sibling of Louix, brother of Marceloix, counted the bodies he slain with his lance, nearly passing over the slumped form of a golden haired maiden. Rumors were heated with talk of a woman using the corpses of the fallen to perform deeds against the people of Ishgard. One could imagine the pain that surged through his chest at the sight of a face he had loved, one all too familiar after all these years. As men cried out their victories, he removed his helm and tossed it carelessly aside. From his gold crown, long hair framed his scarred visage, now twisted with an expression of grief. Hazel eyes softened when the gruesome display painted a clear picture. Behind the deceit was his own blood, something he could not speak of, a shame embedded and carved into his existence.
Down to a knee he fell and swept his eyes away from his deceased mother, to the woman who had sunk her chin to her clavicle. He saw the arrow that claimed her, and figured she was but another casualty, for she was not dressed like the others. Carefully, he sought her cheek and jaw twixt steel-covered fingers and lifted to see the face of the woman caught in the entire ordeal.
What he did not expect, was a vision of the past.
Air emptied from his lungs and he felt agony return twofold. She was broken before him; the young girl he begged not to take up Marceloix's training, the young lass who blossomed into a woman, the woman who he swore to protect in the end.
“Rivienne, Rivienne,†he whispered mournfully and moved a free hand to her chest, where the arrow was embedded. The blood was warm, staining his gauntlet as it spreads across her leather garment, saturating it. She was bruised; her flesh turned a nasty shade of plum, it was evidence that she was physically involved. Swallowing, the knight lowered himself on the adjacent knee before her and held back the sorrowful sob lodged in his throat. His forehead fell to her own and tears formed in the basin of his eyes.
The world around him died along with her this moment. He will never be able to see her smile, hear her sing taught by their mother, bicker. He would never know the reason she had come to this desolate, frigid wasteland. Already, he began to pray to Halone and pressed his lips to her brow, only to hear a small, ragged breath from her lips. Immediately, panic stirred within him. She lived. And lived on a sliver of life.
"You're dying."
