An arrow buries itself in the neck.
It feels no pain. No. That is to say, there is immense pain. But none of it can be felt. Not now. Everything becomes distant. Muted. Motion slows and slows to a grinding halt, as if the entire world has been plunged into shocking chill water. Numbness and cold burns in the throat. Salty metallic liquid, warm and oozing, is the only true sensation; it wells up from the throat, lungs, chest. It is blood. It is choking. All the strength in the legs drains, as though his brittle bones have turned to dust, legs to clammy pale clay. The ringing in the ears becomes a screaming din. Shadows creep in around the edges of greying vision, pulsing in time with each breath.
There are other people, crowding claustrophobically, yet too distant to reach. He gazes up at them as if from the bottom of an inescapable well, limp and starved. Vision blurs; he cannot make out their faces. They yell things, he feels sure, trying to speak, but comprehending them is now beyond him. He is long beyond the realm of the hearing. It falls on literal deaf ears.
A heavy sensation of liquid peace moves through him languidly, numbing the body and weighing down the limbs. It feels like when he had been very young, exhausted by a day of chores, and had fallen half-asleep on the way home. Mother would laugh and carry him home as I dozed. What a comfortable, nostalgic feeling. Would Crown Naruune carry him home now? Or will you bring me somewhere else? Oh, well. These things can’t matter to a dead man. He knows all will be well in the world now, after all that has been done. There is no unfinished business. He has done a good job.
He drifts away from his numb body, and to his rightful rest.
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They say burning to death is the most excruciating pain of all, you know.
Once this body suffered burns all over the right arm. Thanks to you. Some might say the pain was the worst they’d ever felt up until then. An army of tarantula hawks marched up unprotected skin, sowing flesh with their fangs and venom and eggs. When the skin was tender and pink and raw, their young devoured it alive from the inside out, the vicious little beasts. The world is certainly full of surprises, but one would think that sort of pain was a once-in-a-lifetime experience.
This feeling is the same. Just more all-consuming. A hungry devil with serrated, venomous fangs and a searing pit of hellfire in its belly, and spikes of bone all the way down its throat that scratches and scrapes and draws blood when you struggle to climb your way back out. Such a beast gobbles him up and spits him out. It razes hair and cooks flesh until it falls as ash from blackened bones. By the time he thinks to scream, the tongue and throat are gone, but some ghost of numb sensation remains. No longer can the heat be felt, only a welcome chill, which clings to consciousness and drags him down. He feels certain someone calls for him just then. He lacks ears to hear them. Shame.
With the last of his strength he drifts away to oblivion. Consciousness dissipates like short-lived dust on the wind. Gone.
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Again and again. The impact of flesh on flesh. A nauseatingly wet snap of bone within muscle. The awful sting of grit in bruises and open wounds. Grit and dust which has been kicked up by hundreds of kicking, trampling feet. A hundred hands and feet and stones and makeshift weapons pierces and grabs and tears until he cannot breathe. This world is violent, mobbing flesh. It swarms as maggots do on carrion, and each inch of the body is pain. Dark bruises swell eyes shut. Everywhere, the world spins so recklessly that standing is impossible, even if the legs were still whole, still unhurt.
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Someone grabs him. The shock of pain is so insignificant compared to everything else the body has been through that I can’t even feel it. Still, flinch away by reflex. How silly. I asked for this, chose this, wanted this. It is necessary. And once it is done, everything will be alright. Dull eyes watch a pair of lips moving with fervor. Someone has lifted the body up and is shouting at me it. All white noise buzzing in the ear. Eyes fall shut; no effort is made to stay. Back into the nothingness of sleep.
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Thinking becomes a challenge worse than any training I’ve undergone as thoughts turn to mush. Simply too exhausted. The pain lancing through my body, like lightning forced into sore muscles, refuses to let me sleep. Some desire to shift this body to a more comfortable position, but the strength is lacking. Like a cautious turtle peeking from its shell, a worm-grey tongue darts out and slips over parched, cracked lips. Throat dry as a bone. By now, organs are devouring themselves. I couldn’t blame them. Were there an actual meal to be reached, tongue and teeth would eat just as ravenously.
Someone hauls me upright. Rough, calloused hands harass sensitive skin. Glaring light silhouettes their form, making it impossible to tell who they are even when I mutely squint. Once vision adjusts a little more, I catch a glimpse of dark brown eyes, wide and frantic with some emotion I’m too exhausted to name. Rapid movement possesses the person’s mouth, but eyelids are drawn together. A veil of darkness falls across my vision. Just let me go just let me sleep haven’t I earned it yet?
A veil of darkness falls, bringing the vision to an end.
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A bone-white blade pierces cleanly through my stomach, alongside a dull sensation of pain. Deep inside, my intestines shift and churn uncomfortably. Should the blood-spattered blade be removed, organs and blood will eagerly chase it outside. Slowly my eyes trace up the red-and-white dagger, following the bandage-clad arms of its owner. Up past the thick dark-red cloak he wears, the perfect color to hide old blood—and dirt-stains. All the way until my gaze slowly focuses on Talon’s dark brown eyes, set in his ghostly-pale face. Horror or excitement, anticipation or dread. They seem to war on his face, but I can’t tell the two emotions apart like this.
His mouth moves. Distantly he calls my name, though the tinniness of his voice strips it of all emotion and intention. Is he angry, saddened, excited? Does it matter anymore? Guess it doesn’t—not at this point. I waver on my wet-clay legs and fall backwards, the blade rips from my belly, and the blood flies in a shimmering arc. How oddly beautiful, when the sunlight hits it like that.
The next thing I know, Talon holds my head in his lap. He is still trying to speak to me, his mouth forming strange shapes, and his words fail to make sense. I squint, try to find some sense in the things he is doubtless saying.
For a second, I think about staying.
And then I die.
And then I wake up.
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There is a boy somewhere who asked for answers, and received only dreams of death. Rather straightforward, isn’t it? So it seems to me.
Dear Fiend. I suspect you’ve been watching for as long as there has been ‘Elian,’ so do enjoy the rest of the show. What little remains. You must’ve seen quite a lot, must be quite bored to take an interest in little old me. But I’ll promise a finale to die for.