Predestination
It must be because of that scorpion in your hand.
* * * * * * * *
Szak leaned in, anticipating the moment Alea would come back to life and those eyes could glisten like the ocean against the brilliant sun once more.
But there was nothing.
He wondered how much time had passed since she drank the extract. It was still dark. It could not have been more than a couple winter hours, if even that.
Nothing.
He grabbed her hand. He had not expected her to be so stiff and cold to the touch. Dainty, chalky fingers hung past the edge of his as he knelt there, waiting.
A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
No, she could not be dead. Szak would not accept such a monstrosity as reality.
He let her hand drop back down on the floor, eyes relentlessly observing for any sign of life. There had to be. But the only heartbeat Szak could hear was his own, and the silence hovered over him, waiting to swallow him whole. He leaned over to touch her hand once more.
Nothing.
He leaned back again, watching, waiting. Not even a single strand of her blue or ivory hair moved.
He blinked, and when he looked closer, he could have sworn her fingers were different than earlier. He jumped forward and grabbed her hand.
Nothing.
With a patient exhale, he let go and sat back down. Had he really killed her?
Alea’s last words. She had done this for him.
He recognized the face of death quite well, but Alea had proven him wrong, before. She had to prove him wrong this time, too. She had to.
Szak dug his fist into the floor, knuckles whitening under the pressure of his aggravated heart. Had he done something wrong? Was he not supposed to kill the scorpion?
Maybe he was supposed to wake her up, somehow. Did he miss his timing?
He reached for her hand.
Nothing. If anything, it was colder.
Szak pressed his lips together. She had to be stronger than this; what could possibly be taking her this long?
A promise is a promise, Alea. You promised to stay alive.