Chapter Text
“Astarion. Astarion. Astarion!”
He jolted out of his daze, tearing his eyes from the window out to the gardens that were filled with lilac and gladiolus, sunshine gleaming on dewed leaves and early rising bees bouncing from blossom to blossom. The sunrise had distracted him again, as was becoming habit with these early starts to his day at the Judge’s House.
Boring mornings pouring over the weeks reports from guards and scout patrols the Duke sent outside of the city. This was definitely the least appealing part of the job, preparing preliminary cases for the urchins and destitute of Baldur’s Gate. He’d found that contrary to what he initially believed about this position when he’d accepted, it was decidedly in the favor of the courts, and fairly often ended in sentences, in his opinion, that were unfairly strict on the city’s most vulnerable.
But he didn’t let that keep him from his work. It was part of the job, and maybe someday he’d be able to make the changes he’d like.
His colleague, a man by the name of Rizik Dhonnal, born and bred among the human population of the Lower City, was tapping his quill against his ink well like a little bell. “Seriously,” he says, “We won’t be out of here by lunch if you keep daydreaming.”
Astarion huffed, “There’s no use in trying to keep my head buried in this, listen to this by our eloquent head of the guard, ‘And so the delinquent, who can be no younger than fourteen summers, was arrested after being caught with bread in his foul clutches from the dutiful baker of the main square. He will be charged and tried for the crime of theft, disturbing the peace, and running from guards, which further disturbed the peace.’ How is it that my day is filled with this on the first sunny day we’ve seen in weeks?” He looked longingly out of the window again.
Rizik sighed, “Because my family isn’t wealthy enough for me to start out as a lawyer, and you are too new to Baldur’s Gate for the judge to show you any favoritism. So it looks like we’re doing the dredge work for the summer.” Despite his apparent commitment to the task at hand, Astarion noticed the grumpy way he tapped the head of the quill against the paper, trying his best to keep his focus as well.
Astarion grinned to himself, “Well, it looks to me like I’ve been blessed with your good company to distract me from doing something inane and boring.”
Rizik glared at him from under his lashes. “Astarion, for gods’ sake, can’t you go a day just doing as you’re told?”
Astarion grinned wider before reaching across the table and snatching the parchment from under Rizik’s quill before throwing it on top of all the other documents and shoving them into the drawer of the writing desk. “No, I cannot. Looks like you’ll have to put up with your loss of legality today and follow me to the market instead.” He stood up and walked to the window, where it was only about an eight-foot drop to the ground below the windowsill, “If we leave this way, they’ll forget all about us, they won’t even remember we were here this morning.”
Rizik glanced around the room that was empty but for the two of them and nervously eyed the door to the main hall where other lawyers and magistrates alike under the judge were preparing cases and rhetoric for the evening’s hearings. Astarion huffed, “Come on, they hardly notice us as it is. You can bullshit your way through any hearing as well as I can without reading that drivel. Don’t worry! We’ll be back before anyone realizes we’ve gone.”
Rizik rolled his eyes but was getting up from his chair and following him to the window. With a pat on the shoulder, Astarion swung his legs over the sill and dropped to the grass below, followed by his friend.
Astarion basked in the warm morning sun as it lit his face, his white hair contrasted with his light sun-kissed skin. He fixed his burgundy doublet, lined with black and gold as was his taste before they were striding quickly into the street and down the road to the main square.
The bustle of the city always excited him, two years he’d been here, and he didn’t think he’d ever get enough of it. He does miss the smell of the forest and the feeling of grass, but nothing was comparable to the energy that vibrated here, the mixture of people, the excitement of every new attraction passing through or festival in the squares. The clip clop of hooves replaced birdsong and the high storied buildings replaced tall trees, and he soaked all of it in.
Astarion and Rizik turned the corner to a road lined with stalls and tents, Shouts of haggling and children laughing echoed through the street as they passed fruits, nuts, fish, cuts of dried venison, grains, and all manner of different stalls pawning the latest knickknacks and enchanted items. They slowed by a stall that was selling small bound books that were the latest from Waterdeep. Astarion picked up the first that caught his eye, a cover of moleskin with the title The 7 Great Wonders of Neverwinter in gold lettering.
As he flipped through pages, violet eyes scanning the illustrations and paragraphs of descriptors, Rizik bumped his shoulder with his own. “You should care as much about your work as you do these books,” he teased, “you’d be High Magistrate by now if you did.”
Astarion rolled his eyes, not bothering to rise to Rizik’s banter before the the other man was snatching the book from his hands and holding it up with a satisfied grin. Astarion frowned, going to snatch the book back but meeting empty air as Rizik snatched it out from his reaching hands.
“Just admit it,” Rizik says, “You should be on your way to becoming one of the best rhetoricians in the city, but you pal around with nobodies and bury your nose in these things instead.”
Scoffing, Astarion finally snatches the book back, crossing his arms and tucking the book against his side to block it from his friend’s reach, “What makes you think I have any interest in becoming one of those stuffed shirts? Besides, you’re not all bad. You could pay for my wine more often, but otherwise I can stand to have you around,” he says playfully.
Rizik laughs and shakes his head. Astarion grins to himself before he’s dropping a handful of coins on the table and pocketing the little book. “Come on,” he says, “I heard that they’ve got a new performance at the pavilion for the first time in weeks.”
They each paid for an apple on the way, and walked leisurely in the direction of a crowd that was gathering at the far end of the stalls. He takes his time looking at everything offered and taking bites of his snack as he peruses. There’s even a stall filled with mirrors, the borders of them hand carved and painted into all manner of fancy designs and Astarion stops for a moment to admire his own image before they’re walking along again.
He’s perusing a stall selling bronze and silver jewelry when he feels a chill run up his spine. He feels a cold sweat break on the back of his neck and before he can control the impulse, his eyes dart around the area, the abject feeling of being watched overwhelming him as he tries to find the eyes he’s sure will meet his. But there’s nothing there, no one but Rizik at his side admiring a pendant that the tiefling stall keeper is trying to sell him.
Astarion glances around in confusion, maybe he gets distracted sometimes, but he trusts his senses, they’re rarely wrong. And the feeling doesn’t fade. There’s a prickle on the back of his neck, even though he can’t find a single pair of eyes in the crowd. It unnerves him.
He jumps when Rizik pats his shoulder, “You all right?”
Astarion throws his gaze around groups of people shopping for goods or shouldering by, the feeling of being watched suddenly vanishing. “Yes,” he says, “I’m fine.”
Rizik watches him out of the corner of his eye as he turns, but says nothing, gesturing for them to continue on. Astarion follows, giving no more thought to the uneasiness. They approach the pavilion. There are some mummers acting out some performance, apparently a comedy by the sound of the laughter as they step into the crowd. He’s hardly following the plot of the clown that was cursed with fay magic, when the same uncomfortable chill crawls along his skin.
His eyes dart over the throng of people, he’s boxed in on all sides, the shifting of bodies making it impossible to try to focus on any one person through the crowd. He spins in a circle, searching as his heart jumps in his chest, making him sure that his senses aren’t playing tricks on him.
“Eladrin! Eladrin!” He hears a shout over the crowd and it takes him a moment to notice that it’s aimed at him. He stops mid spin and sees two humans, they’re beelining for him through the crowd, eyes locked on him. He’s never seen them before, has no idea who they could be, but they don’t look friendly. He turns, grabs Rizik by the wrist and starts pulling him in the opposite direction. Rizik protests, but doesn’t yank his hand back, following as they weave through the bodies.
Astarion gets them to the edge of the crowd and starts to head towards a side street off of the square when a hand is yanking him back by the shoulder. “Hey!” He hears Rizik growl, “Back off! We’re not looking for any trouble.”
“Oh, but troubles found you,” a gruff voice says.
Astarion is whirled around and shoved back into a wall. There are a few people gathered about that immediately duck their heads and try to melt into the crowd, pretending not to notice anything. It’s one of the humans, and he’s near snarling in Astarion’s face. At first he thinks that they have to be mistaking him for someone, there’s no way they mean him, but face-to-face this man seems pretty sure who he has his hands on. Astarion takes note of their clothing, simple but with a few cultural flourishes of patterning sewn into their clothing. There are amulets of Selune around their necks. Gur. What do they want with him?
Rizik is held back by the second man as the one who shoved him into the wall grabs Astarion by the collar. His dark hair covers most of his face which is already shadowed by the hood of a cloak. “Found you, elf,” he says.
“Remove your hands, or you’ll be spending the night in a cell,” Astarion says, more confidently than he feels.
“Not today. You have a lot to answer for,” the man says.
Astarion grapples the hand in his shirt and shoves the Gur back a pace. He stands his ground by the wall, not willing to make an escape into an alley with fewer witnesses, and certainly not without his friend who’s still being held at a distance. Rizik never was a fighter, he stands uncertainly but not willing to leave Astarion’s side.
The Gur glowers at him, “You are the reason four boys are spending three years in a Baldurian hellhole,” he grits.
“What?” is all Astarion can think to say. He has no idea what this is, and now he’s convinced that they must have him mistaken.
“Don’t play dumb,” the Gur all but shouts, “You’re the reason they aren’t getting a trial. Three years, all for what? Stealing a bit of food here and there. My son only stole some bread! Is that enough to keep him locked up away from his family?”
Understanding dawns on him. The reports back at the Judge’s House. Reports of vagabonds being caught stealing, a cut and dry offense, one that the judge won’t even bother to hear. The decision already made by those higher than him. There was no point progressing a trial, better to just speed up the process with the inevitable verdict.
Astarion raises his hands, but keeps his voice steady, placating, but holding a warning should this start to turn violent, that he would defend himself. “It’s the law, I only look over the arrest papers,” he says, “I don’t have the power to change what the judge will decide.”
“Liar!” the Gur says, “You think we don’t notice how an eladrin is so quick to choose prison for a Gur boy but not an elf whelp? Who says you can decide what chance our boys have?”
“No one,” Astarion says, “I swear, I don’t choose the punishment or the sentence. I treat no one differently or above any other.”
“We’re just clerks!” Rizik adds, downplaying their role with the judge. What Astarion said was true, they didn’t have the power to change the verdict, but they didn’t need to know that some amount of power was theirs in who stood before the judge, and who was mandated a sentence by the law of the city.
The Gur shoves his finger into Astarion’s chest, “You’re going to fix it!” he growls. His breath fans Astarion’s face and all he can smell is cheap vodka. There’s no convincing a person who is drunk to the point of assaulting a stranger in public. And seemingly targeting the first person to stand out from a magistrate consisting of mostly humans.
Astarion lowers his voice, “I’ve already told you, I don’t have that power. Just hear me out-“
He’s cut off by yelling and the pounding of feet. The sound of guards rushing their way and fast. The Gur looks over his shoulder quickly before turning back and spitting on the ground near Astarion’s feet. “This isn’t over, elf,” he says darkly. He and his companion walk off and melt into the crowd. At first Astarion thinks the guards would at least stop to ask if they’re hurt, if they need any help, but they pass them by, ignoring them in favor of chasing after the two Gur. They must be wanted for more than just stealing some bread.
Rizik walks up and jostles Astarion by the arm. “Hey,” he says, “You okay? I thought for a minute there fists were going to start flying. And I like you Astarion, but I’d probably be just as useful in a fight as a glass hammer.”
Astarion allows himself to breath a deep sigh of relief. Before he knows it, he’s laughing, and Rizik joins him with a chuckle of his own. Astarion sweeps a hand through his curly hair. “Let’s get out of here, I don’t want to wait around for those two to circle back,” he says.
“Couldn’t agree more, let’s head back to the Judge’s House,” says Rizik, “Besides, we’ll be heading back out after our work is done anyway.”
“What?” Astarion says, “Why?”
“Well you keep complaining that I never pay for your wine, so I’m taking you out. My treat.”
Astarion blinked before a fond smile lit his face. He threw his arm around the other man’s shoulders as they made their way through the streets back to the garden they escaped from only a couple hours before.
///
It’s dark by the time they’re leaving for the day. They pack up everything for the night, they’re some of the last to leave as the street-lamps are being lit by temple clerics who take the time to cast produce flame along the roads on their nightly vigils. The two of them make their way through emptier streets, towards their favorite hangout. A small place owned by a rather refined dwarf who prides himself on having the best vintages of sweet reds in Baldur’s Gate. They pass under the hanging sign for the Vine and Velvet and enter in through the door, taking a seat at their usual table.
The air is humid, and some smoke lingers from some of the patrons at the bar. Dark velvet tapestries hang along the wall in purples and dark blues that give the small space an intimate, cozy atmosphere. It’s been their favorite haunt for some time. Rizik shakes out his long dark hair, mussing it from its usual place tied on the back of his neck. They each order their usual vintage and kick up their feet after their long day. The events at the market from that morning completely forgotten as they indulge in each other’s company.
“Come off it, my friend,” says Rizik through a tipsy laugh, “there has to be someone you’ve been seeing here. Why else come to a city such as this. Someone had to lure you here, maybe broke your heart, and you got stuck spending your days in a courthouse and being attacked by random men in the street.”
Astarion laughed, “Would you believe I came here because it seemed like an adventure? No, there’s no one I go to see on lonely nights if that’s what you mean. But it suits me just fine, I want some time on my own. Enjoy things as they come without any commitments. Other than work, I suppose. But I’ll hardly be there for much longer at this rate.”
“What do you dream of being then?” Rizik asks.
Astarion hums and takes a sip of his fourth glass of wine, “I don’t know, and I don’t really care. I have time to make that decision down the road.”
“Elves live a long time,” his friend muses, “If I lived as long as you will, I’d want someone around I could spend it with.”
“I’m thirty-nine,” Astarion scoffs, “To humans that may seem like I’ve lived a full life already, but among my people I’m barely more than a child. There’s no expectation for me to start settling down yet. And I don’t plan to.”
“Settling down? I hope not, Astarion. I just mean you could be spending the night with more company.”
Astarion grins, fingertip tipsily circling the rim of his glass, “Company like?”
Rizik leans across the table, meets Astarion’s violet eyes with his own grey ones, before he’s reaching over and plucking the wine glass from Astarion’s hand and downing the rest of the red, tossing his head back so Astarion can see the bob of his throat as he swallows.
“You have to have a type. Tell me,” His friend says.
Astarion raises his hand to his chin, pretending to muse on the question, “That depends. I’ve always preferred dark hair, on anyone. If leaning towards the feminine touch then a lean body, and they have to know how to be… commanding. I don’t appreciate anyone who is more or less passive. That’s no fun at all. Now if I’m turning towards the masculine proclivities, I prefer them to be more on the rough side. Broad and clean shaven is ideal, but as long as I can be bossed around a little…”
Rizik nods with a knowing grin on his face, they both know the game they’re playing now. This little not-so-innocent back and forth, testing the waters. “Bossed around? Like if I told you to finish your bottle and come home with me? Have you keep me company?”
Astarion takes a moment to consider. He’s known Rizik for some time now, they’ve grown a type of camaraderie that he has appreciated over the last few months working in the same position. And it’s not that he doesn’t find him attractive, he does, so fuck it. What’s the harm? He doesn’t think if he turned him down the other man would take it personally or hold it against him, and he doesn’t get the feeling that he’s only looking for a warm body for the night. He’s asking Astarion because they like each other, enjoy having the other around, and clearly some chemistry is developing because of it. Why not explore it a bit?
Astarion nods, “All right, your place.”
Rizik smiles before standing from the table, “Meet me outside while I pay for our drinks.”
They both waste no time moving to opposite ends of the bar, which is now full with the clinking of glasses and the hum of conversation. One heads to the owner who’s serving glasses in the back of the shop for a line of people, the other slipping out the front door into the night. A single lantern outside is the only thing illuminating the road outside. Astarion is certain if he stepped out of its aura that his dark vision would allow him to see into all the corners of the dark, but while in its ring his eyes see that outside the light the streets look completely melted in shadows.
He leans against the wall patiently, fingers fidgeting with the brass buttons of his doublet and resting his head against the cool stone after the heat from inside, closing his eyes to better enjoy the breeze that shifted his hair.
Then something floats to him on that breeze, a sound, a whisper he can’t quite catch even with his elven ears, but it’s there. He listens closely, not sure if he’s imagining things but then, no, there is something there. It sounds like a voice, low and seductive. He focuses all of his attentions on how this voice is reaching him in the empty street, what it’s saying to him as he strains to hear it. Then suddenly, like someone is standing next to him with a breath on the back of his neck, he hears the voice, clear as day, and startlingly loud in his ear, “Astarion!”
He jumps forward away from the wall, heart leaping into his chest as he stumbles back into the night. He pants with sudden adrenaline as his eyes scan the face of the shop, the circle of light around the entrance. But there’s no one there. There’s not a soul. Just the sounds of laughter that reach into the street from inside the bar is all that can be heard of any voices.
I’m imagining things, maybe I need a little vacation to myself for a few days. Relax my head and get my senses under control.
Far into the future he would always wish he’d had the caution to have his senses about him in that moment. The fright had caused him to drop his guard, his attention on shadows instead of on the soft sound of footsteps approaching from the side. He’d jumped into the street near an alleyway, almost unnoticeable with the aura of light still affecting his eyes and keeping his dark vision from fully activating.
Hands reach out from a well of darkness, the grip of a callused, sweaty palm is clamping over his mouth and dragging him backwards. Other hands join in grabbing at his arms and around his waist, hears the tear in the threads of his shirt as he thrashes and twists, trying to escape the grip on him. He tries to scream, but the hand covering his mouth moves to free his lips and cruelly clamps around his throat instead, cutting off any sound or air that was fighting to escape.
He’s aware he’s being dragged as he feels the cobblestone drag against the backs of his heals as he’s hefted down the alley into the dark. His struggle for breath and his effort to grapple the hand on his throat are his only priority, and he’s unaware of just how far down the streets he’s being taken away.
Eventually, as he starts to see black spots dance in his vision, he feels a sudden punch into his stomach, and he’d double over if he hadn’t been in whomever’s grip.
He’s dropped to the ground and he can’t help the wheeze that escapes him as he presses his face into the dirt, his lungs desperate for air but a horrible pain wracking his frame any time his diaphragm expands. He coughs as he sees feet circle in front of him. Four men, stockier than he is, leering down at him.
“Now,” says a familiar voice and his eyes snap up to the Gur from the market, “no guards around here, elf. It’s time to finish that conversation.”
Fury and indignation flood Astarion and he scowls at the man above him, spitting the saliva flooding his mouth from his hit to the stomach onto the ground before he grinds out, “I told you, you thick headed imbecile, that it wasn’t my call to make what happened to your friends. Your son will probably be released early if he’s young-“
He’s suddenly cut off by a fist connecting with the side of his face. The momentum has the other side of his skull bouncing off of the cobblestone and he’s left to lie there, dazed and head swimming in pain, as he listens to laughter above him.
“Now see,” says the man, “I’ve received on good authority some word that you personally would have had the power to give my boy a fighting chance. But you didn’t. And I’m no longer interested in asking. I’m telling you. You’re going to pay, eladrin. For thinking you’re in any way above the sods you lock away.”
Astarion spits again from the side of his mouth, blood now mixing with saliva as he struggles to lift himself from his prone position. “Fuck you,” he says.
A boot connects with his ribs and it forces all of the air to leave him. He curls onto the ground, trying desperately to protect his head as another boot slams onto his knee, then another between his shoulders. Agony erupts as he feels his torso being battered, his bones groaning from the blows. He feels the white hot heat of every hit flooding his body, the snap in his sides, the crunch as a hand grabs his wrist and twists, trying to get him to reveal his face.
He stands as hands start to grip at his shirt and manhandle him out of his protective position onto his feet. He throws a fist with the only good hand he has left, the only one where his fingers will respond without blinding agony, but it connects with air, and he’s met with goading laughter as his feet are swept from under him and he’s crashing back onto the ground.
Instinct takes over, not the same self-preservation, but fight or flight is taking control of his mind, his movement. He can’t stay frozen on the ground, he’d never make it. He takes a single moment to analyze the feet surrounding him before he’s kicking out at an ankle near his legs, hitting it with all the strength he has in him and he hears a cry as the man collapses to the ground. That’s his opening!
He rolls out of the circle of hands and scrambles against the dirt as he makes for a run down the alley. He’s limping heavily to one side, and he hears a furious yell as he stumbles away. He doesn’t make it more than a few feet before he feels a hard push square on his back causing him to fall forward onto his front. The sudden contact with the ground on his surely broken ribs and bruised insides causes another wheeze to escape his lips and he watches as blood dribbles down onto the dirt underneath him.
“You’ll regret that, fucking brat,” he hears before a boot is connecting with the back of his head. All sound fades into a shrill ring, white light edging his vision as he tries desperately to remain conscious. For the first timepanic starts to take the place of the thoughts of defend, fight, defend. His breathing stutters, and his hands start to shake as he is grabbed roughly by the shoulder and turned onto his back. He no longer has the strength to try to cover his face.
They’re leering down at him, clearly proud of their justice that they’ve bestowed onto him. They laugh as one holds up a dagger pulled from a waistband. “Let’s cut off the elf’s ears,” he hears clearly. Fear is flooding his veins, but he grips the dirt at his sides to keep them from noticeably trembling.
He has just enough spare breath in his lungs, just enough energy for one last movement to spit blood on their boots and scowl up at them, determined not to beg or let his despair show. He tries to speak, tries to tell them where they can go shove that dagger, but instead to his dismay all that leaves his throat is bubbled blood that starts to choke him as it spills down one side of his face and he’s forced to turn so as not to gag.
Then there’s the sound of a bloodcurdling cry into the night. One that is unbearably loud above him before its trailing off down the alley much too fast to be in any way natural. He sees the alarmed shuffle of feet around his head. Watches distantly as a pair of feet leave the ground with another scream and dragged off into the night.
“Show yourself! Monster! What do you want!” he hears being barked into the dark.
Blood splatters the ground in front of Astarion’s face. He hears a gurgle, sees the flailing of feet as they thrash in the air, before a still body is being dropped to the ground in front of him, jaw rended as he stares lifelessly at the sky.
The last man is making a dash down the alley, screaming. He doesn’t make it to the mouth before a figure is detaching from the shadows, clamping teeth violently into the man’s neck and violently tearing flesh and splatters of blood as the man drops to the ground with a thud, red slowly threading its way between the cobblestones.
Silence reigns in the night, Astarion watches as the figure turns towards him, and he sees the glow of red eyes in the dark before he takes in the sight of the man, dressed in expensive silks and gold, hair slicked back, not a hair out of place despite the carnage around him. Blood coats his face, down his neck to the collar of his jacket. And he’s smiling at Astarion.
He turns and takes a leisurely step in his direction.
Astarion gasps in horror and tries to move his feet to push his body back away from this thing as it approaches, but his legs crackle in agony and he only succeeds in stirring the dirt around him.
“What are you?” he tries to ask, but he’s unsure if it’s audible or if it just sounds like a wet moan.
The man slowly kneels at his side, unbothered by the blood that begins to soak into the knee of his fine clothes, and pulls a kerchief out of his sleeve, reaching forward and dabbing at Astarion’s face and mouth, the futility of it as the red wiped from his face is replaced by more blood dribbling from between his lips, all comes off as horribly mocking.
He flinches away from the touch, his heart thumping at a lower pace that doesn’t match his terror, every beat draining more of his strength as his lifeblood is pumped out of internal wounds.
“Yes,” the man says over him, “You will do nicely.”
Astarion tries to crawl back, away from this monster that’s eyeing him in a way that instinctually tells him to run. But all he manages to do is scrape the dirt and painfully cough up more gore in the effort. “Stay away!” he says.
“I can hear your heart slowing, boy,” the man says in a hiss, “A few minutes more and your corpse will be cooling on the ground here. Such a waste that would be. You have potential, you have what I am looking for.”
Astarion groans in pain as the man grabs him by the throat, and he’s not gentle as he forces Astarion’s head to the side, exposing his neck. “Wait!” Astarion says desperately, “Don’t do this.” He’s not a fool. He sees the malice and the hunger in the monster’s eyes. Can sense the evil intent in him in a way that causes Astarion’s stomach to lurch.
He’s afraid, knows that the only reason someone would be exposing his throat would be to kill him. And he’s not ready to die. He’s not ready for the darkness that would follow. His entire being is screaming at him to fight back, but he can hardly lift a hand to grab the cold wrist at his neck. “Please!” he says through a wet cough as his broken chest crackles and bubbles with more blood.
“This is a gift,” the man says, entirely unmoved by the pleas, “The last you shall receive. And it’s not one you have any right to refuse. I’m in the business of taking what I need. And in a few minutes, you will be on your way to new purpose.”
Astarion’s eyes widen as he sees the flash of fangs in the man’s mouth for only a moment before there’s a lunge at his throat and he feels them slice into his flesh. The man is brutal in the power he puts into the bite, like he intends to tear Astarion’s throat out. He feels the pull of his blood from his veins, sees spots dance in his vision. He can do nothing more than gasp and whimper as his arms grow too heavy to lift from the ground. His body starts to shake from the shock of blood emptying from him too fast. He feels cold, then numb as sensations start to leave him entirely.
And honestly, it becomes nice, like floating in a pool of still, gentle water as fog starts to overtake his vision. He’s not sure if it’s the last gasp of his consciousness fishing for some last happy memory, but he thinks of the garden outside of the Judge’s House that morning. The way the sunlight had filtered through the leaves and blossoms and the fragrance of lilac filling the air. He holds onto it desperately, letting it be all he sees as all other sight and sound leave him and he no longer has the energy for another breath.
His heart halts.