|Author:||La Reina (Authenticated as La Reina)|
|Date:||August 31, 2012 at 3:55:09 AM|
|Reply to:||Build-a-Story: Round Five! by Viola Eponine|
I hear water dripping. I no longer know if it was truly water, or if it was a phantasmal noise that seeped through the walls to greet my ears. It drips with a peculiar rhythm - an, odd, halting rhythm. Sometimes it seemed to almost stop, sometimes it reaches such momentum and would not stop.
Drip. Drop. Dripdripdrip. Drop.
The throbbing pain is lessening, fading, like a mist clearing from a mirror. It was much more bearable than the time it crashed into me, full-force and so blunt in its torque that I was nearly knocked over. Sadie knows - she knows how much pain it is. Oh, she's never felt it before - at least, I think not - but she's witnessed it, watched helpless as the venom flowed through their veins and encapsulates them in excruciating agony.
She'd clasped my shoulders, shook it wildly. I know she meant well - she did not know it was there that I was shot. But she saw the red against red, the blood seeping through my jacket, for that blasted dart did not quite hit me squarely, and she understood. She knew I would die - dear Sadie, poor Sadie! - she knew my fate as well as I do. But she refused to admit it. Or was she refusing to submit to it? I hope it was the latter.
I told her to take the lead, to get the others to safety, while I stall Dr Bell. She went wild. She didn't want to - she wanted me to lead us to freedom. Sadie! We both knew I cannot.
To brave on against failure, that was a paradox for her. Almost an anathema - an ignominy. She considers it to be akin to deluding herself, to be reaching for ethereal visions that the wind blows away just before our fingers grasp it. (Oh, does she know about him? I didn't reach out to him; should I see him again - the things I'd do so I would! - I will reach out to him.) But she agreed. Despite everything, she agreed to press on - to strive on - to leave me, to let me be, and to take the lead.
Drip. Drip. Dripdropdrip.
The metal was cold. My pendant. Doctor Farkas slipped it into my hand while he led me out. I wore it around my neck like he wore his cracked spectacles: as a reminder, never to be removed. But I removed it. I gave it to Sadie. It's hers now. She is the leader - she, who had fought to rise from the ashes - she, who had struggled to believe and brave the desperate odds - she, who had taken the baton where I left it. The baton, in the form of my pendant. Comfort, companionship, challenge. I am but mere dust - what dust! I contemn the dust of which I am made. It can be persecuted, it can be killed - it will, it is. But I challenged her to take from me that part of me which will live through the centuries and survive in the skies.
And she accepted the pendant. Accepted the challenge.
An omnivorous reader with a strangely retentive memory for trifles.
This message was edited by the author on August 31, 2012 at 7:42:19 AM
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