Note: I originally wrote this quick scene as being set in an original world that I made up and play around with. But then I realized that I was actually envisioning the characters I had written as Darricans and Kaleeri as Elves and Southrons instead, so I decided to make a few minor changes and post it on this site. Shrug. This is my first foray into the world of fanfic, so any reviews will be very much appreciated- flames won't hurt my feelings, and praise will put a smile on my face, but what I'd really like is a little constructive criticism, if you have the time. Thanks!
Another note: This is a bit bloody. Also, the only characters who get names are OCs, although you could substitute in pretty much any Elf character you want for the main Elf in this story.
Dax
The first searing white-hot rip of agony in her side had faded into the throbbing gut-wrenching sensation of molten iron being poured slowly into her stomach. Ril fought through the overwhelming agony and exhaustion to stay on her feet. A well-aimed spear had come out of nowhere and run her through, pinning her to a tree. Now she was shaking, trying not to retch. Oh, gods, this hurt. Breathing made it hurt worse, but her lungs were starving for oxygen. Ril took small, shallow gasps of air and battled the dizziness to stay standing.
She looked down, and was surprised by how much blood there was, surprised that she could see her own intestines. Then she was surprised that she'd been surprised, considering how she felt. Ril had never imagined she could feel this much pain, or be this tired.
There could be no doubt that this was a death wound. Sooner or later, her legs would give out from under her, and her full weight would fall to hang on the spear that still skewered her. The prospect made her wish for death.
With an effort, Ril lifted her head. All around her lay her dead and dying comrades. The fight had been over quickly; their Elvish assailants were preternaturally stealthy and skillful warriors, and they'd sprung a masterful ambush on the small band of Southron raiders. Now the victorious Elves were moving quickly among their fallen enemies, feeling necks and wrists, now and again pausing to draw a knife quickly and cleanly over a still-breathing Southron's throat. Ril remembered now, with a surge of relief, that the Elves practiced mercy killing, instead of leaving wounded enemies to die slowly. The nearest Elf-warrior was only a few paces away from her, bending over to check on-
"Dax!" cried Ril, all pain momentarily forgotten. Some corner of her mind dimly registered that her outburst had gotten the attention of every Elvish fighter in the clearing, but Ril had eyes only for the wounded young man who lay sprawled before her, his eyes closed, barely breathing. Dax, her fiancé, was still alive, but only just. "Dax," she begged, ripping the name from her weary lungs with an effort of sheer will. The Elf who crouched beside Dax hesitated for a moment, looking at Ril, and then he moved to cut Dax's throat with his knife. Desperately, Ril caught his eyes, willing him with everything she had in her to stay the knife. She tried to speak, but managed only a weak, rasping gurgle.
Ril and the Elf locked eyes for what seemed an eternity. Then, slowly, he withdrew his blade a few inches, heeding the woman's silent plea. Ril's gaze flew to Dax's face. "Dax," she whispered, pleading, uncertain if she'd actually managed to make a sound.
Dax's eyes fluttered open, and after a moment's confusion, moved swiftly to meet Ril's gaze. Her breath hitched painfully as she found herself smiling at him, and she marveled vaguely that it hadn't taken more effort.
Both of them were too far gone to speak, but words weren't necessary. They looked deep into each other's eyes, rejoicing in this final, precious gift- the chance to say to each other, wordlessly but clearly, all the things that needed to be said. The chance to say I love you, to say you are my everything, to say goodbye, to say we will be together again- this time, forever.
After several seconds, when all that was needful had been said, Dax's eyes drifted shut. Ril's gaze lingered on his face for a moment, and then lifted to meet the Elf's eyes. She hesitated, then nodded slightly. Almost imperceptibly, he inclined his head to her, and then swiftly and efficiently slashed his knife across Dax's throat, releasing his life's blood to pour crimson over the ground.
Ril did not see it. She had already lifted her eyes skywards, fastening on a few lonely puffs of cloud sailing across the endless high blue. The exhaustion and the agony had returned, and it seemed a long time before she sensed someone step in front of her.
Lowering her gaze, she found herself looking into the eyes of the Elf-warrior who had killed Dax. They were dark and full of- what? Pity? Sorrow? Perhaps… compassion?
Yes, it was compassion, and Ril's answering gratitude, that passed between them wordlessly. Ril would have expected hatred- the gloating, exultant hate of the victor and the wrathful hate born of the defeated's sorrow and shame and fear. But there was no hatred here.
The Elf reached out and placed a hand on her forehead, pushing her head back against the tree trunk. For the first time since the battle had ended, Ril felt a spasm of mortal terror. She welcomed death, and she lacked the strength to resist it, but the fear was a visceral thing and could not be avoided.
The Elf cut her throat quickly and cleanly. For a brief space of time, Ril remained conscious, swiftly dragged down into the white-hot fountain of agony in her throat. As her vision went black, and the pain faded away, she was aware that the Elf was gripping her arms, supporting her weight, preventing her even at the last from falling to hang on the spear shaft.