Nocturnes

Prologue: The Final Hour

Dying didn't hurt. Not the way he thought it would anyway. If anything it was peaceful, rather like going to sleep. Dying in a graveyard. It was almost ironic.

He had come so far and fought so hard only to die at the base of a crumbling headstone. Dimly, he was aware of the battle going on around him. The hexes and curses flying through the air lit up the sky. It was almost beautiful; a symphony of colors that filled the sky. There was no pain for which he was grateful just a wonderful numbness pulling him further into the darkness.

Warmth was spreading through his hair at a rather alarming rate. It soaked his shirt and pooled beneath his head. As if by its own accord, his thin hand lifted and brushed lightly against the source of the wetness. Weakly he raised his hand and held it in front of his face though it was getting harder to see clearly. The brilliant radiance of battle provided just enough light for him to see.

The pale skin of his hand was stained crimson. This should have concerned him but it didn't. He was so tired, so very tired. His hand fell limply onto the grass beside him. He didn't even feel it hit the ground.

It was getting harder to breathe. The graveyard was fading away; the colors whirled and began to diffuse. The sounds of battle were growing dim but he wasn't worried. They would be all right, he knew. They would be safe at last.

And he wasn't afraid. There was nothing to be afraid of anymore. His eyelids seemed to be made of lead. He could scarcely breathe. Everything around him was becoming muddled.

The colors were fading and the noise was becoming dim. The darkness was closing in around him. It was wonderfully peaceful in the darkness and mercifully quiet. He fought against the encroaching blackness but his struggles were weak, child-like. Utterly pointless.

The stars were shining brightly above, heedless to the pain and suffering beneath them. They were so beautiful. "Stars are so far away from us," a voice from a lifetime ago whispered in his ear. "And it takes so long for their light to reach us that it's already old by the time we see it." A memory for a lifetime ago.

How ironic they would be the last thing he ever saw.

"'Tis now the very witching time of night

When churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out."--- Hamlet, Act III, scii