Time seems to have stopped.
The only reason for this is that something so unbelievable has happened that there is no reason that something, such as time stopping, could not happen, and therefore would.
Another approach on the situation is that the current situation was so horrifying that a single picture, a single frame, is engraved on the minds of those people who witness it.
He doesn't know. But he is transfixed upon that scene that is occurring not too far ahead of him, in plain view for everyone to see.
She is beautiful.
Her hair cascades down her shoulders, trailing down her back, some of it suspended in air. It is an orange not unlike his own hair. It reminds him of the sweet smell of oranges, and strawberries, and so many other fruit. He could imagine how it would look had there been light; shining orange, loose strands clinging to her face, hair lightly blowing in the wind.
Her face is pale, and it pains him to see it so; but it looks like a delicate pale, the smooth white of a noble's face, if not for the scratch of flowing blood on her cheek.
Her expression is odd. On a whole, it looks horrified, scared, eyes wide with disbelief. Her lips are parted, as if to scream, but it seems wrong; her voice is that of a chirping songbird on a clear summer day, and they did not scream, only sing.
Her eyes, however, are lit with determination, staring at the despised item she has tried to obliterate. There is something about her expression, her face, her hair, her eyes, something that he cannot grasp, something that is different.
The girl in his mind does not match the girl up there, arms outstretched, tears starting to form but not betraying her by falling. The girl in his memory is a light, purity; she was happiness, joy, imagination, a child by nature. She is smiling.
But this girl is not smiling. She is not pure, not exactly; she has a fierceness to her that contradicts that former purity. She is tired, not energetic – he can see it in the bags under her eyes, the cry for sleep, the all-too-familiar eyes of those who had seen hell, or at least the bloody carnage of war.
He realizes she has become a woman.
While she was away, while she had to fend for herself – she had been hurt. Scarred. Bled. Killed inside. And it had changed her. Molded her. Turned her into a woman. A beautifully sad woman.
Now he lowers his head to the sword that has been driven through her heart.
It is covered in blood; silver with flowing red, her blood. The instrument of death had struck, and in an instant its judgment had been carried out.
Seeing her bleeding, seeing her getting stabbed, seeing the blood; it's too much. But he cannot do anything, for time has stopped, and he cannot move to help her, save her, keep her from dying.
No matter how much he wishes.
He thinks once more of the person in his mind: bright hair reflecting in the sun, warm chocolate colored eyes, a light blush on her skin, a soft smile. Then he looks at the girl as she really is: hair, dirty and strewn about, eyes lit with a spark of resolve, pale skin, screaming inside.
And then, as though nothing happened, the clock of time started ticking once more, resuming its natural order.
And finally, hair everywhere, face hidden, dark red blood splattering as she hits the floor, he realizes that whether it is romantic or platonic, friend or lover, dead or alive –
He loves this woman.
End
Alright. I have only one thing to add. At the end, when it says "he loves this woman," it does not necessarily mean in a romantic sense. :P Just to clarify. Hence why this fic is implied IchiHime and not absolute. P