The rebel was just too fast. The assassin they were warned against, the one that came in and out of the public's eye only long enough to take a life, had been faster than he'd ever seen.
His head lulls idly to the side, and pain shoots down from his throat like fire pressed to his skin. His comrades lie dead and blank eyed on either side of him, but there he was, remaining. The blade of the white cloaked death must have missed its mark by only a breath. But not to its discredit, because he could feel the life slowly draining out of him as his blood seeped onto the cobblestone.
The soldier tries to roll to his side in a futile hope of inching towards his sword, so he can at least die with it in his hand. But his heavy armor won't let him move an inch and he can feel his strength draining out with every gush of crimson. He almost smiles pathetically at the thought. He's stuck like a tortoise on his back, and the armor holds him to the ground like it once held back a knife from his chest.
He should have been more prepared. He shouldn't have let the drifting attention of the people encourage his own to drift. The herald should have warned them more – about this assassin's speed and skill. Should have heralded the arrival of this assassin. Bastards. They take a bribe as quickly as he had taken this wound to his throat. Coins spill from their pockets almost as quickly as blood spills from his gushing wound.
He's choking on the blood with every gasping breath, and can feel thick, hot, coppery liquid filling his lungs. Panic is overwhelming him and honest, true terror floods over his features. Eyes stricken, eyebrows set downwards in a frightened plead and his lips are parted in a breathless gasp.
Wet sounds come from his mouth as it fills with blood, and death is drawing nearer like lapping waves against the docks. Slowly it builds, like a growing wave at sea; in a gentle rise, but its pace is deceiving. It surges forward in a powerful rush that is no longer beautiful and is instead a very primal fear.
He's trapped. Trapped by this gaping, throbbing wound in his neck and by the blood flooding into lungs and bubbling in his mouth. He's trapped by the armor that was meant to protect him and trapped against the cobblestones of Venice he was meant to protect.
The assassin moved like a white breath of air through them. With a blade that was invisible to eyes but shot out and stole away life before their blades were from their sheaths. But his life wasn't stolen by this rebel in white – this killer of kings and leaders. This disgrace to God and church. The white death only injured his life, damaging it beyond repair, and left it to slowly ebb away from him. To slowly seep into the streets belonging to a faithful and loyal soldier.
The calls and screams of his comrades are muffled and distant to the soldier's ears. The white assassin moves further over the bridge he was set to guard, moving like the breeze and stealing the lives of the others. The assassin moves to his leader. Cesare is fortified and untouchable, the assassin will soon find, but it matters nothing to him now.
He's being drawn away to an unknown place, drawn under like his mouth and nose are being forced under water. He takes a breath and can feel himself being dragged down, but breath is out of his grasp and blood bubbles up where air once did. His lungs stretch and can stretch no further, and the fear spreads clearer over his features as his mouth widens for the breath that can't come. Panic sinks deeper as his lungs can expand no more and still no breath comes.
The world and his duty are nothing to him now, because he is being dragged away from them all. They can do nothing for him and he can feel a crippling loneliness pull him away from the Earth. All he has struggled over in life is nothing and the true battle is before him, drowning him and dragging him under even as he cries for breath.
The assassin is gone from his mind like breath is from his lungs, and his leader, his country, his duty, his friends, his purpose all fade away like the light from his eyes. How ignorant they had all been to not see this as the greatest worry of all. This as the greatest struggle and fight they would ever know. How unprepared he had been to face this force pulling him under.
The panic is nearly as strong as the force, but the force only nourishes the fear and the desperation inside him. Tears are in his eyes and he abandons all dignity that he thought he'd have at this moment.
A flash of white catches his eyes, but it's blurred and inhuman. His eyes don't follow it, and instead stay set blankly on the blue sky above. He's afraid to move them away, afraid of the force finally pulling him under. He's so afraid.
The white form moves closer, moves into his sight. His eyes are hazy and unfocused, but the soldier lets them drift to the form. A hood and face come into focus, and his mind moves in a drunken haze to tell him where he's seen it before. Stubble is on the white form's face, and careful eyes are trained on his.
"Requiescat in pace." The assassin in white murmurs with a quiet calm.
The soldier feels the blade that moves quicker than his eyes sink into his side, under his armor, like a rush of air. The assassin hits his mark this time, he notes faintly, and the surging force is replaced with the soothing smother of black.
A/N: My half to a word challenge with Liva-Wilborg on dA. I love playing devil's advocate.