This is a thank-you present for my friend Darkened Harmony, who dedicated yet another fanfic to me. Soo...here's your gift! I wuff ya so! XXD Your reviews always make me so happy. -huggles-

Hmm. Well, this is for DH, as I said, and my friend Kayla helped me with the idea. I was in the mood to write about someone dying (Helena...god that song is love), and she pointed out that no one had written Arra's side of her death. This is also kind of a "this is your version, this is my version" thing to DH as well, since she wrote the BEST VERSION OF THIS EVER. Seriously, go read it. Holding Her Hand. Anyway, thats the story of this!

PS--MCR is the best band ever, Gerard Way is hot, and Helena is my favorite song right now. Yay, funeral-gothic-sexiness-crying-emotional music video's and songs!

Okay. :3 Here you go! Death Bed.

The stomach wound did not hurt as much as she would have expected.

After the initial shock coursing through her veins, it became a dull throb. After she had fallen to the stone floor, and heard the vampanezes' crazy cackle of glee, it wasn't as bad as she would have anticipated.

Time seemed to pass slowly, almost as if there was no time. She was rushed to a small cavern where they were treating wounded vampires and vampaneze alike. The medics surrounded her, trying to decide whether or not she was worth the trouble of repair. Murmured words filled her ears, but none of them were comforting.

"Is that Arra Sails?" "Will she live?" "Glalda…she hurt her badly…" They surrounded her, suffocated her, grabbed a hold of her neck and tightened their grips until she felt light headed and queasy. How could she, the female vampire who had brought honor back into being female, have been defeated so easily; so quickly? She always hoped a worthy vampire would be the one to defeat her. Not a spit-worthy vampaneze. But, here she laid, bedridden thanks to a wound a vampaneze had given her.

Her hands were warm, wet, and sticky. She knew it was with her own blood, but couldn't find it within herself to necessarily care. She was going to die—she knew it, and she accepted it. Death was, after all, the worst life could throw at her. And, even though she was terribly afraid, she knew she would be taken to Paradise. She lived an honorable life, did not kill purposely, and stood by her fellow vampires through and through. There was no doubt in her mind that she would make it there.

Breaths came out heavily and raggedly, scraping against her and making her feel raw and used. She gasped, coughed, spluttered—but still they came irregularly, sometimes coming in quick succession and other times causing her to seem almost dead.

The pain wasn't horrible, however. It was a dull, aching, despairing throb. It sent her body falling rigid, unable to move for fear her bones would creak with the effort. The worst of the pain was her pride. Her pride. Her horrible, strong, thick vampric pride. It was crushed and beaten, thanks to the vampaneze Glalda.

"Arra?" came a whispered voice. But Arra was buried deep within her anger at herself for letting herself be beaten so easily. Perhaps she could stand even going to the Lake of Souls as long as she could redeem her high standard. As long as stories would be told about her and her bravery. But, she knew they would not tell stories about a woman vampire—a woman vampire, that is, who got themselves murdered by a vampaneze.

"Arra," the voice breathed once more. It was a familiar voice; one she often heard when she was alone in her cavern or alone elsewhere. A voice she would often draw to when down trodden. But still, she refused to take comfort in the simple notion that he still cared for her half as much as she cared for him. How could he love such a disgusting, easily defeated vampire? It was impossible for her to comprehend. He was a vampire of high standing; a vampire so many believed should become a Prince. And here he sat, by her—a lowly and dejected woman. Impossible.

A cool hand snatched hers into its grasp, tightening the grip and stroking her fingers gently. "Arra, if you are awake, answer me, please," he begged, obviously whispering next to her ear. "If you are awake, let me know, please, I just want to talk to you."

"Lar," Arra managed, but then felt the warm liquid seeping from her lips and stopped. The man beside her choked, obviously concealing his tears. He still stroked her hand in a soothing manner, circles first and then straight paths up and down each finger. "Lar…ten…" she finished, coughing erratically after the simple word. She opened her eyes, painfully, and looked into the tight face of Larten Crepsley.

"Arra," he muttered, his face close to hers. He took his free hand and held her face within his fingers. Arra let a smile curve her lips, her eyes clouded. She was such a disgusting and unworthy vampire, yet here he sat—the vampire that she deserved the least—crying inwardly for her. He lifted his hand away from her face and began to smooth down her black hair. "Oh, Arra…"

"I'm…sorry," she said, still smiling softly. Tears ran into Larten's eyes, but didn't spill down his cheeks. She knew that he was trying to hide behind his barrier of manly vampirism, and she knew that inside, somewhere deep inside, he was dying along with her. "Sorry…I'm dying…sorry…"

Larten put a finger to her lips, not caring he was already bloodier than he was when he came in. "Do not," he shushed. "Do not be sorry for anything. You are not to blame. I will never, ever blame you."

She raised her hand, through the tremendous effort, and laid it carefully upon his cheek. "I'm still…sorry…" she mumbled beneath his finger. "Sorry you…love me so much."

Larten shook his head, letting a few tears fall accidentally. "Do not be sorry for that, of all things," he snorted quietly. "I love you because I love you. There is nothing to be sorry about—you are my Arra. You are my life. While I traveled…I always thought of you. I could not wait to see you once again. I was hoping that maybe we could get another ten years or so together…" he smiled sadly. "Maybe in Paradise?"

Arra nodded even though it pained her to do so. "I always…felt the same way…Larten," she told him. She coughed horribly after that, blood spilling onto Larten's front. But Larten didn't care. More tears seeped through his barrier as he watched the one woman he ever loved die.

They sat, silently, staring at each other. Arra couldn't shed any tears, although she wanted to—she was beyond death, but her soul clung to her body in a feeble attempt to stay with Larten, as well as to make a request upon him. She coughed once more, then managed a simple, "Promise me…you won't let them…hurt Darren. He will become…a great vampire."

Larten nodded, laughing weakly. "You sound just like Harkat," he said between his depressed giggles. Arra smiled at his gesture to calm himself and looked up toward the ceiling.

"Tell Harkat…I say to take care…of Darren as well."

"I will. I promise."

Larten lowered his head and rested his forehead on Arra's. He closed his eyes and breathed slowly. "Please don't leave me," he whispered. Tears fell freely now, unable to be contained.

It was Arra's turn to put a slow finger to his lips. "Don't," she repeated. "I'm not leaving…you. Meet me…in Paradise," she smiled softly, then closed her eyes. Her heart beat began to slow even further down, before completely stopping. But, before she slowly disappeared into the veil of death, she whispered out a strained sentence; one that Larten had never truthfully heard her say. "I love you."

"I love you too, Arra," Larten mumbled into her ear as she let out her final, shuddering breath.