Final Hour
My God, it was so hot. I felt the twelfth droplet of sweat this hour slid from my forehead to my eyes. There was nothing to do but count droplets and wait to die. I knew this fact better than I knew anything at this moment. I couldn't remember exactly where I was…hell, I could barely distinguish reality from heat delirium at this point. But dying…of that, I was certain.
Each rise and fall of my chest brought a wave of sticky steam through my muscles. My body felt like at any moment it would fall into convulsions, yet my mind knew I didn't have the energy to accomplish even that. The heat was unbearable. Each time I struggled to open my eyes all I would see was a blur of colors and foreign objects before my lids grew too heavy to stay open.
But oh, the heat! God, would there be no release soon? I could barely form two thoughts without my mind dropping back into contemplations of the temperature. It was like my brain was burning from the same inescapable fire that seared my skin and lungs. I longed for relief, even in death.
The longing grew greater, unbearable almost, for the feel of ice on my skin. Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I knew it would be coming soon. I could feel its approach, and I fought against the delirium that threatened to overtake me once again. Icy relief always let me know when it was getting near. I sensed it, way back in that dark recess of my mind, that recess which held the only sense that remained unclouded through the heat.
Oh, Lord, the fire was overwhelming. My skin felt drenched and my body melted helplessly into the wet sheets of this foreign cot. I nearly cried out when I felt the ice press against my forehead. He was here. Relief was here. I knew him even in my darkest hours. When Relief was here, I sensed determination. Strength radiated from his mind like it did from no one else I could remember in my short seventeen years, and I clung to his solidity.
As his long fingers dabbed the sweat from my brow, I struggled to open those heavy lids. As the room shimmered into view, I attempted to break through the fog and bring my angel of Relief into focus. I had never been able to see him clearly, but I had always distinguished him by what I sensed. Inhuman was the best way I could describe him, I supposed. He never exuded the same exhaustion, or fragility that normal people did. If I had met him on the street, back before the fire had overtaken me, I assume he would have frightened and confused me. Now, I only longed for his icy touch; it was the only thing holding me from slipping into the fires of death.
Today was different. I could sense it in him. Conflict clouded his usual confident determination. Something was wrong, and it made me frown. I stared at him, trying to make sense of what emotions I could read in his mind. My stare seemed to pull at him, and I could feel his indecision waver.
My angel was lonely, that was easy enough to tell. Having spent my life as an Empath, there were certain emotions which screamed louder than others. Extreme loneliness was one of the hardest to ignore. It made me sad, sensing this feeling of isolation in him as he tended me morning and night, but it never made me stop wishing for him to come back.
I opened my lips in an attempt to speak and felt them crack harshly with the effort. It was then that I realized I must not have spoken in days. I grimly acknowledged that unconsciousness was slowly taking control of my mind. The dry breath that rushed out burned my throat, summoning a cough that I had barely enough strength to manage. I closed my lips again. Speaking was apparently no longer an option.
Relief placed icy hands on my throat, as if to check my pulse, but I sensed no concentration from him. No mental calculation. I had realized early that he was not like the other doctors or nurses. Somehow I knew he could count my heartbeats without touching my skin. My Relief went through this procedural contact with me to help cool me, to give me the frigid wash of his touch. It helped sooth the fever I battled meekly against. For some reason, I knew relief wouldn't like drawing attention to the icy stone feel of his skin, so I never acknowledged that I knew these differences about him.
I concentrated once again on his emotions, slightly distraught by the foreign uncertainty that wracked my Relief. Loneliness battled frustration, and longing battled righteousness. I wondered briefly if once I died, my angel of Relief would be in heaven. There was no doubt he was a good man. I spent a large part of my life flooded with the evil, malicious emotions of the humans around me, and I knew my angel was uniquely good. I hated seeing him suffer.
In a burst of energy that I knew would cost me later, I slowly lifted one slippery hand from my side and placed it on Relief's. The conflict inside him raged as he looked at our two hands, mine burning on top of his, and I felt resolution slide into place. Content that I had done what I could to sooth him, I felt unconsciousness once again grip at the corners of my mind.
As reality hazed in and out, I was vaguely aware of my Relief wrapping me in his arms and lifting me out of the pools of my own sweat. I gave myself in to the ice that engulfed me against his chest.
The darkness slipped its heavy blanket over my thoughts, and in my last moments of human consciousness, I acknowledged gratefully the cool night air against my burning cheeks. So this is death, I thought, as I pressed my face against my Relief. I welcomed it.
Disclaimer: None of the characters in this story belong to me. They are the property of Stephanie Meyer. No profit is being derived from this work, and it is not intended to violate any copyright law.