Wait. Stop. Turn around.
Don't remember.
Think.
Tear the curtains open.
Rip them apart.
An arrow sunk into her neck. A crimson outpouring of blood, the scattered moonlight painting strips of bone white onto her cheek like war paint that had long since faded.
Destroy. One second, move a bit to the left, release.
The bowstring twanged, the arrow whistled, she fell to her knees, the curve of her neck ravaged by torn flesh and runed iron.
Pause. Lift your arms.
The blood drained from her face, and the shadows outlined her, made the runes sliced over her cheeks glow.
Don't stop.
She was art, lying there in a pool of blood, illuminated by streetlamps and stardust.
Stop.
Her hair lay fanned out around her face like the night around the moon, and the individual strands, long and thick, gave her wings of black.
Look, stare, glance.
She already looked like a skeleton, the almost light illuminating the sharp bones of her body, the absence of blood bleaching her ivory against ebony.
Remember.
Her lips were settled into a fierce cry, slightly open, and even though the night was cold, no thin mist rose above her, nothing that would give her breath. Her chest was still, and her mouth arctic.
Recall.
She still had the countenance of an angel.