Broken

"I feel…".

Not pain, no, in spite of that welling blood.

But, for one blessed moment, bright, full-blown sensation.

Uneven rock beneath his boots.

His clothing: an enveloping, sliding, catching resonance.

The embrace of his mutilated hat.

The heavy heat of sword and pistol.

Air: humid, and chill, and… ah, God, the sea!

And fainter scents: gold. And burnt powder.

The weight of eyes: behind him, eager as young crows'; before him, beautiful and hated, and dark with portent and…was it pity?

His guts twisting… but fading, now.

Everything fading, dreamlike, leaving nothing in it's wake. Nothing except…

"…cold."

o-o-o