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
