Author's note: I know this has probably been done a million times, but I had to write something from my Creative Writing class and decided to try writing a fanfic without giving any important details or names that would clue in someone who hasn't read the books what this is all about. And no, there's not going to be a sequel, because I ended it that way on purpose. One-shot. Not slash, not suicidefic. Just plain angst and evilness. Yes, I know the title sucks, but I couldn't think of a better one in such a short time… Un-beta'ed.
Fear of Death
Pain—one simple little word—one simple little word that everyone feels. Pain is what unites the world. Pain is what unites me with the rest of the world. Pain is my savior, the only thing keeping me from slipping away forever into the abyss. Pain—it reminds me that I do not wish to die.
I feel only pain—not the blood-soaked robes clinging to my chest, not the cold gravel pressing against my back, nor the dagger protruding harshly from my stomach. I did not expect it to end like this, I did not want it to end like this—why? He is gone—killed, destroyed by the boy—why now? How could I live my entire life imprisoned only to die when I am finally free? It is not fair!
A harsh laugh escapes from my lips, bringing forth another spasm of coughing—another spasm of pain—another splash of crimson against my pain skin and white lips. Life is never fair—did I not tell the boy that? I wonder if he is still alive—not that I care, the brat, the hero. People will celebrate his deeds as vigorously as they forget mine. Now that it is all over, I am nothing more than trash, nothing more than refuse—a former shadow of the man I used to be. But how could I not be—how could I not feel so hollow inside? I had led many I had once called friends to their deaths—many more had been captured and the vilest of them would soon suffer a fate worse than death.
Death—yes, the luckiest ones were already dead. The less lucky were near the brink of death, beyond all hope of salvation. Those unluckiest of them all were unharmed or barely injured. It matters not—we will all go to the same place in the end. Or is that place even real? Will we just suddenly cease to exist?
Feeling myself slowly growing numb, I cling onto the pain, focusing on it—begging it not to let me go. I become aware of my heart hammering wildly—although weakly—against my chest, reinforcing the red stain growing on the stone and dirt. Adrenaline rushes through my draining veins, expelling more blood as my heart beats quicker. My fear of dying only hastens my death.
Everything is out of focus—my sight, my past, my thoughts—it is getting harder to coerce my thoughts into existence. The only thing I can see is my future—my death. Darkness—the ultimate darkness, the final darkness—it beacons me, calling out my name in longing. I try not to heed it—after all I have been through, I will be damned if I let such a little thing as a dagger kill me now!
I fade out for a moment and come to on my elbows and knees, unable to remember how I had pulled myself up. There are voices up ahead and I crawl slowly, desperately, blindly, towards them—for once not caring who sees me in my weakness. After nearly four decades of life, I can afford to show weakness just once. Someone see me—see me in my weakness—please! I cannot die—not now, please! By Merlin, let me live!
I freeze when my palm touches dewy grass—a split second later, I feel myself slipping, falling. My mouth opens in silent horror, my arms and legs suddenly immobile once more. The ground shoves the dagger's pummel farther into my stomach—my mouth lets out a scream with breath I have not to spare.
Voices begin to shout ahead of me, but I cannot make out their words, much less who is yelling them. I can hardly recognize them as voices anymore—my hearing is fading like the rest of me, like my lifeblood. Just as I try to push myself up again I feel hands grab me around my shoulders, turning me over gently. I squint my eyes, trying to bring the person's face into focus. Scrawny arms are holding me, as the boy—that boy—shouts something—probably my surname. Damn it. Anyone but him.
Inexplicable relief floods through me—so he did survive. Wait—why am I relieved? I hate the boy! After everything his father did to—
Everything fades in and out again—my eyes go wide when I feel him cradling my head in his lap—what, why? The girl—the girl that is always with him—she is trying to stem the flow of blood, trying to wrap her cloak around the dagger in order to stabilize it. I only hear two voices, although I cannot make out what they are saying—the boy's other companion must have run for help.
Help? They—they are trying to save me? But—why? They hate me as much as I hate them! So why would—of course, it is the noble thing to do. The boy speaks, but I cannot hear what he is saying—is he trying to comfort me? But—but—God. Damn. It.
Darkness tries to consume me again and I blindly reach out for something, anything, to hold onto. My hand closes tightly around his arm as I fight back the dizziness—the last time I grabbed his arm like this I was angry, not scared of dying. How ironic—I doubt the irony escapes even the boy. His voice goes in and out of focus, mostly out—I cannot tell if he is angry or upset with this—probably both. He never could sort out his emotions completely, always thinking with his heart before his head. I stare up at his blurry face in confusion—where could he possibly find the strength to comfort someone who always tried to make his time at school a living hell? The entire thing is incomprehensible to me—his father had saved my life, but he never would have gone as far as to offer comfort.
His mother would have, though—the boy is so much like his mother—why did I not notice it sooner? The eyes—they are his mother's eyes—she would have done this, she would have done this for me. He looks like his father, so much like his father—yet the eyes are said to be the window to one's soul. Maybe it is not complete rubbish after all.
My sight goes out of focus once more, but this time it does not come back to me. Sweat mats my hair to my brow. I feel so thirsty—God, I feel so thirsty. It is getting harder and harder to breathe. The world is spinning and I clutch the boy's arm tighter in an effort to make it stop. Slowly, my vision is narrowing, blackness creeping in from the corners of my eyes—soon I will not be able to see at all. Oh God, oh God—I want to live!
Noise comes from the direction of the castle—is someone shouting? I am staring at the boy—he is looking away from me, towards the shouts. They must be coming for me, but they are probably already too late. I doubt I will live till morning—although that will not stop me from trying. Few will mourn my death, in the end, regardless if I die now or later.
It suddenly becomes important to speak to the boy—there seems to be a million things I wan to say to him. Why do I care what he thinks of me now—will a few words overwrite seven years of hatred and pain? He is not his father—I can see that now, too late—I can see that now.
The boy still is not looking at me, looking pointedly into the distance. I stir and try to sit up, forcing his attention onto me once more—he forces me down and shouts something, My grip on his arm is the only strength I have left—but now that I have his attention, I do not know what to say, what to tell him. I can feel my mouth opening and closing soundlessly—he looks scared—no, he looks terrified. Does the boy actually fear for my life—if so, why? A man can suffer worse deaths—but I want to live—I want to…
My grip hardens with the last of my strength—the boy's eyes are staring into my own—I cannot hold off the darkness much longer. Desperation sets in and forces words into my mouth, horrible words that I hope will not prove to be my last. "…Please, don't l-let me d-die…"