Life slips through—his mouth, no, his fingers. Liquid. He chokes back salty tears that would betray him, fall in with their brethren, the sea. Then he opens his eyes, and no longer drowns in memories.
Red water still stains his skin, he fears.
Three fingers to the mouth. The tongue tastes: steel, and sharp words.
"The earth is drowning," he had told the solemn man, the townspeople prying past these thin walls. "We must leave!"
The man had looked at him with sad eyes. "Many would perish in the journey." More softly, still: "The water moves no more, child. These people live."
Unlike his people.
Water had stained his vision red. His mind whirled with thoughts and in the rush of whispers between them, he heard only: "You cannot take my daughter with you."
This, he remembers. Yet two more men had fallen on the earth, steeping it in blood. He knows them, and knows that he does not deserve her.