i. She fell, the battlefield silencing as the mighty huntress was struck off her steed, impaled and bound to the bloodstained dirt, spear through her torso.
ii. A scream of anguish, flowering across the still pool of fighters, the clatter of sword and shield and armor as he abandons it all for his only. Impaled. Bleeding. Dying
iii. Cries of triumph and victory roll over enemy tongues; stung and spun like hornets and locusts taking flight. The old daímonas has fallen; the war was as good as over. Loss – a great deal, in one day.
iv. She looks up at him as he comes staggering to her, dark eyes flickering from behind pale eyelashes, black pearls shying inside alabaster shells. A face so impossibly young – a child slain, exorcised.
v. The old daímonas was not a child. She carried ancient orders, oracles instilled in her memory and empires vowed under her power; empires whose holy roots would shrivel with her death.
vi. He gasps her name, a name hidden behind the title ‘old daimonas’. A name only he knows. Collapsing by her side, grasping her small strong hands, he prays. Breathe, breathe with me.
vii. She clutches onto him with, yielding strength impossible for a broken body. His knees swim in dusty pools of her life, warm blood soaking through leather. I cannot breathe, dear one she says.
viii. Tangles of sweat soaked hair catch at his fingers, and he smooths them away from her cold skin. Ferocity and determination have fled her, leaving behind a jaw that held no stubborn edge, eyes that didn’t burn with anger no more.
ix. They both knew she would not live, and her beautifully marred features blur through the tears in his eyes. He buries his face in the hollow of her collarbone, and she reaches out and runs a hand over the back of his head.
x. She tries to speak, but a wet cough takes its place. He can smell blood on her breath, her smiling lips a grotesque sight. Tears stream down his cheeks, and he leans in to kiss her. Blood, a tangy taste, fills him.The old daímonas is crying. But her last words are ever an order against his lips. Red looks beautiful on you, my old daímonas.
- the old daímonas doesn’t die, the title lives on | euphemia
