Ridiculous
What a ridiculous way to die.
Somehow, that is the only thought wandering back and forth in my head as I lie on the dirty wooden floor.
Of course, it is no one's fault but my own. As was everything, always. But nevertheless. What an utterly ridiculous way to die.
Being struck down on the battlefield by one of my 'previous' allies – would have been expected and not anything to mourn.
Being executed by my own 'official' side for double-crossing – would have been irritating, but completely deserved a punishment for making a slip after years of immaculate spying.
Being struck down on the battlefield by one of my 'official' allies – would have been a logical result of placing myself between a curse and a person, and something I had always felt I was destined to do, for some reason.
Being executed by my 'previous' allies for the murder I have committed – would have been anticipated and generally liberating.
Being killed in a duel by the one person I had always felt I was destined to die protecting – would have been vaguely satisfying.
Being discarded by my 'official' side for reasons of pure convenience – was ridiculous.
If there is one thing about my predicament that is making it even more laughable, it is the fact that I am still alive. Instead of dying quickly and peacefully, with the knowledge of having fulfilled my duty, I have to die slowly and stupidly, with the knowledge of having been revoltingly melodramatic.
The one person I have to thank for that would be myself. No one forced my hand when I downed the potions I had prepared to increase my survival chances in a battle. Increased acuteness of the senses only gave me the opportunity to hear the distant sounds of battle. Enhanced coagulation only served to clot my wounds somewhat and leave the unbearable throbbing pain, which in itself was not enough to pass out on. Reduced heart rate only prevented me from losing enough blood to die, leaving something to remain barely alive, slipping in and out of consciousness but always regrettably returning.
I will last several hours before the effect of the potions wears off, and even if the wounds remain clotted, it will not be long before the combination of pain, blood loss, and the extreme weakness that is the price for drinking survival potions finishes me off.
It will not be long. That is a thought to hold on to. I will last several hours before 'it will not be long'. That is a thought that feels unbearable.
Somehow, the idea of having to wait hours before I can die is even more intolerable than the physical pain. Something in my mind tells me with crystal clarity that I am going to go insane before that. I cannot name a reason for it, because there are too many, entwined and combined in horrendous ways.
I cannot bear this. I do not have to bear this. I will not bear this.
Moving my hand, which inexplicably feels as if made of lead, is an ordeal. After some seconds, stretched beyond any human measure, I succeed in reaching into a miniature well-concealed pocket that has always held an escape. One can hardly be a double agent without always carrying an escape with them.
It will not be long after all. One thought still to hold on to.
My fingers grasp fabric. And nothing else.
No.
Gathering the remnants of my strength, I reach deeper.
Pain. Sharp for a moment, then dulling and fading into insignificance.
No.
I bring my hand in front of my eyes. A few shards of glass are piercing my fingers.
NO!
My eyes shut, I clench my fist on the shards, pressing them deep into the palm. A few drops of blood fall on my face. I feel them mingle with another pair of drops that escape from under my eyelids.