Characters: Twilight, Wild.
“Twilight,” Wild’s voice sounded breathy, like he was winded, and wet, like he was drowning.
“It’s okay, it’s gonna be okay, I promise” he whispered, eyes painfully fixated in front of him.
The bottle was right there.
The fairy was less than an arms length away from him, taunting him from where it fell out of his bag, which lay on its side, the contents spilled out.
Coughing, more than what the boy could handle. Because that’s what he was, just a boy. Small and fragile and completely bathed in his own blood.
Twilight lifted one hand off Wilds chest from where it was pressing on the wound, and it immediately began to gush.
Twilight’s hand withdrew from where he went to reach for the fairy.
He couldn’t do it. By the time he uncorked the bottle, Wild would have bled out. He only had seconds, and that wasn’t enough time.
Twilight’s face remained calm, even as he began to tremble, and even as he felt the creaking of ribs caving in from the force of his palms.
More coughing, more blood. A crack of a rib snapping.
Twilight’s breath was slow and shallow as he watched Wild’s head lull to the side.
He took a few more raspy breaths, so weak they didn’t even move past his throat.
The fairy chimed furiously from inside the glass bottle.
There was no use, they were doomed from the start.
A heaviness clogged Twilight’s throat and tightened his lungs.
His breaths remained shallow, making him light headed and nauseous. Tears flooded his pale face.
His eyes remained calm as he watched the light leave the eyes of someone he’d given his heart and soul to.
Twilight’s palms shook as he lifted them from the corpse.
No more blood spilled from the body so much smaller than he remembered it being.
There was no life behind those dull blue eyes, that stared off into the distance.
It had been so beautiful, the field they sat in. The flowers, every colour imaginable, covering every inch of the ground for miles. The breeze was so soft and the sun so gentle.
The soil under Twilights knees soaked his clothes. They felt sticky, like his hands.
A shame, that his tunic was no longer green. He liked his tunic.
He took a deep, long breath.
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