His body slumped further, dead weight as he was dragged on, gripping weakly to Cal. Each jolt of it felt like powdered glass shattering his bones, his bleeding worsening until his clothing felt as though he had swam in it. The strength that moved him was irresistible and unstoppable, and he was too weak to stop it, too weak to slip out of Cal’s arms and to shiver and let the pain fade away while the newborn light of the sun arched over the horizon. Too weak, and Cal was too strong. He tried with trembling hands to push him away, but his hands soon stopped responding.
The word was choked out between gasped inhalations, barely audible at all. Giles closed his eyes, feeling his body tugged onwards as though pulled by the tide. There was agony, but it felt strangely distant at the same time, and a great deal of fear. He closed his eyes, and like a child does to comfort himself, imagined himself somewhere else, surrounded by his crew, by Jorah, by Mikah, by Harvey. Imagined himself somewhere dark and warm where death might be like slipping into a heated bath, sent on his way by gentle, loving touches and soft voices. He would be held, and talked to gently, and he wouldn’t be so afraid.
He wouldn’t be in so much pain, in so much fear, begging his friend, his murderer for some shred of mercy when there was none. This was how he would die? In an agonizing, desperate attempt by Cal to give himself something that he wanted? He shivered violently against the other man. “I d—don’t want to go,” he whispered thickly.
Time ticked on, and he slumped against him even more, his soaked body leaving a clear trail behind them. He could feel his heart start to become erratic as his consciousness began to waver, felt his breathing choke off as the blood fully filled his lungs. Panic filled him, and he spasmed in Cal’s arms, violent, desperate, surprisingly strong in his instinctual fear, blood running from his lips in a heavier stream. It wasn’t enough. He could see patterns form as he fought for breath as he asphyxiated, the faint light of the trees reflected, the hard line of Cal’s shoulder under his arm giving him some kind of awareness. His chest hitched desperately, trying to bring in air into his ruined body, trying to breathe. His mind slowly began to shut down, and aware of it, he was terrified.
His fingers weakly wrapped into the fabric of Cal’s coat.
There was a little boy and he was crying, curled up in his bed alone. He did not know that he would grow to be the man they called the righteous man, that that slim, straight youth would set the world afire, ignorant of his own destruction. He had chosen love, and it had murdered him.
They made him want to live, they made him, and he fought, and he struggled in his arms. He couldn’t do this, he had to go
there was so much work to be done
and it was getting dark, his vision dimming, the sound of his blood on sand fading into a useless haze. He could no longer see, his last sight the way the light glinted off the horizon, filling the world with a look of gold
and there was darkness then
and something beyond the darkness
and it hurt, but it was numb and beyond the tears
and there were points of light, gleaming in the blackness
his body spasmed again, like a hooked fish, violent, and then shuddered as it began to go still
there were points of light
His head slowly fell to the side as his hand relaxed on Cal’s shoulder, dropping, hanging in his grip. Bloodied lips parted, receiving no air, his eyes fixed, open and dark, nearly closed but not entirely, the light draining from them completely. His chest hitched once, his lips moved, and then there was nothing and he was beautiful. He was marble and he was still.
There was nothing, but the sound of something like rain, and the glint of the sun on his bright hair like a burnished crown.
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