"Peace, peace, everything will be all right." A lie dragged from behind clenched teeth, a quiet and cruel hope that will live no longer than she. There is a sincerity to his face that cracks the once stern set of his expression, leaving behind a softness reflected too in the way he rests her head upon his lap and holds her hand (bloodied, wet and warm with life, hold on brave one, hold on, hold on--) with a firm and solid grasp. "There is a story already written of you, did you know? Of a warrior born and raised from the badlands, a wolf in man-shape that roamed and stalked and howled all through the Mistwoods. Bold and fierce, stronger than stone. She is Merri, and the tale of her will be sung at every table and told around every campfire. She will tell the tale herself, won't she?" ((for the "what are your last words to my muse if they're dying meme" :'D ))
Her breathing came at irregular intervals, and the sound dragged in her throat, cut at the edge with something wet that stained the snow beneath them scarlet. One hand had tangled itself in Brom's, fingers quaking; the other clung still to her rapier, bent but not broken by a blow from a giant. Twitching, she attempted to pull it closer, as if intending to fix it herself that very moment. But instead, she lost her grip, and watched as the blade rolled twice and then stopped, now out of reach. A sound that might have been a grunt of frustration or an effort to swallow tears slipped out from between her teeth.
Merri had died so many times before, sometimes with an annoyed groan, oftentimes with an embarrassed grin. She neither grinned nor groaned now; instead, her jaw ground, and she screwed up her face in an expression that was two parts anger, one part despair. Then, as the minutes passed, anger began to lose ground, and for the first time, abject misery overcame Merri's countenance, and the tears finally breached the dam and came flooding out.
"Brom," she gagged out. "No. No, they— they won't. I won't." Her eyes were overflowing, and she clutched at Brom's hand compulsively. "I'm— I don't— I'm s-so stupid. I don't even— don't know what I'm d-doing— here." The snow stretched out for miles around them. It clung to her hair and eyebrows, and did not melt. "Am I really— from the Badlands? Or am I just— j-just— who am I?" Merri of the Mistwood? The wood. Oh, how she missed her wood. Her wood. By the stars there had been a time when she had known what it was to be herself and for a place to belong to her, not as a lord-hopeful, but as an inhabitant — as a part of the trees themselves. That had been the time of action, when every rock and road had beckoned to be turned over and followed and explored. Of course, she had wondered who she was; but more so she had wondered at where she was, and wandered much indeed. There had been no room in her heart for emptiness to take hold, for it had been full to bursting with excitement. Green grass and gentle water, and no shades of gold to haunt her. Adventure had come not from facing down gods and beasts, but from tripping upon a patrol and seeing how efficiently she could scale the nearest cliff and escape, laughing all the while. Now it was all so far away. And the further it receded in her mind, the fainter the light grew in her eyes.
"I want— to go back. I w-want it all to be new again. The world— the world was full of things. B-but now there's nothing. Is that— my fault? When did it stop... being fun? How did it get so— when did I get so... tell me, Brom— when did I become—?" Whatever she'd meant to say, it was lost with the snow as her body disintegrated.
