Make one dream come true.

Blood, his. He was lying in it and at first it had been warm, surprisingly warm. But then his eyes blinked closed, and when he opened them again, the blood was cooler, thicker now. Lights flickered on the ceiling, white lights. Lightning? He couldn’t hear anything. Not the clap of thunder, and even the screaming was gone. He couldn’t remember when it had stopped. There was something sitting, frightened, in the back of his mind and desperately he tried to bring it forth, to… remember, but forever it seemed he was trapped in a tiny split of time, dumb. In the tips of his fingers, coldness was beginning and he felt it climb into the palms of his hands, through his veins (but it was nothing, emptiness) and into his arms. He thought he should move them, wake them up and put the life back into them. When he did, his fingers were stiff and numb. The fingers of his right hand were closed around something, hard and warm compared to his skin. He didn’t know what it was, but as he turned his head to see, those frightened thoughts came forward.

Larkin released the gun, aware that his grip had been deathlike. Names - important names - entered his mind. Miraye, Tic. Miraye. He knew what was in his chest, and he could feel it, not pain but presence, and he knew who put it there. He knew why there had been a gun in his hand, a strong sense of victory filling him, defeat forgotten just for a moment - wiped away suddenly by a choking voice, watery with blood, “I promise I will haunt you,” making him turn his head, turn to see her. Dead, he knew it; he could no longer taste her life in the air, or smell it. Triumph again at her death, confirmed when he saw her slack face, eyes staring open at him. The stink of her life was gone. Larkin felt that he should breathe the air, the air free of her, but as he tried, something stopped him. The pressure of the sword in his chest, a pain that he knew was there, just couldn’t feel.

The sword was dead, magic having faded with its owner’s life, but it remained in his chest and he didn’t look at it, or touch it. He didn’t want to, he was afraid. For the first time, he felt the shadow of death looming over him. Could feel it taking him by the hands to lead him away. No. He would not be lead away like a child. Still, he stared into Miraye’s dead eyes, refusing to close his own. His lids were growing heavy and he looked past her, seeing all that death had taken. The lives of those he knew, so many of them. A massacre. He tried to think, to see what might lie in the future, what so many deaths meant. What the death of Miraye meant, but it became a struggle he couldn’t win. His thoughts were falling away, everything in the edge of his grasp and further.

He closed his eyes as if it would help, but suddenly felt like the floor had dropped from under him, and it was the last time he willingly closed them that night. For a long time after they opened again, confusion held Larkin and everything in his vision was white. A blurred, moving white cloud. Red around the edges, carnage around the edges. What was this, had he really opened his eyes or were they still closed? No, he touched his face, his eyes, saw his hand. Blood dripped from his palm, ran down his arm, cold. If there were not a sword in his chest, he would have shivered. The blood was black, almost. In some places, his white glove had become pink, pink and red against this white thing that blocked his view of Miraye and the battlefield ballroom. He forced his eyes to focus.

Oh, Tic. Not her.

No.

Movement sent a wave of pain through him, slapping him awake again and again until he couldn’t be anymore aware of what was happening. The sound of rain drummed in his ears, the boom of thunder and slick, wet sounds as he moved to push himself up. He felt the sword shift inside him, and the agony was too much for even a scream. Larkin hunched over and took the blade between his palms. Scared or not, the sword was coming out of him. It was suddenly a poisonous thing; Miraye’s weapon, dirty and the urge to be clean of it overtook him. He pulled hard, his body, his flesh and bones did not seem to want to release it. It came, though, and with a sound that made him sick. It clattered when it hit the floor, a sound strangely loud, and his head pounding; Larkin let himself fall back into the blood, his blood and her blood. But this was not what he wanted to do, and he turned on his side, felt the numbness again, and reached out for Tic.

Fingers cold, wet with blood around that fragile, thin ankle. His grasp was weaker than he thought. Larkin lifted his eyes, saw Miraye in Tic’s arms, dead - triumph, and then saw those eyes, Tic’s beautiful eyes that had looked upon him only in fear, worry, weak defiance before this. Now, the boy’s expression was different. There was nothing in it, empty. It was… it was cold. As cold as the fingers he pulled his foot from. Larkin’s hand fell back onto the marble, and he could only watch as the boy left. His body would not work, his legs were dead things on him, and turned his face to look around. Sound left and the silence was back, and the only thing that hurt now was his head. His mind would not think in its pain, and maybe it was better, because if he thought what Tic’s escape meant, he would have gladly let death take him.

No matter anything, he still knew this was wrong. Tic should not be allowed to do this. It shouldn’t be happening at all. Larkin turned his head again, felt his eyes grow moist. He ought to be getting up. Lying in this blood was doing him no good. The smell was strong, but his breathing was shallow, almost none, and he saw Tic again, carrying her away. And again, his eyes. Violet torment, his desperation grew suddenly and he was struggling in the syrupy red pool, arching his back to move, trying to sit up again with his numb arms. They slipped out from under him and his hair, sticky wet strands, stuck to him everywhere, and soaked locks slung around his neck.

There was a hand suddenly, he could barely feel it, but it was on him, his chest. Whoever it was pushed hard, and Larkin felt a new warmth beneath him. Was all this blood his own? What a blow she had dealt. What a blow, who is this?

“… after him,” Larkin screamed, closing his eyes thereafter.