A soft winter breeze brushed against the man's armor as he collapsed to the ground, underneath a large tree to shade him from the bright moonlight, sitting within the shimmer of the starry night sky. He was tired, exhausted—too tired to lift himself up. His legs were swelling, his feet aching and throbbing in his metallic boots. He was hot despite the cold weather; he wished he had not been wearing such a protective piece—heavy the armor was—now that he was lying here, but he'd be dead if it weren't for it. At least he would've been dead a good long while ago.
It must've been a punishment from God; this was. Some poor women had caught him grabbing a young boy from the shadows of an alleyway. Moments later, the mob followed. Now here he was. He wasn't angry. He didn't have the right to feel that way after all he had done.
The baker in the next town over, the drunk bastard dancing about the street from about three weeks ago, that damn begger who wasn't really blind or disabled—old fool was faking it for the money—and the young boy just moments ago. He didn't enjoy it, drawing his dagger to harm that boy, maybe about seven. He would've instead taken any drunk or thief in the area, but the boy was the closest, the easiest, the quickest there was. A gentle slit or prick, collect what was needed and run. It made it easier that he was dressed in such noble attire, the armor. He didn't steal it off a poor lad or anything; he was actually worthy of wearing such armor. He could've lived a relatively comfortable life actually. Love got in the way of that though.
He imagined love to have been like how it was told in the stories his parents—well-mannered and belly-filled types of people—told him. Some damsel needing to be saved and a dashing prince or knight protecting them from harm before carrying the pretty girl into the warmth of a home, plentiful food, and riches—a rare combination in these times. No, love was not like this. If anything, right at this moment, he could only describe it as bittersweet (he didn't use such a word since he wasn't too educated, instead he used "a good pain" to explain what he was feeling). How could he only feel good when he was in such humid pain, a warm, heavy river flowing from his body and seeping into the tall grass beneath him? Yet how could it only feel bad, with the comfort that he knew that his beloved was safe? He was so sure of it. She was the reason for all this bloodshed, though it was only a minor cost.
Pitch pitchforks bounced off the Blood Demon as he blungened a drunk with the hilt of his spadone, a metal beast that towered over the normal man. He endured a blade piercing through a gap in his armor—a furious cry raged through the small, angry mob of townsmen—when he saw her on the roof of the local tavern, watching. He gritted his teeth through the pain and swung his weapon, slicing and dicing his way through the men. Flesh was torn and cut by both the jagged and smooth edges of the beast, bone was crushed and snapped under the weight of the monster, made more potent by the determination of the man, and the angry shoutings turned into cries, then the cries turned into begs, and the begs turned into silence. When he looked up, she was…gone.
He sighed and waited, the grass becoming wetter as the seconds went by. Was she going to make him wait, even as he was dying? He chuckled.
Classic.
She would be here through; she always came. Then, before he knew it, a soft whisper came from the air.
"Tarhos, my love."
Tarhos, the man, tiredly lifted his head, seeing his beloved for him; how beautiful and young she was. Long, dark brown hair that formed messy curls the further they dropped down, a small, round face with the largest light brown eyes—the largest Tarhos had ever seen—and the smallest nose with the thinnest of lips. She was an angel drifting in the darkness of night, her milk white skin almost shining underneath the shade of the tree. Tarhos warmly smiled, like a child receiving a hug from his mother, underneath the helmet.
"I knew you would come."
She placed her hands on his helmet and lifted it off, admiring his face for what she knew was the last time she would see him.
"You're dying."
"So are you."
"You know I can't do that."
"You must, I won't be needing it soon."
He lifted his chin a little, exposing the side of his neck to the girl. The girl shook her head, caressing Tarho's cheek. He relished and appreciated the moment.
"I said won't."
"You're lips are cracked, and your eyes are red."
She felt her lips.
He sat up a little. "You need this," he said.
The girl was still, her bare knees feeling the flow of warm blood from her beloved's side. She hesitated for a little, but placed her lips on the Tarhos' neck.
"Did I do a good job?" he asked.
"You did…you did."
"I'll…see you."
"I guess so."
A black veil covered his eyes as her soft lips lifted off his neck. He faded into the darkness, never to wake up again.