Drama

VII: Rest

"Aisha?"

"Yes, Milord?"

"Can you hold my hand?"

A soft, warm hand wrapped around his.

He heaved a sigh of relief.

It pained her to see him so terribly weak. His once sparkling obsidian eyes were now unfocused and dim; his breathing was labored and uneven. The wound he gained from the poisoned arrow has stopped bleeding, but it was now darkening, its shade a sickly purple. The poison slowly spread throughout his system, and they had no antidote. She was not a doctor, but she could tell that time was running out for him.

She laid his head on her lap as gently as possible.

"Aisha?"

"Yes, Milord?"

"I think I’m sleepy," he said, his voice low and hoarse, his sight worsening by the second. "I’ll just close my eyes for a bit…"

No. Please, no.

Her eyes stung; they were swollen with unshed tears. She wanted to lament and curse the ones responsible for her master’s current condition, but what could she do? She was only a frail, lowly maid.

She gripped his hand tightly, as if she was hanging on his lifeline. The air, seemingly aware of the unavoidable fate before them, was heavy with unspoken emotions.

He felt a trembling hand stroke his hair.

"Rest, Milord." It was all she could say.

He smiled weakly, his eyes droopy with exhaustion.

"Be well," he breathed.

She felt one last squeeze from his hand before it loosened from her grasp.

She cried.

He looked so blissfully content and peaceful. But the sight made her heart break, for she knew he would remain like that for a long, long time. He was at rest… for eternity.

Her lips curved upwards despite the tears streaming down her face.

"Don’t worry, Milord," she whispered as her eyes unconsciously flitted to the gaping wound at her side, "I will be joining you shortly."

…

After the siege, the body of a young noble and a maid had been found beside each other, their hands entwined.