The Heart of a Lion

What Satans wrath brought me

So I read something that made me feel scared but uplifted and empowered in a deliciously painful way and it feels really really good. So I did what I always do when inspiration hits.
For better or worse, I write.

She'd said not to breathe a word, and by god, he intended to honor his oath. He'd sooner be damned to the deepest pits of hell before breaking that promise. His body felt far more than battered and bruised; it felt like it was peeled apart like string cheese, every ligament and bone exposed to the biting air stinging like a rabid bitch, and every hunk of muscle mutilated or completely gone causing searing pain to course through his body, his limbs cut to ribbons.

He was worse than a goner. His life was fading away slowly as each agonizing second went on, and he couldn't stop the foam from dribbling down his chin. Paralyzed by white hot pain, all he could do was think as he lay on the table, unable to put up even the barest of fights. He did this all for one person, or a thousand. He endured it all because she said so, and he had no real choice.

There was no other option. This was always how it was going to end. So why not obey?

Her sniffles could be heard from across the room, quiet and focused as she held out hope, pushing her desperate sorrow enough aside so she could speak past it, trying to talk him through the times they shared, trying to urge him not to give up.

It was no use, he knew. But he humored her this far.

"A monster and a human? Together? You're even stupider than implied if you thought a relationship with that flesh-eating bitch would end any other way. She doesn't love you, just how you smell. And now, you're going to pay for your own recklessness and her insatiable hunger, kid."

No. No, that's not true. If only he could say it, but it was getting harder to breathe. He could feel his lungs slowly fill up with his own blood, and gradually his sense of feeling was beginning to dwindle.

He knew that wasn't good, but couldn't find the energy to care. It was funny, a detached part of him thought, that he'd always wanted to go out surrounded by loved ones, thankful for the life he led, and here he was, perfectly content to leave everything behind as if it meant nothing to him and fade away.

Thats not...true. There's.... just so much...pain. He didn't want to feel it anymore. Even as it faded, it was still staggering, and if he hadn't emptied his rolling stomach all over his chest beforehand he would've certainly choked on it then. Fumihiro had no doubt that she loved him. So she couldn't blame him for peacefully wanting to relinquish his life, not after all he did that was for her. It was because of her that he was here, bleeding out in her name.

And he wasn't angry. He wasn't sad it regretful. Only a little cold. He just wished he could sit up and see her, her dark hair with its fiery ends stark against her pale skin, the blood having long drained away. If he was cold, she must've been freezing.

Looking up at the dank ceiling, he couldn't help but think of how he got there, every aspect of his life from his first memory that brought him to being, not even strapped down, to that table. Memories from every phase of his life flitted past, from his clothing with his mother and father when they adored him, to being with his best freind and discovering his love for basketball, to all the silly and meaningless adventures he had, to the fateful moment when he had met Shiratu and her entire clan of ghouls.

If he had walked away, treated her indifferently and moved on, would he be here? He supposed it didn't matter now that he was. Did he regret it?

Fumihiro honestly didn't have an answer. All he knew was that he didn't doubt the love she had for him. Was it good enough?