The Dying of the Light

[shosen]

A hand, hot and fierce around my wrist, clenching.

"Ow! You're hurting me."

"Please," hoarse voice from a dry throat, fever-bright eyes of pain and fear. "Please help me. I don't want to die."

"Brother!" Damn it, where is he? There's too many people, too many. "Brother!"

"Please," whispered, grip tightened.

"I'll try," such a hallow promise. I'm not strong enough, didn't work hard enough. Whispered prayer, call to the Light, and the sweet answer.

With no effect.

Try again.

Nothing.

"please," so quiet now, "please, sister, i don't want to die," so scared, hopeless.

"Brother!" Don't panic, don't panic don't panic, "Brother!"

"Quiet, Asharan, you're frightening the patients."

I'm frightening myself. "Help him."

Holy Light, more powerful prayer, so much stronger than I'll ever be.

Still nothing, and now, no breath.

"Call him back."

"Koan—"

"He didn't want to die!"

Tense look, nod, different prayer this time.

Same result.

"What good is it?" Dead man's hand around my wrist. Get it off, get it off, get it off.

"Koani—" Reaching out, comfort maybe?

Pull away. "Why did you bring me here!?"

"You needed to see—"

"See what? People dying, even when we try to help? See them lie there still while we try to call them back?"

"That's enough."

Point at the dead man. "Obviously it wasn't."

"Go back to your tent; you're of no use here." Turns away, watching his back retreating.

Look around. Dead and dying, and pleadings for life, for help, for Light. "None of us are."

*****

Morning. Where am I? Booty Bay. Old nightmare, old problem, as if the new ones weren't enough. What brought it on anyway?

No answer from the sounds of the city or from my silent guardian.

There's never any answers.