Horses clattering by the window. The smell of wet horse and manure, the sweat and blood are still in the air. I can taste the salt on my lips from the still fresh tears. No one will look at either of us. I carried her in, limp and bloody and gone. Murdered. Shards of metal digging into my breasts, she would have told me to pull it out, to bind the wounds. I couldn’t think about that, her eyes were frozen in shock, no trace of her was left there.
Whatever made her who she was had died. They took her from me and shards of her sword, sent flying by the blast, are digging into my chest. It doesn’t hurt, not like her death. I swore I would make them pay, I would make them suffer. Whatever it took.
The memory from so very long ago is still fresh. I bring my focus back to the present and wait, waiting for something, anything to make the here and now bearable. Meeting his attack, but thinking of the good times with her. Some might think me a masochist, bringing her to mind when it could hurt me so, for with the good times, the memory of her death always loomed. I felt I had failed her that day.
I couldn’t change that.
Another attack by my opponent, I dodge and strike back.
Something had to change, things couldn’t go on like this. She wouldn’t forgive me if it ended like this. Neither could I.