Last Stand

Look's like "Regression" was last week's picture for the the Monday Morning Flash Fiction Challenge at Tink's Place. This interesting picture is for this week. It took me some thought to figure out what to write. I hope you like it!

Last Stand

A breather. She stood, chest heaving, her hair lanky with sweat from her panicky run, the solidity of the wall behind her giving her an illusion of safety. This respite was dangerous, though. If it went on too long, her adrenaline levels would drop too low, and the trauma of her mutilation would hit her.

She was aware of the loss, but it was an intellectual thing still, not the gut-tightening, bowel-loosening horror that she knew would hit her when her body started to come down from the simultaneous physical and emotional shock of his betrayal.

He still hadn't followed her into the courtyard. She brushed her hair away from her eyes, keeping her knife - the only weapon near at hand when he'd attacked - in a defensive position. It wasn't much of a weapon against a sword but it wasn't in her to give up life without some attempt to protect herself. If only she could fly...

She brushed her hand over her face again, clearing away the stinging tears that insisted on forming in one eye, hampering her vision.

Her breathing was starting to slow as she caught her breath. Where was he? She swore silently. There was no way he wasn't aware of her location. She'd left a trail of blood. He was playing with her, curse him.

A thought floated up through her mind. Could she have done more harm than she knew when she slashed at him? She'd felt the jar and tug of her blade hitting flesh.

She throttled the hope down. Hope would get her killed. If she had any chance of surviving this she had to assume the worst. Not that she had much chance. She knew she was dying. She could feel the cold growing in her core already, feel the trembling in her limbs.

A shadow passed over her body, growing larger as it moved over the tiles in front of her. She looked up. The knife fell from her grip as she lost the last of her strength. It was Jonathon.

"Cordis!" His voice was sharp with alarm.

She slumped against the wall as he landed, keeping her weight on one shoulder to protect the stub of her wing. Her knees gave way, and she slid to the ground. "Adal," she told him. "It was Adal."