He began to drift downward to the mud, his sword gently falling away as the noises of the world became rather distant and obscure, and the colors of the ground began blending together in a rapid mixture. He felt himself falling and saw the world rushing toward him, but then he was caught, arms wrapping around him, pulling him upwards, and he felt warmth spreading outward from his heart.
He was jostled about as his eyes faded in and out of focus and eventually found himself lying flat on some kind of surface. It wasn’t too hard, it wasn’t too soft, but it wasn’t all that comfortable either. Maybe it was the crossbow bolt protruding from his shoulder that was causing all the comfort issues. Maybe it was death. Maybe he was dying. In truth, Kyle had absolutely no grasp on his own mind, body, or the reality of his own situation. He was just floating from one place to another, enveloped in pain, dreaming of Laila.
Whatever he was on began to move slowly at first and then picked up a little speed. He must be on a cart. Of course. The grave cart. He was dead. No wonder his head was so foggy.
“Kyle!” Laila’s voice echoed through the chambers of his reality, moving from one pole to the other of his brain, sent from Niagara Falls and rebounding off the white cliffs of Dover. “Kyle! What happened to him? Will he be alright? Kyle! Kyle!”
“Laila,” Kyle muttered, unable to make out much in his field of vision other than a shifting gray sky. Kyle thought it would rain again soon; there was just something about the air that made him think as much.
“Kyle!” she called again, but this time he felt the touch of her hand, and with that contact came a lightning bolt to the heart like Frankenstein’s monster, shaking him briefly from his stupor, and he saw her beautiful face above his, the light reflecting off of her cheek like she was some kind of golden statue worthy of heretical worship.
She hovered over him, and for a brief moment, he could smell her essence, and it brought vigor to his soul, driving a will to live that before had been suppressed simply by the brutality of the day, but now he was alight like a bonfire. He reached his hand up toward her face and was surprised when his fingers gently brushed against the silk of her cheek.
“Laila,” he managed once more. “Is that truly ye?”
“I’m here,” he heard her say in reply. “I’m right here.”
“Well, that’s good,” he mumbled, his eyes fluttering closed once more. “If ye weren’t, then I’d be a mad man.”
There was some sporadic laughter from above, and the sound of it illuminated Kyle’s soul a tad, but it wasn’t enough to keep him awake. His eyes fluttered one more time, and then shut, and as he fell into a stupor, he murmured once more:
“Laila.”
