by Casandra Lavallee

Created on: January 27, 2009

Dead, her spirit was long gone from this world. She could begin to feel herself transcend her mortal body, moving beyond the pain. But why was she still here? Why could she still smell the sour tang of blood clinging to her clothes? Perhaps this was her purgatory, perhaps her immortal soul had not paid the price set for its return to the heavens.

Then why could she hear his voice just above her heartbeat, and why was her heart still beating when she had told it to give up? She screamed louder than she had before in her life as he cleansed her open wounds. The air in her lungs an unfortunate reminder of the fragile body she still possessed.

"Leave me BE!" she cried to him, feebly pushing him aside "My life is spent, and I go now to join my fathers and mothers in the halls of my ancestors"

He looked at her with one eyebrow cocked, and refused to say a word. The damp rag in his mud caked hand was her only answer as it continued its work. A slow, methodical, and agonizing process to which there seemed to be no end. No matter how she screamed or whimpered, she could still feel his firm touch along her stomach.

Her life's blood was gone; she could see it on her clothes and the ground around her. Her would be savior's shirt was soaked in it as was his faithful cloth. Why then did he make such a futile effort? The babe was lost, and she was soon to follow her child to the abyss.

She focused on the birds around her, singing her requiem in harmony with the crickets and toads by the pond. The gentle wind was ready to ferry her soul to the next world as the earth beneath her readied itself to accept her body back into the womb from whence it came.

The darkness began to build behind her eyes, and she heard him cry to her faintly above that last little bit of blood in her ears. But she was going, and did not want to be dragged back. Her final thought, how sweet it would be as she reached the other side. Her mother and her ancestors gathered as she held her babe, safe from all of the world.

Kneeling by her side, he could tell she was a wench of the eastern village. She was far too overdressed for a common farmer's wife. Probably an unlucky whore that carried the child of some powerful rich man. A man that didn't care to have his reputation marred by the existence of such a bastard apparently.

The poor thing lay crumpled at the bottom of the hill like some old rag. The blood seeping from under her skirts told him enough of what her sin was. Despite his distaste for her lifestyle,

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