Last Breath

Snow obscured the open fields of Mortéglace. Zefir’s blood pulsed in his throat. This storm was unnatural. As a Bondsman, oath-bound to protect Kiona, the magic of their bond urged him to grab them and run. Three days hunting giants of the Warped Mammoth Crush had everyone on edge.   Orlog Ander broke the silence, “Cover up ahead. We need to take it.”   The stout dwarven brothers were effective scouts. Although Zefir couldn’t see Kiona, he could feel their presence twenty feet to the east. By making a temporary shelter the group could reaffirm the current location. It was better than continuing blind.   Zefir’s fingers were blue and numb fumbling in his pockets, nervously seeking. He felt relief as he palmed a small coin-sized soul charm. It was a cold thought, knowing his spirit would never find sanctuary within, but the relic brought him comfort nonetheless. The tiefling looked in the direction of his companions and moved forward.   His kind had no promise of an afterlife, and certainly none of rebirth. Yet, the charm in his fingers felt like a lifeline, offering a thread of salvation. Zefir knew better than to cling to miracles, but why not believe in luck?   The hills were close. The group trudged through the gathering snow, approaching the dark mounds. Shadows changed in the drift, and the bondsman caught a scent of oiled leather. He tasted a familiar metal tang in the freezing rain. Zefir understood the danger before anyone else, but he could do nothing to save Orlog.   Shrouded from sight, the towering giants rose in unison, four times Zefir’s height. A stone the size of a wagon landed three feet away, crushing the dwarf. Spikes of panic rose through the bond. Kiona was nearby but still not in sight.   Time slowed when his adrenaline spiked, and Zefir took the opportunity to survey the battlefield. His first breath, as combat swelled, was dedicated to this training. It would be the only one he could afford, analyzing tactics and searching for a weakness in the Crush’s ambush.   In the next breath, he sought his allies, pressed on all sides and Zefir sprung into action.   His ribs broke in the first exchange, weakened by an unseen blow to Kiona, but Zefir ignored the pain. He pivoted in his bond’s direction, coming back to back with Gunta Ander. Despite witnessing his brother Orlog’s death, Gunta held ground, shielding them both as Zefir struck out. In two quick strikes, the bondman’s mace dropped the enemy to its ass.   “Kiona, to us,” Zefir yelled to the winds. The bond's magic reverberated in his chest, a feeling of panic and pain sent in response.   Outnumbered and desperate for space, Zefir grasped essence, the intangible link between life and magic, drawn from the connection to his bonded companion. Stowing the power in his mace, it exploded in radiant brilliance. Once more he slammed his weapon down, finding purchase on an inverted knee, shattering bone. The light flared again before going out. The injured giant was torn between nursing a broken leg and rubbing sight back into his eyes. A heavy smack to the temple brought an end to its choice. Zefir stepped back to regroup, slipping in crimson snow.   Gunta’s staff spun, striking at an unseen threat. Zefir turned his focus to the storm, moving toward Kiona. He saw his curse like some curious reflection in a strange mirror. He had turned that curiosity into a life’s worth of training, dedicated to saving others. Before Zefir made it three paces in the difficult terrain, his heart broke. The death ward spell placed on Kiona at the start of each day severed while Gunta howled in pain from behind.   Staggered by the sudden absence of his bond’s protections, Zefir never saw the blows that felled him. An avalanche of angry red fists slammed him to the ground hard enough to shift frozen earth. Limp and unmoving, he was lifted effortlessly into the sky and tossed aside, landing awkwardly sixty feet away. He felt the pain, but it seemed like a distant thing. He heard his companion’s voice scream. A sudden rush of warmth caressed his face. Gunta yelled something in his rough northern dialect and Zefir heard his name repeated, awareness vanishing.   He could smell his mother’s garden. Peonies and fresh cut firewood, deer feeding at the fringes. The plants had spread far past the borders. A comforting presence surrounded the new perimeter, veiling Zefir’s view. Every blade of grass, pistol, and stem, spread from him in the center, nourished by his flowing blood.   His body should have hurt. He should have been cold and scared, but instead, he felt exhausted. Tired from a life spent in fear, struggling to stay ahead of death. Zefir’s breath caught in his throat, held by what little strength remained to him. Panic surged, but clarity remained, both competing for control. His lungs burned for air. He refused to let go, knowing it would be the end, choking if it bought him even a second more.   Words of arcane power could be heard over clashing steel. Once familiar, it was pointless noise. Zefir felt thunder and the pull of magic as the world vanished. In that brief instant, lingering between life and nothing, the man took pride that the bond still held and Kiona might live.   His eyes opened on their own. Zefir stood among flowers and looked across the fields. He felt complete; a resplendent blooming portion of the garden, where his life had warmed others. Yet he knew, even in this place, that he was a winter child, doomed to vanish with the season. He felt his last breath let go.   The greenery of his life darkened and withered, peonies becoming black roses. A graceful woman picked at weeds, obscured in layers of ancient battleworn regalia. She stopped her work and watched Zefir with a look of burgeoning grief. Tears flowed down her alabaster features as everything faded. The gardener hung her head and turned away, gentle words escorting him beyond.   “I will tend to them now.”

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Gunta walked with a limp after the battle, but he lived. He and Kiona had survived, despite the odds. They spent the afternoon burning the bodies, unable to bring anyone back safely. His brother would be celebrated when they returned to Ander Hall, but the tiefling, well this would be where he ended.   “Kiona, you should say somethin’.”   The white-scaled figure garbed in ceremonial robes stepped to the pyre, speaking for the first time since healing Gunta’s wounds. Gently caressing prayer beads and weeping openly, they began a eulogy.   “I owe the bondsman my life. More importantly, now I owe his soul remembrance,” they said. Kiona’s voice became quiet and reflective.   “That he would trade his soul for the life of another is a debt I cannot repay. Burdened as I am, I will carry on, as must we all in the hopes of honoring such sacrifice.”