Elektra's Bedroom [Future]

Hours dragged onward at an agonizing pace. Everyday felt like an eternity upon Earth as the sorceress lay curled upon the bed of her darkened room, her shaking form withering away with each wave of excruciating pain that washed over her, eating her from inside and out. Every breath she took felt like a thousand knives piercing into her flesh. She could feel her strength sapped away, little by little, as though the toxins running within her were sucking her very blood. She was torn by the desire to have it all end now and cease the stigmata torturing her, and the desire to cling tightly around the last remnants of life, and linger for just a while longer among the land of the living; the land where all her loved ones she would be leaving behind were.

How cruel fate was indeed. It seemed that it was always at the height of one's happiness that the cruel Mistress struck with a vengeance.

As one who was on their deathbed, it was often in the days of late that Elektra's mind was bombarded with memories: images of her past, and beginnings. One particular memory that appeared before her was one when she was naught but a child. Six summers at most. It was of a wise man said to be one of the Demi-Gods with his pale locks giving a sermon during a festival honoring the Gods and Goddesses that protected Caraklein from his enemies. He had said that the greatest of happiness comes with the dearest of price.

She had believed him then, and she believed him now. However, one question still haunted her mind: when was the payment enough? When was it all finally paid off? Or was the price so dear that it was never paid, and instead lingered on forever as an eternal debt? She had thought that she had sacrificed enough. A naive thought she now knew, but a hope nonetheless. After all the years of solitude and loneliness she endured, abused by her husband, shunned in a foreign land, ridiculed because of her pale, Carakleinian looks, and mocked because her foreign tongue couldn't speak the language of Alrania impeccably, and still carried a touch of the "foreign garbage" of Caraklei. Surely that would have been enough to appease the Gods. How about when she first fell in love with Iago, and could feel nothing but the bitter emptiness and disappointment that comes with knowing that despite seeming to have it all in life, what you truly long for will always be denied to you.

If that still wasn't enough, what of the pain that still lingered within her after her feelings for Iago were revealed and reciprocated, yet they were still not free to love openly? Even though they knew of what lay between them, they were still forced to keep their emotions at bay, forever checking to ensure they weren't standing too close, or that another set of eyes would never see what they felt for another in their obsidian and sapphire ones. Many moons that passed, with painful nights for Elektra, laying awake, unable to find sleep, tormented with the knowledge that had it not been by other forces driving them apart, they could have spent the night not alone, thousands of miles apart, but in each other's arms.

Did that count for nothing to the Gods? Was that not enough to satisfy the God's need for payment in exchange for a lingering moment of happiness?

Perhaps this truly was the purpose of life; to suffer into the deepest depths of misery, finally to be graced by an optimistic light of good fortune that manages to convince you that the Gods are finally smiling upon you, only to have it all snatched away at the next moment, and be pulled down under into a maelstrom of pain that you never knew could, and did, exist.

The end was near. Shivers racked her withering form- a near impossible occurence for a Carakleinian, having been born and raised at the heart of the coldest land upon Gaia. It could only mean one thing: Death was near, caressing her, preparing to pull her down under into his realm. She could feel him. She could feel him just as much as she could feel the knife that started it all with its poison, digging into her back. Her vision was fading, enveloping her into darkness. It wouldn't be long now until she would meet the boatman.

However, regardless of the circumstances revolving her untimely, unfair death, she refused to let anger plague her, in addition to the poison. With her time running out now, she didn't want the last emotion she would ever feel in this world and life to be hatred, nor pain, nor sorrow, or agony. Instead, she focused on the emotions that had brought her to life: The racing of her heart when Iago's lips met her's and they came together, Lyra's smile and laughter as she taught her an old Carakleinian Dance, and of course, one of the most recent memories; the indescribable feeling of pure happiness and fulfillment she felt as she held her and Iago's child, their son, in her arms for the first time. Her precious Onni...

The sorceress prayed that someday, when he was old enough to understand what had happened, he wouldn't hate her, or see her as weak. She had tried to cling on, truly, she did, but... it wasn't meant to be. None of it was, it seemed.

As her breath caught in her throat, leaving her gasping for oxygen, she knew it was all over. This was the end. Her end, to be exact. "Fersen..." she whispered softly in a raspy, exhausted tone.

The man sitting in the chair beside her, softly dozing was quickly roused into awareness right when the last syllable of his name escaped her pale, colorless lips. "Khariza?" he asked as he sat up, leaning towards her. "What is thy will?" he asked in a soft gentle tone as he tenderly brushed a stray hair away from her pale, clammy face, in a father-like manner.

"It's time..." she uttered, tears beginning to fill in her sapphire orbs. It was strange indeed, for though it pained her to leave all that she loved behind, there was also a subtle sense of happiness and relief, knowing that she would finally be at peace. Lonely, to be sure, but free from pain.

Fersen stared at the young woman beside him, tears of grief filling his orbs as well, looking much like a Father watching their own child dying. While he never really cared to show it, he did have affection for the Sorceress. How he could not, when he had seen her from the moment she was born and stayed by her side through all of her years as her advisor. He had been there at the beginning, and now he was to be there at the end. He nodded, not trusting his voice to respond. She had asked him to stay with her. She couldn't bear to have her loved ones with her, watching her die, forcing them to endure that sight, and he had eagerly fulfilled her deathbed request. Taking her much smaller hand into both of his, he recited the final rites, bidding her farewell from the world of the living, and a safe journey into the next one. "Bealocwealm hafath freone frecan forth onsended giedd sculon singan glaomen sorgiende on Meduselde..."

"Thank you..." she breathed out. A soft smile lit her face as Elektra slowly closed her eyes, focusing in on the memories she had saved and treasured, letting that be the last emotion among the living she felt. Each breath she took was shallower than the last, until her chest rose no more. The ballad had ended the exact moment her spirit and soul had fled.

Only the soft sounds of Fersen's weeping echoed throughout the room, around Elektra's lifeless body. It took him several moments to calm himself, but the moment he did, he quickly erased the evidence of tears upon his face. He knelt before her, bringing her cold hand to his lips, giving it a soft kiss before rising to spread word of her death, and give her last gifts to her loved ones. For Lyra, it was a necklace that had belonged to her during her life in Caraklein, that she hoped Lyra would love and treasure just as much as she had. For Iago, it was her diary: a simple account of all the days of her life, showing him exactly when she had fallen in love with him, how much she loved him, and how she would continue to do so, even beyond her last breath. As for her precious son, the living proof of the love between her and Iago, the gift was simple: a pile of letters. One for each of his birthdays and holidays she would miss. At least, she had said, she would be able to be with him on the most special of days in some form or another.

"Be at peace, Khariza..." he whispered, the emotion thick in his voice before bowing one last time, praying that his skills as an Ambassador would allow him enough self-control to tell a husband that he was now a widow, and two children that they were now motherless.