Fall of a HeroNatasha gawked blankly at her delicate hands. She could not understand what had just occurred, nor would she allow herself to believe it.
Her shuddering figure was frozen with irrevocable terror; she was unable to conceal her absolute fear as her sapphire eyes gleamed in the dull lighting, sodden with salty, bittersweet tears.
“Glenn,” she exhaled, now able to breathe once more.
She forced her golden head to rise.
Her melancholy stare tore through the darkness and absorbed the horrific scene: a body laid limp upon the tile floor, staining the monochromatic finish with his arterial liquid. His hair, matted with burgundy blood, was nearly as gold as hers, and his emerald eyes were fixated in a distant stare and were slowly fogging over as the time crept by.
“Glenn...” Her strength returned, allowing her to sprint toward her fallen husband.
Upon approaching the mangled man, she realized that even her decorated stave, the legendary staff of healing (the ancients had once called it Devouli), could not revive his spirit. She solemnly fell to her knees, tears streaming down her flushed cheeks, and combed her thin fingers through his tousled hair.