Chapter Text
He watches the old tower.
It's a rather impressive thing, towering over the entirety of the city.
That same tower is currently crumbling apart as it crashes down. The same ruler who lived within falls alongside it.
People scream. People jeer. People cry. People laugh.
He's not really focused on all of this though, you know?
Not when he has more pressing matters. Matters like the arrow in his chest.
He shifts his weight, trying to relieve the pain. It does not work, and he winces. His friends look at him with worry and panic, and he tries to relieve their fears. He opens his mouth.
Instead of the comforting words he expected to say, blood comes. It drips from his lips, and stains his shirt.
"Hah," he slurs, head woozy. The sudden blood loss has only worsened his condition, and it's getting harder to think. "I'm...fine, guys. I'm alright."
They continue to fret over him. Clearly, none of them believe him. He's not sure he does either.
"Someone call a doctor!"
A doctor won't help, not at this rate.
He's going to die. He knows it, and they know it, but all of them are too stubborn to admit it.
Their god hits the floor. Blood splats across the plaza. The winds churn above in an unstable pattern.
They're loud, you know? Loud and thunderous and cold, biting at your skin like the way frost freezes your fingers. The howl of the winds drones out his thoughts. He concentrates on thinking.
It's getting harder to think. Really hard.
A small wind elf approaches him.
He recognizes this elf. It's his friend, Barbatos.
The wind spirit's eyes widen at the sight of his friend, and he rushes over.
He squeaks at him, yelling out incoherent chirps to his friend.
The others continue yelling in alarm, but their voices are difficult to understand now. They blur into background noise, like the wind that wails in his ear.
It's loud. Too loud.
He weakly raises his hand, stretching out for something. He's not even sure what, but something tells him to do so, and he listens. Somebody places a wooden instrument into his hand. He grasps it tightly.
Bringing the unknown object to view, he gazes upon it. It's a lyre; made of fir wood and embellished with a cecilia. It's strings shimmer in the sun that peaks through the clouds, and he holds his breath for a moment.
His fingers move towards the side, and an unexplainable pang of sadness fills him.
The lyre is broken. Half of the wood has been broken off, a section of nasty, splintered wood left in it's wake. A string has snapped off, and another is bent over, the string loose.
He strums his fingers against the part that hasn't been wrecked. The voices around him stop, and the only sound that fills the silence is the melody of the lyre.
Beautiful.
The notes of the lyre fade away, and the clouds follow. Decarabian slumps over in the distance, long forgotten by now. He exhales his final breath, and the storm walls fall.
As does the bard.
He lays down his head, feeling too weak to keep it lift up. His eyes drift to the sky.
For the very first time, he sees the beauty of the clear sky.
He dies with a smile.