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Every last aching moment before the guillotine falls, the sword of Damocles hanging over her and her human half's head for the past five centuries, that sweet moment of release—a shame it had to end so soon, but wasn't all the time we had worth it?
What a rush, what a waste that she couldn't look death in the face but she can bow her head, wait, pray she can wait a little longer, after all they say you live life all over again in the instant before death, and so maybe she'll—wait, do you hear that?
The sound of a thousand teardrops falling, a thousand cries reaching out and begging to be saved, the sharp drawn breath of her lone audience member as he reaches out, futile, the last illusory breath she takes taking its time as it pushes in then out of her, knowing it'll be the last time anything ever touches her again; she smiles and drinks deep every last drop of life before the blade—