Chapter Text
So this is what death feels like, Marsha thinks. She feels oddly serene, given her situation. Blood dribbles out of the gaping hole in her throat, and each scraping breath she draws causes it to bubble slightly. She can’t quite reach up to try and wipe it away. Not that it would do much, what with the state of her hands. Eyes not yet blank stare up at the morning sky. One last sunrise. That’ll be a nice final view. She’s sealed the pain, at least. It’s all she can do for herself now. This is certainly an odd sensation though - her mind isn’t telling her that anything is wrong. She could get up, really, and continue on her way. Only she’s so very tired. Her muscles don’t quite want to comply, and all that moves is the swaying grasses in the distance.
Could it really do much harm to just lay here a bit? It couldn’t, Marsha decides, and closes her eyes, sighing slightly. Other than the incessant gurgle of blood rising and falling in time with her laboured breathing, it’s silent. And even that is almost peaceful. Marsha pretends it’s a river, trundling along amiably through this conflict. Nature isn’t much involved out here, except for the way that shells were tearing through the terrain, leaving it pockmarked with craters.
The quiet tells her that this trench must have been abandoned, then. One side or the other managed to advance enough to render this one useless. How long has it been? It can’t have been more than a few minutes since that soldier pinned her down and ran a bayonet through her throat, but Marsha, despite straining her ears, can’t make out the sounds of battle at all anymore. Either they’ve moved so far that she can’t hear them, or they’ve stopped again for the moment. (Or perhaps she’s already so far gone that she can’t tell at all whether there’s fighting around her. For now, she ignores this possibility.) She hopes it’s the latter. The fewer that end up like her, the better.
Somewhere, a bird calls, the warbling unfamiliar. It must be a species only found down here, far away from the mountains where she was raised. After all, she can recongize all of those back home easily enough. Despite her body feeling strangely unresponsive, Marsha’s lips still try to curl into a smile. The war will end, eventually. Everything has to, after all, and this war is no exception. The world will recover. Even if Marsha won’t get to see it.
As that river continues on its way, Marsha can’t help but think, a little wryly, that this certainly is taking a while. At the very least, she knows that none of those she killed had to wait like this. But she doesn’t suppose that the soldier who has managed to kill her (because it is going to happen, she’s quite certain) was trained the way that Marsha was. After all, by now, both nations had just started throwing even those who were practically civilians onto the front. Marsha could tell, struggling against the Frenchwoman, that she was no warrior. There wasn’t that kind of familiarity in her movements. The fear in her eyes wasn’t new though.
And yet. Regardless of that soldier’s entry into the fields of battle being relatively recent, here she is, bleeding out. Marsha coughs, and the blood in her throat foams up. It burns.
It burns?
Yes, that’s right. Despite her skill, Marsha can feel her blood starting to boil. It tears at her throat, eating away at the flesh, and Marsha can’t help the keening noise she tries to make at the pain. It’s been a long time since she’s actually felt raw, unfiltered pain like this. Usually, she holds it until they can take a break, and then it’s measured. With strength she didn’t know she still had, Marsha convulses, managing to turn onto her side and curl up slightly, hands scrabbling uselessly at her throat.
She’s not sure what she’s trying to achieve with this. Staunch the bleeding? Claw the blood, now glowing with heat, out of her very body? Admittedly she’s not thinking very clearly, but she does feel that this should be excused, given the circumstances. It’s strange. Her panic is still suppressed, even as heat devours her from the inside, the gnawing sensation spreading down through her body until every nerve is set alight with bright, synapse sparking pain.
What had she done to deserve this? Yes, she’s killed. Marsha won’t pretend for a moment that hundreds of lives haven’t been extinguished at her hand and club. But surely it should not incur this kind of wrath, when she hardly chose that path of destruction? Those officials, sitting in their plush offices, they’re-
Her train of thought is cut off by another cough forcing its way out of her ragged throat, causing a fresh wave of pain to roll through her. At each inch, it seems to consider for just a split second. Should I continue to rend this woman’s flesh from her bones, or am I sated? Each time, the same conclusion is arrived at. Marsha grits her teeth and curls into a trembling ball, armor plates screeching in protest at the movement.
Marsha fancies for a moment, as much as she can fancy in this state, that she must be quite the sight right now. A knight, still fully clad in her armor, tucked into herself as much as she can manage, and burning up like a star. Even with her eyes shut tight, Marsha can tell. Her armor is glowing white-hot. Steam rises from her, sweat almost instantly evaporating as soon as it forms.
Liquid fire courses through her veins, and Marsha wants to struggle, to stagger into the nearest pool of water, however dirty it may be, however many other corpses there are in it. But she has no strength left. Laying there, the heat consumes her, inside and out. And it just keeps going. How she’s still conscious, Marsha has no idea, but she can only pray to the distant gods that it’ll stop soon. Not that they’ve bothered to intervene thus far.
In that lonely trench, Marsha swears she must have died.
Death comes for us all. Marianne knows this. But she had, in her infinite arrogance, not expected it to knock on her own door so soon. And certainly not like this. A stray bullet, perhaps. A shell, hurtling down from the heavens. That was likely. She could attest to that herself, having watched many of her comrades (could she dare to call them friends?) fall to these dreadful weapons.
But no. Neither of those would be her end, nor the slew of other methods war had of snuffing out a life, fragile as such a thing is. This was far more deliberate. Planned with careful intent.
Marianne swallows nervously before venturing a question. Usually flat tone trembling almost imperceptibly, she asks, “…My comrades-in-arms, has the shelling begun again?” Her eyes blinded as they are for this execution, she can only rely on her death-dealers to explain the shaking she feels.
…She’s not sure what to make of the answer she receives. Only her own nerves, betraying her. Better that than artillery catching them all out like this, she supposes. Even now, with their rifles pointed at her chest, she does not want these people to die. What point would there be in that? Marianne has never been vengeful, and the thought of them dying for what they’re doing to her brings her no comfort.
With this many rifles, she’ll hardly feel a thing, she tries to remind herself. They aren’t lying. It’s embarrassing, but the fear of pain is still overwhelming. Two years on the front, and that still hasn’t changed. Her teeth chatter, the only sound echoing in her ears other than the wind whistling as it holds her one last time.
“Ready!”
The clatter of rifles being loaded fills the air. It’s familiar. In her mind’s eye, she can picture the movement. Her fingers twitch, muscle memory calling her to join them. They’re not at all coordinated. The clicks and rattles tumble around each other, each soldier their own individual.
“Aim!”
But eventually, every single one of them arrives at the same position. Death, pointed at Marianne’s heart. It is so soft an organ already, muscles fluttering as it desperately tries to keep her alive. So much lead is not necessary. Are they truly sure that there is no shelling, Marianne wonders. These violent quakes could not be solely the result of her own fear. She doesn’t get the chance to wonder for long.
“Fire!”
Her last thought that she manages before her execution commences is, Sorry, Agnés. Gunfire shatters the silence and the familiar scent of burning reaches her nostrils a split second before the bullets do. Right as they break skin, something deeply buried in Marianne forces its way to the surface, and she petrifies. It’s futile, really. All this has achieved is freezing the bullets inside of her, and the hail of them does not stop, chipping more and more stone away.
Time passes. Marianne is hardly aware of it, but it must do so. It would not wait for her, of all people. The little valley that had been chosen for her execution has been vacated. Silence reigns again, with Marianne frozen, head still bowed in supplication. There is one bullet lodged deep in her chest, right next to her still-beating heart. The rest are more surface level, but even those will cause horrific damage once the stone surrounding them softens back into flesh.
She has only put off her end. It was a foolish animal instinct that caused this, and now she will suffer for it. Instead of the quick and painless death her comrades had attempted to give her, Marianne has granted herself agony. Perhaps it is simply what the Lord has willed, for a sinner such as herself.
There is no reason to wait any more. Marianne sends one final prayer of repentance, and stone gives, leaving only weak and yielding flesh. The pain is immediate, and Marianne hisses, eyes snapping open behind her blindfold. She collapses, clutching at her chest. Another mistake. It would have been cleaner to simply remain a statue forever. Perhaps it would even have been of some worth to a monastery, with how pious she must have appeared.
Now, all that will be left is something painfully mortal, writhing in pain and eternalized in that form. Marianne hopes vainly that her comrades might bury her, even when all she’ll leave behind is unfeeling stone. Would it unnerve them? She knows it will look the same as every other time she has petrified, saving her own life while others fell. Maybe they’ll shatter her into pieces, for safety. Just to be certain that the execution went through.
Through the pain, Marianne just about manages to notice a change in the valley. It is blisteringly hot. Even with her gargoyle constitution granting her a resistance to extreme temperatures, Marianne is sweating. Something heavy hangs in the air, pressing Marianne further into the ground and squeezing the oxygen out of her lungs.
Ah. Hell, she gathers. That is not all that surprising. Marianne has long known, now, where she is headed in the afterlife. She is not upset. After all, it is only just. She has killed. Nothing could possibly lift that sin from her shoulders. The temperature continues to rise, as if the sun itself has come down from the sky and is approaching Marianne. Eventually, everything goes dark.
In that quiet valley, Marianne swears that she must have died.