His fingers trembled and dripped with blood.
He was sure that his lips were most likely blue. A pale blue that he was frightenede to be described as. The dagger was still sticking out of his back, in the same position it had been an hour a go when it was thrusted into his muscle. His breathing was shallow and the edges of his vision were beginning to blur. Reaching behind him, he felt the hilt of the blade.
He wrapped his hand around it, feeling warmth spread further around his back. Tears dripped onto the ground, stained pink by blood. His arm flexed and his yanked the knife, pulling and pulling until he heard a small crack as the knife was seperated from flesh.
He gasped and fell, cracking his head on the cement. The wound would heal in about an hour or so, now that the knife was out. This thought, however, gave him no comfort, for the healing process would be more painful then the wound itself.
"Angeline," he muttered, reaching out with his mind, searching for his healer.
Within moments, a wavy-haired woman was sitting behind him, a sad look in her eyes. She wordlessly picked up the knife and fingered the blade, carefully running her fingers along it, blood dripping.
"Who did this to you, Ansel?" Her words were thick with a French accent.
Ansel went back two hours, willing his memories to appear.
He could only recall the sharp pain he experienced as the dagger was thrusted into his back, and when he turned around he could only see a pair of beautiful golden eyes. Angeline read his thoughts.
She took the hem of her dress and licked it, making it damp. She rubbed a spot of blood below his eye and kissed his forehead. "Sleep, ma cherie. Sleep, the pain with fade."
The word sleep echoed in his head. Angeline cradled his neck in her soft, delicate hands.