by Kindred Ult
"No!" He cried out in pain. He was losing all of his feeling in his hands and feet, as all of the blood in his body was shooting toward where he had been wounded, trying to save him. "He's right, I did..." Another pause, as he began losing more and more control over his body. "Let him go. Please let him go, he shouldn't die because of..." His voice broke, and his words began slurring. At that moment he locked eyes with Varus, who held them for a long second before his eyes finally fell to the ground as his body slumped within the grasp of his captors.
Now Demenn's body was more out of his control than in it, and yet he still managed to stay on his knees. His vision began to blur, and darkness swam along the outside edges of his eyes. He swayed on his knees, his skin visibly peeling away from the metal in his chest. But then suddenly his eyes shot open, and in a voice completely devoid of any pain, he spoke one last time. "Let him go."
Then the holy water coursing through his veins hit his heart, and he fell backwards onto the ground, the impact shoving the sword even farther up his chest and into the night air. Darkness, true darkness, filled along the edges of his eyes, until there was nothing else besides it. He had no feeling, no senses, only darkness remained.
'Tyrion. Nicole. Helen.' His last thoughts dragged across his brain with the most agonizing slowness. It was all he could do to even think, as he felt his mind gradually recede. Still, it felt like something he must do still remained, and his mind stayed long enough for one last mortally slow, thought to creep through him. It was as if everything he was could be found there. 'I wonder...where...I'll...go." And then even his mind was gone, and the darkness reigned supreme.
The vampires holding Varus slowly let go of him, and he still risked one last look at the crumpled body on the ground. His face changed between too many emotions for him to truly know, and after one long moment, he turned and sprinted away in the direction of the woods. The crowd parted before him, but he kept his eyes on the ground as he ran, seeing no one except for one dead body. No one could truly be sure from where it came, but they all felt they heard someone whisper "I have a champion."
All heads turned back to Demenn, as Brand walked up to him and softly picked him up before pulled the sword out of his back by the handle. He stared down at the face of his friend, but could not find it within him to smile. He wanted to say something about how much Demenn's sacrifice had meant, about the epic things he had managed to bring about, but none of that mattered now that Demenn was simply dead.
"You were a better man than any I have ever met, Demenn." He laid the body back on the ground and walked away, as did everyone else.
The armies dispersed, and eventually the Dark Forest was divided into four peaceful sections: Vampire, Werewolf, Werepyre, and Human. A statue was raised, on the hill where the last stand was made, to commemorate the person who had brought it all about, but after a few years, no one ever visited it.
In a hundred years, in fact, only seven people still remembered the name of the vampire named Demenn. A widower elf hermit, a bitter rouge vampire, the werewolf King, the vampire Matriarch Safiria, two vampire lovers, and Damien, a young half-elf child who grew up listening to the tales of the great warrior Demenn he had been named after. Could any ask for anything more?
