Nichole

She thought back to the waiting room. So long ago when she had made the decision to let death chase her. And chase it had, through the underground, through prophecy, through the wars, she watched the eastern coast burn as they ran. She ran, death at her heals… dancing with her… sometimes so close, it whispered in her ear. And now, it chased her across the water. She felt the ship sway and she starred back at the woman in the mirror. Her hair was streaked white, pulled back in the worn clip. She didn’t remember getting old, it just kind of happened. And just as she couldn’t see how incredibly gorgeous she was in her youth, she couldn’t see how distinguished she was in her age. She held the cloth to her mouth as she coughed. When she first got sick, she hid it well… But the cough became uncontrollable, and the rumors spread like the disease in her body. At least the black handkerchief hid the blood. She took a shuttering breath and turned on her heel. Long ago she shed the poised dresses for more practical clothing. If you plan to outrun death… Her tight black leggings hugged her still muscular legs. But her curves had been lost to the disease. She concealed the loose skin beneath a tunic of blood red and wore a slightly heeled leather boot. Her two guards flanked her as she exited her quarters. Her assistant sat with the wheelchair. She moved too slowly now, too unsteady on the rock of the ship to walk. They maneuvered through the narrow corridor and out onto the deck where the sun beat down mercilessly. She was greeted with the cheers that broke her heart and lifted her spirits. Here were her people, who loved her. Her people, who were half starved, beaten, but not broken. Here were her people she loved. The prophetess came and knelt before her. She raised her eyes to Nichole and gave her a tearful little smile. Nichole returned the smile. Brushing her hands across the young girl’s cheek. “None of that. Tomorrow, we land in the forgotten place and the people need you.”

“Yes Madame,” her heavy French accent played joyfully on the ears.

Nichole's assistant pushed her through the crowds. She spent her time with individuals. She prayed to the God that she had found in the old texts. She blessed them, smearing the thick crimson paste across their foreheads. Marking them with his cross that she had found hope in so long ago. She called down the spirit like fire, burning in their chest with hope, passion, freedom. She stilled small children, wiped away tears, and when she exhausted herself completely, she sagged down in the wheelchair, and smiled at the faces. As she reentered the cooled halls, heading toward her room she heard the prophetess speak of tomorrow.

Back in her room, she seated herself in an easy chair and asked that Manuel be sent to her. And for the first time since that room a lifetime ago… she waited. And as she waited, she called to that old hound who had hunted her still, and she gave place to him in the room. Manuel came in and knelt at her arm, his hair just starting to show maturity. “Please,” he begged, “ Just a little longer.” But her bloody coughing gave him all the answer he needed. He went to the chest and poured her a glass of the red wine. He pulled the small vial from his pocket, and trembling he poured it into the cup.

“Manuel,” her voice was harsh and faint from the disease, from the use of the day. “Death isn’t the end and at my age, it isn’t a tragedy. I was never to see the forgotten lands.” And she took the glass, swallowing deeply.

Tears swam over his blue eyes and he kissed her on the forehead. She was the only mother he had known, his confidant, his queen, ever dignified even now in her death. “Do you want me to stay?” his voice trembled.

“No, I have all the company I need.” And she flashed him that smile that was still youthful and passion filled. Nichole whispered her love to him but he couldn’t bare to reply as the door closed behind him. She moved to her bed and death laid beside her.

“I caught you, finally,” he whispered in her ear.

“Only because I let you,” she laughed back. As the wine glass fell from her hand, it shattered with the musical quality only crystal can. The last note in her song.