He let himself sink deeper and deeper. The darkness consumed him, and he knew death was approaching. He was no longer breathing, but his last intake of air was still sustaining him. He never thought he would forfeit his life this way. He always imagined he'd go down fighting or never go down at all. To live forever. The flow of immortality pulsating in his veins, preserved by the power he'd reached through his alliance with the Duke of Monmouth. Alas, his plan had not been God's plan, and his world was shot down around him, and he himself had shot down the last of it. He had killed his only love, Lorna Doone, and did not care if he died now. These were his final thoughts as his last breath no longer sustained him. Carver Doone, whose lineage led back to the finest of nobles, was about to end it's bloodline forever. **************
He awoke with a dull, throbbing pain behind his eyelids and deep in his temples. He tried opening his eyes, but the light shining down on him only worsened his pain.
"My lord? Carver? Carver!" He vaguely heard a voice calling out to him. He made another effort to open his eyes, trying to ignore the glare of the sunlight. He blinked continuously, attempting to focus on the face that now hovered over him. The source of the voice, he assumed.
"Who..." His first word escaped as a barely audible sound, followed by a fit of coughing. He felt the coughs reaching painfully deep in his chest and extending to his lower abdomen. He seemed to be spitting out death which had so nearly choked every ounce of air from him. He tried to turn over, but his body felt completely drained of strength. The hand that belonged to the voice and the blurred face now rested on his chest, trying to ease his coughs.
Carver regained control of himself and once again tried to speak. His voice was dry and choked of life, but intelligible.
"Who....who are you?" He tried to sound commanding but it sounded more like a weak plea.
"My Lord, it is I, Simon Westley. Don't you recognize me? I barely reached you. After Ridd rode off, I thought I wouldn't have time to--"
"Why..." Carver interrupted, holding his hand up weakly. "Why didn't you let me die?"
"I'd walk through fire if you commanded, my lord," the man, a longtime defender of Doone Valley, proclaimed.
Carver vaguely remembered his father uttering similar words at what seemed like ages ago, when Lorna was alive and well in London. When she was no longer possessed by John Ridd. The recollection stung him, but he pushed it away.
"If your loyalty is as undying as you claim, then do as I say."
"Anything, my lord."
A bitter smile twitched upon Carver's lips. "Remove your sword from it's sheath and kill me now," he commanded in a tone that regained its lost power.
"I couldn't--" the soldier began, but before he could finish, Carver once again fell out of consciousness.
***************
Carver awoke to the cool darkness of evening. He felt a stiff cot beneath him, which was even more uncomfortable than the soggy ground he laid upon before. However, he was now cleansed of the thick muck that had previously clung to his body, face, and hair. The same substance he had considered his grave as he was sinking in the bog just hours before. His eyes were clearer now, allowing him to survey his surroundings. It was a small room, dark and damp, with only a few scattered candles to create a dim light. The floors were no floors at all, but just a smooth expanse of dirt, causing the feeling of dampness to take on a smell. A smell that was evident with every intake of air. A small window gave relief to the claustrophobic atmosphere of the room, but lent no picture of what was beyond except the blackness of the night.
With slow recognition, Carver realized where he was. It was a room deep within the Doone Valley, usually reserved for prisoners or trespassers upon the land. Before he could think anymore about his situation, a door creaked open slightly, and he shifted himself painfully to face whoever was about to enter.
Carver felt as if his heart stopped, his blood stopped flowing, and his breath caught in a patch at the bottom of his throat, unable to be broken to escape. He felt very, very cold; for the person who stood peering through the door was none other than his lost love, Lorna. She watched him curiously, almost shyly. Her long, dark hair flowed down to the waist of her fading and tattered dress. Her eyes were deep pools of chocolate that glimmered when she smiled, a feature he had rarely witnessed. She had finally come to him, finally chosen him. Then he remembered the church, the gunshot, the blood, the cries. How could the woman he killed out of love be standing before him? Then, he understood. It was because this was not Lorna at all. The dimness of the room and his craving for the power to bring her back had deceived his own eyes. This woman was a nurse, obviously checking in on him. Her hair was a fading auburn, and although she shared the same ivory skin, her eyes were weary and a dismal, lifeless brown. She tried giving a polite smile that yielded no spark of feeling in those eyes, and offered an equally polite curtsy as she entered.
The woman was no longer of any consequence to him, so he opted not to speak, resuming his thoughtless stare into the bleak surroundings. He did notice from the corner of his eye, however, that the nurse did not attempt to approach him, but stood to the side of the doorway.
She cleared her throat lightly and her meek, quavering voice began an introduction. "Masters Simon Westley and Marwood de Whichehalse," she gestured to the doorway with a slight motion of her hand and stepped further to the side.
Carver started at hearing Marwood introduced, jarring his aching body, and he bit his lower lip to prevent an expression of pain from escaping. Marwood leaned heavily on the shoulder of Simon , slowly inching each step slowly, obviously not in any condition to be walking. His pale face was veiled with sweat, causing stray pieces of his blonde hair to stick to his forehead. He breathed in short gasps, wincing in pain with each breath and step. His hand protectively held his bandaged abdomen, a spot torn open by the gun of Sergeant Bloxham. Both men acknowledged Carver respectfully, if not shakily.
Carver was relieved to see such an important member of his clan alive. He held out his hand to Marwood. Marwood reached forward waveringly to receive it, but Carver recoiled. Marwood met his gaze in confusion, and Carver cocked his head questioningly, a reminder in his eyes, and offered his hand again. Simon helped Marwood painfully lean forward to kiss the ring that graced Carver's expectant, reaching hand. He still remained their lord, after all. Simon did the same and helped Marwood to a moderately stable chair. He nodded to the nurse who was still standing in a corner, petrified of being approached. She hurriedly exited the room at this dismissal, leaving the three men in contemplative silence.
MORE COMING SOON......