Pain.

I feel nothing aside from that.

Pain from overusing Mad Hatter. Pain from my unhealed (and — thanks to the Sewer Rat — freshly bleeding) wound. Pain from my memories of the past and my apprehension at the moment.

My body is crumbling, cracking, more evident than ever. I am not making out of this alive. I am dying, now.

And yet I am denying this indisputable fact with my entire being, clinging onto your name, your voice and your ever so confident smile as if they were — no, they actually are — my lifeline.

I vowed to you. I vowed to take it upon myself to shield your child from any harm in your place. I shall not betray your trust. I shall not betray your final wish.

I must not die, so long as my lady is still not safely secured in my arms.

Cough.

My lady screams my name. I desire nothing but for my hands to be unbounded, so that I can dry those tears dangling on the rim of her eyes right about now. There is no need to weep, not for a rotting, old clown such as myself.

My lady has placed my head on her lap, as you had long, long ago. For a moment, I feel the same tranquility, the same autumn breeze in my hair as I drown myself in my once colourful memories, in her touch so very akin to yours.

This fleeting moment of peace is torn from me by a sudden impact to the side of my head, jerking another cough from my throat as I hit the cold ground, in contrast to my lady's warmth.

Promptly followed by a kick.

Gurgle.

And another.

Gasp.

And another.

Cough.

I must not die yet.

You had commanded me to live. To struggle and suffer and survive. For someone's wish. For someone's protection. For you and for myself.

Not in a million years would I dare to disobey.

Panting, I weakly declare my determination to live — futile as it may be — as I cough up yet another splat of blood.

Suddenly I sense you step in front of me, your arms outstretched, your tears overflowing, your body trembling, your voice tired from shouting. You...

No. Not you.

"Sha... ron..." I rasp.

She implores the Baskervilles to stop this torture. How utterly nonsensical, a proud Rainsworth heiress deigning to beg for the life of her manservant. My lady, what a silly-billy you are—

WHACK.

She collapses.

Thud.

She falls on the ground, motionless. Her silky caramel-coloured hair splayed out behind her.

Thump.

My heart nearly explodes in my chest.

Both of my eyes shot open — even though one is missing and the other cannot see — I am still desperately trying to make out her silhouette. I need to be there next to her. I need to see that she is alright. I need to see her.

Thump.

In a heartbeat, I clench my teeth and stand up, even though I am certain I've tried in vain time and time again.

Thump.

A Baskerville unsheathes his sword at my lady, a few others surround me.

Kill them. Kill them. Kill them.

THUMP.

Muffling both my disbelief and my gratitude for the impeccable timing, I have the black fabric of death of my Mad Hatter coiled around the assailant straightaway.

KILL HIM!

Kill them. Kill them. Kill them. Kill them. Kill them.

Not enough.

Kill more. Kill more. Kill more. Kill more. Kill more.

Still not enough.

Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill. Kill.

There was a time when my mind was filled with nothing but those words.

My actions can never be justified, I know. I was a monster, I know. I should be hanged 116 times over, I know.

"Live, Kevin." You once said, a gentle hand on my still bloodied eye.

"Live and stop smearing your hands with blood. Live and repent for your sins. Live for protecting someone, being concerned for someone, loving someone. Live a life you can be proud of living this time around."

Kill them.

One down. A sword falls to the floor next to my lady with a clear 'clang'.

Kill more.

I hold my lady close. It'll be alright now, nothing will harm her. I won't let it.

Kill.

I pick up the sword. You see, if a knight does not brandish his blade, then he is of no worth. And though falling apart, I am still a knight through and through.

I apologise to you in a hushed whisper, if only to deceive myself that forgiveness was ever an option, "Please forgive me. I shall smear my hands with blood but once more. I shall sin... but once more."

Die. Blood. Die. Slash. Die. Crumble. Die. Decapitate. Die. Die. Die. Die. Die.

They had the audacity to harm your daughter. They had the audacity to harm my lady. They will atone with their lives.

PAIN.

I am going to die.

...not yet!

I strain my eye, blindness is inconceivably vexing when I am trying to locate where my lady was injured. My fingers cautiously trail up from her cheek to the side of her head, then I halt. She flinch ever so slightly under the pressure of my finger on the gash. It is bleeding, it smells like iron.

They will atone with their lives.

Soon, I will join you, very soon. But not yet.

I am still drawing breath right now, so I shall struggle and suffer and survive as you had commanded me to.

I protected her, I am concerned for her, though I dare not claim to have given her the love you would have. But still, perhaps, soon enough, I would finally be able to look you in the eyes without an ounce of shame and proclaim that,

"I am proud to have lived, Shelly-sama."

The End