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Lara had forgotten how vivid blood could be.
Bright crimson coated her pale, thin fingers. She wondered briefly if it would stain them. There would certainly be blood on her hands forever. Invisible, even after she scrubbed her skin raw and red.
Block was looking down at her in shock. Always looking down. Always sneering. He hadn't expected her. He hadn't even recognised her. Not that she had given him time. She had been singular and swift. The barrel had been at his chest and the bullet in his lungs before he could blink.
Daniil had told her not to do this. Sweet, sweet, silly Daniil Dankovsky. Daniil who had risked his life to bring her food and test medicine designed to kill her. Daniil who spent his short days braving the plague to find a cure for the wretched Pest that had caused this entire ordeal. She felt as if she was disrespecting him.
She would have to apologise later, if she ever met him again. It was the least she could do. He had been better to her than many of the people in the Town. Especially better to her than Alexander Block could ever be.
"Ra... vel...?"
If Lara had had a tighter grip on her sanity, she might have gasped and dropped her weapon. She did look like her father, everybody said so. They had the same bump in their nose, the same furrowed brow and the same sad gaze.
Lara hoped her face haunted him. She prayed she was a ghost. Fate had brought him here and fate would never bring someone to a town such as this without designs of their demise on the horizon. Lara was more than a spectre - she was a Grim Reaper. She was redemption wearing a Ravellian face. She hoped it made him sick. She prayed he died of the acute pain of regret before her bullet did its job.
Her own death had been sealed here too, in this very moment. And that was okay.
She had been destined to die since she was born, just as her father before her. Every soul had. The thought of it tore her up inside. Each of her loved ones was nothing more than a walking, breathing corpse. A grave to be. It would be nice to rest without such worry weighing on her mind for once.
Block slumped against her, falling to his knees. He reached out feebly, his bloodied hands gripping her clean, white blouse. There was a stain she would never get out.
"I'm sorry." He choked.
Sorry he'd been caught.
There was a loud noise, like a crack. The sour smell of gunpowder hung in the air. A bullet ripped through her own chest.
One of the soldiers had found them.
Voices echoed in her ears but none of them were familiar. They were the chorus. The rabble. Background characters. They weren't even pieces on the same chessboard as her.
Anger spilled out of her chest with her blood. Anger she hadn't realised she was feeling. Anger she had hidden in her heart since her father's death. She felt at peace. She had existed for a reason. She had fulfilled her role as a pawn. She wasn't acting out of character - this was what she had been built for.
Block was motionless now. He fell backwards, crimson pooling around him. He was supposed to die here. And so was she. She leaned back against the desk.
Her last page was being written.
Her final thoughts were of Grief, of Rubin. Of Artemy, the sweetest of them all. Her lovely, lovely cub. She hoped he would be fine with the children. She prayed he would not lose himself to the haze of pestilence. If only she had been his guardian Angel.
If her role had been to stand by his side, she wouldn't be lying on the cold tile floor of the town hall, gasping for breath. If her role had been to stand by his side, would she be happy?
A wave of nausea rushed over her. It started at her toes, with regret. It paused at her heart, with grief. And it finished in her head, with sorrow. Loneliness bubbled under her skin and lamentation rang in her ears. She had thought it was too late to plant seeds of doubt, and yet they were already blooming. Ashen Swish burst out from her veins.
As her vision began to blur and her pulse began to slow, she saw him smiling down at her. Him. Her father. The Apples. The children. Them.
She was not content. She was not happy. She was not at peace.
But her story was at its conclusion.
And she was unsure, if given the chance, she would have followed any other script.