[piosenniel]

Jamílah and Sammael

"I cannot harm you, woman." Or can you, will you, to protect yourself? Sammael let his arm fall, and he fell to his knees before her. One by one, he was able to free his fingers from the grip on his blade. "I will not."

He is the same age as Husam she thought to herself, a sudden weariness assailing her.

She had seen Husam fall from a distance and had not seen him rise again. Unable to get to him as the battle swelled and pressed against her, she had fought on, using her mace and her knives as needed. A trail of dead bodies lay behind her - the blood from their dying marked her with its dark crimson spatters. And now this man knelt before her. This strange man whose sword had clattered to the ground by his own willing . . .

She placed the flat of her left hand against his forehead, her fingers extending up like a fleshy crown upon his shaven head. He trembled slightly at her touch, raising his hazel eyes to meet her dark ones. The answering light she looked for in his gaze was not there.

‘You are some mother’s son . . .’ she murmured softly to him. The sounds of battle retreated from the small pocket of grace that held them apart from the chaos swirling round them. ‘A woman bore you in pain and joy . . . gave you life . . . brought you into the light . . .’ She shook her head slowly as she looked at him . . . her tears, spilling onto his head, ran down his forehead to gather in the shallow wells of his own eyes. ‘And now darkness has taken you . . .’

Her right hand let loose the mace she held. It clattered to the ground, abandoned as the sword it fell upon. From her belt she drew the obsidian knife she wore, the same she had used in so many birthings to sever the cord that held the baby to the mother. He gasped as she raised it, but did not pull away. With a practiced stroke she cut his throat from ear to ear, a great gaping, bloody smile of death . . . severing him from the dark, unnurturing mother he had chosen for himself . . .

The sounds of battle returned as his fallen form lay lifeless at her feet.

And just as sudden was the quick intake of breath . . . the soft ‘O’ of surprise that flickered on the features of her face. Some unknown craven’s spear . . . run through her from the back.

Jamílah’s face softened in recognition.

Death, that storied old crone, had found her, standing over the body of the young man . . . and beckoning with a toothless, knowing smile . . . sighing softly . . . Death reached to welcome her . . .