People died every day. It wasn’t anything new, and Len had never really tried to stop it, unless it was the death of one of his own friends. It was natural, nothing to be afraid of, right?
One well-placed slice to the throat changed his opinion instantly.
He felt his own blood flow, and his mind raced. He didn’t do anything wrong — who was this rogue - these rogues, two of them?! Why were they were — what had they wanted? Gold? He didn’t know where it was, he’d never been to Stranglethorn… he could feel Aleks behind him, supporting him and doing his damnedest to heal him. How was he so unflappable when his lover’s blood was spilling over both their hands?! And nevermind the damn warlock, severing his soul and thinking he was helping.
His mind raced, and suddenly.. it stopped. Or was it his heart? It must’ve been both, because before he knew it, he was staring at himself, crumpled agains Aleks. Blood was all over his hands, his chest, Aleks’s hands, and what did he do? Was he supposed to just… walk back into his body? The worst that could happen was nothing.. right?
So he did. He did, and the first emotion he felt was fear. Pure, untamable fear. His hands held his throat firmly, deathly afraid he’d bleed out if he didn’t keep them there. He tried to speak, but all sounds save for high-pitched wheezing died in his broken vocal chords. Oh Light, was he mute now? He was alive, and death had been but a few moments for him.. but he saw his body.
He saw his own body, and he felt his own life slip from him. He’d never felt such fear of losing his own life. Never had he felt anything quite so terrifying as his own life spilling over his fingers. He was fine now, despite the fear and the loss of his voice, but… he was shaken.
Death had claimed him once, now. He was terrified to think it could try again at any moment to claim him once more.