Clouds brush past me. They feel damp on my skin. My wings cut through them, breaking the delicate white into tiny droplets of water that cling to the feathers.
I keep my arms wrapped close to my body, holding the wound closed. Blood aches to escape. My heart tries to beat my life away.
My vision is blurring now. Dusk is descending, bringing with it the chill night air.
I shall not see another sunrise.
But I shall choose where I rest.
This is the final battle.
Not the war I just fought against those who would take my world and destroy it, the war I lost. Not that one. This. This choice of how my life shall end. This they shall not dictate.
I sink through the clouds, shivering from the damp and cold.
Below, I can just make out the settlements of my homeland. The hordes haven’t reached them yet. But they will soon. My daughters will have to choose. To fight. Or surrender. Either way is risk.
The trees where my kind make their home are tall. They cover the land in a carpet of green. I soar past them, my energy diminishing all the time.
I will make it to the mountains. Because I choose to. I will lay amongst the griffins and bleed my life out on the rocks of my ancestors.
I push on. The wind strengthens, buffeting me, making it harder to control my weak wings. I will make it.
Grasslands open up, covering the space between the trees and the mountains. I look up, search with my blurred eyes for a place to land. I am almost there. I hear the cries of the warbands, carrying on the winds. They are coming.
Will I hear the destruction of my people as I lay dying? That, I suppose, would be fitting in a cruel sort of way.
A griffin cries. I echo its call. The pain in my stomach now is great. The blood drips from between my fingers.
Rockface approaches. I sink down, letting myself fall onto the hard, cold surface. I am covered in water from the clouds, small beads clinging to my skin and clothing.
I lay on my back, crushing my wings beneath me. They don’t matter anymore. I won’t be using them again.
My eyes close. They can no longer see. No longer tell me anything about the world.
I am defeated.
Describli prompt: The final battle.