The Sunspire maybe we'll get lucky and maybe we'll both grow old

death came for her before the sun had risen. 

he swept over the dew-laden grass and trailed across the sweeping fields at the foot of the sunspire.  he was so dark that he absorbed the moonlight.  where he went the wind stopped blowing, rabbits started and froze.

he scaled the sunspire and took great care to give its residents their space.  he kept a respectful distance from the children, pulled his dark tendrils from the alpha.

his hawkish golden orb was set upon one and one alone, his duty and no more.  he regarded her still sleeping body.  the scalloped edge of her ribs, the way her hips were limned with moonlight.  he cupped her already rigid form —

and she whispered, "wait,"

his long black fingers froze.  her voice was not desperate or wanting.

"i want to see one more sunrise."

so seabreeze sat side by side with death as the sun cast its purple hues over the mountain.  "i am not ready," she admits.  and although death does not discriminate, perhaps she truly wasn't.

---

she drew a ragged breath as her eyes shot open.  she was feverish, cold, dying.  weakly, she attempted to rouse @Olive, but she couldn't move that far.  instead she called for @Hyacinth, her voice pinched and frightened.