And he stopped.
What the hell had he been holding onto anyways, and why did the ground feel like concrete? He could've sworn he was hanging from a cliff. Tattered clothes should have been hanging from his body, blowing in the biting, merciless wind. Instead, he was standing here, in the city, with the same clothes he had been wearing before the game. His arms were stretched out above him, straining to grab a ledge that was not there, mouth opened in a soundless scream.
People were staring.
He blinked serveral times, lowering his arms and coughing, pretending it was simply an overzealous yawn. Everyone stopped looking and kept going about their own business as he tried to remember just exactly what happened.
It was a game. Just a game. She promised everything would work out okay. This time anyways.
Crazy things always happened whenever she decided to pop in, he should have learned that already. A friendly wager, a game of paintball, what could go wrong? Well, when someone decides to put a bayonet on their gun, anyone would begin to wonder...
His chest stung. He looked down to see blood seeping through his shirt. That first cut must have been real, so what else was?
The game went on, paint coloring the rocks and trees in the fenced in wilderness. He won a game, she won a game. By the end of the third match, they were both covered in colors never found in nature. The fourth round went longer than the first, days passing as the one-on-one game of cat-and-mouse drove him to the limits of his strength...
As he recalled the game, he suddenly felt tired, the muscles of his arms and legs tightening under the pain of exhaustion. His stomach followed suit, hunger pangs causing him to clutch his gut.
And they were nearing the end, match point. They had played for days. Her energy was unending, while he slowly tired. It was all he could do to hold off her increasingly brutal attacks, she preferring to use the bayonet instead of simply ending it. She cut his clothes to tatters, each time forcing him back. Further and further...
He panted for breath, cuts appearing all over his body. His eyes burned, tearing up as he tried to wipe them.
Until he fell. He caught himself on the ledge, but he had not the strength to pull himself up. She walked up to him and looked down. Looking up, he saw the feral grin on her face, the knowledge that she had won.
That is, until he screamed, and let go...
And he collapsed, his legs shattering under his weight, followed by his torso, arms, and head. He lay there in pain, unsure of how he even survived a fall like that. Even so, he was certain that he would not survive the next five minutes as the uncaring public traipsed by.
And then he saw her. His eyes were wide, he could not blink. His already ragged breathing coming even heavier that before. She still wore the same paint-spattered clothes she had on before, carrying the same bayonet sporting gun she had before.
She looked down at his crumpled form again, the same feral smile crossing her face. As the gun dropped, he no longer feared death, hoping for it to come faster.
It was better than losing to her.
But he was not so lucky. She pointed the gun at his head, grinning as she pulled the trigger.
"Bang! You lose."
And then she was gone, skipping off happily into the crowd. He was left there to find his own way home.
"Anyone got a regeneration spell," he called weakly.
Why did he always agree to play her games? And why the hell did he have to marry her too?
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