It had been a clear night, one that would have afforded a glorious view of the Blood Stars, if they had been shining that is. As the dawn came dense clouds had rolled in to smother its feeble light. Turin reclined on his cot, tent flaps still open from a night spent contemplating not the Blood Stars but their conspicuous absence. His rasping breaths wheezed in his blood caked throat each one a labor to draw in.
He glanced at his sword leaning against the tent-post. If someone came to answer his challenges now it would be too late. Part of him longed to see Severina and Illyria one last time, but he'd rather they didn't see him like this, to remember him this way. He'd even dismissed his servants and healers, they were still sleeping in their tents.
The breaths came slower and slower. Each time it took longer for him to work up the strength to inhale again and each time he thought not to bother, to just let it all stop.
117 years of life, and of that a century, give or take, dedicated to the stars. In spite of all that he wondered if he'd done all he could.
In the silence of the grey morning he heard voices, three familiar voices speaking in unison, "rest old friend, you have earned it."
Gasping, Turin's cracking voices managed to whisper, "Rowan... Boreal... Mathurin... thank you..."
He let out the last of his breath and just lay still, letting the darkness take him.
