Darius did not recall dying.
Not being dead in the literal sense, of course. But more in the sense of identity.
There had been times when he felt a little closer to death, when the small parts of him had crumbled away over time, when his mind was lost to the erosion of suffering.
But he was never exactly there. The feeling where one would be so drowned in pain that he wished for death.
He could barely remember what it felt like to desperately cling to life. There had been sorrow, misery, torment...
And funnily enough, those were the moments that had made giving up feel impossible.
Darius had never known what it felt like to be weak. He was a healthy child, stronger than his peers.
After all, even after getting beaten by that thorny whip of his father, he was still able to stand on his shaky legs, still able to reach his room before collapsing.
So when he first coughed up blood, he dismissed it. Forget him, even the servants had barely spared him a glance.
