The Other Side of Utopia
Lodoss is copyright of Ryo Mizuno and blah blah blah not me.
Maybe he just didn't realize what he had until he lost it. Maybe he just didn't want to admit that he should have done something more. Maybe he just didn't want to think about, about what all had happened.
Maybes and what ifs were all that were left to the man sitting on the coarse wooden chair, in a near deserted stone castle in a land of chaos. The man knows he shouldn't be thinking of the past, of her. He had a focus again, a goal. And that goal was to kill the man that had betrayed his lord's utopian view of a country where equality existed amongst all races, a land where there was peace.
But she nagged at the back of his mind, always. A glint of gold resting on a dark forehead, pale hair thrown over shoulders and boots that incessantly clicked, making him aware of her presence constantly. That was what he remembered, and what he regretted.
She was always there, always, watching for any sort of slight hint or command from him, but he never gave one - never gave one that made a difference. It wasn't an order that day in that hot, burning cavern where domination lay. It was her own free will that led her to her fate, but he couldn't help but wonder what if he had stopped her, if he wouldn't have thrown that metallic wand of power away, if his ambition had been less than his opinion of her. What would I have done, he wonders, his back getting sore from the hard wood bracing it.
His armor chafed, but not as much as the weight settled on his mind, the thoughts flowing through his head. He had taken advantage of her, hadn't he? His hands moving on that smooth, tanned body in the dead - hah, dead - of night, lips pillaging rough kisses and taking his idle pleasure. He never said anything to her, never an endearment.
He realized now that was a mistake, that he should have said something. That she should have died knowing he thought more of her, that she wasn't just another whore in his bed. But she'd never know, because she was dead. She was dead for him, and that was the irony. How many men had died for him in this bloody war? He thought nothing of them in this twilight, none of them made a mark in his memory. None but her.
None but her, who in the end, was the only one he wasn't willing to sacrifice. He squeezed his hands into fists, until the worn leather gloves draw taut against his skin, and he wished he would bleed. Anything to distract him from this madness, from the demon sword sheathed at his belt, from the man who waited to resurrect destruction herself, from the woman who had once been in his bed and then brought him back to life but most of all from the other woman who shared a piece of his heart.
Two sides of the same coin, they were. But he thought he had been smart about getting out of the temptress' embrace, but instead he had fallen into a much worse prison - that of love. And love made him weak, love made him falter in his mission. A witch and an elf - what kind of a man was he, to punish himself so, and enjoy it even more?
And that was what angered him the most - he enjoyed it, he enjoyed every minute of it, but couldn't tell her in time that he did.
Sighing, upon seeing the morning light, the man stretches, resigning himself to another day of being on this hell spawned, accursed island, his thoughts vanishing.
Maybe he just didn't realize what he had until he lost it. Maybe he just didn't want to admit that he should have done something more. Maybe he just didn't want to think about, about what all had happened.
Maybes and what ifs were all that were left to the man sitting on the coarse wooden chair, in a near deserted stone castle in a land of chaos. The man knows he shouldn't be thinking of the past, of her. He had a focus again, a goal. And that goal was to kill the man that had betrayed his lord's utopian view of a country where equality existed amongst all races, a land where there was peace.
But she nagged at the back of his mind, always. A glint of gold resting on a dark forehead, pale hair thrown over shoulders and boots that incessantly clicked, making him aware of her presence constantly. That was what he remembered, and what he regretted.
She was always there, always, watching for any sort of slight hint or command from him, but he never gave one - never gave one that made a difference. It wasn't an order that day in that hot, burning cavern where domination lay. It was her own free will that led her to her fate, but he couldn't help but wonder what if he had stopped her, if he wouldn't have thrown that metallic wand of power away, if his ambition had been less than his opinion of her. What would I have done, he wonders, his back getting sore from the hard wood bracing it.
His armor chafed, but not as much as the weight settled on his mind, the thoughts flowing through his head. He had taken advantage of her, hadn't he? His hands moving on that smooth, tanned body in the dead - hah, dead - of night, lips pillaging rough kisses and taking his idle pleasure. He never said anything to her, never an endearment.
He realized now that was a mistake, that he should have said something. That she should have died knowing he thought more of her, that she wasn't just another whore in his bed. But she'd never know, because she was dead. She was dead for him, and that was the irony. How many men had died for him in this bloody war? He thought nothing of them in this twilight, none of them made a mark in his memory. None but her.
None but her, who in the end, was the only one he wasn't willing to sacrifice. He squeezed his hands into fists, until the worn leather gloves draw taut against his skin, and he wished he would bleed. Anything to distract him from this madness, from the demon sword sheathed at his belt, from the man who waited to resurrect destruction herself, from the woman who had once been in his bed and then brought him back to life but most of all from the other woman who shared a piece of his heart.
Two sides of the same coin, they were. But he thought he had been smart about getting out of the temptress' embrace, but instead he had fallen into a much worse prison - that of love. And love made him weak, love made him falter in his mission. A witch and an elf - what kind of a man was he, to punish himself so, and enjoy it even more?
And that was what angered him the most - he enjoyed it, he enjoyed every minute of it, but couldn't tell her in time that he did.
Sighing, upon seeing the morning light, the man stretches, resigning himself to another day of being on this hell spawned, accursed island, his thoughts vanishing.