Queen Kharma and the General
Her back was carved so perfectly, he expected wings to sprout from it.
The General lay in camp, tunic over his stool and armour placed aside on a mannequin. This tent was nearly as squalid as all the others, and possibly just as much- save for his lavishly horned and feathered healmet, the finest decoration in itself, and the Queen. She slid off her gown and he swore his tent turned into the Palace.
She turned, place a soft hand on his cheek, and lay a kiss upon his furrowed brow. He felt it burn with electricity.
"I expect a lowly Patapon troop should be no trouble to vanquish," she growls in his ear. Her voice always betrayed her grace and finesse, he thought, yet his heart fluttered a drum beat fiercer than the Patapons' nonetheless.
He felt a second hand run through the back of his mop of hair.
"This unkempt mess doesn't suit you, Gong," she suggested- almost purring, and the hairs on his neck stood on end. "Shall you have it trimmed before the battle?"
"I'll trim it myself as a victory present to you, my Queen," he murmured, strong hands on the small of her back.
"Then I shall expect the present promptly-" she pulls a few strands of his hair, he grimaces, his heart skips a beat- "..and in two days' time."
His lips curl into a smile. "Of course, your majesty."
Gong's vision faded fast back to a red sky- the first thing that hit him was the smell of burning oil. He tilts his head left- his cheek lay in dirt and mud. He heard then- fuzzy and distant but all too distinct- a tribal shout, and the strong patter of drums in 4/4 time. The general tried to shift to his side, but it was proving difficult- a sharp pain pierced him, and he gave up. His helmet, he could see in the corner of his eye, was cast aside by gravity, feathers strewn about. A great exhaustion began to seep into him.
He looked again at the sky. His hair was beginning to poke into his eyes, stinging-
He promised he would have his hair cut when this was over.
A warm hand lay upon his shoulder- the armour must have cracked and broken off, he can feel the heat.
"I shall... " he coughed. "I shall die a warrior's death.."
The hand on his shoulder haphazardly pushed him aside and lifted his helmet into the air.
A victory yell pierces his heart in two.
Gong opened his eyes.
One side wasn't opening fully- as much as he tried, it hardly showed a sliver of light. A hand was in his hair, cradling him- and he looked up to meet them.
"I'm sorry, my Queen..." he croaked. His voice, he noticed, barely rose above a whisper.
He then saw the black flag looming above him. It must have been the flag bearer by his side, the closest thing those savages had to a general. He had heard his name once- Hatapon, they called him. Rage boiled inside of him. He laid still as he could. Breathing was getting increasingly difficult.
Of course the dirty Patapons would come to gloat.
He grimaced and tried to turn away- he wasn't moving.
"You fought well, Gong the Hawkeye."
He stopped. The hand moves from his hair to close his eyes, and barely- just barely- the burning inside of him began to quell.
