After the Battle
At night she cries.
She wipes the blood off of the blade, refusing to let a squire do the job. She must take responsibility for her own actions. She can almost taste the tang of blood.
She uses a white clothe so that she can see the dark red stains. The coldness of her sword makes her shiver.
Sometimes when she cleans her equipment the blood is still warm. It is almost easier like that. She then can really understand that this substance had, until recently, run in another's veins.
How many lives has she taken? She doesn't know. The blur of battle confuses her. When she's fighting it is not against people, it is against a force. And she is not an individual, but a single part of something so much bigger. She is the tool of her land, and she does what she must to protect it. And the others, they aren't humans; they are just threats to her, to her family, to her people.
During battle she doesn't think. During battle she just fights.
It's after, at night, when she really feels it.
She cleans the blood off and wonders whose it was. Maybe he was a father, a brother, a husband, a son.
Someone, some family member or loved one, is going to hear of this death. Someone is going to cry.
She imagines a woman, newly married, receiving the letter of her husband's death. She imagines a child, asking for his father, not really understanding that the man he looks up to is gone forever. She imagines a mother finding out that her son, her only hope, is dead.
And she cannot stop the hot tears that brim to her eyes as she mourns for the countless people whose lives she has ruined.
The metallic scent of blood hangs mockingly in the air as she slides her sword back into its scabbard. It doesn't go away as she slips into her night clothes. It rests on her hair and her skin as she settles into bed. It haunts her dreams at night as she tosses and turns, hearing battle cries coming from nowhere.
She never really knew what it meant to take a life. She had always only considered the glamour of knighthood. She had never considered the pain.
As she has grown older she has become familiar with that smell. And it horrifies her that, at times, she no longer even notices it. Her first sword was so significant. But now she has changed weapons several times. Her blade now doesn't even carry its own name. It steals life like a thief steals money, with no thought to the victims.
And still, at night, her tears leak out of her eyes, mixing with the ruby that glistens against steel. Sometimes she forces them out. Because she can never forget what she is doing. Because she can never forget that these are people and that she is killing them.
At night, when the smell of blood hangs in the air, she cries.
Author's Note: Hey! I wrote this to try and get back into the fandom. I haven't written anything for Tamora Pierce for a while. Constructive crit is welcome. I don't really like this. I didn't capture the emotion like I would have hoped. But if you can tell me how to do better, I'd be ever so grateful!
I'm writing this because I want to get back into the fandom. :D Because the amazing Kris Eleven asked me to be a judge for the ficship competition (.net/forum/The_Ficship_Competitions/54838/). You should all visit it and nominate your favourite Tortall and Emelen fics for the awards.
Reviewers get (virtual) gingerbread cookies. :D Oh, and happy early New Years!