Lady Butterfly
AN: Nohime/No is probably my favorite female character in the Samurai Warriors series, so I thought I would try out a oneshot/introspective kind of piece for her. I know this probably isn't the type of fic most SW people are used to reading, but bear with me. Hope you enjoy, and please review!
It is not so much the act of battle that Lady No looks forward to. It is the inevitable conclusion.
Dying screams are music to her ears.
Men are easily, laughably simple to entice. The barest hint of flesh- the arch of the heel visible when the rest of the foot is swaddled in smoothest silk, the arc of the shoulder accentuated by the dip of the robe here, the outline of the breast there… with one mere glance they are held under the sway of the Viper's Daughter.
And like a viper, that is when she strikes. Claws would suddenly flash from beneath the roomy sleeves of her robe, cleaving and cutting and slashing through the weak-minded men that would serve as her opposition. Explosive bombs would create craters in the earth, scattering her foes like cherry blossom petals in the spring breeze.
The blood seeps into her skin, spatters her kimono, stains the earth and drips from the blades of her claws.
The fluid heat, the adrenaline rushing through her veins, the power she is able to wield as she is taking lives and forming men-thoughtless, powerless, controllable men- into putty in her graceful hands- it is carnal. Heady. Arousing.
Delicious.
For No, death is the greatest form of intimacy. Intimacy that will never be granted to her as long as she lives.
She has heard of his deeds- with an army of 3,000 and his only tools being sheer strategy and intellect, his small army overtook the forces of Imagawa at Okehazama.
She has observed his power- his silhouette, regal and imposing for all those who are witness to his presence, adorned with glistening black feathers. His martial ability and grace concerning the art of the sword sends shivers of pleasure running down her spine.
She has seen his skill- the ruthlessness with which he cuts down his enemy like a man possessed.
At one point her husband Nobunaga was labeled as the Fool of Owari. A phrase that became memory etched in flame after the butchery of the Saika renegades. His detached and merciless personality earned him a new title, one that carved its way into the minds of any that would oppose him.
The Demon King.
He has drawn her as a moth would be drawn to a flame, helpless.
She has fallen under the spell of his skill and power, mesmerized by his feats and becoming obsessed with him.
No kills for him, No would kill him if the suggestion left his lips. She would do anything that would grant her the opportunity to stand by his side, to be with him; to be united with such closeness that they are as one.
To be the woman he loves.
To No, he is all things magnetic, worthy, inspiring.
Powerful.
Perfection.
And he will never love her.
As she cuts a bloody swathe through the enemy, all in the name of the man she would die for, the parting words of her father resound in her head. The blood that steeped her hands was refreshing, invigorating- but killing soldiers, mere peasants and laborers who were unfit to have time wasted on them, could only suit her for so long.
No wonders what it would feel like to kill a demon.