A/N: Before you read, know that, for one thing, this ficlet is very, very dark. It's Lyn's memories, while Hector is there to comfort her. I'm also trying a bit of a new style here; this is a much more vague, unstructured, and thought-centric story than I usually write. Please tell me what you think - as always, every review is much appreciated.
Words: 801
Characters: Lyn, Hector
Time: After any battle on the Dread Isle
Genre: Angst
Disclaimer: Everything you recognize belongs to Nintendo. Not me.
She hadn't ever been able to understand how anyone else could feel what she felt. How could anyone else have seen something like she'd seen, or suffered as she had? For Lyn remembered it all – she remembered the sight of blood staining the summer-thick grasses of Sacae, so vibrant and pulsing that it looked like a deathly cast of the sunset, mocking the life-giving blaze as it plunged out of sight.
She was standing there, trembling, shaking, fearing, and no one was there to comfort her, to hold her, to chase away the dangers and tell her that everything was going to be all right. Her friends, her family, and her home had been slaughtered. The remnants of her life were cast, still smoldering, into the wind as if they were nothing more than a passing thought, a mere day of triumph for the ruthless. She could still see the men who had destroyed her, the dull light of lust and murder in their eyes, the sweat on their skin, and the blood on their gleaming, sharpened axes. Her own blood – for it was her tribe's blood, and she was one with them. Had any of them thought twice when leaving the poison in her river? Did they understand a girl's pain, watching her father shudder and gasp, unable to save his people?
Whenever someone said I understand, Lyn was terrified, for no one else should have to know what she knew. When the bandits grabbed her friends, touched their skin and tore their clothes, did those men see the tears that would inevitably fall? No, nothing was noticed except for the sight of the defenseless, the fearful, the pitiful, the broken. That was the last that Lyn ever saw of her life. Bodies, both alive and dead, but they were still just bodies to the ones who shattered everything. There were children, infants, simply bloody corpses on the ground. And she, she alone, she was the one who had to see it all, remember it all, feel the pain of each death, injury, and injustice, rather than only one blow to end it all. For each scream echoed from her heart, each slash cut into her, each death killed a part of her.
And now, everyday life was turning into the same story.
On the fresh battlefield, there were dead fathers who had been fighting for their baby sons, dead brothers who had vowed to protect their mothers and sisters, dead daughters who had sworn to their families they'd come back alive, dead lovers who would never again feel the soft touch of gentle lips. How could everyone be suffering like she had? Feeling such loss, emptiness, and agony? Her heart twisted in a way that hearts aren't meant to twist. No, no; she alone should have to feel this way, for no one else should have to die, whether they still breathe or not.
Before she could stop them, before she even realized they were there, silent tears began to slip down her face. She let her head fall, her hair covering her face so no one could see. The tears dripped onto the ground, sparkling like a clear version of blood. For each drop contained anguish, each touched the ground only when there was no other option. Lyn's body trembled and shook again, her control vanishing, her knees weakening until she thought that not even her pride and her spirit could keep her standing. She hated it all, everything, anything, war and love and hope and despair.
Lyn almost didn't feel the strong, compassionate arm that wrapped around her shoulders, the hand that found hers and held it tight, the voice that whispered only her name, over and over, rough but reassuring. She knew that voice, that friend's voice - Hector's voice, which had grown so familiar over the past weeks.
Only then did she notice that he was beside her, and that it was his arms around her, and his hand holding hers. He didn't lie to her. He didn't say that everything was all right, that there's no need to cry. He just embraced her. Lyn couldn't see her sadness reflected in his eyes, but she felt it in his heart as she laid her cheek against his shirt, wetting it with her tears. She closed her eyes wearily. If only his warmth and his strength could chase away the memories, the reality, the heartache. No, not the heartache, but the soul-ache. It was more than just her heart – their hearts – that were damaged.
Every part of them was affected. War would always leave its mark, and if she wasn't careful, Lyn knew it would leave her as broken as her tribe and the crimson sword still clutched in her hand.