She held up a bleeding hand to conjure a deluge, knocking her opponent out in one deft movement.
She gazed as a mass of rock materialized next to her, and she stood entranced as a conflagration emblazoned in response. There was an eerie beauty in the elemental invocations, and her eyes lingered on the two elements before she turned her attention back to the heat of the battle.
She surveyed the masses of carcasses surrounding her. A year ago, she would have wept. She would have mourned. Today, the charred flesh that flapped listlessly from the bones just seemed to simply delineate a piece of the picture. Coarse fabric seemed to deliquesce into skin, and the hands of the departed were curled adamantly inward. Katara knelt next to the fallen doctor. Strands of sepia hair fell apathetically into his visage. Glazed eyes stared tauntingly back at her. This is your fate, they called.
Serenades of death rattles crooned around her. She stood up and breathed deeply. A magpie warbled blithely in the distance. The sun shone scintillatingly onto the river as the two kissed each other with warm familiarity. It had begun to set, and the moon had begun her haughty ascent to the throne.
What was life like before her village was involved in the war? Humdrum. Banal. Trite.
Her daily battles were with her brother, but there were never any repercussions after a loss. Teasing, taunting, tickle fights: only her pride suffered a daily carnage. Sometimes, when driven to tears, she would be reminded that it was all pretend. None of the danger was really there. The adrenaline rushes were just primal mechanisms to protect a fragile heart, an innocence that wished to ensconce itself into the abyss of time.
An unfamiliar feeling surfaced in the pit of her stomach. She became fearful of this new endangerment, and she fruitlessly attempted to quell its hunger. Gnawing incessantly at the walls of her innards, the feeling began to tear and rip into her heart.
She breathed in the adventure and heroics. She breathed in the surrealism-turned-reality. She didn't care for sides anymore. Who was the enemy? Who were the good guys? Everything was too subjective. It was a matter of opinion; it was a matter of pride. Loyalties had been recklessly abandoned, and people had begun to fight because they felt it was the only thing to do. Loyalties. That line had been crossed far too often, far too soon.
A shadow appeared next to her, and she turned to face its owner.
A smirk was plastered ominously on the Prince's face, and she felt an inevitable lust for action. She was to be the heroine this time. Planting her feet firmly on the ground, she held her hands up for battle.
The moon shone sensuously in the distance, casting a mischievous gleam onto the river. Cadavers created a makeshift border for their arena.
And, for a trice, she was caught up in the romance of it all.
A/N: "Okay, boys. If you want to propose, make sure you do it in the moonlight. It makes even the ugliest girls look pretty! The moon is, after all, the epitome of sensuality and sexuality."
After our English discussion of such things, I felt impelled to write this. I could turn this into a longer story. Tell me what you guys think, and drop a review:-)