Title: Actions, Intentions, and Restraint.
Game: FE7
Rating: R because of violence.
Pairing/s (if applicable): N/A
Summary: A brutal murderer has to be dealt with. Now so does a second one.
Warnings: GORE. I am not kidding, it gets graphic.
Other Comments: This is set during Chapter 26x: Night of Farewells. Matthew is hit with a berserk staff, and the following occurs. As mentioned above, this fill contains some fairly explicit gore. If that's not your cup of tea I encourage you to skip the third, fourth, and fifth paragraphs, seeing as the rest of the fill is gore free.
The red and yellow bands twirled around Matthew's body and obscured his vision. Their color and their pattern drilled into his head. He tried to cover his eyes, but it didn't work. There was a searing pain in his head, and then anger, just pure, irrational hate. He let out an inhuman snarl, turning rabidly on the closest person. A blade plunged into flesh, blood poured, and Matthew smiled in a warped mockery of his usual smirk.
Jaffar didn't cry out. He certainly could have. The haphazard strikes of a madman were a far cry from Matthew's normally precise, exact, and quick killing strike. Metal twisted and ripped, slicing through muscle, and hacking at bones. As both of their clothes became more red, the Angel of Death gurgled out one word.
"Nino."
Nino.
The word echoed in Matthew's clouded brain. He'd said it likeā¦like he'd planned to call out for her when he died. He'd said it the way that Matthew planned to say Leila's name one day. The way she'd probably said his as she felt this man's blade pierce her skin. That thought, as disjointed as it was in his mind fed into the artificial rage, and Matthew screamed. His body was burning with the urge to hurt, and the object of this hate was in his arms, no longer capable of feeling pain. He twisted his sword still imbedded within the assassin's chest, then disregarded it completely and began to tear at his ribs, and his lungs, and finally his very heart with his bare hands.
The enemy controlled portion of his brain was urging him to find a new target, move on, kill someone else - it will feel better if they scream. He ignored the urgings, the pain in his skull rising as a result. Jaffar's heart was in his hands, or bits of it were anyway. There wasn't much left of it. Annoyed by this, Matthew grabbed the murderer's now-murdered body by something within him, the collarbone perhaps, and dragged it up off of the ground before slamming it back to the floor with as much force as he could muster. The thing's head cracked, and Matthew's bloodlust zeroed in on that fact immediately. With a sound that could only be classified as laugher by the damned, Matthew brought the heel of his shoe down on the cloth-shrouded head. Bones crunched and soft buttery brains leaked and oozed from the fissures and cracks created.
Matthew did not stop demolishing the corpse until it was hardly recognizable as such. There was no face, but the general human form was still intact. Until Matthew remembered his sword. Arms were hacked off and thrown at other members of the army, now a sign of frustration. He wanted off this island to get to more people. He was unable to however, and so his blade returned to Jaffar's mangled remains. When the effects of the staff finally wore off there was not an inch of Matthew that was not covered in gore.
As the rage fled from his mind, the redhead faltered. He almost fell, but he caught himself, only to double over and vomit. The stench of blood was overpowering, suffocating. He looked at what he'd done. He couldn't not; it was all around him, all over him. He stayed like that, not taking in what was in front of him, just staring, trying to comprehend what he'd done. Finally a Pegasus knight came to ferry him to the next island. Florina looked more than a bit green as she flew him across the water back to the thick of the battle, and she dropped him off without either of them having exchanged a word. No one looked at him as they finished the fight, and as they headed back to camp he noticed an extra few feet between himself and everyone else.
He doesn't blame them, he still reeks of blood. Guy won't look at him, and neither will Serra. She is actually hiding behind Lucius and Heath, and looks terrified. Lyn is staring at him with a strange, hard expression as she holds back a sobbing and furious Nino. Matthew won't look at them. Hector meets his gaze, and Matthew sees a flicker of understanding in the man's eyes, but it's small, hidden beneath a stern look that conveys little. Eliwood is fretting, trying to calm Nino, but not having much success. Guilt tugs at Matthew, but it's muted. He feels empty, and seeing the effects of his atrocities on everyone else's faces is just adding to his apathy.
Sain and Kent are talking quietly amongst themselves, but Matthew hears the words that matter. Brutality, excessive, doubt, motives, insane. Heath just glares at him. Matthew pays no mind to the judging stare he's being leveled with. Wil, the poor boy, was also sick, and now he's following behind Guy, staring at the floor in a horrified kind of way.
Matthew doesn't want to talk to any of them. Eventually someone will tell him that it wasn't his fault, that he wasn't in control. Was that a lie? Mostly. Killing Jaffar wasn't his doing. He would not have done it were it not for the staff, however much he wanted to. Everyone can agree on that. But ripping him apart like that had clearly been what he wanted to do. And he couldn't bring himself to regret what had happened.
When the bruised and shaken but triumphant group returned to the main camp, news traveled quickly. No one would go into detail, but the main message Matthew ripped Jaffar apart was soon heard by everyone in camp.
Mark berates him for killing Jaffar, for even having gotten hit by that freak staff, but muses that at least it was only the one. The man's obliviousness to the company's horror and his insensitivity to Matthew's turmoil are strangely refreshing to the spy. At least one person doesn't seem to care at all. Hector and Eliwood both seem like they want to come talk to him, as do a few other select members of the group, but he manages to slip away from them all and into a secluded area near camp. He hides, shrouded by shadows and the leaves of the forest around him, and gazes into the blackest bit of the night he can find.
He will not sleep tonight, he desperately wishes to, just to let everything fade for a few hours. He ghastly fantasies that await his sleeping mind would be nothing compared to the cold cruel truths his conscious brain is conjuring. He had killed people before. Everyone in the army had by now, but he had killed people in cold blood, just like Jaffar. Those people had been enemies, but more often than not there's a name or a plea, mostly half completed, that falls from the doomed wretch's lips as they slip away. For every fallen person another mourned. The blood is drying on his skin and it itches. The sensation of physical discomfort is enough to bring him out of his circular thoughts, and he heads back to camp. He cleans himself off and by the time anyone else is even awake a stony faced assassin waits at the edge of camp, knowing that he will soon have to deal with the aftermath.
AN: Hello all. I wrote this fairly quickly, and I feel some things are not articulated well, but I was happy with the overall piece, so please enjoy. I do plan on continuing this fic with more focus on other members of the army and how everyone deals with this instance, so please stay tuned. Concrit would be loved, as are all comments, regardless of tone, length, or sensibility.
