Good evening. Well, it's 4:30 am, but you get my drift.
I haven't published fanfic in, what, two years maybe? Thinking about it might make me head desk, so I won't inflict unnecessary pain on myself by doing so.
I've been writing, I've written a ton, but I've had writer's block issues - the plot bunnies are eager, but they have a bit of a problem with self confidence.
This is a sort of coaxing out therapy – I have utterly no idea where it came from and I don't think I really got a point across about anything, and I don't much like it either for that matter, and there's probably mistakes in it and it might not make sense *takes breath* - but it might help. Maybe.
So, without further ado – I release it upon thee.
Enjoy!
The battle was still raging. The enemy had seeped into the citadel. The clanging of the swords ricocheted off the bloodied walls, their shining white a harsh contrast to the red stench lying upon them. Cries tore at the air in every room, displacing memories of laughter and love with anguish. No one would be able to forget this. That is – if they survived. Many had not.
There was a man – old and grey – with blood on his hands. He was trying to staunch the flow of life from too many at once. He was having to choose who to treat. He did not have enough time to fix them all. This old man, his lank hair pressed to his withered face, was tired. The battle was forcing him to play a game of gods again. It had grown wearisome very quickly a long, long time ago, but he carried on. The old man was shrewd, strong.
There was a girl with him. The curls in her black hair lay damp and strained in their shape, the sweat and tears she had shed weighing them down. She, too, was playing God – aiding the old man with his deeds, but, unlike the old man, she knew nothing of the burden this would carry in her heart later. Well, that was, if there was a later. The screaming coming ever closer to the door threatened any kind of future.
The girl's mind, while intent on her duties, was elsewhere, as was the sheer vastness of her compassion and ability to love. You could see it in the distance of her brown eyes as she sutured a gaping wound and comforted a screaming child. She was thinking of a man. This man was great, but he was forced down heavily by duties, burdened by pressures, inflicted upon him by a tyrant. His sword flashes through the air as one with him, and like his weapon he himself seems to shine, even as he becomes shrouded in his kills, in the wounds he inflicts and the noble men he has sacrificed. His bright blue eyes flashed with determination, his armour shone as it swung in the frantic fire's light, and sweat glistens on his brow.
But there is something missing in the man. Not a crown that would complete the picture so perfectly, but a presence. Someone, not something. It can be seen in his swings, straight and true – and deadly – as they are, and the way he keeps searching the room – he has left his back unguarded. Because someone should be there.
That someone is a boy, so opposite from his other half but yet a perfect match. He is greater than them all, but in sight lowlier than any. He should be with his Prince, but instead he sits in his room. Do not believe him to be hiding, not from the battle. He sits curled around an injury (one of many) – he has yet to really notice its severity (neither will he likely care) – and he stares, slightly dazed, at the book in front of him. The battle is muted around him, but still too starkly heard in his ears.
He sits for a long time, knowing that the longer he does the more the screams outside will be drawn out – the more material he will have to sift through in his nightmares. He is not deliberating as some may think, but steeling himself. He does not want to do this – he will bury himself further in darkness. But it is necessary.
Something glistens on his eyelashes, runs down a red painted cheek (he's trying not to remember exactly whose life is drying congealed on his face) and his right hand twitches – just slightly – then opens fully. He points it across the room. His eyes close, golden underneath. His mouth opens.
There is a girl, with long, black hair, sleek and shiny, lying crooked on the other side of the room. There is not a strand out of place on her head, nor a thread unwoven or unpicked from her dress. She is beautiful. But her soul is not. Twisted from fear and despair and, eventually –inevitably – hate. She makes no sound, even as her pretty painted mouth opens wide. Her body convulses a little, just some. She burns.
She perhaps did not deserve such a painful passing – but it was necessary.
It seems the bloodied boy had also played God in his time. He was an expert, apparently.
The noises die. Silence reigns, thick in his ears.
Eventually the battle worn Prince, having congratulated his men (for what he is not sure) and shared a handshake with his King, hastens to find what has become of his friends. He finds the old man first, with haunted, experienced eyes, and then his love, her radiance even in so miserable a state a comfort to him. They move off together, and find the boy.
They lay his limp body down, stitch him up and stroke his bloodied hair in comfort. They were frightened to find him this way, no less when he awakes so sullen and silent.
They don't understand quite what he sacrificed, what he did – no one knows why all their enemies fell at their feet, neither do they know of the murder in his room. What he did to her left no remains. Only a faint stench of burning and a haunted look in his eyes. They will never know what he did.
Of course, he tells not a soul – he can't. How can he?
He is ashamed and frightened. Not of what he did – it was necessary, after all – but... he just is.
He'll recover eventually. He hopes. What he does – then, now - is necessary.
Fighting in the shadows is a must. No one can know who he really is. No one can know what he has done, what he does – what he will do to ensure his friends' futures.
The old man sometimes tells him his burden is too heavy. But it is necessary. He minds that he gets taken for granted, he minds that he has no recognition, no thanks, no praise, and he minds that he has to make such sacrifices, make so many suffer and scream and bleed by his hands. But it is necessary.
He tells himself that one day it will all be worth something.
Review? It might help me out.
Thanks for reading.
:) xx