Valor
"...Hey, Cross?"
"What the hell is it, vegetable?"
The first speaker grimaced at the use of the nickname, a tad affronted. True, it was far from the first time his companion had referred to his as an edible plant, and it probably (hopefully) wasn't going to be the last, but it still bugged him. It wasn't his fault he had been born with grass-green hair, and he should have deserved some respect as a knight. But his friend and comrade simply refused to give him any. Normally, this wouldn't have bothered him that much, but he was extremely nervous at the moment. Understandable, considering the situation he was in.
"First of all, I'd appreciate it if you stopped calling me 'vegetable.' This may be our last day together, after all, and I was hoping you'd at least call me by my first name."
"I'll start calling you 'Zephyr' when you start calling me 'Sir Windsor.' That is to say, never. And stop it with the depressing talk. If you die today, I'm out ten-thousand zenny."
"I'm so deeply moved, Sir."
"The hell you are," Cross growled, "Now what the hell is it? Make it fast, because this shit's about to begin at any moment."
Zephyr smiled. Not his usual cheerful grin, but one so strangely sublime that Cross was taken aback. "...Do you believe in an afterlife?"
"...You're bullshitting me right?"
"No, Cross. I really want to know what you think."
"WE'RE ABOUT TO LEAD A VANGUARD OF LESS THAN FIFTY SUICIDAL INBREDS HEADFIRST INTO THE WORLD'S GREATEST MEATGRINDER AND YOU'RE ASKING ME IF I BELIEVE IN A FUCKING LIFE AFTER DEATH?! WERE YOU BORN THIS FUCKING RETARDED OR ARE YOU PUTTING IN A SPECIAL EFFORT TODAY?!" Cross roared, waving a hand at the pitiful two score knights that made up his command, the Thirteenth Knight Division of Prontera, the Black Dragons. Though they had no banner, no dress code, no standard weapon, and no pride to speak of, they had been picked for the crucial task of spearheading the Pronteran army as they met the armies of Glastheim. When he heard about their newest posting, Zephyr had been rather surprised. It took him roughly a minute to remember the... "unique" nature of this particular division and how it made them both unnaturally ferocious on the battlefield and yet completely expendable. They were all delinquents, after all, so the King wouldn't be losing any sleep over their deaths.
And die they would, if they had to charge into the vast hordes of Raydrics in front of them. To Zephyr, they looked like a molten sea of silver, their steel bodies reflecting the morning sun into his eyes. There must have been over a million of them, though it was nearly impossible to make out their numbers with the glare they were giving off. More than enough to kill him a thousand times over, that was for sure.
"...So, do you?"
"Fuck no. We live this life through, then we're nothing," Cross growled, fingering the hilt of his claymore restlessly. The Lord Knight was ill at ease when it came to discussions regarding death, mainly because he flirted with it everyday.
Zephyr gave Cross a curious look. "Then how can you be so... fearless?"
"Simple. Have a life that's even shittier."
"...That may prove to be a problem for me, since, you know, I wasn't abandoned, adopted, re-abandoned, re-adopted, and traumatized three times over during the process."
Cross snorted. "I wasn't 're-abandoned' you turnip. I ran away."
"Well, your life sucks; that's fascinating. But that doesn't quite explain why you aren't afraid of anything," Zephyr cut in. "I mean, if you really did hate living that much, you'd have just slit your wrists and gotten it all over wi-"
"Will being afraid help you survive?"
"...What?"
The Lord Knight leaned from in his saddle, surveying the lines of Raydrics for any potential weaknesses. "Will fear help you survive a little longer? Live a little happier? Perhaps, if you had been a coward and fled from before they slapped that silly helm over your leafy head. Now, if you ran, they'd hang you as a deserter and throw your name into the mud. You don't have time to worry about dying anymore, or even what you fight for. All you should be thinking about is how you're going to fight, how you're going to avoid getting pin-cushioned before you reach the enemy lines, and how you're going to split the other fuckers' skull before they turn you into carrion." Cross shrugged. "Not that that will be enough. In the end, what really matters is luck and experience. I've got plenty of the latter. You've got obscene amounts of the former. So if we stick together, we might actually get out of this alive."
"...Okay, on second thought, be an asshole. I prefer asshole Cross over old, serious Cross."
"Fuck you kid, I'm only eighteen."
"And yet you know more than my dad when it comes to killing people." Zephyr sighed.
"As you said, my life sucks. Now shut up and get ready to charge. Those Raydrics are starting to move, and they'll be sounding the charge any moment now," the Lord Knight growled. Sure enough, the sea of phantom armors was advancing, like a great metal wave flowing in. Zephyr thought he could spot a handful of black armored giants in the ranks, the leading monsters of Glastheim. Arrows from the Raydric Archers began to fall in the gap between the armies, masking the advance of their troops from a cavalry attack.
"...You know, Cross?"
"What?"
"You make a horrible morale officer." The green-haired knight jerked a thumb back at the handful of knights behind them, each now pale with fear. Neither the Lord Knight nor Zephyr had bothered lowering their voices during the conversation, and that was doing horrors to the spirits of the others.
"Thanks. If both of us get out of this shit, I'm going to kill you."
"Love you too, sir."
"Still scared?"
"Absolutely."
"Good, it goes to show that you're still human."
"Oh?" Zephyr raised an eyebrow. "Then what are you, Mr. Fearless?"
The Lord Knight chuckled. "Why, a demon of course. His majesty's pet berserker, here to clear Prontera's path to victory, no matter what the cost."
"Lovely."
Before Cross could think of a response, golden trumpets of battle sounded, and the order to charge was howled along the ranks. The Lord Knight's mouth split into a wolfish grin as released his grip on his claymore and lowered his lance in his other hand. To him, life itself was a battlefield, and he had no time to waste on considering trivialities such as fear. Each new battle was just another soldier, another man he had to slay to live a little longer. Eventually, he would fall, surrounded by a sea of corpses, trophies of the grim life he had lived.
"FUCKERS! TODAY YOU BECOME KNIGHTS!" Cross roared, "COME AND RIDE WITH ME TO HELL!"
A/N: An attempt at being serious. please review. I live off of those.
