3: Out of Bullets, Out of Knives
Zoro's Point of View
"They tricked us! Those damn priests knew we were listening in, they changed their entire strategy!" I heard that swirly-browed idiot, Sanji, yell. I had one of my swords buried to the hilt in a priest's stomach while the other blocked a thrown dagger from hitting my heart.
"Of course they did, you idiot, there was always a chance it was a trap!" I yelled back through the hilt in my mouth as I ripped my sword from the man's gut and continued to block another dagger from hitting my head.
We'd been battling for so many hours I'd lost count. Slicing, blocking, thrusting, moving on when my opponents' body dropped. There was always someone there to take the place of his fallen comrade, it was an endless cycle and I was so tired of it all. Why was I even fighting? I'd forgotten the reason. I could be in hiding right now, never having to kill again. The sun could almost be seen on the horizon when another surge of adrenaline shot through my veins as more priests came at me. This fight couldn't go on much longer. We either won in the next hour, or we fell back until the next night. Now, instead of dirt, we all walked on the bloody bodies of enemies and comrades alike as we fought for survival. Their spilt blood made the ground slippery as if it had rained. Blood was never thicker than water on the battlefield. They both threatened to make you lose your balance on the slick slide they created.
"Go to hell!" A familiar voice spoke and I turned just in time to block a bullet on my second sword and see the man facing me. He had black messy hair and, unlike most priests in their pitch clothes and tan cloaks, he wore a straw hat, denim shorts, a red vest that left his chest and arms exposed, and sandals. He was tan but that's all I could really tell when it came to how he looked because the shadow of his hat covered his face. I slung the blood off the sword in my right hand and pointed the tip at his throat even though he was just barely out of its reach.
"Why haven't you killed me yet?" His voice echoed in my head drowning out the sounds of battle. The humble hum of the men and vampires dying all around me was just gone as though it were only me and him in this godforsaken field.
"Why aren't you fighting back?" I retorted while wondering why his voice sounded so familiar. It had this child-like edge to it that made me not want to kill him. Made me want to do anything but kill him, including die by his hands, if only it spared me from having to end his life.
He held the gun in his right hand lazily off to the side with his elbow resting on his hip, then opened his vest with his free hand to show over a dozen empty knife holsters sewn on the inside. Lifting his head to reveal his face, he held a smile so big it closed his eyes, and made the scar on his left cheek almost invisible.
"Out of bullets, out of knives, no point continuing if I've got no way to beat anyone." He spoke energetically, as if the fact that he was about to die didn't faze him one bit. "Plus, I'm tired of killing people." His ecstatic smile disappeared as he looked down at his shoes. I couldn't see his eyes but his emotions seemed to wrap around him like a cocoon. They were so obvious in his stance and behavior, and I was surprised to find a burning anger there that wasn't directed at me, but at someone else. At someone he apparently hadn't killed yet. A few tears ran down his face, dripping off his chin.
"Why do you cry over the death of your enemies... Or are you mourning the loss of your comrades." I had no idea as to why I was indulging that human.
"Both, I cry because death is death. It's permanent and always sad, no matter who, or what you are." I looked towards his bare chest, not willing to meet his eyes, as his words seemed to touch my heart. Everyone was dying. When was the last time I had a comrade who survived long enough to actually know me well? When was the last time I wasn't prepared for a fight? When was the last time I didn't strap my swords to my hip at the end of the day? When was the last day I'd slept without dreaming of having those swords buried in the chests of the innocents who were forced to fight in this battle. "I always cry in battle, whether the tears physically come out or not depends entirely upon how many lives I'm forced to end in order to keep my own. But you don't seem like the type to cry in battle, so why are you crying?" His question caught me off guard, I hadn't noticed the tears lazily making their way down my face, and I looked up to see his serious expression and his deep brown eyes. A strange spark ran through my entire being.
"Those eyes." The whisper left me without my consent. His face wore the shock I felt as we looked into each other's eyes... As we gazed into each other's souls.
He was so lonely but so kind. I don't know how I knew, but it was like his feelings were my own. The word monster seemed to come from him, but he wasn't calling me a monster, no, that's what he was calling himself.