Winds of Nostalgia

Chapter 9: Cracked

Irene

Two sentinels spotted the road ahead. They faced towards her, their distant silhouettes faceless and black in the eye of the sun.

Rosemary: number one. Aquilia: number two.

Irene held her head high and walked with poise towards them. It was a poise she'd seen in some of the older warriors when she was a soft-eyed child. It was a poise that, until recently, she had failed to grasp. Recently, however, she'd learned to wear it more skillfully, striving onwards towards the ideal of strength she wished for so urgently.

Clare grasped it naturally, like some of the other girls-almost as if they'd been doing it their whole lives. Irene had envied the ease with which they had grasped something that had eluded her for so long. It seemed unfair. Although Irene couldn't be sure, she always thought that she'd wanted the strength more than any one else.

But Clare was different. Clare had honor. Clare treated her as an equal, a comrade. It had been with Clare's help that Irene finally began to grasp her own power.

And that closeness, that trust had evolved to something else altogether. The transition had gone quickly, and was already too far along before Irene could put a stop to it. Irene had gone from being able to tolerate Clare more than the other warriors, to enjoying the time she spent with her, to aching in the time spent away from her. It was strange, giddy, oddly addictive, but mostly scary and disorienting.

Behind her cold facade, she felt a building power in her heart which threatened to drive her mad. This level of feeling was alien to her. Irene felt like she had been holding herself back even when she'd finally expressed her affections. She hadn't known how Clare would react-she had no way of knowing. When Clare had kissed her, she'd felt a moment of pure joy, but she did not let the flood-gates open. She held herself back. She was not yet the warrior, nor the woman, she'd always wished to be. In one respect, she felt like she did not deserve to love; In another, she knew she wasn't ready.

That mistrust proved to be accurate. Irene felt a bitter anger wash through her as she recalled the previous night. It was good that I set off ahead of them. They probably quickly took advantage of the time alone, Irene thought in a jealous flash.

That night after Clare had struck her, Irene walked briskly away, holding herself with composure for as many steps as she could muster before the unfairness and the pain overwhelmed her and her emotions finally came pouring out. The brittle illusion tumbled. She'd cried shamefully away from prying eyes.

In that moment, she wasn't the warrior she'd dreamed of becoming, she was just another wounded little girl. When she was finished, she wiped her face clean, and she'd set off upon the road with grim resolve. I can't let something like this happen again.

She'd been stubborn. As Irene had agonized on the Organization's operating table, she grit her teeth and refused to let herself make a noise. She'd heard the girls before her in line screaming-hollering even. Even at that time, she'd known the type of warrior she wanted to become. Warriors like Clare and Teresa took it for granted, but Irene vowed never to do so; she would never stop perfecting her skills and she would become the warrior that she needed to be.

Her innocence had been stolen in a single bloody day, but she could still shape a small part of her future. She was not one to be thrown around her life by the wills of fate.

Lost in her thoughts, Irene had made the distance between her and Rosemary. Only a few yards separated them when Irene stopped and eyed her comrade.

"So a trainee arrives," Rosemary stated.

Irene had seen Rosemary once before, years ago.

She hadn't changed much. Her short hair still hung down in spiky strands. Her eyes still carried a certain sternness. Rosemary evaluated Irene with a blank, calculating expression, like someone might look at an inanimate object.

"Where are your two little friends?" Aquilia chided. The number two wore a derisive expression and had her long, platinum blond hair swept back.

Rosemary glared at the number two. "Be nice to our comrade, Aquilia," Rosemary said with a dark smile.

Aquilia cringed. "Of course, Rosemary, I'm sorry."

Irene glanced awkwardly between the two.

"I'm sorry about Aquilia. It's been too long since she's been shown her place."

Aquilia averted her eyes at the mention of this. They spoke of pain and humiliation.

Satisfied, Rosemary turned to Irene. "Tell me your name."

Irene could only think one thought: That is not how a warrior should treat her comrade.

"Are you slow? I asked your name," Rosemary pressed.

"Irene."

"I am Rosemary, the Number one," Rosemary said, narrowing her eyes.

"A pleasure, comrade."

"Comrade?" Rosemary asked with a half smile. She glanced over to Aquilia, who laughed nervously. "You call yourself a comrade with that pathetic Yoki?"

Aquilia began to laugh with more confidence. She took a half step closer to Rosemary, consolidating her allegiance.

Irene's eyes went distant. She was accustomed to ignoring the words of fools.

"Do you understand my words, stupid?" Rosemary asked, lowering her head slowly and staring into Irene's face.

"Yes."

"She's very eloquent," Aquilia chided, eyes checking Rosemary for approval.

Rosemary bore a cold stare directly into Irene's eyes. Irene returned it. The silence of the stare went on for almost ten seconds. Rosemary finally grinned, giving Irene's scalp a rough tussle, scrambling some of Irene's long silver hair across her face. "I'm just having fun with you, rookie. Cheer up." her statement read as more of a command than a reassurance.

Irene's scalp burned where Rosemary had yanked it. She held her anger inside. I am not a slave to my passions.

"A lesser warrior might be insulted to be ordered to avoid all combat so we could be reinforced by trainees," Rosemary said with thinly veiled displeasure.

"So where are the other two?" Aquilia asked.

"They were delayed. They should be along shortly," Irene explained. She had no intention of revealing that she'd left the camp in tears the previous night-not to these two.

"Would you object to a small sparring match until they arrive?" Rosemary asked with a wry smile.

"I would not."

In truth, Irene wanted nothing more than to fight this woman.

The two girls drew and both spent a few moments examining the other.

Irene swung first. Rosemary blocked skillfully, and the two swords were soon clashing and grinding a sharp rhythm into the noon air. Irene's technique, although vastly improved, struggled to keep up with Rosemary's stronger and faster swings and was soon panting. While Irene was still recovering her guard from a low block, Rosemary swung for Irene's neck.

Irene ducked quick and low, bracing her low posture with a single hand on the ground as Rosemary's sword passed overhead. The proximity of the swing to the top of Irene's head put an unsettling sensation in Irene's gut. She stumbled backwards, eyes wide. A few strands of Irene's hair, severed by the swing, drifted lazily between the two warriors.

Rosemary smiled and pressed the attack. Irene was alarmed to find Rosemary's speed was gradually increasing, which was only possible if she had been holding back-toying with her.

I can't beat her with conventional swordplay, but I also can't control the direction of my flash-sword yet. if I try it, I could kill her. A dark temptation to use the technique regardless urged her in flashes, but Irene knew that the risks were too great for her to do it for her own emotional satisfaction.

Inevitably, Rosemary's tempo surpassed Irene's ability to match it. Irene, knocked back by a hard overhand, couldn't bring her sword to a blocking position quickly enough. Pain like Irene had never felt ripped deep through her shoulder as she felt hot blood seeping out of it. Her sword fell limply from her hands as she collapsed, powerless to the agony of the cut through her shoulder.

She was defeated again-humiliated again. Irene gazed up at Rosemary defiantly, trembling in pain.

"What's going on?" Clare demanded, voice dark with anger. Irene glanced up to see Teresa and Clare had arrived, flanking her protectively on either side.

"I was assessing her combat potential," Rosemary said with a shrug.

Clare stepped protectively between Rosemary and Irene, glaring at Rosemary directly. After a few moments of glaring, she offered Irene her hand. "I'm sorry, Irene. For everything," Clare said.

It was a brief apology considering all that had happened. Irene hesitated, resentment and embarrassment both urging her to refuse Clare's gesture, but those petty emotions didn't seem to matter when she was faced with Clare's compassionate eyes. She took Clare's hand, and let her friend pull her up. Clare weakens my convictions.

She shuddered in pain. The cut in her shoulder was deep. Clare shot another glare to Rosemary before putting her hand on Irene's shoulder. "Irene . . ."

Irene grimaced. "I'm fine, Clare."

Clare smiled. Irene almost felt her pain melt away. Clare had that power. Irene reached to recover her blade with her undamaged arm.

Rosemary wore her annoyance openly. "Enough games. We have to move." Clare felt an immediate and intense dislike for Rosemary, but decided that she would not act upon it-at least not yet. It will resolve itself in time.

Clare exchanged a knowing look with Teresa. Both of them knew what needed to be done. Now, all that remained, was for Clare to tell Irene as well. Clare needed to get her alone, away from Rosemary and her lackey.

Miria

Miria led her column of rugged revolutionaries up the mountain path. They carried with them a grim determination to see destruction upon those who had destroyed their childhoods, their homes, and their dreams.

They carried the desire to destroy the Organization. Each of them had been convinced individually that this cause was just. Some had witnessed the evil of the Organization directly. Others, had witnessed it through the eyes of others, through the words of those who told of the Yoma-producing facilities they'd found the Organization operating.

Some argued on behalf of the organization only to be overwhelmed with realization and join the rebels anyway. There were twelve of them now. Thirteen-if Miria counted Olivera-but she was on a longer mission now. She would not be able to render assistance anytime soon.

Before them, the winding road stretched outward like an inviting hand, beckoning them towards the Organization-to battle. It ran smoothly and unobstructed.

Well, not entirely unobstructed. Miria saw a small figure on the side of the road. It could have been a peasant's thatched bag, or some loose canvas, but the brown figure turned towards the Claymores and Miria saw a face. A child.

Instinctive maternal concern tempered by the hardness of Miria's heart nevertheless pushed it's way up through her. As Miria approached, at the lead of her group, the child watched their approach, wide-eyed. Miria could now see that the child was surrounded by two corpses, an older man and an older woman.

Miria made her way to the child and knelt down while the other Claymores watched. The child stared back at her.

"What is your name?" Miria asked simply.

"Kelsey."

"What happened here, Kelsey?"

Tears glistened in the girl's eyes as Miria's question dragged her back to the grim reality. "They killed my parents."

"Who did?"

"Men. Bad men."

Miria sighed in disappointment. There would be no justice for this girl-at least not at their hands. While she no longer feared the Organization's revenge, she still instinctively considered humans to be off-limits for her sword. Well, most humans. There are a few human lives that I know I must take once I get to the Organization.

"Did the bad men do anything to you," Miria asked fearfully glancing down at the little girl's lower body.

"No. Just told me to shut up."

Miria let out a sigh of relief.

Miria could see that Kelsey was weak already. She had no food or water. If left, she would die out here.

Miria took the little girl into her arms, holding her frail little body. She was wasting away.

"We'll get you somewhere safe," Miria promised.

"Your hug doesn't feel right."

Miria loosened her hold on the little girl, releasing her, looking inquisitively to the little girl.

"It feels cold and hard, like a rock," the child went on to explain.

Miria rose from her kneeling position and turned to Hilda, who stood directly behind her. "Hilda. . . ."

Hilda nodded and walked past Miria, smiling at the little girl. "Hey Kelsey. My name is Hilda. You look hungry. Why don't we get you something to eat?" Hilda spoke with a certain animated quality that felt foreign to Miria. Is that what it means to be warm? Miria wondered. It was a lesson she'd learned decades ago, in an innocent life all but driven from her psyche, a dusty old mannerism, pushed aside with all the other useless things.

They began walking again. This time, Hilda carried the small child upon her shoulders, and spoke with her. The little girl was very warm and cheerful, almost as if she blocked out the terrible loss of her parents, and helped to melt the icy dispositions of some of the other warriors as well, who also began to speak with the child. Miria assumed that Claymores, most of them orphans, could empathize directly with her.

Other warriors ignored the child, as they had developed a certain hatred for all things weak and innocent over the many hard years of their lives.

Eventually, they found a river with fresh water. It was not food, but it would probably help with the child's cracked, dehydrated lips. Miria led the group there, and motioned for Hilda to get the small girl a drink. Hilda obliged, setting the child down beside the bank.

A sudden brightness flickered in Kelsey's eyes. "I always heard that Claymores were bad," she said. "But you aren't. Claymores are strong. I want to be a Claymore."

Miria's heart immediately objected. No.

Miria glanced around, but no one else said a word. Still, their light expressions were replaced with solemn ones.

"What's wrong?" Kelsey asked.

Miria knelt beside her. Once more, the child regarded Miria suspiciously. Miria, after all, was the cold one, who couldn't hug properly.

"Becoming a Claymore took my warmth away," Miria said in an unhardened voice she'd thought she'd never speak with again. "If you follow through on your desire to become a Claymore, you will lose your warmth too."

Kelsey's suspicion melted as she eyed Miria with more of a wonderment.

"Do you understand what I mean?" Miria asked softly.

The little girl nodded. She has no clue, does she?

Miria turned away from the child and smiled bitterly. The girl was too young in any case. Even if the Organization did take her, they'd hold off on implanting her until she was in her mid-teens at the very latest. And by then, Miria intended to see the Organization, in all it's forms, in ashes.

Did becoming a Claymore take my warmth away? Miria wondered, looking to Hilda as she cupped a handful of glassy water from the brook for Kelsey, smile on her face. No-I took my own warmth away. When Hilda died. I took my warmth away to become stronger.

That was the tragic irony of the whole thing, really.

Clare

After the long, tiring march, the group came to a halt in the middle of a thick grove. While it had no other trails to mark the way other than winding deer-trials, it was the quickest way to their destination. Rosemary commanded the trainees to clear the brush and then, in the space, to make a fire. They worked in silence, using their strength to yank bushes from the ground, ignoring the many thorns which cut their skin.

The pain was nothing compared to pain they'd already faced.

Rosemary watched with a cold appreciation of the power she commanded over these young girls. By the cold orders she gave, there was soon a fire crackling in the night.

Irene and Clare had been mostly laconic through the day and had not communicated much, even with their eyes. But as the day came to a close, Irene looked at Clare for the first time as she rose to her feet, grasping her weapon.

It was a signal. It said Let's talk.

Clare got up and followed her into the wild tangle of trees and shrubs until the glow of the fire was nearly invisible and they were alone, standing face to face in the wild. Clare saw Irene was possessed with an intense seriousness. It was raw determination, passion. It made Clare's pulse run just a little faster. Clare couldn't deny that Irene wore her armor well.

When they came to a stop, there was a moment of silence where the two girls regarded one another. Neither Clare or Irene was particularly chatty. They were used to other people starting conversations for them.

Inevitably, Clare broke the silence. "I didn't mean to hurt you Irene."

Irene looked away, breathing deeply and slowly. Clare's apology had stung her. She probably hates the idea of her pain being apologized for, Clare realized.

"Can I tell you a story?" Irene asked.

Clare nodded.

"There was a small town called Yusa in the west. Yoma activity was getting worse, but the Organization did not pay any mind. Yusa was patrolled by a number forty-five warrior, Lisa, even though a stronger warrior was needed." Irene's eyes narrowed with derision as she spoke the name.

"People in Yusa began to disappear, handfuls at a time. The town did the impossible, and got the large sum of money that the Organization needed to hunt Yoma. Prudently, the town figured there were at least three Yoma. So they borrowed and sold their belongings until they had enough for the Organization's fee."

Clare watched Irene as she talked. The silver-haired girl struggled as she talked, as if dragging the memories from her mind was an act of conscious masochism. Still, she was driven onwards.

"the warrior arrived-a few days later. She killed two of the Yoma, but the third managed to disarm her. quite literally. The fight was close. The Yoma decided it would be amusing to leave the Claymore alive, so he stapled her to a post in the center of town with a dozen nails and hunted the rest of the humans. A young girl was among them."

Irene's eyes narrowed to an intense gleam, words dripping with bitterness. "She lost her parents in a few days, but the Yoma saved her for later. It seemed miraculous-but upon examination now, I knew it to be miraculously slow-Lisa freed herself from her position, found a sword, and finished the Yoma. She'd been imprisoned for three days."

"When Lisa was finished, she turned from the town, without a word-without so much as a single deed of recompense. The one thing she did was inform her handler of three new orphan girls ripe for recruitment. They were taken. They didn't object-they didn't have much grounds to. Of those three girls, one survived implantation."

"This girl understood the small magnitude of power by which Lisa had failed all those people-failed her duty. This girl vowed not to ever be short of her duty by any magnitude, but she couldn't quite find out how to become strong." Irene eyed Clare with bitterness mixed with the deepest vulnerability.

"I think it is interesting to consider just exactly what type of person such a set of experiences might make, and what ideals such a person would be driven by."

"I'm sorry, Irene," Clare heard herself say.

"Don't read into it." Irene's stiffness returned. She'd put her memories up into the air for Clare to see, but she did not wish to claim ownership of them.

Clare stepped forward. Irene fearfully fumbled with her own stiffness, trying to make herself broadcast the independence which she did not possess, but she could not erase the longing gaze in her eyes, as the image of Clare filled them.

Clare embraced her. Irene slowly melted into her arms, the torrent of her desire could not be restrained no matter how much she wished it were. She found herself grasping Clare's shoulders and her waist, pulling her close, in a brief illusion of unity.

"Let me tell you a story too," Clare whispered.

"I've been wanting to hear it, Clare." Irene pulled away and gazed at Clare with a patient and expectant look.

And Clare told her story. It took Clare longer to relay hers than Irene's, which was predictable, considering the strangeness of the thing, but when it was over, it felt right.

"I see," Irene finally said.

Clare nodded.

Irene fidgeted uncomfortably, looking up to Clare with a twinge of fear. "We won't ever be able to fix each other," she said in a moment of grim realization.

Clare smiled sadly, tracing Irene's jawline with her finger. "These things only exist as an expression of happiness. They don't fix anything. In the end, we need to fix ourselves."

The truth of the statement struck Irene with the force of a hammer, but from that strike bled hope.