TERESA OF THE FAINT SMILE

scene XIII, part II

I always thought my best feature was my long black hair.

But the people I trusted sold me to the Organization and on that day I lost everything.

To die as a beggar or become a tool of the Organization... I didn't have much choice. It wasn't just me, either. It was like that for everyone who joined. No one ever comes willingly knocking on the Organization's door.

My body was cut open, too. I ceased to be human and became something else. In that moment, my cherished black hair, my black eyes - all of the color drained from my body, leaving only these shining silver eyes.

It is twilight in Teo village while I stir beneath a silk coverlet, legs hitched and arms awkwardly folded. I have been awarded the best room at the inn on behalf of the village for slaying six yoma that evening. The accommodations are lavish, from the niches artfully carved in the wooden headboard above the sprawling bed, to the dressed table and chair, to the brass chandelier with frosted lamps gleaming in the dreary moonlight. Everything is stylish and designed to be comfortable.

Groaning softly, I open my eyes. "Damn. This feels awful." For another time I roll onto my other side, but grab a fistful of the sheet and cast it off from me. I swing my legs to the floor and reach for the uniform on the wooden floorboards, discarded like a snakes' skin and looking just as pale and used. I yank the garments on.

With a dull thockof wood the end of my sword is stuck into the floor. It remains erect when I lean my weight against it, folding my legs and crossing my arms. I exhale an unamused hmphat the room. "I can't seem to relax any other way." I mutter, "I've got no use for fancy food or a soft bed." Could I even remember what it felt like, back then, when snuggling under a blanket brought me a sublime joy?

A light rapping of knuckles coming through the door disrupts the very notion.

Subsequently, a tremulous voice barely carries through the wood, "Uh, Miss Teresa? Your dinner is ready, so..."

Two feet of slicing through the door teaches him what it feels like to be disturbed. Kicking out the door from where it split is just a little bonus. The gaping steward looks like his heart has jumped out of his mouth. I stand in the broken doorway, holding the slender hilt of the claymore.

"Sorry, but I'm off. I won't be needing room or board."

"O...okay..."

Although it is late, my presence has stirred up the locals. There are plenty of people in the street when I emerge.

"Looks like the Silver-Eyed Witch is leaving..."

"That was quick. I thought she'd at least stay the night..."

I wish to be on my way and not be mired in humanity. But a village elder steps into the wide berth shuffling feet created in the town square and approaches. The thin grey hairs on his chin wag as he speaks.

"Miss... Teresa... This is the money we collected to pay you for killing the yoma." He has in his folded arms a cloth sunken from the weight of the wealth, a small pile of gold ingots. "It's all we have."

"I don't need it. Not that pitiful sum." The rebuke catches everyone listening by surprise.

"Eh?"

"The request for a Claymore came from another village, not yours. If you had made a proper request, it would have cost ten times that. And since there were seven yoma, the cost would have been seven times more."

"Eh? Eh?" The suggestive sum boggles him. How silly and naive could humans get?

The hint of my amusement vanishes from the subtle curve of my mouth as I notice a tugging at the corner of my cape. More people have noticed me by now, but their eyes are glued to the little girl hanging on to the edge of my cape with one hand.

"Hey... That girl..."

I recognize the same long straight ginger hair as the onlookers do. Grabbing the slack in my cape, I yank hard and relinquish it of the child's grip. Her meager weight is pulled from the ground by the force and she lands on her face.

Gasps match several surprised faces, perhaps as shocked at the girl's foolishness as they are by the callousness of a Slayer's manners.

"Who's this?" I demand an answer from the crowd, "Isn't that the daughter of the last yoma I killed? Is she looking to avenge her father?" It wouldn't be the first time such misplaced vengeance was attempted.

"N-No... She isn't from here," The elder doesn't stop staring at the girl resting her face in the dirt. "And we don't think she is related to that yoma."

The statement takes my curiosity up a notch. "What do you mean?"

"The child can't speak, so we don't know for sure. But it seems she knew he was a yoma. He forced her to follow him, and they just happened to come here." Speculation, but it sounded about right.

"How do you know that she can't speak?" I narrow my eye at the man.

He doesn't notice my stare. He is watching the girl shakily push her hands against the ground and sit up. "Well, you see, her body is covered in scars from being beaten many times."

I look myself. What I see and hear clicks. I understand. "I see. So she was just the creature's toy. So she thinks of me as her savior, does she?" I raise my voice, so everyone can learn from this: "Sorry, girl, but I didn't come here to save you. Killing yoma is just my job. Don't misunderstand."

I turn to leave, but for the second time I am stalled. The girl has got up and is hugging my leg. She seems oblivious to the five-foot claymore hanging bare from its holster at my back; a graze could split open flesh. Her arm is dangerously close to it where she has grabbed my thigh.

Hushed voices pervade through the crowd. No one steps forward to intercede on the twit's behalf. "What are you doing?" My voice is deepened, matured with a warning she doesn't heed. Through the contact of her spindly arms, the deep-rooted tremors in her body are conducted into mine.

Acrimoniously she is tossed away by a single kick on my part. I am not made remorseful by the distressed purling of the crowd. Not one of them steps in. It is left to me. And actions are much more effective than words. "I told you, go away. I'm not your savior." I could feel my irritation break across my brow in furrowing lines as I watch the girl from the corner of my eye; she picks herself up from the ground and stands on swooning feet

Her green eyes look dazed but without a glimmer of tears in them, even though the skin on her forehead has split from the hard landing. A smear of blood tapers down her temple. I can hear the catch in her breathing as she gasps for air.

"What's with her?" I snap at the elder, who hasn't yet retreated with the pittance held in his arms. "Is she touched in the head?"

"Eh?" The man glances nervously, "No, but she was kicked around by the yoma for so long that she's closed herself off, verbally and emotionally. She won't respond to anyone. Or so we thought."

I suppose the human's insight is correct. After a warrior completes their mission they move on to the next, so how human victims deal with the aftermath of yoma attacks... that isn't a concern to a warrior.

"Hey." I don't turn to look, but I sense the girl has taken a step toward me. "Take one more step and I'll kick you for real this time." Any human, big or small, I can't tolerate being meddled with. Still, she has no idea just how easy I was being on her. "I know you're not deaf." I remain still, as she does. I am not bluffing and she must know it.

"The girl's gonna get killed."

"Somebody help her."

"Don't be stupid, it's not worth getting involved."

"Besides," The villagers murmur to each other, "there's no one here to take care of her. The yoma was the one who brought her here. If the Claymore wants to kick the girl to death, no one is going to stop her."

I listen to the chatter, my expression a cool, neutral mask.

The girl takes that forbidden step forward.

My foot catches her under the jaw, snapping her head back. The girl's arms and legs stiffly float along her body as she crashes down upon the street. A woman's scream tears at the stillness that pounces upon the child's body, after she has skid to a finish along the cobbled stone. The brutality of the kick assures that I will not be troubled again.

"Hmph," A disdainful sneer mars the words, "You're wasting my time." I look away from the shape on the stones, brushing aside the effrontery that had raised my hackles. "I don't think the last yoma was part of the request," I address the village, "but I won't charge anything since I did as I pleased."

They are bewildered by the shift of my manner. I only smile. "Happy? You're one lucky village."

…

The grassy knolls of a comely countryside burn emerald beneath an unbridled sun and cool to a hard emerald green as night creeps down the mountains. A deciduous forest of peeling aspen and birch swollen with burls offers a secure place to camp. The ground is strewn with leaves and twigs which break with a crisp snap beneath a careless step.

The bedraggled girl staggering through the soulless dark pauses to catch her breath. The beckoning shadows of a campfire sweeps her weariness away as her eyes focus on the picture of a woman sitting with back propped against the flat of an enormous claymore, with arms crossed and head bent as though sleeping.

Once there, until she blinked, and then gone. The sword too, the girl realizes, when she sees the long, wide blade appear over her shoulder. One twitch of the wrist from that proximity and a head could be removed. That should be enough to scare the wits out of any meddling human. Her mouth silently opens - I see the minute gesture on the polished face of the sword - but she can't comprehend even a squeak.

"I should praise you for having the strength to follow me this far," I remark coldly, "but I don't like people tagging along after me."

The girl doesn't move. Not a hair.

"Like I told you before, killing yoma is my job. I didn't kill him for your sake. And I don't need a pet." I sense my words are having an effect; I narrow my eyes and make a chilling offer. "Would you prefer... I end it all here?"

Distracted, I don't hear the rustle of the leaves above us. But I lunge forward as I sense something drop from the branch hanging high over my head, scooping the mute girl off her feet. Certainly, she is a thorn in my side but I would not have her die. Even if she's inviting it by traversing the wilderness without any survival skill, wearing nothing but a thin tunic and being too stupid or stubborn to heed warnings. I can't decide which better describes her.

I land in a defensive crouch with the girl at my back. "A yoma?" My thoughts race, "It can't be! I didn't feel -" Then I do feel something. Another being, behind me! I swing my sword with a growl of aggravation. This was too many disturbances for one night. "Grr, you-"

My blade stops inches from the startled but angry expression of a grizzled-looking man. He is dressed in plain clothes and choice pieces of used armor. A mercenary. Is he... human?!

At my back, a sharp gasp scrapes the small girl's throat as she is roughly grabbed by her shoulder. Instinct dictates I remove the offending appendage; I spin sharply and detach the hand at the wrist. Argh, this is bad. Too late I realize what I have done. The mutilated bandit wails and falls to the ground holding the dripping stump on his arm. His pitiful grunts of pain are drowned by the approach of several more humans as they tromp into the sanguine glow of the firelight.

Somehow, an entire band of cutthroats and criminals have surrounded the Organization's number one. I am easily identified by the warrior's uniform I wear, much less my pale hair and silver eyes.

"It's a Claymore."

"A Silver-Eyed Witch."

The mood becomes uneasy. I let them see that I am unconcerned with them and the swords they carry in their hands. "Bandits , eh?" I scan my surroundings. "Too bad we've got nothing worth stealing. You'd better see to your friend here. He's losing a lot of blood." The end of my sword comes to rest in the ground. I take my hand from the hilt and stand with my fists at my sides. Let them understand just how much of a threat they present to what they call a Claymore.

"So what if he dies?"

I and the men look in the direction of this retort, spoken with such bluster that his role as leader of the pack seems assured.

"Never thought I'd meet a Silver-Eyed Witch in a place like this," The talking man, still in possession of his youth with raven hair, which parted strictly down the center and tied at the back, but for the curtains which hung alongside narrow cheeks. He smirks at me with churlish gall. "And a mighty fine woman at that." His lips spread wider and the devilish arches of his brows rose, the twin studs pierced over his eye catching the light. I notice the armor he wears is etched with scars and that his sword has remained in its sheath on his back, the pommel raised high over his shoulder.

I stare without reply.

"Careful, boss," A man in a headwrap, with dark eyes peeking through, warns, "they're also known as Silver-Eyed Slayers. She's too dangerous-" Certainly this is where rumor and hearsay are most convenient.

"I don't care." This man's attitude portends malice. "I've heard that her kind has a law against killing people." Boss's revelation surprises his men. "It's an ironclad rule. They can't kill people, whatever the reason - even if it's an accident. If one of them breaks the rule, the other Claymore join in to take her head. Everyone's afraid of those half-breeds," His smirk curdles into a sneer, "a rule like that is the only way to get people to trust them."

I suppose my silence is taken for an act of admission. Confidence solidifies many crooked grins and lends credence to the lascivious idea of my helplessness against any advances on their part - violent or lustful.

"You don't say," One bandit says to another, sharing meaningful wags of their ego, "Then there's nothing to fear. Even Claymores are afraid of being targeted."

"That's one mighty fine women," They leer in agreement. "A real jewel."

"What a body. It's too much. Hee hee." They creep closer, practically salivating like the dogs they are.

I can sense the child hiding behind me stiffen, understanding what these men are planning to do with me. But I am not the least bit worried. In fact, I must laugh. "Is that what you had in mind?" I chuckle darkly, "If you'd said so from the start I wouldn't have resisted."

I surprise them by untucking the dickie at my neck. If these fools could understand the symbol emblazoned on the fabric they would not be having such fantasies for such a monster. My gloved fingers curl in at the exposed collar of the brigandine and rather dramatically rip the whole front open, so all could see this jewelof body. And I do so with the faintest of smiles.

"If you don't mind a body like this, then you can do as you please."

It's nice to see Boss's smirk rattle loose from his face. "What the hell... is that?"

These men, who plunder and murder, who think nothing of the profane crimes they commit, cannot look on me for long. Their expressions sickens and the fantasies which have raced from one head to the other curdle in their blood.

"Ugh... is that real?"

"That's..."

"Ugh..."

"Behold the body of what your kind calls Claymore. If this is what you want, help yourself!"

Not one of them holds their gaze. They seem to have changed their minds. The fools; if they like their Claymore stories, perhaps they should bother to learn more than what's convenient.

"No thanks," They mutter, turning their backs as they lose interest in me. "Not me. Yuck..."

The Boss's pride has been stripped from him and he doesn't look happy. With a scowl even he departs. "Let's go. Somebody help out Rig."

Rig, the unfortunate man who lost his hand is helped to his feet. His glare is bright and fevered with contempt and he narrows those eyes at me. "Hey!" He snarls, "I won't forget this, Witch!" Then, grunting, even he hobbles away. I watch until the last one is swallowed up by the forest, never standing out of reach of the claymore hilt. The only evidence of an altercation with the humans is a trail of blood an unclaimed hand laying in the dirt.

"You better go too," I instruct the girl, pulling my sword out from the ground and sliding it into the sheath between my shoulders. "You're not wanted," I remind her, adding with irrefutable truth: "I'm a monster. I can't be your babysitter."

The girl raises her large green eyes and looks me in the eyes, cracked lips parted as though she would argue.

"Go. Get lost."

Her life has nothing to do with me.

TERESA OF THE FAINT SMILE

scene XIII, part II

end