Chapter 1
The battlefield loomed before him, all mist and blood spatter as if nature and man were working together to obscure his vision. Screams of the wounded echoed as he searched, fingers scrabbling against his metal shod feet, desperate for water, for relief, for a death blow's release. He walked on, eyes wearily scraping the horizon for his form.
Please, be standing. Strong and upright, forcing the armor to obey his whims. Not carried low, dragged down in the mud by the weight of steel as his body caved to the demands of ripped flesh and torn ligaments.
Too many bodies to step over. Moans echoed in his ears. He refused to look down. He would not be found among them; he would be standing. A call of his name and his head would turn, eyes seeking eyes, recognition blazing within him as the chaos of death stilled and each one knew that once again, somehow, they had cheated Valhalla and would feast on warm, real meat tonight, hands gripping tankards while laughter bounced off the wooden peaks of the feast hall, daring death to try for them next time.
He stepped over a stream, once clear, now turned into a drainage ditch for human excrement, boots crushing the last vestige of green grass on the bank. He would be standing. They had fought alongside one another since Kuon stood barely as high as his father's chest. He'd tried to steal father's claymore for a duel against Kuon that first summer, but the sword nearly dwarfed him. His arms couldn't wield it and the tip had drug so shamefully in the mud of the training yard he'd turned and run back blushfaced into the manor house, shoving the massive steel weapon back into its rack.
He had never won, not once, despite the hours of training and worrisome accumulation of bruises. His lithe frame was too small for any of the quilted practice armor so he'd gone without, every missed block cracking wooden sword against skin.
Weeks passed. Months. Once-fair skin mottled black and blue, knuckles bleeding from the weight of the cross-guard slamming into fist. His body was beaten down, but a fire raged inside his eyes— strange, foreign eyes that spawned tales in the village of wildlings. Muscles were broken and re-knit stronger, counterattacks swifter, until one day there was the ringing of swords, metal on metal resounding like a call to worship; Kuon spun, sword sweeping up and over his shoulder for a downward blow into a clear gap in his defenses. His grip shifted, easing up on the pommel to direct the force of the blow up in order to glance off. He had broken one of his wrist bones in a match the spring before and the snap sickened him. This was no battlefield and he would not be the cause of pain wracking his body ever again.
His sword swept up lightning fast to block Kuon's, the softer angle causing Kuon's sword to ricochet off. He cursed, wrist screaming as he fought the weight of the sword to arrest its flight. A twist, sunlight flashing off bare steel, his hips pressed forward into the strike and Kuon was down, mouth bloodied from the strike of his elbow when he'd turned before smashing the long sword into Kuon's side.
From that day forward, he was the only one who could match Kuon. Speed, lightning strategy, and the bold recklessness that had sent him careening ahead of the main force today like a human hammer smashing through their lines as he ran for the heart of their enemy's ranks.
Kuon strode up the hillock where the enemy had flown their harpy eagle standard. The corpses had begun to thin; the melee in the stream's valley had claimed most of the lives. He stepped over a harpy knight whose helmet curved in towards his skull wrongly, life bashed out of his eyes by brute force. A brother in arms lay twisted by his side, propped up oddly. Kuon stooped, rolling the corpse over.
His sword was anchored in the soldier's shoulder joint, ramming armor deep into flesh. The metal had caught against bone and been abandoned. He ripped it out, dropping the dead man back beside his fellow. He was near. And he would be standing.
There— just on the other side of the hill. A shout ripped from Kuon's chest, haggard with relief. He was standing, feet planted heedlessly on the enemy standard, boots grinding harpy eagle wings into the blood-soaked dirt. He turned at the cry. Kuon strode to his side, desperate to scour him for wounds but held captive by the other man's steady golden gaze.
"He escaped." His sworn brother spat the words out, grip tightening on a crimson-stained rapier. Kuon held out the abandoned long sword, their grips interlocking on the hilt for a moment, a brief gesture of thanksgiving that fate had not yet ripped them asunder.
Kuon looked at the forest spread below them, its entwined branches casting darkness too thick for the anemic winter sun to penetrate. He nodded. No words were needed. Since the day Mogami had shown up penniless and torn at the Hizuri's keep gates, his body broken and spirit dark with rage, Kuon had only one path forward.
He would find the usurper and rip the kingdom out of his hands piece by piece, until he was left with nothing but bloodstains.
Or he would die trying.
~*~
A/N: Smords.
A total shift from EMYM, yes? Going AU this time, because I have been desperately wanting to read something with big swords— and turns out that's not a common theme in SkipBeat (go figure), so I wrote some big swords. DID YOU SEE IT COMING THAT THE OTHER KNIGHT IS MOGAMI. Because I didn't.
The future for this is completely unplanned. A few vague images, but chances are I will be as surprised as you where we head. I can't wait for the ride.
Thank you for reading and reviewing; you make my heart glow!