So I couldn't sleep last night because this chapter would not leave my head.
This chapter is set in the past, when Orihime was stationed in the southern war, you may recognize it as something Ichigo questioned her about back in chapter 27 of Golden Thorns.
This chapter may have characters never mentioned before, and that is simply because they have been unalived before the first chapter of Golden Thorns.
I hope you guys enjoy this extra content while I fight the vicious case of writers block I'm currently in
War makes monsters of men.
What a happy lie we tell ourselves. Strip the veil from blind eyes and you'll see the truth as clearly as I do.
It is men who make sport of war.
The fire burning in the sky was not put there by any gods. The sword at my hip was crafted by human hands, the armor I wear just the same. I have known nothing of peace. From the moment I was born I was screaming with blood filling my lungs and they will never let any of us escape that primal sort of drowning.
The bodies I step over are half decayed, skulls broken and leaking but it is the ones still breathing that I mourn. They are the ones who need it.
I do not have time to cut their throats, to give them the mercy of it.
I have one goal; reach the horizon. Where the glow of fire beacons me toward retribution.
Morning is still far off but I do not plan to ever see the sun again.
A hand clenches at my ankle as I pass and I halt but the man's last fogged breath is fluttering away in the wind before I meet his one remaining eye.
His fingers are scorched to the bone as they clench around my boot and I feel their touch as if they flitter over bare skin. The gleam of his marriage ring in the moonlight is as sharp as a blade and I lean down to gently pry his hand away but his skin then his bones crumble at my touch. Leaving the silver band in the ashes of what used to be.
My hands shook as I plucked it up like a flower, clenching it in a bloodied hand as I stood. With the guttered gasps of men dying all around me, I tuck this half faced man's promise of a future into my pocket. Immortalizing him inside me forever.
I had marched for weeks with him and had never once seen his face before now. I knew nothing of the sound of his voice or the strength of his mind yet he was all I had left of yesterday and I would carry the feel of his hand around my ankle like a brand for the rest of my days.
For while war makes monsters of men, it is death that makes saints of us all.
Though the air around me was hot and sticky I was shivering as I trudged through sand and rock and fields of wheat. Each step feeling like the very first I've ever taken, shaking legs barely having the strength to keep me upright but each time I stumbled or let myself feel the dryness of my mouth I'd see a flicker ahead of me. Just out of reach.
Where the southern army marched away from the massacre they'd seared into the field my batalon had slept in. Who trudged across their own sacred crop fields with bloodied soles and leaving behind a lingering smell of righteousness like smoke in the air.
If the dehydration did not kill me, my own stubbornness would and I would let it. They'd rest long before I would.
Without slowing, I unbuckled the armor from around my torso. It thumped to the earth- my chainmile was next. I shed it as if it were my own skin, and I felt all the lighter for it. Then my wrist guards, then shins, until I was nothing but a blip of dark clothing and a gleaming pummel strapped at my waist.
And with it, I left a part of myself behind. Stripped it away as easily as taking a few steps in the sand and never looked back.
.
Their camp was large and undefended. A single patrolman made his rounds about the perimeter, but his steps were slow. He was tired, as I was.
I spared him his life only because he was not the proper build, and he had no tent to sleep in- least not one that would do me any good. And his tired, slow steps would do me a great service while I dragged out the body of the poor soul whose clothes would fit me.
Once I passed the patrol, I wove through rows of tents. They varied in size but the bigger tents had snores of more than one man and so I steered clear of them.
In the end I picked a tent close to the edge of their camp, and had decided on it because its opening faced west, toward home. It felt like a poetic enough reason.
The inside of the tent smelled of sweat and stale liquor. But I would take that over the lingering smell of copper and rust. While the armor hanging from the support beam was made of brown leather and hid the color of blood well, it did nothing to mask the smell of it. It stung my nose and gritted my teeth as I drew my dagger from my boot and inched deeper into the dark.
The man was either sound asleep or pleasantly drunk, to not feel his own death creep up on him. Yet without meaning to, I glanced at his hands. No ring adored any of his fingers though his face showed enough lines of age for it.
Even if there had been, it would not have stopped me from slicing my dagger across his throat.
His eyes opened along with the skin of his neck, his mouth flapping as his blood pooled in every crevice of his naked chest. He did not reach for me with anything but his gaze though I could feel his fear. If he was afraid of me, or the goddess awaiting him- I would never know.
Once his twitching ceased, and I'd dragged his body and soiled bedroll out into the wheat field to feed the morning crows, I snuck back to his tent and dug through his pack. I filled my belly with his rations and quenched my thirst with his canteen, then used the rest to clean the last of him from my blade.
In the most privacy I'd had in weeks, I pulled my braid out of my collar and the tip of it reached nearly to my belly. It had been barely past my collarbone when I'd marched past the gates of my home nearly three years ago. More than just my hair had grown since then.
I was more woman than child now, in body as I had always been in mind.
With half a thought I brought my dagger up to the base of my neck and let it slice through the thickest chunk of hair. It took some sawing but then my hair came away in my fist and I felt the cool night air against my exposed nape.
I slid the sharp edge along my scalp, nicking it in some places as more hair fell like snow onto the ground. A small amount of blood had slid over my brow before I was finished but I only wiped it away with my sleeve.
I stared at that sleeve for a moment, then pulled my shirt over my head. My skin itched as I ripped apart the seams of both sleeves, then tied them together.
Considering the state of their camp, I did not think my enemies would notice an imposter among them- but they would surely notice breasts where there should be none. I tested the length to ensure it would circle around me well enough.
Once satisfied, I pulled what remained of my shirt back over my head and laid where a cot ought to be and waited for dawn.
I travel undetected with butchers disguised as soldiers for three days and two nights. They moved the same as most humans do, though I knew better than any that they are nothing but monsters in human hides.
Even still, they eat and march and sleep as any army does and the routine is so familiar to me that it aches. I resist the urge to touch the ring tangling around my neck on one of my old boot laces but I still feel its weight there, growing more each step I take away from the wasteland I was meant to die in.
I scold the sun as it starts to lower in the sky. It had not been meant to rise again, not for me anyway and yet it does as if just to spite me. I will travel no farther than today, I tell myself, If we do not reach the compound by nightfall then I will have to settle for the deaths of just the men in my camp. I'd trust my army to take care of the rest.
Each breath was already painful enough as it was, with the binding around my chest. The bruising where the armor dug the knot into my ribs was already a deep enough purple to drown the sky. I will not torture myself another full day of it, not when I had already been choking myself on my restraint.
But a murmur in the ranks told me we would reach Lockhorn long before nightfall. They picked up their pace after that, longing to be home where they were safe from ambush. Safe from the dark.
I'd burn them out like sheep.
I walked through the front door of the southern stronghold known as Lockhorn in broad daylight.
If I was not so shocked I may have laughed outright. We had spent three years trying to breach these very walls and here I was, a haircut and one man dead and I walked right in. Sam would never believe me, not that I'd ever get the chance to tell him.
On the inside of the mesa mountain it was easy to see how they avoided siege. There was only one way in from the ground and it was made of reinforced silver metal with latches bigger than most houses. It took nearly five minutes for them to close the doors behind us, a fact I noted.
The entirety of the mountain was hollowed out, with more levels than I could count stretching upwards toward the flat peak. I tried not to stare, as all the men around me drifted naturally into the fold.
"Left flank still isn't back?" The question was voiced from behind me and I was careful not to miss a step.
"They shouldn't be too far behind." Came a reply as the thunking of iron latches fell into place. "They only went about a mile east before steering back, likely will be here an hour or so after sunset."
Well, then I'd better get started.
The false king had grown comfortable in his mountain. Being surrounded by allies for too long can make your stomach go soft, it was why the High King kept no royal guard to protect him. Why he was always exposed to anyone with the courage to stand in his reach.
"People are devilish creatures." He'd say. "It is true strength to allow them to plot and to scheme, to allow them to sneak behind your back with a knife in hand, because only then will you see them for what they are."
But I did not have to sneak, I walked through the front door. Climbed countless steps to reach his council chamber. I watched openly as they brought in trays and trays of food, mouth salivating at the smell alone.
People were starving all around the continent, living on mold and horse meat. And here they were, with a feast suitable for gods. Having seen enough, I killed the wine maiden as she passed. Then I stripped her of her rags and left her in the corridor.
Southern generals and false kings and princes- they did not look up as I entered their flock. If they had, they may have seen the bloodied hands gripping the decanter that pours their wine. Or noticed the sword still at my hip. Perhaps it may have saved them.
Once their goblets were filled, I sauntered back to the door. It was thick and sturdy but even still I could hear the screams as the girl's body was found, it sounded like a name being yelled again and again.
I pulled the guard chair from the wall, its steel brackets screeching against stone.
A voice boomed, one that leaked with authority. "What the hell are you doing, girl?"
I wedged it under the door handle and drew my sword before turning. None of them stood as I neared, and it told me enough of the threat they thought me to be.
The false king, Lanus Erikksun, slumped in his chair. Sipping the wine I'd poured him and then wiped his mouth, "Oh, stray cub, whatever they promised you could not be worth your life." All four other men chuckled, one even going back to his meal. "Put down the sword and crawl between my legs and all will be forgiven."
I smiled as he patted his knee with a large hand. My eyes slid from that hand up his arm, then his shoulder until I met his eye. Still smiling I said, "I'll slit you open and feast on your insides."
One of them, old enough to have long been a man when I was born, stood quickly and stalked toward me, "Your king commanded you to your knees, little bit-"
His head did not bounce as it hit the ground, but it rolled enough to avoid the impact of his body that followed. His blood was a hot spray across my face, and it woke something that had been slumbering.
My skin vibrated against my bones, "He is no king of mine."
The rest were to their feet, hands scrambling for their weapons when Lanus held up a hand. He gave the appearance of stillness but that vein in his forehead was pounding now. I wondered if the man with no head had been a dear friend, if they'd grown up together. I enjoyed seeing a part of him die.
Despite his order, the men inched ever closer but I had eyes only for the false king, I didn't want to miss a single moment.
He assessed me, the shirt of his wine maiden and pants of his soldier, then my sword that marked me as someone who belonged far away from this dark cave. "Who sent you? You're not one of mine."
"I have not been sent at all. I am here because it pleases me to be." I flick some blood from the tip of my sword and when they tense I laugh, "It is a shame none of you will live to remember this, it is a lesson you should have learned when you were boys."
They shifted on their feet, and I knew it wouldn't be long now.
I gestured to the distance they kept from me, despite them having the numbers, despite their height and weight advantages, "This is power that separates wolves from prey. You play at it, but deep down you know It can not be taught or taken. Bought or bartered for. That it must be bred."
Understanding lit Lanus' eyes but two of his companions were already charging. Their king called out to halt but it was already too late. Their blood soaked into my skin like oil.
I straightened once more, facing the two remaining men. A self proclaimed king and his little prince.
Lanus still had not risen from his seat, how could he on such buckling legs? "Clark's heir…"
I held out my arms, "In the flesh,"
His prince had more backbone than I expected, "What's the Golden Bastard doing so far from her palace walls?"
The resemblance I saw in his features turned my stomach. I had not thought of my brother's face since I'd seen it last; bashed in with a rock. "Be mindful, little prince. The last man with a face like yours that dared call me that is nothing but bones now."
The false king stood at that, suddenly finding the nerve. "You made a mistake coming here. One wrong move and you'll never see home again."
I began toward them, "Home has been a mirage on the horizon for too many years to have any importance to me now."
I emerged from the once known stronghold of Lockhorn with nothing but smoke and screams in my wake.
The clear night air was a luxury to my fogged mind. In its soothing clarity I allowed the burlap sack to slip off my shoulder and splat against the dirt. Countless people rushed past me, coughing and crying- fire clinging to the heels of more than a few.
I just tipped my head back and let the chaos fade into nothing but static. Snow of ash clinging to my hair and skin, embers still burning as they made contact with the earth. In minutes the wheat fields were burning for miles, turning the night sky red like blood.
The people who fled around me ran east, toward the sea. Toward Bellator, City of Roses. They would find refuge there, solace from the repercussions of what I had done.
Soon, the vultures would come for the carcass of Lockhorn. And they would not be kind.
Even as the night grew quiet with each passing moment, I stood endlessly still. Teetering on the catalyst of the rest of my life.
I had been dead from the moment I'd returned to my camp to find it destroyed. A walking corpse with no other purpose but to bring as many down with me as I could. That purpose had been fulfilled, severed with a few swipes of my sword.
And for the first time in my already dreadfully long life, I was unsure of my next step. Unsure of where I belonged.
I stared east and felt a pull from deep inside, a wistful whimper of longing. A feeling as foreign to me as the city itself. There I'd find as much of a clean slate as I could ever hope for.
Then west, where the fire burned brightest, giving me a clear path to the only home I've ever known. A home that reflected every aching in my body, every ember in my soul. That allowed me to be as ugly and twisted up as I wished to be.
With smoke burning my nostrils and clogging my throat, I snached the sack from the ground and took my first step in this new world.
The golden throne room doors were closed, and the guards posted on either side were too shocked to get them open for my arrival and so I threw them open myself. They clashed against stone leading to a murmur of surprise from the crowd gathered in the grand hall.
The sun was at its highest point in the sky, and it flitted in through the stained glass ceiling, bathing the room in a colored hue. It had been three years nearly to the day since I'd been in this room and my memory of it could never have done it justice.
All turned to stare as I stalked up the aisle, stared as if they were seeing a ghost; They weren't far off.
My boots left a grimmy trail on the marble floors behind me as each of my steps echoed in the silence. I had not bathed in days, and the sack I carried was almost as mungent as me, yet it was not disdain in their eyes but fear. It fueled me better than any sleep could have.
So filled with purpose, nothing could have made me pause as I reached the dias that would bring me to the High King's golden throne. Not even the faces of his sworn warriors, one stationed on each step, lining the path to the king. Dressed in the finest armor his money could buy. It seemed my fear of them had died with so much else.
The High King said not a single word as I came to a stop before him. He did not smile at the return of his sole heir, his only daughter. Did not ask how I was alive while my comrades rotted in an unmarked graveyard. His eyes demanded only justification for my interruption.
I lifted my sack and emptied its contents at his feet.
Three heads, eyes now slipping from their skulls thudded against the marble and the crowd gasped in either disgust or shock, I didn't care which. I only cared about the flare of approval that shone in my fathers eyes as he looked up into my face.
With the weight of my subject's eyes on my back, I slid to a knee before him. Right fist settling over my thundering heart as I spoke, loud enough for the gods to hear, "A gift for you, my king."
My father stared at me a second longer before turning his gaze back to the heads of those who had tried to upseat his throne. Of Lanus Erikksun the pretend king, brother to my fathers late wife, of Brutus Erikksun his little prince and Stanton Freim his general of traitors.
Creed Williams, my fathers most trusted soldier, stepped up beside the king's throne and leaned down to whisper in my fathers ear, "News from the south, Your Grace. Lockhorn burns."
Finally, my father smiled. As he stood from his throne, Creed stepped back to his post but I did not miss the gleam in his eye as he stared down on me before my father blocked him from my sight.
I did not rise as my father stood over me. I only stared up into his eyes, even as he rested a ringed hand over the crown of my head. "You've done well." I swelled under his praise, until I could hardly see past it.
Then his hand fell away and he turned toward the watching audience. I stood then, keeping behind his right shoulder as he addressed them, "Today, our long war has ended and my daughter has returned home at last. Tonight, we feast to her victory and to our long earned triumph over the butchers in the south!"
Screams of joy and relief erupted through the hall, and as my father wrapped his hand around my wrist, lifting it into the air they turned to cries of my name. Like a chant, a prayer, a welcome.
It would be a high I'd end up chasing for the rest of my days.
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Thank you for reading!
