Chapter Fourteen: Cold-Blooded, Part One
Trees fell like wheat to a scythe during the autumn harvest. The earth shook with the thunder of toppling trunks and heavy footsteps. A single, high-pitched cry pierced the air of the forest. The maniac laughter of a lone woman joined it.
"It's here! Open up!"
Rising to the words of their temporary leader, the warriors hefted their swords, ready to fight.
Their trembling arms told a different story. Sweat trickled down the forehead of the warrior ranked thirty-six as she watched the egg that had been resting in the earth become―more. The pattern of veins that once crisscrossed over the soft but firm surface of the egg darkened black for a brief second before disappearing into the paling flesh entirely. Then, the spherical shape of the egg abruptly warped; the fleshy cover burst open, scattering yellow pus, dark flecks of ichor, and water every which way. And then, there was the yoki pouring from the newly hatched egg, choking the warriors closest to the egg with its pressure.
The head that rose from the hatched egg was comically small compared to the mountain of flesh attached to it. But that head, with its collection of black, bulging eyes, locked its gaze on the warriors even as its first cry escaped its hook-shaped mandibles.
The twelfth ranked warrior recovered her composure the quickest. She began to slowly back away from the creature.
The warrior ranked at thirty-two was not so sharp.
"C-captain Ophelia, what do we―"
A single swipe of the monster's tendril turned the panicking warrior into a loose puddle of flesh, blood, and bone.
Immediately, the other warriors scattered. Naturally, a warrior of rank twelve or thirty-six could not challenge a monster of such a size. Perhaps a group of single-digit warriors, the veterans among the warriors, would be able to topple the creature. However, the warrior called Ophelia disregarded the frantic thumping of her heart. As adrenaline invigorated her body, she lifted her claymore with single arm and charged at the monster. Her lips stretched across her face in a maddened smile, for there was nothing the fourth ranked warrior indulged in more than in violence.
As if sensing a challenger, the monster turned its attention to the approaching warrior. Its tendrils, snapping trees in their path, twisted and converged on Ophelia.
Her sword blurred.
The first tendril that met Ophelia's blade was torn apart. The second met the same fate. The third reached for her legs, curling around her right ankle before hurling her at the cliffs that overlooked the clearing. Ophelia controlled her flight, bending her legs to absorb the impact of her body against the bluffs. Stones and dirt loosened from her impact against the cliff tumbled to the earth.
Ophelia rocketed through the air, using the treetops as landing points to reenter the fight.
The monster's tendrils shuddered before bones like thorns rose from their skin. When they met Ophelia's blade, a harsh clash resounded. Ophelia's smile grew toothier.
Several tendrils tried to strike Ophelia from behind as the first trapped her blade. She yanked her weapon free, cutting the tendril along the skin between its bone barbs, and leapt, somersaulting at the height of her jump.
Between the scream of the yoma and her own hammering heart, Ophelia listened to the words in the wind that blew past her as she fell.
The voice fused with her own rushing adrenaline, becoming an anger that burned in her belly.
That very same fire drained the rest of her body of its heat.
The blurring of her sword became a ripple. Her arm vibrated as the blade it carried met the yoma's reaching limbs. This time, her sword snaked around the tendrils, cutting them apart along the seams of flesh that held together the bone. Still, the bones along the tendril drew the warrior's own blood as they drew cuts along the skin. Blood spilled messily.
Ophelia cackled as she landed on one of the tendrils that now spread across the forest. The yoma spread its appendages across the woods and consumed the wildlife it caught. Ophelia simply sank the tip of her claymore into the tendril she stood upon and marveled at the blood that spurt from the wound.
It was like a rich, violet-colored ambrosia in her eyes.
Her sword was the herald of such a gem. It was a key that revealed the beauty of this world.
Still, with its blood pouring from its wound, the yoma showed no sign of fear or hesitation. The scent of its own blood in the air seemed to aggravate it, even. It continued to swarm Ophelia with its tendrils; however, there was a growing intelligence in the way it did so―flanking her, surrounding her, warding off her attacks by positioning its appendages at her weak spots. The momentum of their fight shifted from one side to the other when Ophelia struck at one of the trunk-like tendrils, only to find smaller ones curled around her arm that gripped her sword. With its opponent restrained, the yoma launched the rest of its body at her, the fleshy body splitting open at various locations to reveal gaping jaws hidden behind the tendrils.
A meaty snap raced up Ophelia's arm as she exchanged her blade to her other arm. Her now dislocated arm dangled in her wake, free from the monster's clutches. She cut apart a majority of the tendrils racing at her, and managed to escape through the opening she created. However, as a sharp pain made itself known to her, Ophelia realized she had not gotten away unscathed. There was a large gash running down between her armpit and her breast.
Her own lifeblood seeped into the quilted layers of her uniform.
It
mesmerized
her.
The muscle of her dislocated arm bulged and flexed. With a crack, the arm popped back into the socket using the contractions of the muscles around the shoulder.
Dark veins climbed up her neck, coloring her pale cheeks black and blue. With a smile that stretched her cheeks, Ophelia laughed and screamed, flooding her body with yoki. She became a blur racing towards the monster. Intentionally, she charged into the countless tendrils branching off of the monster's body. They fell from the monster one by one, severed by a flickering sword.
The yoma's attempt at retaliating was met with an absolute resistance, for its tendrils never found their target.
From bleeding stumps, more tendrils burst forth. Ultimately, they too were severed.
Ophelia kept laughing. She laughed at the rush, the hammering of her heart, the agony of the monster's wails, the beauty of the blood splattering upon her face―at all of it.
Cuts began appearing upon the monster's main body when its tendrils ran out.
Thrashing in pain, the monster tried to flee. It tucked its body within folds of extra flesh and leaned forward to roll way only for the bend of its body to give way. Ophelia's blade carved the yoma apart so quickly, it was as if the flesh itself could no longer support the monster's size.
The flickering blade twisted like a snake about to strike down its prey. Its remaining body was torn apart so violently that pieces flew upward. Blood rained from the sky as Ophelia's rampage declined. Violet flecks fell upon Ophelia's outstretched tongue. Her cheeks flushed with excitement as the dark veins retreated beneath her armor. She drank from the shower of gore hungrily.
Before the fire would die and the heat would return to her veins, she would bask in the thrill, numb and high.
It was all she lived for.
'Windcutter' Flora, the eighth ranked warrior, was at a loss.
When she was younger, and still human, her mother taught her the mercy of the twin goddesses Teresa and Clare. Mercy was everything to them, for her father had died long ago and left behind nothing. The mercy of their town's local clergy was what kept them alive. And though the chants and stories she knew as a girl have long faded from her memory, dirtied by dried blood and old nightmares, she sheltered a spark of what she once was.
For warriors like her do not die normal deaths. Either they fall to a yoma, or become yoma themselves. Or perhaps they would take the final decision.
No matter what, the cold touch of a natural death, of old age, was forever out of their reach.
It could only be called a curse of longevity.
It was a curse that withered her memories away, leaving only a husk, a shadow of herself. It drained away one's will to live until they could only take their death into their own hands. She could bear this curse only due to that spark from her youth guiding her way. Flora once believed in the kindness in humans, in the mercy she trusted in as a girl.
Naturally, that mercy no longer applied to her when she became a warrior.
Still, that did not mean such mercy was gone from the world. As a warrior, Flora found that the sword in her hand dispensed that mercy she could no longer have for the sake of others. Hers was the hand that saved.
It seemed right, then, that when she left Ophelia's command, Flora sought out the first person in mind: the Saint.
For in many ways, both literally and figuratively, she found that mercy she saw as a girl.
Unfortunately, when she returned to the Holy City, she learned that the Saint had long gone. He embarked on a pilgrimage to cleanse the land of yoma, or so the townsfolk she asked had said. It was her intention to pursue him, join him in that pilgrimage. With a supply of yoki-suppressants, she traveled west in the wake of the Saint's trail. So focused on her goal she was that spotting a familiar face while on the road was both relieving and disappointing. Two warriors met in a nameless village the northeastern border of Lautrec, hidden beneath cloaks to avoid the eyes of villagers.
One warrior smiled. "Flora."
Flora nodded politely, as she always did. "Galatea."
"I received word that you were around. I thought the Organization sent you with Ophelia to observe one of the strange phenomena further west."
Shrinking back slightly into her cloak, Flora nodded again. "They did. I left."
"You? Left? That is strange of you to do so."
"I understand. However, I could not stand Ophelia's behavior for much longer, and instead I decided to continue my duties. When I had left, there was nothing to report regarding that oddity, after all." Flora glanced at a passing villager's face. She frowned before returning her gaze to Galatea. "I am surprised to have met you here, Galatea. Our paths very rarely cross."
Galatea's smile took upon a sardonic look. "I know. I've been following you."
Flora stiffened.
"What have you been doing, Flora? You have taken suppressants for a week. Your eyes are hazel again." When Flora looked away, Galatea sighed. "I could barely sense you yesterday. Today is no different. I understand that you are trying to remain discreet. However, I do not see why. The Organization has not sent you on any other mission since your assignment with Ophelia."
Flora did not answer the unspoken question. She did not reach for her sword, which was hidden beneath the cloak on her back, either. Among the single-digit warriors, Galatea was one of the few she trusted.
But she dared not speak. God-Eye Galatea could see the truth.
"Flora." Galatea's tone was almost like that of a mother addressing her daughter, or of an elder sister addressing a younger sister. It held an intimate gentleness that made Flora second guess her decision. "While I do not mind that you are pursuing your own goals, you must remember that the Organization watches your every move. Perhaps it may not be me they call upon. It may be Ophelia, should you be so unlucky. Or perhaps Rafaela. You must take care to shield your intentions from their eyes."
"I understand," said Flora. "Why did you chose to tell me this?"
"He went westward. He may be near Shire."
For an instant, Flora's soft features gave way to shock. "How did you...?"
"Number forty-seven is with him. I have been asked by the Organization to observe her, as well as him."
"I see."
"Take care. Don't force me to do anything drastic." With those parting words, Galatea left.
Digesting the message, Flora understood that not everything was what it seemed. She could predict why number forty-seven would follow the Saint. However, she could not comprehend why was there a need for the Organization to send Galatea to observe the Saint. If it were a consideration of partnership, then there was no need to send an observer. Certainly, she held no fantasy of the Organization turning into a kind of holy chapter either. The Organization was, at its very core, a very secluded group―secretive, quiet, and...
Tainted.
Though the thought was unconsciously made, Flora could not shrug off the sense of filth that clung to her body. She felt impure, bloodstained, and rotten.
Gathering herself, she thought no more. She went westward as suggested by Galatea.
Tainted, but hopeful.
a/n: Blame my new computer for seducing me into playing video games rather than writing. Also, R.I.P. old laptop (scraptop, craptop, etc.) November 2012 ― January 2016. She died doing the right thing.