Chapter 25

Eagles Should Show Their Claws

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Rage filled Róta. When her Semblance was active, it took every last trace of her self-control to keep from becoming little more than a mindless beast. At this very moment, that was a desire that tempted her dearly. It would be so easy, she would only have to let go. There was nothing before her but Legion warriors and their sycophants, they would deserve whatever cruelty her anger bore. But no. The Legate was here, she would need every last ounce of her cunning for him. He had already beaten her once, and soundly at that. Even when she had ambushed him with some of the tribe's finest warriors and littered the ground with his bodyguards, he had butchered them all with ease.

Unbidden, unwelcome, the dark memories flashed before her. The mutilated bodies of her tribesmen, the Legate's iron fist crushing her throat as his fingers tore into her larynx, her desperate escape that had ended with her battered and bruised after tumbling down a rocky cliff, the flash as White Sands was consumed by force and fire. The guilt that it had all been her fault. The knowledge that they had agreed that if she had been unable to break the siege on White Sands, a quick death would be preferable to torture and slavery at the Legion's hands. The agony as she had tried to cry, only for her voice to be replaced with this pathetic wisp that she was now cursed with. Her anger pulsed with such ferocity that she couldn't tell if it was from her Semblance or her natural burning hatred.

She had Aura now, but so did he. This would take everything she had. It wouldn't matter if she died here if she took the Legate with her. And any of the thralls that followed him were to join him in eternal oblivion, all the better. But one slip and she would be dead without having accomplished anything. Or worse. With the Legion, there was always worse.

The boy of the group was charging her, his face torn with rage. She didn't know how he knew her; maybe one of the legionaries she had killed during the war had been a brother or a father. Maybe he had been one of the ones she had displaced during her scorched earth campaign. At other times, she might have felt a tiny pang of guilt at the idea. But not right now, not when the Legate was right in front of her, not when this little bastard was fighting alongside him. What she had done was horrible, but it paled in comparison to the evils carried out by the ironclad tyrant in front of her. The ones who surrounded him knew what he was and still chose to fight alongside him. They were her enemies just as much as he was. And if they were somehow ignorant of him, then they were blind. Either way, there wasn't an ounce of sympathy in her for these monsters.

The boy, young and stupid, thrust at her with his sword. Before he could even reach her, the head of her ax tore into his side. With her weapon's long pole, she was able to easily outrange him. He smashed into the wall like a doll, staggering as he tried to stay upright, but she paid him no heed. She wasn't here for the expendable pawns. Pushing off with all her legs could manage, she charged.

The one-armed man was next. Unlike the boy, he was smarter in his approach, pinging away at her with a pistol. She had never managed to muster enough self-control to deflect shots while in the depths of a fury. As such, she was forced to drive through the stream of shots, quite a few taking her in the face. There was pain, but it was drowned in the raging storm that consumed her. They barely registered as more than pinpricks.

She was on him: his eyes were narrowed in hatred like the boy's, but it didn't rule him. When she swung at him, he ducked under and lunged. The blade he had for an arm was glowing with inner heat. Just before it hit, she drove her knee up, catching him where steel met flesh. With a crack and a tear, the bindings holding his makeshift prosthetic came loose, spinning off to the side. For a fraction of a second, shock broke through. But it was fleeting. The man did not falter, even as bandages gave way to a raw stump. His free hand shot up, ice coating it, going straight for her. Concern prickled at her, breaking through the fog. For a reason she couldn't explain, the ice arm felt far more dangerous than the fire one. With no time to swing again, she took one hand off the ax and threw an elbow. She caught him right in the head, forcing him to the side. He was still on his feet, clutching at his head, but it didn't matter.

The last one between her and Lanius was a Centurion, a thickly built, bearded man. He did not draw his weapon but instead opened his arms wide. A grapple would be disastrous when she was this heavily outnumbered, even if she had the strength to break free. Five seconds incapacitated would be enough to sign a death sentence. So she didn't give him the chance.

She dropped down into a slide, skidding across the ground between his legs. Realizing his error a second too late, he grabbed at her, fingers grazing her ankles. With a quick kick, she sprung back upright. There was nothing between her and the Legate. The Faunus girl was flicking her weapon, a kind of whip, and caught her thrice in the face. Vaguely, Róta registered the pain, a sharp sting. It didn't matter, the girl was off to the side.

Finally, she was at the Legate. Until then, he had been idle, relaxed even. Only when she grew close did he tense, taking his sword in both hands. The last time she had fought, his sword had been crude and ugly, scrap metal that had been bent into shape. He had replaced it with another greatsword, this one a proper forged blade. There was a hint of a glint to it, but mostly it was covered in wear and tear. This weapon had already been broken in.

He swung, Róta ducking under it and burying her ax in his leg. There wasn't much, but there was a grunt of pain and a recoil. Jubilation mixed with anger. He wasn't invincible. Curving up, she brought the ax up, aiming to split his face clean in half. She didn't see the fist that had let go of his sword until it drove into the cheek.

Everything came to a crashing halt. Staggering back, her eyes blinked frantically as she tried to comprehend what had just happened. Her face felt like it had been split open; utter agony was tearing through it. Focus, she had to focus. The Legate couldn't be permitted to live, not a second time. Her muscles screaming in protest and her left cheek still on fire, she rightened herself. No sooner had she done so, he was on her. His monster of a weapon was bearing down on her.

With nowhere to run, she tried to block. The blade shattered her ax's handle like it was rotten plywood before biting into her side. There was so much force that she was smashed into the wall, the metal giving way around her as her weapon scattered around her, irreversibly broken. Hissing, barely able to breathe, fighting through the pain with her rage, she threw a punch. They were face to face now, the Legate had pressed right up against her. Once, twice, three times she drove her fist into his faceplate. Even through Aura, her knuckles stung from striking the wrought iron plate he called a face. But still, there were tiny grunts, microscopic flinches from the warrior before her. Her attacks were doing something, no matter how small. She had to keep going, she couldn't let up her assault, it wasn't hopeless yet.

And then his fist came crashing down.

There was a glint in the corner of her vision before the metal gauntlet bit into her face. With a tinkle of broken glass, agony burst to life in her like a rising sun. Her rage vanished, squelched out as her semblance spluttered and died, along with her broken Aura. There was no defense from the anguish ravaging her body.

The metal knuckles ripped into her cheek, three separate gashes tearing wide open. But that was merely the surface-level damage. An unbearable cracking noise echoed in her ears as the blow met her jaw, blinding pain gripping her. Her head was forced down, blood splattering the ground, dotted with a few specks of pure white. She blinked, the pain in her head was so much that it was hard to keep her eyes open, let alone make out what those bits of white on red were supposed to be. Then, as it lolled out of her mouth, her tongue drifted over her lower teeth. Or rather, it drifted over where they had used to be.

With her anger gone, desperation replaced it. It couldn't end like this, not again. Frantically, she struck him again, this time right between the eyes, but she could feel her strength leaving her. All she earned from her blow was inflammation in the pain already seizing her knuckles as blood began to trickle down from them. He didn't even flinch. If anything, he merely stared at her.

"It has been odd to see women fight with the ferocity and fire of men. But now is not the time for musing. I remember your tribe, I remember how you made the Legion bleed. And I remember how you were never our equals." As he spoke, he stepped back, both hands grabbing the hilt of his sword, and brought it down.

Out of options, Róta threw herself to the side, not so much landing on the floor as she did crash onto it. Even then, she felt a horrible sting as the blade caught her in the arm in a glancing blow, scraping against bone as it seared off much of her bicep. Acting on instinct, desperate for any way out, she grasped at one of the blades of her ruined ax. Grasping it in her good arm, she flung it at the Legate. He parried with an almost lazy swing. In and amongst all of the suffering that gripped her now ruined body, humiliation burned at her. Twice she had faced the Legate, and twice she had failed to so much as scratch him. Was this the will of the Alföðr? Were the Einherjar doomed to end with a whimper? There was nothing before her, no road to victory, only defeat. Tensing, unwilling to look it in the eye, she forced herself to her feet. Even if she were to accomplish nothing, she would die on her feet. If nothing else, she would join her tribe in Valhalla.

Everything was muted, she vaguely heard someone shouting and heavy thumps. It was hard to focus. It all seemed so far away, the edge of her vision was starting to go black. She bent her knees to charge forward. Even now, she could feel them shaking, struggling to support her weight. One last act of defiance was all she needed.

Then, without warning, a thick arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her back. "No. No!" she said, the words a rasp. If she had to die, let her die fighting the Legate, not to his pawns. Twisting weakly, she tried to break free even as she was pulled back. And then she saw who had grabbed her.

It wasn't a legionary or White Fang. No, the person that had a hold on her was clad in Hellfire armor. Frantically, they shoulder-checked one of the legionaries as they sprinted for the far end of the hallway, dragging her behind them. Her jaw went slack. "James?" Hadn't she told him to run?

"Hold on!" he shouted. With a jerk, he scooped her up into an awkward, uncomfortable bridal position. No sooner had he done so than bullets began to ping off the back of his armor, the caliber far too small to penetrate the Duraframe design. Within seconds, they had rounded the hallway. Winter and the shabby man she didn't know were waiting for them. The man's sword was split in half to reveal an internal cannon, while Winter had a pair of pure white Beowolves behind her. As soon as they rounded the corner, the summons charged, streaking past them and towards the Legion. The man began opening fire, the shots streaking overhead as James scrambled down the hallway with Róta.

"Go, go, GO!" James shouted. As he did, he grabbed a belt of plasma grenades hanging from his chest, holding them in one hand. Both Winter and the stranger turned. The portal was active behind them, and in a flash, they both disappeared through it. James, however, came to a screeching halt before the glowing white gate. Jittering slightly, his thumb worked the belt of grenades, priming as many of them as he could.

Heavy thumps echoed behind them. The Legate emerges, tearing through one of the silvery Beowolves with a single slash as the other bite at his waist. In retaliation, he pressed the palm of his hand against its back. At once, the thing collapsed to the ground, folding in on itself as if a hydraulic press was crushing it against the floor. Both of the summons fading away like snowflakes on a breeze, the Legate looked up.

"Fuck you, Lanius, you lose again!" he shouted. As he did, he dropped the belt of grenades and stepped through the portal. The last thing Róta saw was the Legate diving forward. But he did not dive at her, James, or even the portal. He dove to throw himself on top of the bandolier.

After that, a flash of white light enveloped there. When it faded, a black star-filled sky shone above her, along with the bright, friendly glow of the moon. A whole, unbroken moon. They were back on Earth. Despite everything, she gave a small chuckle. Despite everything, all the failure, all the pain, the gnawing worry about Anna and Han, Wiglaf and Jane, she took a tiny comfort in knowing that she had kept the promise that had been made to James on some level. He was back home now.

He was saying something to the other two, but she couldn't make it out, he was speaking so softly. Gesturing, he pointed to something in the distance. Towering buildings stood in the middle of a giant crater that they were in. Where were they?

And the darkness took her.

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Author's Note: Yeah. When I said I felt that my creative juices were going to run out, this is exactly what I was afraid of. This chapter was painful to write, it just kept coming in bits and pieces, to the point that when I finally got to the end of this section, I just wanted to post something for you guys. Thank you very much for your patience. That being said, I am glad with what happened in this chapter. Lanius got his first proper fight, we got to see things from Róta's perspective, and James finally got back to Earth after over 200,000 words of being stuck on Remnant with no way home. (And it was either post this or keep you guys without anything for another couple of months, and that wasn't really something I wanted to do)

This chapter being short and me realizing I could still post it and not have to drag out writing a 5k-10k chapter was actually kind of a relief, so I think I might aim to write more short chapters if my creative juices are low. We'll see how it goes.

I honestly don't know how long this story will be. That's kind of a problem I have at times, I start writing, and then I just keep writing. That being said, I do have a major climax that I've been working towards. If I had to guesstimate how much show material this is worth, I'd say...maybe 2-3 volumes worth at this point? We'll certainly be at a hard 3 after the climax I'm moving towards. And without giving away too much, I hope for this to be a Volume 3/5/8 type climax where things are quite clearly changed up. I can't wait to get to it.