AN1: Edited 2/24/18. Minor changes made throughout chapter.
AN2: All right, here's my first new multi-chap fic :) It's fantasy, which is probably my favorite genre to write besides crime! Anyway, here's Berserk! There will be several allusions to Norse mythology here, but the setting does take place in Fiore! Side note: The clothing Natsu is wearing is the same thing as the cover to chapter 356! *finger guns*
Berserk
Chapter Three
{i'll ask of the Berserks, you tasters of blood}
Natsu exhales through his nose, heat curling through the dark cell in little wisps. The fog of his breath is visible in the chilled prison, the air so old it burns his lungs, freezing him from the inside. It's a precautionary measure taken by Pergrande's ruler, the Centari King using the bitter cold to keep his Berserks immobilized until he asks of them. They can't bite the hand that feeds them if they can barely move. The icy winters used to be a part of them, the fire in the blood warming their bones, but they've been frozen for too long, that flame going out.
A low growl tears from somewhere deep in his chest, the guttural sound filling the iron cage and echoing off the walls. Another heavy puff of air leaves him, his breath floating towards the ceiling like smoke, just barely visible in the thin sliver of light pouring in through the eye-level window in the door, where the guards are meant to look in on them, watching to see if they've begun to break free from their chains.
They never do, however. Not the Berserks and certainly not the guards meant to watch them. The last guard Natsu saw was nearly three days ago, maybe four. He can't remember. Down in the prisons the days bleed together, irregular meals the only semblance of time.
Often, the guards don't bother to peer through the crack and look down at them as they're meant to. They merely slide food through the tiny slot in the bottom of the door, barely making a sound as they scurry off like mice. It's only the brave ones that dare to peek into the cells of the Berserks, most too afraid of the monsters that lie beyond the six inches of iron keeping them apart from the rest of the world.
Cowards, the lot of them. He can practically smell their fear as they walk through the cell block. There was a time when Natsu was younger, when he was less beaten down, less broken. Back then, he would growl and snarl and clash with the walls as they walked by, terrifying trained soldiers out of their skins. Men in armor scurrying away from a boy no older than fourteen, still gangly in the limbs and unable to fill out the heavy armor worn by northern Berserks. They would run in fear from boys with half their muscle, afraid of legends they never cared to understand.
Natsu used to enjoy the way they would quicken their pace, eager to get away from the beast locked beyond the wall, scared of children. Now, he wishes he had never made himself out to be the monster they see him as. Perhaps he should have known better than to make something monstrous out of himself. Over the years men's fear has left a sour smell in the air, like rotten fruit. It hangs in the air now, soaked into the very bones of the castle. There's no way to escape it.
Igneel would be disappointed if he was still alive. He always wanted Natsu to be gentle and kind, to fight for something worth protecting. Igneel wanted him to be better than the monsters of legend—to never live up to the bloodthirsty reputation and the kill rings and the senseless slaughter. Igneel wanted a new era, a better era. He wanted hope and the destruction of the Domus Flau and all of the other battle arenas scattered throughout the Ishgar continent.
He wanted them to be able to live, not just survive.
Sighing to himself, Natsu leans his head back against the grimy wall behind him, frost nipping at his skin harshly. His eyes slip shut, the hand at his side absentmindedly plucking at the ruby and gold fabric tied around his hips. Natsu's lips curve back in a snarl as his nail dig into the cloth harshly, threatening to tear straight through the heavy wool. He releases his grip a moment later, knowing better than to destroy the only thing keeping him from freezing straight down to the bone. The golden armor around his abdomen bites at his flesh where iron turns to skin, the icy air cruel as it swirls around him.
Berserks never have been one to wear much, preferring to keep their chests bare for war paint, for the runes that guide them into battle. Natsu glances down at his uniform, gaze tracing the simple dark pants and boots, the nearly wine red fabric with its gold trim secured around his hips in the colors of Pergrande: gold for prosperity and royalty and ruby for war. The shimmery golden armor that covers him from hip to halfway up his ribcage is the only metal they wear to war.
The armor is impractical, he knows. It leaves his chest completely bare to iron and arrow. His heart is exposed in the wake of war. The way of the Berserks is a strange one. At the height of their bloodlust they feel nothing, least of all pain. Excessive armor would merely slow them down, and that's something none of them can afford.
Natsu used to wonder why such a deep red was added to the national colors of Pergrande, replacing the ever present purple that had been used until the sixth reign, when Aldebaran Centari usurped the thrown from Rigel Kaine in the second Civil War. He thinks he's finally figured it out, after nearly one hundred years. The shift to the sixth reign coincides with Pergrande's usage of Berserks in war and the slaughter of the Fae race. Perhaps, the change was merely due to the new reign and the change in politics, that's what the public seems to think. However, Natsu knows better. Ruby is the color of blood and beasts. It signifies carnage.
The Kaines wanted prosperity, peace, and the color they chose was a deep purple becouse of it. The Centari line wanted something different, something red.
Against of sea of golden soldiers, it's the Berserks bathed in blood.
A low snarl rumbles deep in his chest, and he barely manages to smother the sound as he hears a guard pass by his door. They always become suspicious when they hear the snarls, the unrest in the ranks of their guard dogs. A bitter smile tugs at his lips, his teeth grinding together as he swallows down a growl. What he wouldn't give to be out of this cell and to rip through the army of Pergrande and leave it in ruins. He would gain great satisfaction from the end of the Centari reign.
Igneel always wanted peace, but even in death he can't grant his father that. Natsu tried for peace once to no avail—it's a lost cause. He can't bring Igneel peace, but he can avenge him. Of course, that would mean escaping from this icy Hell. The cold keeps him too weak to break out on his own, and the only times the Berserks are released from their cells are for training once every few days or when His Majesty sends one of them on a mission..
Natsu nearly sneers at the word. Training. They're death matches. Violence for violence. The rule of beasts. And even then, they're never unchained without the collars, their minds not their own.
Swallowing thickly, Natsu raises a trembling palm to the side of his neck, his fingers ghosting across smooth skin rather than gold and ruby—the jewel incrusted collars forged by fire and magic that sends them into a state of pure bloodlust. The pads of his fingers trace the old scar on the side of his throat. The bitter reminder of the death matches he faced in his short time in Fiore.
The air smelled of violence: blood and sweat and tears—the bitter taste of salt clinging to the roof of his mouth. Natsu wrinkled his nose, rubbing at it absentmindedly, only to rip his hand away a moment later as a shock of pain flashed through him. His hand came away red. Natsu blinked at the blood on his fingers, confusion sweeping through him.
His memory was fuzzy. The last thing he could remember was his mother handing him off to a strange man, tears streaming down her face as Natsu was dragged away. He remembered someone screaming then—him or his mother he had no idea. Her eyes were the last thing he saw, wide and horrified.
A metallic click broke the silence surrounding him, and Natsu froze at the unexpected sound, eyes narrowing as something like raw fear coursed through his veins. "You must have put up a fight, Little One." His head snapped around, eyes going wide as an unfamiliar voice breaks through the darkness. He smothered a gasp, shrinking back against the wall as a shadow moved across the wall. "Usually they don't beat around the young ones."
A bitter chuckle flooded through the dark, damp room, followed closely by a hacking cough that sounded wet. Natsu squinted, trying to peer through the shadows at the stranger. Fear climbed into his throat, but he swallowed it down, hands clenching into tight fists. He could just barely make out the silhouette of a man sitting onto a few feet away from him.
"Who are you?" Natsu croaked, voice cracking as he spoke, his mouth dry and sore. He tried to swallow, but his throat hurt too much. Wrinkling his nose once more, Natsu pressed a shaky finger against his neck, pulling back with a hiss as he brushes against a bruising spot.
The man leaned forward into the dim light surrounding Natsu, revealing wild red hair and dark eyes so cold that Natsu nearly flinched away. Then—a grin. Wide and toothy. A maw of fangs that caused Natsu's eyes to widen in realization. Another Berserk. "Name's Igneel, Kid," he greeted, tired eyes sparkling good-naturedly. He gave Natsu a quick once over, a low growl rumbling deep in his chest as he squinted at Natsu's bruised throat: mottled blues and purples bleeding into each other.
He wet his lips. "I'm Natsu." He blinked up at Igneel, gaze flicking from his easy smile up to his kind eyes. He didn't seem threatening, but Natsu knew better than to trust strangers so willingly. His father always did tell him to not trust outsiders. Though, Igneel seemed friendly enough. Natsu figured that if the older Berserk had wanted to hurt him he would have done so.
Igneel nodded, clucking his tongue loudly. "Natsu, huh?" He let the name roll off his tongue slowly, almost tasting it. "You hold onto that name," he told Natsu, a low warning to his tone. His gaze was steely when he looked at Natsu, eyes black as night. "They'll try and take it from you, but don't you let them." He growled then, low and warning and Natsu pressed himself further into the wall. The threat wasn't directed at him, of course, but it didn't stop him from cowering before the older male.
Seeming to sense Natsu's fear, Igneel cut himself off, eyes softening when he caught Natsu's eye, an apology in his gaze.
Natsu released a shaky little breath, mulling over Igneel's words. "Who's they?" he mumbled, the question coming out as a tremble against his lips. They didn't good, whoever they may be. Not the way Igneel spat out the word like it was something poisonous on his tongue.
"Very bad people," was Igneel's short reply, something clipped in his tone—final. He shifted closer, something jangling from the darkness. He shuffled into the low light and Natsu's eyes widened as he got a fell view of Igneel's scars and the iron chains encircling his ankles and throat. A gasp fell from his lips, but Igneel merely smiled again, this time far sadder than anything Natsu had ever known.
Natsu swallowed, curling tighter in on himself. "What are they going to do?" he whispered, not looking up at his new friend.
It was silent for several very long seconds, and when Igneel finally spoke up Natsu nearly missed it. "Make you hurt."
"I don't want to hurt," he told Igneel, tears burning at the back of his eyes."
A hand was placed on his head, warm fingers brushing the hair away from his face. "I know, Little One."
Igneel took him in after they met, taught Natsu everything he needed to know about fighting in the arenas and staying alive. Fat lot of good that did him, Natsu thinks, snorting loudly. He nearly died his first time in the arenas. The only reason he's still alive is because his opponent, an older Berserk with graying hair and kind blue eyes, let him live. Natsu was six years old at the time and he remembers sobbing as a guard dragged him back to the cages. He remembers thinking that he was going to die.
He remembers that so many others did die.
The guard merely shoved him back into the cell he shared with Igneel, but not before giving him a sharp slap across the face. Igneel was furious about that, but there wasn't anything he could do about it, lest he face something worse than death. They couldn't bite the hand that fed them.
Natsu sighs through his nose, eyes slipping shut as he leans his head back against the rough wall behind him. He stretches his legs out in front of him, squinting at the damp stone floor and the metal walls. A puddle has been forming in the corner for days now, but it doesn't bother him. If anything, he's quite happy about the little pool. Having something to wipe off the blood and sweat is nothing short of a luxury in these cells. They're treated like dogs—worse than dogs—despite how the King likes to sing praises about his hidden army of Berserkers.
He's heard the legends himself, from back when he and Igneel were still held at the Domus arena. According to some of the older Berserks or the occasionally kind guard, there were rumors about how the great King of Pergrande had an army of Berserks hidden behind his walls—how he would take them in and treat them fairly, so long as they agreed to join his army should he ever need them. That had been a dream to hear—that someone wanted them and would protect them. Berserks are strong, practically born to fight, but they aren't monsters.
They've never been monsters, but most don't bother to look past the blood and violence.
Igneel had promised that he would get the two of them to Pergrande for a better life. He said Pergrande would be better—they wouldn't be forced to fight. Natsu had high hopes then. He was so excited about the prospect of being free again. At that point, Natsu had been nearly ten and Igneel was nearing thirty—not half as old as some of the more senior Berserks, but growing weary with age due to the fights.
Not much about Igneel had changed in the few years Natsu knew him. Nothing but his eyes. Igneel's eyes were long dead before the King ever killed him. It wasn't as noticeable at first, but in those last few months Natsu could see the life practically draining out of his adoptive father. Once he noticed it, it was hard for him to stop seeing the death in his dark eyes every time Igneel would look at him.
It was hard, watching Igneel decay in front of him, as if he was rotting from the inside out, but not as hard as it was to lose him completely.
Natsu will never forget the day Domus Centari entered the great Domus Flau arena looking for Berserks to bring back with him to Pergrande. How he crept through their ranks, slithering like some sort of cobra in the sand. It wasn't until he and Igneel were forced to their knees in the dirt that Natsu realized the rumors were mostly lies. Domus Centari was indeed looking for Berserks for his army.
Only he didn't care if they came willingly or not.
The thirty Berserks kept at the Domus Flau were dragged out of their cells one by one and forced to their knees before the King. Natsu could remember the way the cold sand bit into his bare legs, clinging to the blood on his ankle from where he's been injured after a fight earlier in the night. He remembers being separated from Igneel, dragged to opposite sides of the arena facing each other. Igneel was cuffed, but the guards hadn't bother with Natsu, figuring him too weak to do much but sit and wait.
Natsu had never been so terrified before in his life. Not when he was taken from his mother. Not when he woke up in the dark with a stranger hovering over him. Not after his first fight or even his last. No, the most horrifying moment of his life was being shoved to his knees and forced to watch as the King of Pergrande slithered through the rows of them, picking and choosing the ones he saw fit for his army.
The rest were slaughtered.
Men. Women. Children. All brutally beaten by soldiers of Pergrande—tired and weak and still chained at the wrists and ankles with no way to defend themselves.
Natsu hadn't been able to close his eyes. He could only watch in horror as blood soaked into the sand—the snapping of bones and the blood curdling shrieks mixing into a terrible cacophony of sound. The King had reveled in it. Natsu could see it on his face. He enjoyed the way the Berserks screamed—the great beasts of legend reduced to pleading for their lives in the dirt, forced to kneel before a false king.
Igneel had mouthed something at him then, as the king continued perusing the rows. Don't be scared, he told Natsu, lips moving quickly in the dark. Don't be scared.
Squeezing his eyes shut tightly, Natsu swallows down a sob building in his throat, unable to simply think about Igneel anymore, lest he lose himself completely to the beast residing in his chest—just waiting for a moment to rip through Natsu's ribcage and succumb to bloodlust. His nails dig into his palms, carving little crescent moons into his flesh and nearly tearing straight through the skin. He slackens his grip just the slightest, not wanting to bleed, but relishing the pain—it's the only thing that keeps him sane when he loses himself to his thoughts.
The King was close to Natsu—only a few Berserks down the row. There was a horrible, wet squelching sound from down the line and bile rose high in Natsu's throat, tears burning at his eyes as he heard a strangled cry come from Gerryn, an older Berserk that used to tell all of the younger ones fairy tales from his home country of Enca. Natsu didn't turn to look at the man, already knowing what the King had done. He kept his eyes locked on Igneel, green eyes locking with Igneel's darker ones as the King continued to creep closer and closer.
Natsu swallowed down the vomit in his throat, wincing as it lights a fire down his neck. His jaw locked tightly, teeth grinding together as he searched Igneel's face, looking for anything to tell him that things would be okay—that everything would be okay. A low whine tore from Natsu's throat before he could swallow it down and he began to hyperventilate through his nose, breaths coming in short, shallow gasps.
Breathe, Igneel mouthed to him, trying to shuffle closer on his knees. A soldier kicked him back, sending Igneel's head snapping to the side due to the force of the blow. Igneel ignored the blow, turning back to Natsu a moment later. A bruise was quickly forming along his jaw and there was blood on his chin, but when he looked at Natsu he smiled—all sharp teeth and bloody gums. There was pain in his eyes, but he still managed a smile. Breathe, he mouthed again.
This time, Natsu managed a shaky breath, his heart beating wildly beneath his ribcage. He blinked away the tears, lips parting in another trembling breath. Igneel continued to mouth things at him, telling him to breathe and promising that things would be okay—promising that they'd stick together when this was over.
There was another sick sound from his left, a scream that was cut off early and something like metal sliding through flesh and bone. Across from him, a Berserk no older than Natsu let out a scream so heartbreaking that Natsu couldn't swallow back the sob in his own throat. The stench of death hit him hard, overwhelming all of his other senses in a rush. It burned his nose, curling through him like a sickness, and Natsu couldn't hold back the churning in his stomach any longer.
Bile rushed out of his throat, dripping down his chin and splattering against the sand, mixing with blood and tears, staining the dirt a violent rusty brown in color. A hiss came from his right and when Natsu looked up once more there was a look of absolute horror on Igneel's face.
A pair of boots stopped in front of him.
The chain around his ankles digs into his skin, so cold that it nearly burns. Natsu snorts, finding it ironic that the king has chosen to enslave them in ice. All Berserks are descendents of the ice bound lands of the far North. Ice once flowed through their veins and left them as one with the cold. That was years ago, generations have passed since those times and the ice is no longer forgiving to the Berserks.
Natsu very rarely feels the cold. His temperature runs so hot that it didn't used to bother him in the slightest. But he's been locked in this cell for over a decade now—only released for daily training and the occasional mission from the King—and suddenly the ice has begun to drain him. Briefly, he wonders if the King has used magic on the chains, using them to damped their strength. It's highly probable, given the King's fear and the Berserks strength. He wouldn't risk an uproar.
It was different, back when Natsu and the others were younger. They were easier to control when they didn't know their full strength. It wasn't until Natsu turned fifteen that they begun chaining him to the wall of his cell.
Cowards, the lot of them.
Natsu glanced up in horror as the man stepped in front of him, blocking his view of Igneel completely. His eyes rose slowly, taking in the fine armor the man wore, gold glinting brightly in the light cast by the fire on the other end of the arena. A billowing garnet cape brushed against the sand, the same color as the blood splattered across the man's chest. Natsu dared to look higher, cowering back once he saw the bright, ruby gem hung around the man's throat—the crown upon his head.
King Domus Centari stared down at him with a smile more predatory than any wolf's. A low whimper managed to tear from Natsu's throat before he could smother it and the King's smile grew—too large—too sharp. His eyes were a burning gold against his pale, sallow skin—a manic glint in his irises.
He felt like throwing up again, but managed to swallow it back, his jaw clenching tightly as he locked eyes with the King, sitting up straighter and trying to appear unafraid. That was what Igneel told him to do. He told him that Natsu should never show an enemy fear, because they would use it against him.
And Natsu wouldn't a false king use his fear against him. Not ever.
The King laughed down at him, crouching before Natsu with something akin to mocking on his face. He reached out to touch Natsu's face, but he snarled before the King could get close, lashing out with his teeth in order to bite the King of Pergrande.
A blow to the face sent his head snapping to the side, a yelp leaving him in surprise. Cold steel pressed to the side of his neck and sliced, cutting clear across the length of his throat. A roar tore through the air, but Natsu was in too much shock to register what was happening. He fell to the side with a wet gargle, hands groping blindly for the side of his neck, warm blood coating his fingers and leaving them slick and sticky. Natsu wheezed, green eyes wide and afraid as he found Igneel's eyes.
Natsu could only watch as the other Berserk lunged forward with a snarl, barreling through two soldiers to reach the King. A blade was shoved through Igneel's back before he could reach Natsu.
Something cool slides from the corner of his eyes, slipping half way down his cheek before freezing against his skin. Natsu grits his teeth, not bothering to wipe the salt away. It stings at his skin, but he ignores it with little more than a passing thought.
A soft click draws his attention to the door, his eyes sliding to the side to watch as the thick, iron door is shoved open slowly, creaking as it's hinges are forced to move. Natsu frowns, eyes narrowing lowly as his teeth clack together. It's far too early to be training time and he was fed nearly an hour earlier, food slipped under his door while he slept. The door clangs against the iron walls, and Natsu slowly watches curiously as a nervous looking man slips into his cell, no older than thirty with thin arms and a shock of red hair. Natsu's eyes narrow further and the soldier sends him a cold, almost nervous look.
As the man straightens, Natsu takes a long look at him, the guard all long limbs and a thin frame, gruff, but not nearly as scary as he wants to be. Natsu nearly laughs as the guard puffs up his chest, making himself look bigger, but he manages to swallow it down. Though, he can't fight back the small twitch of his lips.
Natsu could break this man if he wanted to. He looks like a wraith, a ghost of a soldier, and Natsu wonders what he's being punished for, subjected to the dungeons beneath the castle and forced to care for the Berserks.
The soldier clears his throat as Natsu eyes him in amusement. "The King requests your presence in the main hall," he tells Natsu, who quirks a brow in response, not bothering to stand even as the soldier looks at him expectantly. "He wishes to send you on a mission."
Requests, Natsu thinks mockingly, snorting in contempt. As if they have any choice but to comply. Natsu clucks his tongue, rolling his shoulders and listening as they crackle. He notes with some satisfaction that the soldier follows this motion, something fearful glinting in his eyes. "Do I have a choice?" Natsu asks gruffly, a low growl bubbling in his throat.
The soldier takes a step back. "No," he practically breathes back, wringing his hands as he avoids Natsu's sharp gaze. "You will do it, ja."
Natsu's tongue flicks over his lips. It's rare that any of them are sent on missions anymore, especially alone. Typically they're sent in waves, groups of them sent off to slaughter whoever the King deems fit. He wonders who enraged the King so much they've signed their own death warrant.
He grins suddenly, sharp canines on display as he smiles at the guard, gaining a sick satisfaction from the way the man squirms. "Well then," he says, voice throaty and gruff, "let's not keep him waiting, ja?"
AN: I'm hoping to put up another chapter later tonight and get started posting more updated chapters in the days to come, but I've been sick and busy with classes, so we'll see how that goes. I'm hoping things will go faster from here, but some chapters might have some major edits made, and that might take me a bit. Bear with me. I should be back to updating new chapters by Mid-March/beginning of April.