AN: Edited 3/13/18. Most changes occur towards the end of the chapter, but there are small fixes throughout.
Berserk
Chapter Six
{i'll ask of the Berserks, you tasters of blood}
Lucy throws herself to the left, her bag dropping to the ground. The Berserker's fingers skim her arm briefly before she ducks out of the way. Landing heavily on her shoulder, Lucy scrambles backwards as quickly as she can, gaze trained on the beast prowling around her, pacing in slow circles, eyes on her. He doesn't blink and neither does Lucy. Her pulse pounds in her ears, drowning out all other noise in the forest until her heartbeat is the only sound. It hammers away in her chest, threatening to tear straight through her bones and flesh. He keeps a hawk's eye on her movements, gaze flickering around her frame every time she moves.
She drags herself backwards once more, her injured leg dead beneath her. Lucy lets out a low whine as her shoulder begins to burn where he bit her, almost pulsing in time with her heart. The Berserker stills as a low cry spills from Lucy's lips, his steps faltering for only a moment as his muscles tense. His hands clench into fists as he stares down at her. Lucy grits her teeth and drags herself across the wet ground, swearing when her bowstring snags on a branch beneath her. She slips the wood from around her back and tosses it off to her left, silently lamenting the loss of her bow—a gift from Makarov when she turned sixteen. It had been good to her all these years, but she'd rather be alive than keep it for memories sake.
Standing slowly, Lucy yanks a knife from the holster at her thigh, not pausing to see which. She clenches them tightly in her fists for a moment, then relaxes her grip, releasing a shaky breath through clenched teeth.
The Berserker watches her as she moves, his pacing falling to a complete stop. Deftly, Lucy spins the blades in her hands, more for her own confidence than anything else. A threat would be wasted on a Berserker. She doubts they know fear, especially not in their rage induced state.
When he roars the sound rattles Lucy's bones.
Before she can blink he's charging towards her, snarling with his lips curved back over his teeth, his mouth stained red with her blood. Lucy lets him come, only crouching and ducking to the right at the very last moment. His hands meet empty air where she once was, and Lucy shoves a black blade into his back just above his armor. He howls as the knife slices through his flesh, tearing a neat line across his side.
Lucy doesn't have time to be proud of herself, because in the next second he whirls around and slams an iron fist into her stomach, driving the breath straight from her lungs and tossing her backwards a step. He swings a second time, catching her across the face and sending her hurtling towards the ground. The Berserker catches her before she falls, lifting her by the throat until she's dangling clear above the ground, her feet kicking uselessly beneath her. Lucy chokes, a strangled sound leaving her as he squeezes his fingers around her throat. She wheezes, knives dropping to the ground as desperate fingers curl around his arm, clawing at his wrist as she frantically tries to take in air. Tears burn at the backs of her eyes and she can taste blood on her tongue as she gasps.
Green eyes lock with hers, pale and clouded over, unfocused as he stares straight through her—looking but not seeing. Rosy hair ruffles as a breeze sweeps around them, Lucy's magic trying to crawl out of her veins.
It's not enough. The magic is too weak to protect her now. If she had more Night Jasmine, maybe she could put him to sleep, but her spells have never been strong enough, not without something to anchor them to. Makarov is the caster of their family. Lucy's affinity has always lied with the elements, with the stars. It's always been stronger after dusk.
She can't reach the viper venom she got from Cobra either, the vial tucked deep into her bag, lying uselessly on the ground a dozen feet away, too far for her to get to. She couldn't be sure the venom would slow him anyhow. The venom of an Encan Fire Viper is one of the stronger toxins in Ishgar, a single bite able to kill several men.
Nothing can stop the Berserkers though.
She trembles as he leans in closer, his breath puffing across her jaw, and she slams her eyes shut, praying for a quick death in the language of the Fae. The words spill from her mouth, sounding like nonsense as she stumbles over the words, but she can't stop herself.
"Hast est miral." By the moon. May the Goddess Esta guide her through the long night.
Her mother had done the same, just before she died, but they hadn't answered her. Lucy remembers her mother dying slowly, blood filling her lungs until she drowned, choking to death on garnet. Lucy could do nothing but watch back then, pleading with the Gods to let her mother live. They hadn't listened then, and Lucy doubts they will now.
Something warm and wet slides along her jaw, lapping at the blood dripping from her split lip. Lucy trembles as she realizes it's his tongue, but refuses to open her eyes. The slick appendage trails across her flesh almost teasingly, dangerously close to her lips as he licks away the blood. His breath is hot against her chin, and when his breath ghosts the wet trails left on her skin goose bumps erupt across every inch of her. His fingers tighten around her neck suddenly and she gasps, drawing a shudder from him. His mouth leaves her flesh, a low growl tearing from his throat, and Lucy can practically feel his teeth digging into her flesh once more.
With a terrified sob, Lucy lets one of her hands fall uselessly to her side, the limb thumping against her thigh and trembling violently. The Berserker's grip on her throat changes suddenly, slackening and allowing her to suck in a greedy breath. Her eyes snap open, meeting his once more. Amber and emerald clash and he snarls low in his chest. She holds his gaze this time, her lips curving back as she bares her teeth at him.
Her hand bumps against her thigh once more and Lucy's head begins to swim. Black dots flicker across her vision and her head lolls to the side. The ringing in her ears turns to cold, white silence. The breeze around them disappears entirely and her jacked slaps against her leg, a slight weight thumping against her bare skin.
Time stops.
Lucy's eyes widen just a fraction as she feels the weight in her pocket. Her fingers drift down to her coat, slipping against the rabbit fur lining slowly—carefully. She looks the Berserker in the eyes, lips twisting up into a smile, sharp as a knife, but he just stares blankly. Lucy closes her eyes, fingers curling around the object in her jacket gently. His breath puffs against her cheek and his free hand rises to her face, thumb brushing across her cheek, almost a ghost of an apology. Lucy's heart leaps into her throat, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes as she struggles to catch her breath.
A low, mournful sound rumbles from his chest.
She swings then, releasing a handful of red dust into his eyes. He roars, hand tearing from her throat to paw at his burning skin. Lucy wheezes as she hits the ground on her back, skull cracking against the ground painfully. Glancing up at the man before her, Lucy watches as he snarls and attempts to wipe the red from his eyes.
Satisfaction curls through her chest, and Lucy is suddenly grateful that she'd taken the Relcure Powder from Makarov's desk before leaving. At the time, she hadn't known what compelled her to take it. She only needed the viper eggs for Cobra. It was an easy job, she wouldn't need Relcure Powder for that, even if she were to be caught. She hadn't been expecting to steal the amulet and be hunted by a Berserker, not at the time.
Now she's glad she took it.
The Berserker snarls, and Lucy rolls to her right. His fist connects with the ground, the earth exploding where Lucy's head just was. Clenching her jaw, Lucy yanks a third knife from her holster and rolls into a crouch. The blade slashes across his leg and when he roars, Lucy takes the chance and bolts.
He's only a step behind her, and when Lucy twists around to plunge a knife into his chest, he grabs her by the wrist and throws her clean over his shoulder. She screams as she lands roughly on her arm and curls in on herself, tucking her legs against her chest. Lucy rolls several feet, a metallic gush of liquid filling her mouth as she bites her tongue. Landing on her stomach, she spits out the blood in her mouth. Wasting no time, Lucy pushes herself to her knees, scrambling to stand. He's in front of her in an instant, boot slamming into her ribs and driving the breath clear from her lungs.
The knife is ripped from Lucy's hand and tossed across the small clearing. Her last hope disappears in a glint of steel.
For a long moment nothing happens, her vision growing hazy as the world around her becomes muted. Lucy rolls onto her back and stares up at the sky, the morning rays of light appearing a savage, bloody red as she looks between the branches of the trees.
The Berserker crouches beside her, watching her in silence. He doesn't reach out to touch her this time, merely stares at the blood on her face in apt fascination. Lucy chokes on a sob, coughing as blood fills her mouth, sliding down her throat. She stares up at the trees, wishing she could see stars in place of this red sky. Her hands fall limp a her sides, fingers tapping absentmindedly against her sides as her lips twist into a frown. Her hand drifts to the leather strap around her leg just as he leans further over her, blocking out the sky entirely. Her fingers brush against something solid and sharp.
Without thinking, Lucy rips the last knife from her side and plunges it deep into his chest. She tries to anyway. The blade makes contact with his flesh, the rosy blade glinting in the red light as the tip slips through his flesh easily. Before the blade can sink deeper, his hand flies to the blade. Deft fingers wrap around the stone, his palm bleeding red as he squeezes tightly, stopping the blade from slipping further into his chest. Lucy pushes harder, forcing herself to press the blade deeper—ending this once and for all. His grip merely tightens, and with a snarl and a sharp crack, the blade is split in two.
Lucy watches in horror as the stone splinters, a jagged edge marring the once smooth blade.
The Berserker tosses the broken tip behind him and Lucy loses sight of the stone she had worked so hard to get. It had taken her months to buy that blade from Makarov's weapons dealer. Now it's just gone. Snapped as if it was nothing.
A sick feeling curls through Lucy's stomach as she realizes how easily he could have snapped her neck earlier. By all means, she should already be dead. He chose to play with her longer, as if it's a game.
Lucy's head aches and her vision swims. Her arms hang limp at her sides and when she breathes her chest rattles. Exhaustion tugs at her weary mind, her bones weak and heavy from the fight. Lucy considers striking him once more, ripping her nails across his face and watching him bleed. Rage boils in her chest, but Lucy can't find the strength to do more than twitch her fingers.
She had forgotten the myth of Berserkers feeling no pain or weariness. How they can fight for days and never yearn for sleep. Makarov used to tell them stories about Berserker fights: how they would battle to the death, collapsing due to blood loss or exhaustion. There's no way to stop them. Not unless they want to be stopped.
She wonders if he wants to be stopped.
Once more, a weight settles on top of Lucy, burning hot and rock hard. The Berserker crackles with heat, though he has no magic. Lucy has read the lore, heard all of the tales from Makarov. Blessed by the Gods, yes, but Berserkers had never been gifted like the Fae. It's understandable: the heat. Berserkers hail from the far north, thousands of miles from the lower peninsula of Ishgar, where it's so cold that it could freeze the hottest of fires with merely a gust of wind. For the Berserkers to have survived in that climate they would have to burn hotter than any fires.
The Gods Flame. That's what they had been granted so long ago, that's what Makarov said in his stories. They had been given a Gods Flame. Djehl had taken pity on his creatures of war, granting them an eternal fire in their souls, something to counteract the ice in their veins. Djehl had never seen a more violent race and he wanted them to burn as hot as their anger.
She had never taken much stock in the old legends. Now she wishes she had listened closer. She doubts anything could help her now.
The Berserker settles over Lucy slowly, not touching her save for a finger sliding down her bruised throat. It's a light touch, merely a ghost, but Lucy shivers all the same. She doesn't freeze up this time, not even as he leans into her, a snarl vibrating against her skin and making her bones rattle. Her heart beats wildly in her chest, threatening to break free of her rib cage. As if hearing her beating heart, his fingers slide from her throat down to her chest, his palm settling against her clammy skin heavily. His fingers spread, curling loosely and skimming against her throat and the edge of her jacket.
Lucy's hands curl into the bottom of the ruby fabric around his hips, fingers absentmindedly twisting through the bright cotton. She keeps her gaze on his throat, eying the golden band locked around his throat, stretched from chin to the base of his neck. A gleaming red gem rests in the center, pulsing darkly against the necklace.
Magic, she realizes belatedly, watching as a shadow dances inside the stone, curling and twisting violently. Dark magic, Lucy corrects herself, eyes narrowing as she squints up at it. A possession charm.
Forcing herself to move, Lucy reaches for the Berserker's neck. He snarls as she ghosts the collar at his throat, a weary finger drifting across the dark magic at his throat. His hand slides back to her throat, fingers moving to choke her once more. "Please don't," Lucy murmurs, but he doesn't listen—he can't. His fingers curl around her neck and squeeze, tighter than the first time. Lucy hisses in pain, but doesn't pull her fingers from his throat.
She lifts her other hand as well, fingers sliding around the burning metal, poking and prodding for anything that seems out of place. At the nape of his neck, Lucy finds a pair of small, thick loops, a ring holding the two halves of the collar together. Dropping a hand back to her side, Lucy grasps blindly for the broken half of her knife. Ignoring the screaming of her lungs and black dots flooding her vision, she brings the snapped blade to the back of his neck and forces it through the metal ring, twisting it as hard as she can.
For a long moment, nothing happens. Lucy sobs again, still twisting at the ring—attempting to force it open. Fear clings at her skin, her chest burning cold as she struggles to breathe. His fingers squeeze tighter and tighter and Lucy's lungs begin screaming. The ring parts only slightly, but Lucy continues to twist.
There's a snapping sound. The collar comes loose and tumbles to the ground to Lucy's left, just barely missing her head as it clanks loudly against the dirt.
Suddenly, Lucy can breathe again. The pressure on her throat disappears and she sucks in a greedy breath, a violent couch racking her body as she shivers and gasps. Horrified emerald eyes lock with Lucy's as she lies trembling beneath the Berserker, chest heaving. Her gaze slips from his, head lolling to the side, and then a hand is on her back and she's being rolled onto her side moments before vomiting.
Bile rises high in Lucy's throat, burning her raw esophagus before spewing onto the grass. The Berserker, still hovering atop her, gathers her hair into one hand, brushing the strands away from her face with a gentle finger. His other palm rests between her shoulder blades, fingers drawing gentle circles against her spine.
Lucy can't be sure how long the pair of them lie there, Lucy dry heaving between gulps of musty air and the Berserker rubbing soothing shapes against her back, lips murmuring nonsense as he speaks to her in a whisper: thank yous—apologies mostly, they keep tumbling from his lips, gruff and choked and so honest they make Lucy's eyes burn. Minutes pass, hours even, and eventually Lucy rolls onto her back, nervous eyes locking with the Berserker's own shocked green gaze. Neither speak as he slips away of her, kneeling at her side. His gaze never leaves her, not even for a moment, as his eyes flick from her face to her rapidly bruising neck and then back again.
He simply watches as Lucy stands on shaking legs, a hand reaching out to steady her before he can stop himself. She tenses in response, his hand warm against her bare thigh, but ultimately decides to ignore it, instead staring down at the broken bade in her hand. His fingers flex against her leg, tightening briefly before relaxing, and Lucy finds herself leaning into his grip, for some reason trusting him to keep her on her feet despite everything that just happened. She drops the blade to the ground at her feet after a long moment, scooping up the collar that he had been wearing instead.
He flinches as she holds it in her hands, muscles tensing as he eyes her wearily. His grip tightens on her leg, but he doesn't let her go. Lucy's fingers curl around the gold violently as she glances down at the Berserker—his muscles tensing and relaxing repeatedly, red-eyed and trembling just the slightest, seemingly docile now that the collar has been removed. The blank expression is gone from his face, revealing pain and anger, something like disgust. She purses her lips and turns her back on the man, shivering as his fingers slide down her leg for just a moment before dropping back to his side. She limps across the clearing slowly, heading for her discarded bag.
Lucy rips the leather sack off the ground and shoves the collar inside, knowing that Makarov will want to take a look at it. If the King of Pergrande is controlling his Berserkers with magic—she shakes her head, dispelling the thought as her head begins to ache. It won't mean anything good if he has magic. Makarov will want to see it. Maybe it might give them answers.
She hears the Berserker stand, but doesn't look back at him as she picks up her scattered arrows and replaces them in her quiver, trying to hide the trembling of her hands by keeping them busy. The knives come next, three instead of four, but at least they're all in one piece.
His eyes follow her as she moves, but she ignores him, not trusting herself to speak, unsure if she even can, and not wanting to look at him.
"You're hurt," a voice speaks up from behind her, a low rumble through the otherwise silent clearing. Lucy whirls around, her bag slipping from her fingers. The Berserker stands only a few feet behind her, her bow clasped in his left hand, his gaze locked on her ankle, eyes narrowed in thought. His eyes snap up to meet hers, guilt shinning beneath the surface.
A bitter smile pulls at her lips, something sarcastic on her tongue, but she bites it back, too tired to snap at him. Of course she's hurt. "I'm fine," she croaks instead, her throat raw and sore. It hurts to breathe—hurts to think.
The Berserker frowns, but says nothing as he holds out the bow for her to take. She snatches it away, holding it close to her chest, and murmurs a small, breathless "thank you" before she can stop herself. His expression turns to something akin to surprise, something soft creeping into his eyes behind the layers of sheer ice and steel.
For a moment, Lucy takes the time to look at him. Blue paint is streaked across his chest, sweat and blood making the symbol unreadable against the broad expanse of skin. She's heard stories of the runes on their chests. He seems unconcerned with the blood leaking from the cuts she's made, far more worried for her than he is for himself. Lucy's gaze shifts to his throat, her breath catching as she notices the jagged, silver scar stretching across the length of his neck. It's large and thick and Lucy can't begin to imagine how deeply he was cut. Not that she should care.
Her gaze drops once more and Lucy slings the bow around her back, tossing her bag over one shoulder halfheartedly. Once she finishes shuffling her few belongings, Lucy glances up at the Berserker, his gaze flittering across her form in search of the damage he caused. Regret burns in his eyes and the wound on Lucy's shoulder throbs, but she ignores it.
Lucy turns on her heel, determined to make it out of Pergrande sooner than later. She doesn't think she can run anymore, not for a few days.
A warm palm curls around her wrist, gentle but firm enough to stop her in her tracks. Lucy glances at him over her shoulder, unable to bring herself to be afraid. If he really wanted to kill her, Lucy knows he would have done so by now. She could pull away if she really wanted to; his grip is loose, fingers just barely resting against her skin, but she stays where she is, waiting for him to speak. She isn't sure why she waits. He tried to kill her—he almost did—but something about his eyes holds her back. There's determination in his gaze, a self-loathing there she can't begin to understand.
She wonders how many times he's been sent after thieves and traitors of the crown, how many times that collar was forced around his throat and dark magic consumed the ice in his veins, turning it to something wicked.
He meets her gaze, hesitating for only a moment, before he straightens his back, towering over her by over a head. His posture isn't threatening, only powerful. "You won't make it back to wherever you're going on that leg," he tells her seriously, voice low and baritone, commanding attention. His expression is serious as he stares down at her, though his gaze swims with concern.
Lucy swallows thickly, wetting her lips absentmindedly. "I'll be fine," she tells him once more, though she doesn't pull away and he doesn't let go. Shifting on her feet, Lucy tries to put pressure on her ankle and winces, her expression twisting unconvincingly as she tests her weight on her leg.
"You can barely walk," he murmurs gently, eyes locking with hers for a long moment. His green eyes search hers, for what, she can't be sure, but he seems to find it. In the next second his gaze hardens, his strong jaw set in determination. Lucy's lips part in confusion, a brow quirking up as she stares at the stranger before her. "I'm coming with you."
Lucy sputters suddenly, her bag crashing back to the ground as her grip slackens in surprise. "Excuse me?" she manages to ask, blinking up at him owlishly. She narrows her eyes at him, glaring, though his gaze doesn't waver. She doesn't need his help. She got to Pergrande on her own, and she make it back just the same.
The Berserker swallows thickly, his head ducking down in embarrassment as he goes ridged, realizing what he's just said. He coughs awkwardly, gaze locked on her ankle, his eyes narrowing in thought. "You stole something from the King," he reminds her gently, voice low and throaty. Lucy's breath catches. "He wants it back. The King will be sending more men as soon as he realizes I'm not coming back." His eyes rise to meet hers, expression steely. "How many Berserks do you think he's going to send after you next?" This time she's the one to look away, her arms curling around herself protectively. She nearly lost to one Berserker, she doubts she could handle another so soon. She has no more tricks left. He sighs, hand slipping from her wrist as he drops down in front of her on one knee, meeting her hesitant gaze. "You just saved my life," he murmurs, "let me do the same."
She's already shaking her head before he's finished, knowing what he wants. "I don't want your blood debt," she whispers hoarsely, staring down into his unnaturally bright eyes. "I don't want your help, and I don't want your life." She's heard stories of Berserker life debts. Blood for blood. A life for a life. She can refuse all she wants, but she doubts it'll detour him. At best, he'll keep out of sight, though she knows he plans to follow her. He won't stop until it's repaid, but she doesn't want it.
His gaze turns curious, confused. "Than what do you want?" he breathes back, as if he can't believe she wants nothing from him. Briefly, she wonders if that sentiment comes from arrogance, but somehow she knows that's not right. In Pergrande, she knows, everything always comes at a price. Even her deal with Cobra, who she's known for years came with a price to pay.
Maybe this is her price for thievery.
"What makes you think I want something?" she asks him, gaze drifting to the scar at his throat, then lower to the bare expanse of his chest down to the glittering gold armor wrapped around his torso. If he notices where her eyes have gone, he says nothing.
He snorts, a low chuckle leaving his lips, no humor to it. "Everyone does," he says simply.
It's quiet between them for a long moment, and Lucy stares at the blue streak of paint across his chest for a second too long. Her eyes rise to meet his once more. "You don't have much faith in people, do you?" It comes out soft—a breath between them, but she knows he's heard her by the way his shoulders go stiff. The Berserker rises to his feet, towering over her once more, though his keeps his head ducked low. He says nothing, so Lucy continues. "Why do you want to help me?" she murmurs.
His gaze snaps to meet hers. "I almost killed you." She thinks it's a bad answer, but doesn't say so out loud. He seems to consider the same thing. "I have no where to go except back to Pergrande." He shakes his head slowly. "And I'd rather be dead." He must see something in her eyes that he doesn't like, because he takes a step back from her, head bowed as his gaze drops to his boots.
Suddenly, he looks back up at her, gaze sharp, grin feral when he looks down at her, wild and full of sharp canines. "Besides, if I wanted, you'd already be dead," he reminds her, a hint of laughter in his eyes. It's a joke, but a poor one, falling flat between them. When Lucy doesn't smile in return, his grin becomes strained and drops.
Lucy stares up at him curiously, not sure what to make of the look in his eyes. She knows she doesn't trust him, not really, but she's sure that if he wanted her dead she would be. Berserkers don't tend to leave people alive unless they want to. And now he thinks he owes her a debt.
Blood debts are sacred, promised to the Gods, and Lucy has read enough to know it won't be so easily broken, nor repaid. He's going to follow her whether she wants him to or not. And truthfully, she could use the help, whether or not she's willing to admit it. She barely survived one Berserker, and he isn't wrong when he says more will be coming. She knew as much when she left Pergrande.
Lucy can only hope that Cobra and Angel were spared. She'll have to write to them when she gets home.
"Don't slow me down," she says suddenly, making a decision and lifting her bag. She turns away from him, heading West once more. She doesn't hear him follow, but she doesn't turn to look back at him, her lips pressed into a thin line, unsure if she's making the right decision.
"Natsu," he calls after her when she doesn't stop. Suddenly, his footsteps sound behind her. "My name is Natsu."
She hesitates before telling him her own name, sucking on her teeth, but she glances over her shoulder and his expression is so earnest that she finds herself softening just the slightest. "Lucy," she replies, softer than she means to, her voice still rough.
Natsu sends her a slow smile.
AN: (3/13/18) I'm hoping to post at least one more revised chapter tonight, possibly two, but I also have like six other things to do, so we'll see.
AN: (original AN) Why is this chapter so long? I didn't mean to make it this long! Hope you guys enjoyed it! As always, if we can hit 50 reviews before Wednesday, I'll do a double chapter next week! (Hopefully, I have some papers due). Also, once this fic hits 200 follows I'll do a Q&A for this fic! Any questions at all (though I won't be giving away major spoilers)! Have a nice day and don't forget to leave a review!