The sky was a faded orange, matching the withered leaves strewn about them, smoke billowing in the sky like a beacon---- a cry of help. A cry the Hero wasn't so keen to answer.
Not when they were covered in the falling ash, face a mixture of light pink and an angry blotched red. And certainly not when they smelt of meat simmering over a fire. They couldn't, however, ignore the way their stomach turned and dropped, palms clammy from guilt and the sweltering heat. The villain may have caused this, may have sent their army to raid the borders, where the kingdom was weakest and the thick walls that bordered the capital was non-existent, but Hero had led them there. Hero had helped give information in hopes that the Villain would dethrone the very king that set their home ablaze and took the Hero's sister kicking and screaming---- but they hadn't thought about the lives caught in between them and the throne. Didn't think about the consequences war would bring.
Now the fatalities were at the Hero's doorsteps and all they could do was sit back and watch the world burn.
Then the hero was running. And running and running. Feet thumping against burnt grass. Lungs expanding against the solid weight of smoky air. The screams rang louder. Ringing in their ear. Soldiers, a dot of blue and murky gray, reaping down bodies like the grim reaper sowing souls in the fields of hell. Blood painting the streets. Children crying in empty stores for mothers that would never hold them again. It was a nightmare, the Hero thought. A familiar sight that all but haunted their dreams for the past five years.
The screaming. Their mother singing a song--- her voice a tremble. Their sister--- Joy--- being lifted onto a man's shoulder. Their father pleading on hands and knees----
They shook the violent thoughts away, forcing them to grab an arrow. Steady. Steady. Knock the arrow, bent knees, bent elbows, steady breaths. Their hands were shaky, and just like their mother, they sang a quiet song to calm the storm brewing in their belly. Release.
It hit a solider in the side. Too low. He had been dragging a woman by her hair, blood staining her blouse, her face, her undone hair. She screamed and scampered away.
The smoke was thick, causing the hero to cough in their elbow, dark brown eyes watering. They hated the smell of smoke, the feel of a fire nipping at their heels. They preferred the cold, the way the ice burned their nose and lungs and skin.
They released another arrow. This one hit the soldier's shoulder. Better but not fatal. They screamed like a wounded animal, thrashing their head back as if bucking. The next arrow hit in-between the eyes.....they went down with a thump.
The Hero moved between the burnt buildings releasing arrow upon arrow, aim improving with each hit. Still, they didn't see the Villain nor heard their booming voice over the clamber of a city in near ruins. The hero knew they had to attack them at the very least, if they had to die in this new found hell, they would take down another punk with them. And who better than the asshole that caused this shit to begin with?
The hero scampered from their hiding place to an overturned carriage, it reeked of ale and iron. A combination meant for a tavern, not a once pleasant town with a once beautiful market. The hero guessed it was a merchant's caravan, a poor one since there wasn't an ounce of colored silk or brocade, unless the soldiers carted the prized goods away. They glanced over, aiming another arrow at a nearby solider with gold encrusted plates, and scale armor instead of simple chain mail. It hit in the middle of their back. It did not, however, pierce straight through.
"I hate scale armor," The hero muttered, knocking another arrow. Besides that one there was only three left, and no signs of the Villain. "What kind of bugger wanted to afford this assholes more protection? What about the common folk!"
The solider turned around, a general perhaps, by the way she lifted her head. Or at the very least a more sturdy mercenary than common folk.
The hero released the arrow, but she crouched raising her shield. It was wooden and round but still did the trick, blocking their attack.
"Oh fuck me," the hero muttered, dunking out of sight. They heard her footsteps approach, slow but sure like a cat hunting field mice. "Fuck, fuck, fuck-"
"Don't worry about them, Rosaline," a voice, like silk, purred. The hero froze, fingers clutching an arrow. It was heavier than their other ones, a yellow crusted paper wrapped around the shaft. A poison tipped one---- the Hero had made it different so they wouldn't accidentally use it in the hunt.....again. It wasn't good to poison oneself on contaminated meat. Best case scenario you're puking your guts out, worse case--- your body is burned at the funeral pyre.
"No, no," the Villain--- the Hero could recognize that voice anyway---- soothed. "They're mine. Isn't that right, kitten?"
The Hero's heart battered against their rib cage, fingers knocking the arrow faster than a bird. "I think you have it wrong," Their tongue couldn't work right, stumbling over the syllables as if they were a new born calf learning how to walk. "You're mine."
The villain laughed, as if they expected the Hero's betrayal; they wondered if the villain knew this day would end in smoke and ash and a poison tipped arrow aimed at their throat. "I'm honored truly. First you lead me here, to the throne and now......you aim to kill me. I've never been the receiver of so much attention."
Smoke seemed to be accustomed to them, ash hitting everything but their perfectly matted hair. "I didn't......I didn't know you would do this when I first helped you. You promised me peace."
"You can't have peace without war, kitten." They took a step closer. "And you're wrong, I didn't promise you peace. I promised you vengeance."
Then the arrow was released. It missed it's mark.
The war really started then.
