ON THIS BLOOD-FLOODED SOIL, THERE WAS NO ROOM FOR HEROES.
Shreds of charcoal stuck to his tongue, staining it dark alongside his robes that were long tinged with crimson of all kinds of shades and all kinds of states. The soggy cloth clung to his body ‘till it turned into secondhand skin, dried up crusts grating demurring against sinews and bones with every movement that he made, drowned out only by the hissing of metal, and the thunder of guns, and the beat of his own heart that was about just as loud, but only h a l f as relentless, wavering almost, almost, always on the verge of skipping more than just a beat of this violent tune.
It didn’t stop, however, and so neither did he.
Between those who fought to win a war, and those who fought to not lose the same, it was hard to tell who was the lesser fool. Between those who died and those who lived, it no longer mattered. For him to be crowned savior in this mayhem come to life was much alike to setting fire to the ship you were sailing on to escape from a grim night’s cold. You drowned, reassured. Fearless. Like gods. Like demons. Humans were not made for being free of fear. Samurai were taught to let go of it anyways.
For each moment he was greeted with a look of relief, his heart sank a little more, as though pressed down by an unseen force that may well have been his mind. Any day now, and it’d remain. Any day now, and it’d hit the floor.
It was almost contagious, this strange sort of faith. But once the cannons had ceased whipping his eardrums and his gaze settled back on the madness up front, there was more but a dim understanding pounding vibrantly in his thoughts that the only reason he could hear his comrades’ anguished screams faintly echoing in the depths of his head was because he knew they were there. Selfishly, callously, he almost dreaded for this pandemonium to stop.
Because as the silence grew louder, so did their voices.
They wanted him to move ahead, however, and so he kept going, the stifling fright crushing down his spine in waves, with a body far too under way to be swept along just yet. Any day now, the low tide would come. He closed his eyes and breathed it in, face ablaze from days spent shouting at disfigured men, and fingers icy cold as they wrapped tighter 'round his swords battered hilt.
because he feared that if he faltered for a single step, the blood in his veins would run dry for good.
Because, in reality, he was the most desperate of them all.
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