Just listened to some pretty epic music and had the urge to write Mad & Hel at a battlescene on opposing sides, so I did. I have no idea what the context to this whole situation is or if I'm gonna turn it into a full short story, but you can have this little bit to read if you feel like it.
(Mentions of swords, injury and blood)
They stand ready at the battle fronts, at the edge of all the chaos. They stand together, yet they stand separate, torn apart by the simple concepts of sides. Madeline in armor of white, her bright silver sword glowing with the sun's reflection that burns down onto both of them.
Helen, mere feet away stands, blade pointed in blackened armour, dark silver blade glistening like stars.
She does not want to fight. She never had. She wasn't made for it. Madeline in contrary was. That's why she stands, opposing her. They used to be close, now driven far by nothing more than a colour of metal and a person in charge.
Madeline does not tease her, does not stand in her face with smug arrogance as she would any other day. She stands, face stern. Gaze unwavering and raw, a mix of anger and something that could only be considered fear.
The grunts of fallen men and women around them drone in their ears. They could have attacked long ago. Neither had yet. There was something that might be called an understanding passing between them.
Madeline's drawn in brows, creating a smidge of conflict where anger was supposed to sit. Helen's legs shake microscopically beneath her, they threaten to give out and surrender. She would not. Pride was part of the Sharps, no matter how unlike them she was. A glint passes over her eyeglasses.
Neither want this. They are forced to anyway. No one cares about opinions during war, this is about winning and coming out on top, no matter what happens.
They stare intensely, looking to outside sources like burning with rage, yet nothing happens. They stay stiff. Helen wants to speak. At just a mouth movement, Madeline draws her blade further front. This will not end in kindness, or with words.
A final injured yell from somewhere in the blood stained circus called war does what it would do for others, it rushes through them and pulls them out of their statue like conditions. Madeline swings.
Helen defends, barely. Madeline swings again. And again, and again. Does not speak, does not look away from her eyes. Helen defends. Only ever defends. A shift in Madeline's look, perhaps intentional, begs her to fight back.
She caves, grunts, swings. No matter how bad she is at fighting, she knows the techniques. To be efficient or hurt, Madeline does not swing correctly. Blocking should not be as easy as clashing her blade vertically against the other. Movements were supposed to be quick, looking for openings, stabbing. Not simply swinging.
Helen does nothing different than her counterpart. They get nowhere. No injuries, no armor even slightly scraped. Madeline seems to get irritated. She swing with more intensity, grows quicker. Something possesses Helen, and she blocks, blocks, blocks.
Their feet move them across the field, under the eyes of all those watching their legacies continue on while their allies bleed out left and right.
Helen suppresses her fear. Madeline's creasing brow draws closer in. She begins to attack from different sides, to dodge, attempts to slide and hit from the back. They stay uninjured.
Tears, hot and unwanted boil in Helen's eyes, she cannot stop them welling. She tries to stop their flow, and fails when Madeline's eyes begin to glisten. er glasses fog up, she tries to look through past them.
They move, fighting, for so long that they do not realise that they've left the field.
They're surrounded by sad nature, which is taking in some of the hits meant to be thrown at their opponent. They are hidden from view. Helen stops her attack, panting. Madeline leaves herself a moment to breathe. This silence, peace, is short lived.
Madeline no longer swings, she stabs. Intent to hurt, Helen notes.
"Why did you have to be on their side?!" Madeline speaks for the first time in an eternity. Her voice is laced with hot tears. "Then it wouldn't have to be like this."
Helen finds no response. She had not wanted sides to separate them. Had never meant to ruin everything. Madeline carried as little fault as did she.
Her voice distracts, Madeline spots the gap, takes the opportunity.
Her steel blade slices through the gap that separates chest plate and leg armor, with a wet unpleasant sound, followed by a gasp and a yell. Helen falls to her knees, attempts to clutch at her side but finds no way through the metal box she is trapped in. She is vulnerable like this, she knows.
Her non dominant hand takes her blade and points up, attempting at being threatening but most likely looking nothing but pathetic. Her arm aches, and she drops it.
Bent over, gasping in pain and trying to stop the bleeding, Helen finds no strength to fight. She never wanted this. Huddled before Madeline, standing tall and imposing, she accepts her fate. Internally, she begs her ancestors for forgiveness, she had failed. She had never had a chance in the first place.
She prepares to be met with Madeline's blade, perhaps through the neck. It would be quick.
Madeline does not move. Helen continues to pant and pulls together with each wave of pain, the clattering of a blade brings her to reality.
She is picked up, arm slung over a shoulder held in place through a hand, another around her uninjured side, pulling up. Then dragging. Quickly. Her feet comply. She does not run from her fate.
She is pulled, her vision darkening and feet becoming unsteady, barely moving. She hears mumbling of a voice she can't make out. Darkness fully takes her.
Madeline reaches a secluded cave, drags Helen in, sets her down gently against stone walls. Her hands move quick. Her armor off, then Helen's, her own top being pressed tightly against the bloody wound to stop the bleeding, then tying it tightly by the sleeves around her waist. She reaches for her arm and checks the pulse. There, weak. Steadying.
She sits beside the injured, curls up in her side and hold her close, some would say to increase the pressure of the cloth, which was true. But really, because she was scared. She was guilty. And she was sorry.
From far, she can hear muffled battle cries and voices. She drowns them out. Her eyes well up again, and she reaches to take the smudged frames off Helen's face.
After a short while, she falls asleep.
