[TW] This drabble deals with war/battle, killing, etc. While there isn't any detailed description of gore, you can.. probably imagine well enough without it. No good vibes to be found here, friends. Take care of yourselves and skip this one if it would be triggering to you. <3
Arukh’s chest heaved with labored breaths as he circled around the warrior in front of him, carefully keeping him in sight despite the blood streaming into his eyes from a weeping cut across his temple. It was far from the only injury he had sustained that day upon the battlefield however, and he was growing tired, weak.
Luckily for him, it would seem that his bedraggled opponent was in much the same flagging state. He wore just as much blood across his leather armor as did the hand axes that he wielded, and he seemed just as content to do aught else but circle his waiting opponent as he caught his breath.
It felt like hours had passed since the war horns had bellowed out across the coastlands, signaling the beginnings of the annual clash between Kharlu and Jhungid. As much as the thought of the battle had antagonized him in the days leading up unto this point, his mind had turned eerily quiet and calm the moment the charge began. Time raced forward, his reflexes sharpened, and his mind was crystal clear except for the sounds of his own heart thrumming to the steady beat of survive, survive, survive…
Those first moments had been a blur, all adrenaline and desperation. He swung his blade without thinking, dodged to and from without thinking, and ended lives without thinking. Just how many he’d cut down, he couldn’t even hope to hazard a guess. Five? Fifteen? Fifty? It could’ve been a thousand for all he knew. He hadn’t the chance to even so much as get a good look at one’s face before the next was coming at him in the chaotic slalom of the front lines.
But this was different.
Now, time seemed to slow to a crawl. This time, his opponent wasn’t faceless but a stark mirror of the emotions he felt coursing through himself. Anger. Desperation. Fear. And the longer the two men circled one another, each feeling out the other, the more uncomfortable staring into that mirror became. The more Arukh’s mind became clouded with thought and guilt, the more his reflexes began to slow.
He found himself wondering, there in the heat of battle, if this man was a slave to the Jhungid just as he was to the Kharlu. Was it his first experience with battle, as it was his? Did this fighter not want to have to kill him every bit as much as Arukh found himself not wanting to do the same in turn?
Perhaps they truly were just alike, save for the fact that the Jhungid fighter broke free of his circling and lunged first.
Slowed by thought and fatigue both, the sudden swing of the hand axe connected with Arukh's wrist, sending the sword he held flying out of his grasp. But he hadn’t the time to curse himself for the letting his opponent take the initiative nor rue what could very well have been his fatal, final mistake. Just as abruptly as it had upon the battle’s start, his mind kicked right back into instinct.
Survive, survive, survive..
As the second hand axe rose high to deal the killing blow, Arukh’s offhand shot to the crude hunting dagger tucked into his waist. Rather than cower, he stepped into the other’s space, throwing him off – and allowing Arukh just enough of an opening to shove the blade upward under the man’s chin with a desperate roar.
Instantly, his opponent went slack, his weight falling full force against Arukh as the light left the wide eyes that stared up at him now. He didn’t know why he didn’t just step aside, but he found himself reaching up to catch the other instead of letting him fall unceremoniously into the blood-soaked mud and muck below.
Maybe it was an apology. Or maybe he was realizing now that with his sword gone and his dagger wedged deep in the dead man’s skull, he was assuredly soon to be joining him when the next opponent found him.
Yet no sooner did the grim acceptance of his soon-to-be fate come than did another bellowing call of the warhorn echo out over the roar of battle. Jhungid horns, signaling retreat.
The fighting was over and the Kharlu had won.
Suddenly Arukh’s knees gave out from under him, but still he did not quite let go of his opponent. The body lowered to the ground with him and, shakily, the Mankhad placed him the rest of the way down into a more dignified final resting position.
If only their private war of attrition had lasted but seconds longer, they both could have walked away from this. Why did he have to swing first? Why couldn’t he have just waited just a moment longer? Anger and anguish rose side by side in Arukh’s chest. Why?! his mind seethed, even if deep down he knew it was illogical. Neither of them could have known that the fighting was about to end. In that moment, all they both knew was that it was kill or be killed, all in the name of a war that likely neither of them were vested in.
Collapsing backwards, a raw and ragged scream tore from between his gritted and bared teeth, half howl and half sob. Even though the Kharlu had won, this tasted not of victory to him but something far more bitter and poisonous.
Because on its heels came the maddening realization that all his survival meant in the end was that he would be forced to come back again in another twelve short moons’ time to do it all again.
