Fire licked at exposed flesh as her feet moved between scorched land, passing impaled swords and lances, broken arrows and daggers, still covered with ichor. The stench in the air was that of death, ash and soot; it was enough to make someone unaccustomed to such sick, and those accustomed to regret being so used to it. Hazy pink eyes, heavy like the rest of her, took in the carnage around her, the subtle breeze blowing her ash blonde hair, usually controlled by her helmet, of which unfortunately had been lost in the fight. Hell all around the woman, and on her, caked with blood, her’s or others she couldn’t tell, and sweat. The taste of acid had been a perpetual taste. The feeling of regret and guilt a perpetual gripping curse. Her’s and her’s alone to bear.
Infernum.
Bodies piled on bodies. Comrades, enemies, friends, family; the lines were blurred on the battlefield.
These people are your friends, your family.
But not on the battlefield.
They only see you by the uniform you wear, not by the blood that flows in your veins.
The woman took a shaky breath as her chest tightened. The hands at her sides, bare and blood coated, tingled, a numbness spreading from the tips of her fingers to her wrists. She knew this feeling all too well, and immediately attempted to seize control before the panic attack did. Work through it, she told herself, or rather attempted to as her feet moved through haphazard obstacles she couldn’t look at or it’d only worsen.
What had seemed like hours of fighting, however, had been just a mere hour, and there was no way this was the end. Backup was coming, for both sides, and it was only a matter of time before they got here.
But that first hour had been enough. Surely. There were already so many dead, and she, alone in the middle of just a small portion of that battlefield could see that. She stifled a weep, consumed by the choking fears. She just wanted this to end. It was senseless. It was madness.
And she hated it.
Fingers clutching the fabric practically glued to her chest from sweat and grime, the woman’s feet finally decided enough was enough. Her legs gave out as she stumbled forward, her body falling on top of another’s, face first into their bloodied chest and when she pulled away, crying out, her hands moving to her face in attempt to rid herself of it, only to smear the runny liquid, a fruitless effort. Before she could do much else, a sound, faint at first, but slowly growing in volume flooded her ears. Mistaking it for howling winds would prove to be fatal, for they weren’t mother nature, but just what she’d expected.
She could hear their feet, feel the vibrations on the ground as they advanced.
And she was a prime target. A sitting duck in the middle of a field of dead.
Weaponless.
They'd sooner spill your blood than let you spill theirs.
They are animals.
They preach of justice and equality.
Yet, still, they kill hundreds if not thousands of conscripts from foreign lands.
She scrambled to her feet, eyes sweeping for a weapon not worn or broken and happened upon a bow and hardly a handful of arrows left in a quiver as well as a dagger for backup. She secured the items as best she could with trembling hands before running. The best she was going to get, at least until she met back up with her group, wherever they were, and if they were still alive.
The flash of her commander’s face and her comrades clenched her heart. They had to be.
Truth be told, every battle she prepared herself for the inevitable; that this was her final fight and her uselessness would finally prove to be her end. There was no mistaking how utterly useless she was in the battlefield. Consumed by her emotions, feeling them too heavily for both parties, she was a detriment to the Empire, and the whole reason she’d been reassigned to her current commander’s small legion. That didn’t mean she wasn’t on the battlefield anymore, more that it meant she was no longer their problem to deal with, and instead his. She was aware of this. He was aware of this. They all were. If she were to die, she was sure they all knew it would be her fault in the end.
An arrow narrowly missed her head as she rounded a tree, wide eyes spotting an enemy now closer than the others. There was a noticeable split in the army, as they all went their separate ways to take on the threat that had stepped on their doorstep. She was faced with her own front, despite being a single person. Unfair, but the hard truth. The lips of the miqo’te moved, threatening her to stand down, yet she knew what that really meant. They all said it, nothing changed, the outcome was always the same.
She was a prisoner on either side.
Fingers brushed fletching as she pulled an arrow from her quiver in one quick motion, practiced hands notching the bow and steadying her shot as she ran. Archer against archer. The miqo’te aimed her way, loosing her own as she did, but only one would find purchase.
Laurla aan Caer cried out in pain as the arrow pierced muscle in her arm. Red and hot, flesh flared as blood began to trickle from the wound. It hadn’t gone all the way through, and she wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not. The pain was enough to tell her it was bad no matter what. The miqo’te notched another as she attempted to grasp her reality through the agony. Forgoing her own attack, she turned on her heel, jumping over a carcass and simply making a break for it, yet another mistake. The second arrow missed it’s target, yet didn’t leave her unscathed. Her uniform ripped from the arrowhead grazing her shoulder, marking flesh in its wake, springing forth tears in her pink orbs. There was something about this one that seemed to flare more, and quickly Laurla realized that the arrow had been poisoned, and it was a blessing that it’d merely grazed her. She wouldn’t get the full effect of it, but a small fraction of it.
She heard the miqo’te curse on her breath, calling for backup, for which came with little delay. It became a chase then, four trailing after the wounded woman with bloodlust fervor.
They are animals.
A hand slipped into her unkempt hair, immediately grasping locks with an iron fist as the tall hyur male forced her to a stop, wrenching her backwards and almost off her feet. He breathlessly proclaimed his prize to his companions, who moved to continue their own advance now that she had been dealt with.
Or so they’d assume, their backs to the woman as they ran forward. Laurla’s hand moved to take hold of the dagger she’d stashed away and wiggled her small form just enough in his grasp to guide it through flesh, whatever was close enough to cut at that would give release. Yet it was never that easy. She’d damaged him, but mortal wounds with such close combat was above her. His grasp in her hair didn’t falter, but in fact grew more forceful as he threw her small form forward, her front half hitting the ground none too nicely, and the dagger along with her breath knocked from her grasp. The sound of a sword unsheathing filled her ears, and her body sent itself on high alert. Laurla’s knees dug into the ground as she pushed herself up and forward, attempting to put distance between them, her eyes on the prize: her dagger.
She felt his hand wrap around her ankle then, pulling her back towards him and flipping her over, uncaring about the protruding arrow in her arm that dug in deeper with the force before breaking, leaving the shaft and arrowhead buried in tissue. A scream ripped from Laurla’s lips, one she’d never heard herself make before, carnal and terrifying and almost nothing like she sounded. He towered over her, a looming threat she’d surely die. She kicked him back as he moved closer, pushing herself with her good arm back and back and back until she reached the dagger, wrestling to grab it as he aimed his weapon at a downward angle. Laurla rolled just enough for it to embed itself into the dirt, and as it did, she moved in for the attack.
Like butter her dagger cut through meat as it entered through the groove between the collarbone and neck muscle. Eyes caught eyes, and for once the time seemed to stand still. They looked at each other, actually looked at each other, and Laurla wondered what could be going through his mind, and perhaps if he was thinking the same. Did he want to die here? Did he have family? Friends? Did he have a place in his world? He was a human being, same as her. He couldn’t have wanted this. She knew that. She could see that. The sheer terror reflecting in his eyes, back at her, and he could see her own, surely. They were just two people trying to survive in the cruel world they occupied, the cruel world that pit them against one another. Human against human. Neither more bloodthirsty than the next. They weren’t animals. They were human beings with a life they were trying to live as best as they could with such great odds against them.
His body collapsed onto her’s, and she moved with effort to roll him over so she could do something. Tears trickled from her eyes as she looked at him, the life leaving his eyes, despite previously having been there so brightly. Her hands pressed around the dagger, as if she could stop the blood from pouring forth from the wound she had created. “I’m sorry,” she whispered tearfully. “I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry. Please forgive me. Please.” His lips parted in attempt to speak, but he couldn’t find his voice anymore than she could herself. The sounds of the war around her muted as she watched this man die in her arms, and it was more than she could ever possibly take. A grim reminder of the truth.
Death was inevitable, and there was nothing one could do about it when it was time.
His body finally went slack, and Laurla’s shaking hand moved to close his eyes, before moving to slowly remove the dagger. She hated this.
Sound flooded back into her ears, screams of agony, of anger, a battle raging around her. Her hand gripped the dagger tightly, as her eyes rose to the people ahead of her moving to attack one another. It was war. Gritty, deadly, and hellish. From the looks of it, they were losing, which was no surprise to her. Perhaps they deserved it. No, they did deserve it. How many lives had their Empire taken, on top of all the land they had claimed their own. Built on the lives of others, the same as her homeland, no different from the rest of the lands they’d taken. They deserved this. It should be her on the ground, bleeding out, grasping for life.
We fight to protect our families from their vengeance upon us.
They know not our stories.
Where we come from, what we did to get to this point.
Laurla fought for no one. She had no one to protect anymore, no family to eagerly hope to return to. He’d been speaking to the others when he’d said those things. No speech like that brought any emotion other than indifference to the surface. Her commander didn’t know that, though. Maybe. She didn’t talk about herself eagerly, as if they were friends. How little he knew about her, and how little she knew about him besides the rumors.
They didn’t know their stories, but neither did the Empire. It was the conquest they cared about, her commander couldn’t convince her otherwise, no matter how nice he could be, which in and of itself was odd to her.
What was she fighting for? What made her draw the blade, to plunge it? What made her notch the arrow and release it? What drove her?
She had little time to weigh those thoughts. Shouting from her side erupted, and with a quick glance, she spotted a group moving to her area, following the Empire’s, as if they were all converging on this spot of vacant land. Laurla gritted her teeth as she moved to the background, but not coming out unscathed. As she moved, she too encountered them, and with naught but a dagger and a quiver - she’d lost her bow during the scuffle and couldn’t go back for it without being in the danger zone- it was safe to say she wasn’t exactly prepared for any assault on her person.
Laurla hadn’t fought with a blade since she’d first started. Unpracticed, one might assume, unwilling was the reality. There was a reason she chose the bow over the dagger.
The whites of their eyes haunted her. The eyes the windows to the soul. Too close. Too personal.
She didn’t have that luxury for now.
Everyone was fighting someone. Laurla could see how battle worn they were, both sides. The stress and severity of the situation painted across their faces like the bruises and the blood and the sweat and the dirt. The small moment she got to watch was the last she’d get. A Elezen moved to meet her, lance in hand and fire dancing in their eyes. To their side,, the miqo’te from before notched an arrow, her eyes seemingly judging her for her killing their comrade. Small world, she supposed.
They attacked.
