「 i actually started working on this one for a while now, but i had to put it on hold for a bit. idk if anyone noticed, but i actually posted this on accident at some point—i panicked, man,,,, 」
「 tw: mentions of war, death, blood, etc., minor character death, implications of using sedtives, angst, hurt/comfort (?), using people as pawns, the typical power dynamics in a historical setting, breakdowns, panic attacks, lots of crying, this one made me kinda sad tbh, etc... 」
“commander–!!” your name is a jumble on their tongue, rolling off in a mess of intelligible words.
crimson stains the rough terrain, flooding your nose with the metallic scent of blood. swords tear into flesh, leaving bodies in a mangled heap on the ground. are they faces you recognize? you don't stop to think about it.
you hear nothing but the agonizing sound of war; smell nothing but the pungent scent of blood; and see nothing but an infuriated shade of red.
do the cries of your friends still haunt you?
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you sit up with a gasp, greeted with a familiar burning in your chest. worse than a stab to the heart, the ache tears into the very core of your being. a splutter of coughs slip from your throat, but they do nothing to ease the pain.
the thin curtains rustle with the night breeze, illuminated by the moon. your exhausted eyes drift out the window—anything to distract you from the torment that plagues your life. every waking moment is a torturous echo of your failures, of the lives you carry over your shoulders.
like a parasite, it crawls up your spine and nestles into your mind. it's an incessant reminder of the blood that stains your hands.
a tear rolls down your cheek, and you can almost taste the salt on your tongue. you curl up, making yourself smaller. these are the only times you allow yourself comfort. having lived in a battlefield, you'd grown used to constantly keeping your guard up. an enemy could be lurking anywhere, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
they would laugh when they slit your throat, dangling you by they hair before claiming your head. would the kingdom mourn if they saw such a gruesome sight? will they grieve the loss of a hero, or will they lament the failure of another tool?
the thought sends you an entirely different pain, something you believe will never truly cease, even if you rip your heart out of your own chest.
a tool. isn't that right? a weapon to wield against the threats that oppose your kingdom—your home. bitterness seeps into the pores of your sweaty skin, leaving you trembling as you heave another sob.
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“your majesty!” calls an urgent voice.
the panic is answered with an arrogant tone, one that speaks with long years of luxury. the posh, aged voice grumbles within the throne room as the king places down his golden chalice.
“can't you see i'm busy? this best be important.”
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the war is over, yet it feels as if you've never left the battlefield. it's a memory you can never forget, a burden you must shoulder for the rest of your life. it's ingrained into your bones, carved into the deepest parts of your mind.
you've won the battle, but nothing will make up for what you've lost.
hundreds were slain, and many were left injured beyond recovery. most were buried in hastily arranged graves, but the others were much less fortunate—with their bodies missing from their own coffins.
some were forgotten altogether. a memory that died alongside their final breath.
to the nobles, they were simply pawns for a sick game of chess. but to the people, they were family. they were parents, siblings, sons, and daughters. to you, they were friends; comrades. a found family that you grew to love, to trust, to cherish. you gambled your lives together, if only to make it back alive.
but now, you're the only one left.
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“c-commander,” he calls to you, choking out his final words. blood dribbles down his chin, teeth stained with red as he grins.
“no, no, don't even think about it! we'll make it out of this, please, just hold on for a little longer, –!”
what was his name again? it feels like such a long time ago… the faces are blurry, but their voices are clear. you hear the agonized cries of the other soldiers in the frontlines, fighting for their lives.
“li.. sten, ya brat,” he chuckles, and you can feel the red staining your hands, pooling over the ground. you remember who he is to you, like a brother that you never had. much older, and yet he was merely your second-in-command. he always did teased you about it, didn't he?
“yer still young," he rasps out. his voice is rougher from all the blood pooling out his mouth, seeping into the barren soil.
"yer old man's- ugh, lived a good life. heh, lasted longer than.. i thought," he coughs, eyes drooping. he's losing his breath now, holding on to the final moments of his flickering life.
he gasps, voice fading to a whisper. he's gripping your hand one last time before he falls limp, closing his eyes.
"it's not your fault."
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the wind cries with you, bellowing within the dim room. the tears drip down your chin, shaking with uncontrollable sobs, and yet you force yourself to keep it down—to bury the pain deep in your heart, to close it off from the world, never to be heard again.
you bite your lip, muffling your whimpers as another presence makes itself known. the moon does little to illuminate the dark, shrouding the intruder in a veil of shadows. trembling hands reach above the bed frame, gripping the familiar handle of your dagger.
a tense silence chills the room; you're only graced with the sound of howling wind and the faint light brought by the night sky.
for a moment, you begin to think it was your senses playing tricks on you. had the nightmares gotten so bad that you've lost your mind?
but a moment was all he needed.
the dagger flies out of your hand, sliding across the floor as you wrestle with the intruder. the mattress sinks from your combined weight as he pins your wrists above you, holding you down with a monstrous strength. something pokes your skin, sinking into your skin before you can react.
all the sleepless nights have done a number on you, highlighted by the dark circles under your eyes. you had overworked yourself, spending your days like a mindless drone. you're haunted by the memories of your slain comrades, living like an empty shell of a person.
is this it? after struggling for years in a war, you ultimately die by the hands of an assassin.
pathetic.
a tear rolls down your cheek, and then another. you've resigned yourself to your fate, but that doesn't mean you've no regrets. guilt and despair cling to you like a vice, like chains that weigh you down every single day. losing your found family is one thing, but knowing you could have stopped it is another.
you barely even noticed the shift in your position, pulled into a soft chest, and held like a prized treasure.
“shh. i'm not going to kill you, precious.”
he coos, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. a large hand pulls you closer, tightening his hold on your frantic form. “you're alright now, always safe with me. shh, shhh, don't cry,” he wipes your tears, trailing his hand down your neck.
“come on. breathe with me, yeah? in and out, just like that,” he pulls back, cupping your face as the drowsiness begins to cradle you, lulling your mind into a reluctant slumber.
“that’s right, don't fight it.”
the voice urges you, stroking your head. your eyes grow heavier by the second, and all the fight leaves your body as you slump against him.
“good,” he whispers, nuzzling into your neck.
the last thing you see is a pair of intense, golden eyes before your vision goes black.
“sweet dreams, my rose.”
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the man, who seems to be an aide, clears his throat. but it does little to hide the way his voice trembles as he speaks.
