A/N: Featuring Sami Callihan. WWII setting, OFC, third-person POV. Due to the history of UK and Poland being allies in war, Sami’s character setting is a soldier from British army.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction using characters from wrestling, I do not claim any ownership over them. Any resemblance to real-life historical events, organizations, locales and countries/union is entirely coincidental.
Tagging people who gave likes to my work: @thecristsandcallihanmadness @monstersmaid @cherryfinolahobbes @i-ship-it-okay @ohcristimhookedonhavocimsodunne @clynch126 @amariemoore @jonmoxley4ever @morie-leigh
Thank you for your support (also please let me know if tagging is not ok for you)
In dusty air, she sat at the corner of the room, right beside window. The walls rattled from explosion nearby, her whole world was shattering, piece by piece. She covered her ears, knees against her chest, but the deafening noise did not leave her alone.
They are killing us.
The agonizing thought took away her last hope.
A familiar voice echoed in her mind.
Sing, sweetie. Sing for us, sing for our mother land.
Those were father’s words before he left. He was one of the many people who were taken away by the army. He never returned.
Tears fell down along her cheek. She opened mouth and started to sing, as loud and articulate as she could, in the language she was so proud of. She was sending message to whoever heard the song -
“If I shall die today, stand strong my native land, because I will not die alone.”
Sami Callihan was astonished to witness such desperately beautiful scene.
It was the faint singing that drew his attention at first, he once thought he had acousma - who would sing in the middle of battlefield? But he was wrong. Out of curiosity, he followed the sound to a half-ruined house.
Then he saw her. Slim and soft, eyes covered by medical gauze, hands on ears, singing fearlessly like a phoenix reborn from fire. She was in a white dress smudged by dirt, but she was the most delicate thing he had ever seen.
He stepped forward and grabbed her, the abrupt movement scared her. She yelled something in Polish that he didn’t understand at all.
“Shh, don’t make a sound,” Sami cupped her chin, “or I’ll have to force you to shut up.”
“Nie dotykaj mnie...” she gnashed and fought back, but the lack of eyesight gave her disadvantage. She fell to the dusty ground like a ragged doll.
“Stubborn.” Sami elbowed her hard enough on abdomen to bring her to coma.
To leave her to die with such beautiful voice would be cruel. He carried her out of the house before bomb fell upon them and ran to the truck nearby. He opened the door and stuffed the girl in, the abrupt change of plan was too bold to afford any waste of time, the enemy could show up in any moment.
The truck sped on bumpy street - if the ruin could be called “street” - like prey in the eyes of beast. Watching the ruins outside of window, Sami fell into deep regret, even though he and his country had nothing to so with such military action.
Because doing nothing is also participating.
The condition of the girl was not good, her eyes seemed to be blinded by shrapnel and she hadn’t eaten properly for weeks. Sami managed to find some bread and dried sausage in the damage neighbourhood and brought back to her, however, she refused to eat. Under such circumstance, every single bite of food was lifesaving, Sami didn’t want to waste anything, so he waited another hour and ate the food.
By the dawn, he found an small abandoned house as lodging for the next two days. He didn’t want to stay at one place for long period during war time, so they wouldn’t leave much track.
The house was distant from the city area but had already been searched by the army, not much left behind, Sami found some clothes and limited amount of food. He checked on the girl, she was like a beast covered in wounds, sitting quietly on the dusty mattress, knees drew against chest and face buried in arms. Sami handed over the clothes, ordered, “put them on.”
The Polish girl turned her face away from him. It pissed him off and he almost regretted to save her life, since she didn’t show any sign of communication, all he could feel was vigilance, which baffled and annoyed him.
“You’re gonna say something or not?” Sami asked in exasperated voice.
Unexpectedly, she replied in English, although her Polish accent made the sentence less serious, “stranger, are you expecting me to say thank you?”
“It’s not what I mean. I’m Sami Callihan, what’s your name, lil’ Polish?”
She chose to stay silence and curled up at the corner of the mattress.
Sami sat down at the opposite of her, “I don’t understand why you act this way but at least you can show some gratitude.”
“So why did you say you’re not expecting ‘thank you’? You westerns seem to be not straightforward.”
Sami lost his tongue. The heedless beauty of hers had thorns beneath, but it couldn’t stop him to get closer, like people who were attracted by rose, they wouldn’t care about pain until thorns stuck into skin.
Knowing being entangled in petty things would lead him nowhere, Sami switched the topic, “what’s the reason of you being alarmed?”
“I don’t trust foreigners in war.”
“Britain is Poland’s ally, I’m not going to hurt you.”
“We have no ally anymore. French never means to support us, neither do you, British.”
Looking at her as if she’s a fool, Sami sneered, “listen, we have to take care of our own people first, even an ally has no fucking right to ask us to die for them.”
Shook her head, she said, “you just assume that we consider western people as last hope and salvation. This is our fight, no one will help us because we’re cannon fodder.”
“Ridiculous.” rolled his eyes, Sami mumbled. He had heard of rumour about eastern Europeans when he was still in Britain: vulgar, uneducated and barbaric. The discrimination was always there, especially when the government took in some east Europeans who lost homes in the war. Nevertheless, he still joined the army and volunteered to be sent to Poland.
To run into her was a pure surprise. She was nothing like what the stereotype presented. He wanted to know more about her, not only because of the ingenuous curiosity to a country in eastern land with different society, but also the desire of approaching her that was seeded in him.
He was little bit ashamed to admit the idea of discovering her background, but the moment he realized the questions were trigger to her nightmare, the words were already out, “where is your family?”
The girl seemed to lose her thought for a while. Sami heard her said, “my mother was killed for not being submissive to USSR, my father was taken by the Red Army.”
Sensing her agony, Sami sat closer. He saw her buried her face in arms, shoulder shaking, he wanted to hug her, but he didn’t make her feel uncomfortable. “Hey don’t cry,” he tried make himself sound gentle and comforting, “I’m here for you.”
Unexpectedly, she nodded, “thank you...”
“I’m sorry to ask that.”
“You didn’t know.”
Both of them were speechless for quite some time. The suffocating quietness almost swallow Sami alive, then he heard her nonchalant voice:
“What is your story? How did you end up in battlefield?”
“Tell me your name, then I’ll share the story, deal?”
She didn’t reply. When Sami was about to give up on the idea of chatting with her, he heard a whisper:
“Anka...”
Smile grew on his face. She didn’t know that one single word from her could easily cheer him up. She would never have guessed that.
“An orphaned boy, living in a country in the middle of a civil war is captured by a group of weird beings, and is taken to their leader...They turn out to be gentle and peaceful creatures who call themselves “The Others”. Knowing the boy has nowhere to return to, their lider takes the boy in and offers him a life of peace.”
This was my final project for my ilustration class...as you can see, I wasn´t able to finish the background of the second ilustration lolimtheworst
The Others are one of the first species I ever made up...they were the ones who were in control of the Earth before humans. The homo sapiens sapiens took their place at the top of the food chain by almost driving “the others” to exctinction. They hid from the humans for thousands of years, until Circe, a halfiing (half human, half other), united and convinced them to retake their place in the world. The founded their own country, where they live far away from humans.
As a species, they are pretty similar to humans. They have no pigments in their hair and skin, which makes alvinisim a norm in their species. Because of this, their skin is a lot thicker and toughter than normal human skin, to help them protect themselves form the sun. Their melanin is concentrated in their nails and lips, wich are normally of grayish and black tones; the white in their eyes is also black. They are bigger and more muscular than average humans, which also makes them faster and stronger. They have more dense bones, and teeth that resemble those of a more primitve predator, having a mouth filled by mostly canine teeth.
Cultural wise, they respect and revere nature above all. That´s where most of their conflicts with humanity began, they see atrosius the way humans handle nature and how they destroy it.
I based some things in the few things we know about Sumerian architecture, it seemed fitting since they are suposed to be an ancient civilization.
content: living weapon whump, war setting, conditioned whumpee, conditioning, minor whump mention, team whump
"You could be great, you know…"
Whumpee looked down at their lap, their wringing hands. "I know."
"You have what it takes."
"I know."
"So why? Why are you turning your back on everyone?"
"Because I don't want to be a state-sanctioned killing machine for you, that's why!" they snapped, still not looking up. They wouldn't have been able to look Handler in the eye and say the words.
"You're selfish."
"I already feel like I can't wash the blood off my hands. I have nightmares where I— hurt children, innocent children."
"War comes with casualties. If we can't have you, this war will never end. More children will become orphans. More will die."
"Still, I can't—"
"You will have to."
Whumpee swallowed thickly. They bit back a sob. They didn't want to be doing this. They wanted to run off and hide and never be found by Handler ever again.
"This cause needs you," Handler said, gentler. They crouched down and put both hands on Whumpee's knees, and Whumpee finally looked at them with their teary eyes. "It will only end if you help us end it."
"You can't fight your way into peace," they whispered.
"We can. And we will, you and I. We'll do great things, and when all of this is over, they'll have a statue of us at city square. We'll be heroes."
we have reached another hundred, and here's my special piece for it :) i couldn't think of anything but 300 the movie, where 300 spartans were made to fight against the entire persian army in a losing war. so i did that but with living weapons! i hope you enjoy :)
content: living weapon whump, living weapon whumpee, multiple whumpees, war setting, death, major character death, murder, guns, shot, knives, conditioned whumpee, mind-reading, betrayal
It was an impossible battle, and Renne knew that. Renne and the whole team. There were 300 of them, and the enemy was so great they couldn't count them. They were completely and utterly outnumbered. But there was nothing else to do; they had to fight. Had to protect what they had been made to protect.
Renne was part of a generation of super soldiers born and bred to fight impossible battles like this. They had grown up training for combat, they had held their first gun by the age of 6, they had made their first kill by the age of 11, they had served in their first military mission by the age of 15. They were 21 now. And this was their biggest mission yet. War. Unending, merciless war.
The camp they were staying at was quiet. Living weapons weren't made to talk to each other much, aside from exchanged commands and reports. There was a sense of camaraderie, they supposed, but not too great. They would've shot each other in the head, had one of them decided to desert and run. Had one of them decided to sell out their team. Had any mishaps happened. They were comrades, but not friends. They were teammates, but not family.
So, there they were, 300 of them, preparing for the battle that would ensue in the coming days. They were doing maintenance on their weapons, doing last minute adjustments to their metal body parts — because of course, no living weapon was complete without body modifications — and generally trying to get used to the idea that they would all die soon. Renne did the same, in front of their shared tent. They shared it with four others. They didn't talk. Didn't look at each other. Just polished their metal arms and tried to ignore the impending doom lingering in the air.
"Hey," someone called quietly. Renne ignored it; there was no way someone was addressing them. "Hey. Renne, right?"
They stopped, rag still in hand. They slowly lowered it and turned around. One of the other four living weapons was looking straight at them, looking worried. "Yes?" Renne asked. "Plan changed?" That was the only possible explanation. Maybe this other soldier had some information they had to convey.
"No, nothing like that. I don't want to talk about the mission. Well, I do, in a sense… Uh… Would you step out of the camp with me for a moment?"
This was incomprehensible. An awkward, stammering living weapon, addressing them and asking them to leave camp? Before battle? The enemy could attack at any second. They were in the state of the calm before the storm. "Why?" they asked.
"I want to talk to you."
Incomprehensible. Weapons didn't talk. Weapons took orders, weapons killed, weapons did what they were bred to do, but they didn't talk. What was wrong with this one? "Go back in the tent, get some rest before the action. You won't get much rest once this starts."
"No, I need to talk to you. Privately."
"What on earth do you need to talk to me about that can't be discussed among teammates?"
The other weapon lowered their voice, leaning in. "I'm having doubts."
That was one of the most dangerous, most asinine thing a weapon could say. Weapons didn't have doubts. Weapons did what they were told to do. Without question, without hesitation.
At the same time… Renne couldn't help but feel a sense of anxiety. They… had had doubts before. They had never talked about them to anyone, it would've been suicide to do so, but they'd had their share of private doubts. Did this other weapon somehow know that? Why else would they have singled them out for this 'private conversation'?
"Go back in the tent," they repeated. "Now."
"Renne, please."
"Stop calling me that!" Renne snapped. "My mission number is #143. You're #144, right? Go back in the tent and rest. I don't care if you somehow knew me before this mission, or if you asked someone else about my name before this mission, I don't respond to that anymore. I'm #143. I was sent here to protect our higher-ups. And I will do that until my dying breath, and I won't be swayed."
#144 fell silent, but they didn't leave. They seemed to be thinking, cogs turning in their head. "Renne, do you know my special power?"
Renne swallowed. Some living weapons had special powers, like telepathy, or telekinesis, or any other number of useful things. They were rare, most living weapons simply relied on their training and physical abilities. If #144 had a special power, that could've explained how they knew their name. "I don't, and I don't care. I just care you use it to take down as many of the enemy as you can."
"I'm a mind-reader."
So they did know about Renne's doubts. They tried to steel their nerves and think about something else, anything else, but they couldn't seem to rein in their thoughts. Suddenly, all those times they'd had doubts about the mission as a child came back to them, a barrage of thoughts completely disarming them.
Stop. Stop thinking about that. Stop reading my thoughts. Stop.
"I just want to talk," #144 repeated.
The fact that Renne had been singled out by this weirdo meant that they probably hadn't found anyone else with doubts in their mind. It was embarrassing, humiliating, and now Renne had to worry about them snitching to their handler and potentially being pulled from the mission.
"I would never do that," #144 whispered to them. "As I said, I'm the same. I'm having doubts. I just want to talk a little. Please, Renne."
"Fine," they barked. "Fine. Let's go."
They stood up together and took a short walk outside of camp. The other weapons didn't pay them any mind, as they ought to. They were all preoccupied with pre-war prep. Renne was supposed to be like that, too. They were supposed to be a good weapon. And yet.
"We're here, just the two of us," Renne said once the camp was a ways away. "Talk. I can't read your mind."
"I didn't mean to intrude. My special power isn't meant to be used on comrades, I just… can't turn it off. And when I heard that you also have some doubts, I just knew— I had to talk to you."
"So talk."
"What do you think of this war? You don't actually believe it's worthwhile, do you?"
"It's not my place to decide. We go where we're commanded to go by our handlers. If I'm being marched into a death trap, like right now, I will go. Gladly. Joyously."
"But you're not glad. Or joyous."
"Stop trying to tell my what I am and what I'm not," Renne hissed. "I'm a weapon. I'm meant to be used. And war is my purpose."
"You don't believe that."
"It doesn't matter what I believe!"
"A moment of hesitation on the battlefield could cause your death."
"Then I die with honour."
"Nobody will even remember your name, #143."
"Nobody needs to. They just need to know that #143 died in battle, taking down as many enemies with them as they could."
#144 looked at them sadly. "Well, I guess it's only fair I share my side of the doubts. You can't read my mind, and I haven't yet told you why I'm having these doubts."
Renne narrowed their eyes at them. "Talk."
"I don't think this war is necessary."
The world tilted. Time stopped. Renne was completely caught off guard, taken aback, and they didn't know what to say. They opened and closed their mouth a couple times, no sound coming out. They had had doubts about their purpose, but never the absolute necessity of this war. Of every battle they'd fought. They were meant to protect their higher-ups, they were meant to fight for ultimate peace—
"Our higher-ups don't want peace," #144 said. "I've had conversations with them, and as I said, I can't turn my power off. I heard their thoughts. I heard them say and think conflicting things. They don't want peace. They want money and power. They want to subjugate. They want to turn entire countries into wasteland, they want slaves, they want control. This war is completely unnecessary; it only serves their ego. And it's a losing battle, this one."
"You're wrong," Renne said.
"Am I?"
"Of course, peace can only be achieved through our higher-ups controlling everyone. Uniting people under a common banner. And that happens through war and conquest. But at the end of the war, there will be peace."
"A negative peace: the absence of war, maybe. But not real peace. Not freedom. They want zombies, mind-controlled servants to carry out their every wish as they get richer with no blood sticking to their pristine hands they used to train us."
"It doesn't matter," Renne said eventually, after the words had had a bit of time to settle in their stomach. "We're weapons. We do what we're told."
"Are you really ready to die for this?"
"I am."
"You're not."
"Stop trying to read my thoughts!" they snapped. "I am ready! I've been ready from the day I was born! I was trained to die on the battlefield, I was trained to be useful, I was trained to listen to my handlers, I was trained for all of this! You don't know anything! So stop! Stop trying to sow seeds of doubt!"
"Renne, we can get away."
"I am not deserting."
#144 stepped closer and took their hands in theirs, looking into their eyes, pleading. "Renne, please. We don't have to die for a cause like this. We shouldn't have to die for any cause, but especially not this one. Your handlers don't care about you. You've been brainwashed. Please. Open your eyes. I know you're capable of seeing it."
Renne yanked their hands away. "Go back to the tent and get some rest before battle," they said coldly. But they couldn't turn off their thoughts; they were running in circles around the concept of negative peace. "I will do the same. Tomorrow, or the day after, we will die in glory."
"Renne—"
"Stop. My name is #143."
With that, Renne left #144 to stand outside of camp, going back to their tent and lying down inside. This was absolutely miserable. Not even their thoughts were their own anymore, not with a stupid mind-reader in their tent. What if #144 told others about the doubts? What if they actually deserted? They were already low on numbers, they couldn't afford a traitor.
They fell into a dreamless sleep, and they were grateful for it.
—
Renne saw the enormous army advance on them. Their own team of 299 dedicated soldiers was waiting on the other side of a narrow cove, and that was their only chance of holding out. The narrowing would only allow about thirty soldiers to come through at the same time, and Renne knew they could deal with thirty at a time.
Time to shed blood.
The battle was brutal. The bodies were piling up. Renne and their team held their position, and whenever one of them fell, another took their place. Renne had killed tens and tens of enemy soldiers, their blood staining their metal arms. Guns were running out of bullets, daggers and swords were drawn, combat became dirtier.
And then, someone yelled.
"They discovered the other route!"
Renne turned around instantly, looking towards the other path that should've been hidden from the enemy. Unless… Unless someone of their own team gave them a tip.
#144.
They stopped fighting on the front lines and elbowed their way to the back, ready to face the sea of enemies now advancing on them from the back. They knew, they just knew that this was #144's doing. And before the enemy could reach them, they glanced to the side, and saw #144 standing right next to them.
"I can still tell them to spare you," they said to Renne. "But this battle needs to end with us losing."
"I would rather be quartered than betray my team," they said, fingers tightening around their dagger. "And don't expect them to really spare you. I know you think you're safe because you told them about the other route, but believe me, whatever you think of our side, their side is worse."
"Your handler trained you well," #144 said sadly. "That's okay. If you want to die, then die." They left Renne standing there, walking towards the enemy army. Renne watched their confident steps, the steps of someone who had sold out their own team, the steps of someone who thought they were invincible because of it. And they watched as the enemy opened fire, and made a sieve out of them. #144's body fell to the ground lifelessly, and despite them being a traitor, Renne found themself running towards them, falling to their knees next to their body.
"#144!" they cried. "You're— How could you be so stupid?" Bullets were flying overhead, whistling past Renne's head, and yet they only saw #144's abused body. "Did you really think they would spare you?"
#144 coughed up blood. They were bleeding out fast. "This is what dying in glory means to me," they breathed. Their teeth were stained with blood. "Glory is stopping a bloodthirsty army from winning, and I did that. It doesn't matter whether I live to see the end."
"You're an idiot! We could've won! You could've lived!"
"I don't want any part of this," they said, then coughed again. "I'm sorry that you have to die now, too. I wanted to save you."
"Stop," they said, and despite their training, despite how much death they'd already seen, tears trickled down their stupid face. "I… #144, I would've never left with you. I need to die here. I want to die here."
"You don't. But you will." #144's head lolled to the side. "But it's okay. It's all gonna be okay. What you consider the enemy will win, and they'll be far more merciful towards us than our higher-ups would've been to them. And that's all I want. Mercy."
"You sold us out and they didn't think to spare you. That's not mercy."
"Maybe not. Have I made the wrong call?"
"Are you having doubts?" Renne asked, laughing a little. It was humourless.
"I read the mind of the enemy. Some from the lower ranks — they didn't want to fight. Some from higher up — they didn't want excessive bloodshed either. I thought… Maybe I relied on my power too much. Maybe they just knew how to manipulate their thoughts into what I wanted to hear."
The enemy was closing in on them. A bullet hit Renne in the shoulder and they cried out. There was no way to go up against an army still inundated with bullets when all they had left were melee weapons. "What's your name?" Renne asked.
#144 smiled. "#144."
"You know mine, it's only fair—"
"You don't need to spend your last moments thinking about my name. Let me just be #144, the traitor to you."
Renne nodded. Weapons weren't meant to grieve. Especially not traitors. Yet, when they saw #144's bloody smile, they knew that they'd read their mind. They were absolutely shattered.
"I'm sorry," was the last thing #144 said before losing consciousness. Renne laid them gently on the ground and stood up. Another bullet immediately got them in the stomach. They didn't care. They charged at the enemy with their one little dagger, determined to take down as many of them as they could.
Maybe they were fighting on the wrong side, but weapons were meant to fight. Weapons were meant to follow orders, no matter how wrong. If #144 had just understood that, they might've still be alive.
More bullets hit them. They cut through the throat of an enemy soldier. Then another. And another. They were fast, faster than any human should've been, thanks to their body modifications. They were bleeding out, but they couldn't stop. They had to fight. They were bred to fight.
But had #144 still been there, they would've seen that Renne's thoughts were far from the battlefield.
content: religious whump, fantasy whump, magic whump, living weapon whump, living weapon whumpee, lady whump, lady whumper, lady whumpee, reluctant whumper, child whumpee, child whumper, conditioned whumpee, emotional whump, war setting, murder, death, enemies to tentative sort of friends
There was a face that kept popping up. Over and over again. On every mission. On every crusade. Mercy knew her by now, not by name, but by face, by movements, by weapons. A heretic, by all accounts. A heretic she harboured intense resentment towards, because she just couldn't kill her. She evaded blows, she evaded fire, she evaded heaven's fury, and the fights were starting to become more personal. Maybe only to Mercy, but maybe to the other woman as well. She had no way of knowing.
"Mercy," Joy called, and Mercy immediately stood at attention. "I'm noticing your performance is slipping. You keep wandering off on side quests instead of taking out as many of the heretics as I know you're capable of."
"I'm sorry," she said, mindful not to make excuses. Not to bring up her personal bitterness towards that other woman.
"Don't let it happen again."
"I won't, miss."
So she went to battle again. She killed the heretics, like she'd been commanded to do so. And yet, in the midst of a bloody fight, she found herself looking for that same cape, that flash of green eyes, that long, dark ponytail.
There.
There she was.
Mercy shouldn't have gone after her. She was needed right where she was, her companions needed her, the faithful needed her, and yet she couldn't stop herself from going after that miserable heretic.
"You will break them with a rod of iron; you will dash them to pieces like pottery," she whispered, calling upon her God's strength to finally land a killing blow. "Strike all my enemies on the jaw; break the teeth of the wicked!"
Mercy caught her off guard. It looked like she had already been fleeing. It didn't matter. She had to die, and she had to die by Mercy's hands. She punched her with all the righteous, heavenly strength she could muster, and the blow landed, straight to her stomach, and she immediately coughed up blood, dirtying Mercy's pure white cape.
"Fuck," was all the woman said as she fell to her knees, and Mercy could've spat at her for cursing like that. She would get at least twenty lashes for language like that. Had gotten twenty lashes for language like that.
And yet, she felt compelled to kneel by her. An enemy. A heretic. Someone she'd danced with in this deadly ball of war more times than she could count. In a way, this woman knew more about her than the saints who never bothered to ask, or actively avoided her.
"Repent," Mercy said simply, watching as the woman coughed up more and more blood. She'd caused irreversible internal damage, she assumed — as was her intention. "You still have time."
"You're a lot younger than I thought," the woman said instead. "I guess it's on me," cough, "I never bothered to look past the blows and magic. How old are you?"
"Repent," Mercy urged again. "You still have a chance. You can still make it to heaven."
"What's your name, kid?"
"What does any of that matter?" she snapped. "Repent and come back home, before you die. Because you will die. I can't— I can't undo—" Why would you want to undo? This is your purpose. Killing heretics. This is what the crusade is about. "Repent."
"I've made my peace with God long ago," she said between coughing fits. Somehow, her head had made it into Mercy's lap. She wasn't all that much older than her either. They were both just cogs in the war machine, less than people, little more than machine guns.
"You're going to die and go to hell," Mercy said, so quiet that it almost couldn't be heard over the sounds of battle not far from them. It raged on, with or without Mercy there. "Why would you want that?"
"You think you're going to heaven?" she asked, then grinned, showing off bloody teeth. "You'll be martyred and be accepted right through the pearly gates?"
"I know my God," she said. "You've strayed. Come back. Repent."
The woman raised her eyes up to heaven. Mercy couldn't take her eyes off of her face. How old was she? 20? 25? "I know my God," she said. "And I've made my peace with Him."
"You're being unreasonable."
"Hey, kid… There's a photo in my front pocket." Cough. More blood. "Take it, once I'm gone."
"I can't take anything from a heretic."
"I want you to have it."
"Why?"
"Because nobody has ever let me lay my head on their lap before, except the one person on that photo."
Mercy felt tears stinging her eyes. This was stupid. She should've gone back to the main battlefield long ago. She was wasting time. Joy would be mad. And yet, she couldn't move. "Just die already," she said, and she couldn't conceal the grief in her voice as well as she might've wanted to. She never felt grief about the dying heretics, not really. In a general sense, yes, she wasn't glad they died apart from the one true Church, but she'd never felt so… so…
"I can see angels," she whispered, and Mercy had to lean in to hear her. She could've easily killed her now, her guard was completely down. But she wasn't in a state to. "They're coming for me."
"Repent," Mercy pleaded, begged, and the woman just closed her eyes with a smile still on her face.
"Father, into Thy hand I commend my spirit," she breathed. Her last breath. Mercy held her own breath for a moment, waiting for the woman's chest to rise again — it didn't. She had killed her. And she died unrepentant.
She reached for her front pocket with a shaky hand, taking the photo that was there; it was of a smiling woman, and Mercy had no way of knowing what their relationship to each other was. Could be a sister back home, could be a sister in arms. She folded it up and put it in her own pocket. She would be beaten within an inch of her life if Joy found it with her. She was taking something from a heretic.
She reached into her pocket and pulled the photo out again. She swallowed, then put it back in the woman's front pocket. Best to follow the rules. Even if the rules seemed arbitrary and superstitious at times. Best not to take anything from a heretic, lest their bad theology rub off on her.
She gently pushed the woman's head from her lap, onto the grass soaked with her blood. She made the sign of the cross and said a Hail Mary, then stood up. There were more of them to be killed. And she would be the one to do it, alongside her fellow saints.
from 6:37 is the version of ave maria i imagine her singing
masterlist
content: religious whump, living weapon whump, living weapon whumpee, lady whump, lady whumpee, child whumpee, child whumper, murder, death, conditioned whumpee, reluctant whumper, war setting
"Ave Maria," Mercy sang, and the saints all sang with her. "Gratia plena."
She was walking through a deserted village, the inhabitants of which had run to save their lives. Heretics, the lot of them. All that was left to do was to sanctify the place before it could officially be attached to Gildania's territory.
"Dominus tecum," she sang, her voice carrying through the empty streets. "Benedicta tu in mulieribus."
She threw open doors as she went, making sure there was nobody hiding in the abodes. She found books half-open, dough left to rise in baskets, all in all signs that the people were just minding their own business, living their lives, when the intel came that they had to run. They left their lives half-lived, up and ran.
"Et benedictus fructus ventris tui Iesus," she sang, and she could feel the Blessed Virgin's presence descend upon this messed up place. She usually refused to sanctify places of bloodshed, but there had been no blood spilled on this soil. They were free to call upon her.
She saw movement out of the corner of her eye. Her dagger was instantly in her hand as she turned— Only to see a little mouse fleeing between two floorboards. Oh. It was nothing.
"Sancta Maria, mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus," she sang, and she tried to really mean it. She was a sinner. Even though she was a hero, liberating her county from heresy, she was still a sinner.
She threw open door after door…
"Nunc et in hora mortis nostrae, amen."
She stopped dead in her tracks. There was a woman huddled in the corner.
Mercy still had her dagger out. The right thing to do would've been to slit her throat and carry on sanctifying the village with the others. But if she shed blood, what would Mary think?
The singing served two reasons: one, to sanctify, but two, to let the inhabitants know they were there, so whoever hadn't run yet would have a chance to run and not be slain. They weren't monsters. They didn't want to spill unnecessary blood. But this woman, clearly, didn't value her own life.
"Mercy?" came a voice from outside the house. Of course, she'd stopped singing. It was bound to draw attention. And Faith was already entering the house, she could hear her footsteps, and she knew she wouldn't hesitate to spill blood, and then the whole sanctification would've been for nothing, and this place would just become another grave, and— "Mercy, are you in here?"
"Coming," she called. "Sorry." She grabbed the tablecloth and yanked it off the table, then threw it over the trembling woman in the corner just before Faith entered the room.
"We have to be done with this mission by noon."
"I know."
"Why do you have your dagger out?"
"I thought I saw something. It turned out to be a mouse."
Faith gave her a strange look, but eventually retreated. She left the house, her strong voice filling the air as she sang, "Ave Maria, gratia plena…"
Mercy swallowed. This wasn't right. She was hiding a heretic. But she couldn't shed blood, she couldn't, that would jeopardise the whole mission—
If you spill this woman's blood, I will cease to protect this village.
The voice of Mary rang in her ear as clear as though it was one of her comrades saying it. Her fingers tightened around the handle of the dagger. She had to find a way to get this woman out of the village, somehow without any of the saints seeing her.
"I will come back for you," Mercy whispered to the heretic, then left the house and closed the door. In her calculations, she didn't consider that with the way she'd said it, it could've easily been taken as a threat. And so as soon as she took a few steps away from the house, the woman opened the door behind her and tried to run.
Mercy acted before she could think. She threw her dagger in her direction, and the blade embedded itself into her throat. She could immediately feel the darkness descending upon the village. Most of the saints stopped singing and ran over to see what the commotion was. They didn't seem aware of the cloud of heaviness.
"Good catch," Faith said. "She must've been hiding somewhere in the house."
Mercy watched as the woman clawed at her throat, trying to pull out the dagger. When she succeeded, her blood gushed forth like a fountain, watering the ground beneath her.
The mission was over. This village wasn't going to be sanctified. The blood of this heretic would not cease calling out to its compatriots.
Mercy walked over and picked up the bloody dagger, wiping it on her black pants. "I'm sorry," she whispered. Not really to the woman, more to the Blessed Virgin. "I tried."
"Come on, Mercy," a woman called. "We won't be done by noon if you dilly-dally."
Their song sounded once again, loud and rising to the heavens. But it wouldn't reach it. Mercy knew. She had no idea how the others couldn't feel the Blessed Mother's presence completely withdraw from this place.
"Ave Maria…"
Mercy joined in, singing kind of half-heartedly.
"Gratia plena…"
She'd messed up. Joy would know. She'd be punished.
"Dominus tecum…"
She couldn't even— She couldn't even try to bury her to appease Holy Mary. Maybe it would've done nothing to calm her meek soul, but at least an attempt would be made. But there was no time. No opportunity. Heretics didn't get graves. Heretics deserved to rot on the ground and be picked apart by crows.
"Benedicta tu in mulieribus…"
So Mercy sang. She tried to ignore the mist of blood. The scent of blasphemy.
