When the battle was finished they were two
alone. After scanning their surroundings
for others they looked at each other.
Warrior was grinning at her. “I
see now how you do it.”
“Do what?” She asked as she turned to face him,
looking regal and deadly in her blood stained common clothing, wielding two
blades – how she came up with the second he did not know but he knew better
than to ask. She would not recall. Her body spoke of her ancestry. Ages of warriors pumped still through her
veins, brought forth to the surface to answer the call to protect that which
was hers. She was not trained and could
not train when she knew not she did. She
fought because she had to and it was not within her to give in.
“Live,” he answered as he walked to the body of the
leader. Here he knelt and jerked the
man’s shirt free from his belt.
“I think I enjoyed it more,” he said to the dead
man. “You’ve no idea how much I enjoyed
this.”
Using the man’s shirt he wiped
clean his blade. Somehow ridding the
world of this rabble eased his conscience – like he was destroying that within
him he had come to despise.
He lifted his head to watch Lena approach him. “Before you speak of them,” he said, “and ask of my actions. I
fought with them, yes, but I had no love for them. They were an end to my means, extra swords
with which to vent my rage. I can
remember not one of their names.”
She titled her head and brushed the wild hair from
her face. “Your means?”
He stood and closed the distance between them, nearly touching her with his body. She did not step away. “My means,” he said simply.
His eyes met and held her and he thought to wrap his arm around her, draw her against him and show her those means.
Then he stepped away and looked to the meadow. “We should look to the children. I thought I heard…”
“…a scream,” she finished and rushed ahead of him.
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