Note: I haven't the faintest clue when this would take place. I just wanted to write a battle scene. ^_^
Blood and tears, sweat and mud, they fall together, staining the grass, staining my hands, staining my clothes, staining my soul, until I cannot discern one from the other. I am in the middle of it all, watching friend and foe alike struggle together, one desperate force against another. Crimson rivers run in rivulets down the steel edge of my sword, splash over the hilt, soak my sleeve, and stick to my skin. My face is a mask of fury I do not recognize. My teeth are clenched tightly shut, and I doubt anything short of crushing my jaw would pry it open.
Screams permeate the air like the fine mist traveling along the ground, clinging to our feet, rising higher and filling our ears with the frightening melody of battle. Blood pounds in my veins, rushes against my ears, tries to drown out the terrifying music. My heart pounds so fiercely I am afraid it will burst from my chest and lie upon the ground, still beating. Or perhaps I have nothing to fear. For how can a man stand in the midst of this slaughter and carry on? Is it self-preservation? Is it fighting for a cause? Is it truly selfish?
I step over the body of my fallen comrade as if he had never had a soul, had never stood beside me, had never lived. A cry emits from my throat, the sound garbled and fierce, a voice I do not recognize nor wish to claim as my own. My sword raises in front of me as if of its own accord, and the blade gleams wickedly in the faint early morning light. I have not slept for two days, and I should be tired. I should not feel this rush of energy coursing through me as I stand to face my enemy, nor this bloodlust that holds me in its grips.
Our swords clash, but one conflict among many. I am smaller, lighter, but strong in the upper body. I can see that he does not believe this by the way he sneers at me and the way he tries to overwhelm me with brute force. Dancing easily to the side, I lash out and draw a scratch across his cheek. Blood wells there, a fascinating mark that I cannot tear my eyes away from for one second, as it is such a small contribution to this battlefield of gore.
Someone is behind me. There are people all around me, but this one has come with the express purpose of taking my life. I will not fall here. My death was not written in the fates yet. Tearing myself away from soldier in front of me, I jerk my body back in one ragged motion, spinning to thrust it through the torso of my hunter. It is amazing how surprised one can look before dying. It was as if he expected to survive all along. But die here, or die inside, it is all the same. We who fight this way cannot remain untouched. No matter the cause. When you are covered with so much blood you cannot tell which is yours, none of that matters.
My sword tears through flesh, snapping ribs and puncturing the soft encasing that protects those organs, which keep us alive. It all happens so fast, but for me, in my mind's eye, it plays out so very slowly. Each death is the same. The edge of my palm slams into the leather armour wrapped around his body like a protective shield that failed. With one smooth motion, I pull my blade from him, listening to the sound it makes as it burns my ears, and shove him away so that he falls. In that same motion, I am spinning again and facing the foe ignored but not forgotten.
Frustration is mine to keep as I rip my sword along the edge of his, only to be caught off guard as he jerks away, pulls a blade from a fallen body, and blocks my attempt with it. He fights with two now, as I fight with one. But I remain calm and focused, because fear is weakness, and both are my enemy, a far worse opponent than this living one here.
For the moment, it is only the two of us as I block one blade only to jerk away and block another. His movements are agile, and when he locks my blade back against his, the other sword slashes up and tears across my arm. I feel pain there, but I have no time to dwell on it. Instead, I quit defending myself and reverse my tactics, in the hope of overwhelming him. Training has given me the speed, and observation has given me the skills to assess my foe only by the way he moves. He is still far too focused on my lack of stature, and that gives me the advantage. He does not expect me to posses the strength necessary to drive him back.
My sword is a blur of steel as it cuts through the air so that not even I can tell where mine begins and his ends. I block his every attempt, moving him back further still, the ringing of metal against metal filling my ears. He fights back now, seeing my change, and I glimpse fear in his eyes. But I am relentless, showing him no mercy, giving him none of my pity. My feelings were reserved for someone else, and that person lies dead. So I feel nothing for this nameless, faceless soldier as I shatter his guard and take his head from his shoulders.
His lifeblood splatters across my face, and I reach up to wipe at it with an already soiled sleeve, my mouth set in a grim line as I survey the strife before me. Bodies are strewn everywhere, littering the fields of red, and others fight amongst them, seemingly unaware, blind to death caused by their hands and the hands of others. And so much death it is. Each person that was felled by the blade had once laughed, lived, had hopes and dreams. But they are fragile, like I am, like my beloved was. And fragility is crushed like the thin petals of a flower.
As I throw myself back into the battle, I draw my blade across my clothing, wiping it clean, as if I wish to deny that it was ever stained and will ever be stained again. A soldier charges me with a spear. I spin away, bringing my hand up as I go to hit hard against the collarbone of my adversary. Delicate bones give beneath the force of my blow, but I have no time to ponder this as I bring the hilt of my sword up to smash into the face of the person. The soldier stumbles back, his helmet flying from his head. And it is then that I realize this is no 'he'. This is a she, and her's is the most frightening visage I have ever looked upon.
There is no life in her eyes. She does not even appear to be phased by the pain I have caused her. Unlike some, she is a true warrior, and I find myself hesitating beneath her strength. I know her features are not the same, but still, I see another in this woman's face. Almost as if hypnotized, I stand with my sword raised, drawn into her blank eyes, and unable to make the move to end her life. I can see this startles her, only because she too hesitates. But she must think it is for the wrong reasons. I do not have trouble killing women, and I do not think them weak. No, it is a memory that holds me in its grips now.
My foolish indecision almost costs me my life. But one who is fighting on my side cleaves her nearly in half before her sword can pierce my heart. It would not matter. These memories have already struck my heart and left me bleeding. But still, I push all this away, forget my mistake -- it I will save for later; to make myself work harder because of it -- and press on, because there is nothing else for me to do.
The blade of my sword cuts through the air again, free from blood this time, until I thrust it into the chest of the enemy, only to turn and do the same to another. Another wound across my cheek, the cold sting of air leaving it throbbing as it weeps. I stab my sword into the person responsible, and twist, tearing up his insides. He falls from my blade of his own free will, hands clasped around his stomach as scarlet seeps out between his fingers and trickles down his wrists, a living river so startling against pale skin.
Someone dies beside me. A man I once knew, whom I shall know no longer. His blood strikes me as well. It is warm, and I blink to clear my eyes. A single drop falls from my dark lashes, trickles down my face, the only tear I shall ever weep again.
The air is heady with the scent of death. A thick, coppery stench that seeps into every pore and threatens to choke you with its reality. Belatedly, I wonder why I have only noticed this now. But I am given no chance to ponder this as another of my enemies leaps at me, sword ready. We dance a deadly dance, where only one may remain the victor. Where I once saw sword fighting as an art, merely a way to discipline my body and mind, I now see it as an act of brutality. I will never be able to look at this sword the same way. And I doubt that the blood stains will ever leave, no matter how many times I wash it.
My body is a graceful illustration of flesh and bone as I dart in and out of the fighting, striking soldiers down as I go. I meet up with fewer and fewer of my comrades, and I wonder if we are losing. But then, what is loss? We all take something from this battlefield, and we all leave something behind. Whether victory is ours for the taking or we are left with the bitter truth of defeat, none of us will truly be winners here today. Nothing that is given in the face of so much death is untainted.
I even strike down those already fallen who still cling to life, my lack of regard for others is so great. No survivors must be left behind. Complete annihilation of their forces is all that will gain us our independence. But then, while everyone around me is fighting for just that, my reasons are far more personal. Perhaps we all bring our own separate baggage into this, but I have to wonder if it matters as we take lives. In the end, did our methods justify the outcome? Yet, I consider that this realization may not matter either. Wars are fought with the express purpose of taking lives. So in the end, it is all the same.
Twisting, I slash across the back of the soldier nearest me. He falls to his knees and without slowing momentum, I take yet another head from a body, make it a faceless corpse, and then move on. My next foe is more tired than I, and I knock his clumsy attempt at a block away. Ripping from the ground up, I sever anything in my path, only stopping when I hit metal and am unable to continue. And I jerk my sword away in one smooth motion to go for another.
A cry sounds, pulling me from intense concentration. I stop, my sword dangling in my hands, as I look around. Few of us stand, many of us have fallen. But the enemy has surrendered, and as I watch, those I consider my comrades kill them without mercy. So it is, we have won. But victory tastes like poison. It settles like a stone in my stomach, leaving the bitter taste of bile at the back of my throat. I am seasoned. I have seen this all before. I push the urge to vomit away and wade through bodies, the fallen coming up to my knees.
People clap me on the back as I go, cheering replaces screams. But I cannot laugh with them, I cannot celebrate with them. I do not feel joy. Ignoring them all, I look for a place to clean my sword. But I cannot find a section of grass that is not soiled. All I can see, for what feels like miles around me, is red. So very much red. I think I hate this color. I think that I will never wear it again. No, I will wear the absence of all color from now on. I will pretend purity where there is none, and I will try to forget this, even though it will likely haunt my dreams.
I walk away from the battlefield, to the edge of the clearing, and stop, turning to survey the beauty of death from a distance. I did this for a reason. Please, let my reason have mattered. The fever that gripped me during battle is fading, taking with it my strength, and leaving me feeling weak kneed. I need my reason. I cling to it, for it is all I have now.
Stand tall.
Yes, I pull myself up straight. I will never bow to anything again. I will never fall to my knees for anything. For I have my pride to cling to, and pride is both a foolish and strong thing. When I fall, it will only be in death.
For I am Chang Wufei. A warrior of the Dragon Clan. And I will bring justice to Chang Meiran, who became one of the fallen.
The End
Fanart -- Wufei ~~ A Stunning piece painted by Orin (shyamachandra@hotmail.com) for this fic. It's well worth looking at. She is so talented it floors you! Or makes you jealous. ^_~
(:./jen/red)
