The Warrior

She would not tell him how to end it, that would be too easy. As she spoke those torturing words of truth, her dark eyes inked with pain. Her chest, a bloody mess. Shield haphazard, cast upon the earth. Her sword hung from her bloodstained hand, blade reflecting the grey of an ashen earth.

“I chose you,” she said. "Every day, I chose you, even in my moments of uncertainty. I believed you fought for me too. I believed you wanted us." But the only marks upon his hands were that of her blood. He might have fought for a while, but not in a lasting, tangible way. His muscles did not ache from effort.

He shivered. The terrible demon he’d created. The woman had lowered her shield for him, and raised her sword for him. Perhaps he’d thought he knew what she was, that it was love, and not a desire for comfort, to feel her warmth against his, to not be alone. And now, she was his torturer, a reminder of what he’d rather forget, of his flaws and hauntings.

“We all have foes,” she whispered, for she saw it in his eyes. “It’s what we do about them that defines us. If we face them, or let them destroy us.” This haunted warrior before him, taunting him with her grave words. The deafening howl of wind in his ears, his mind might implode.

Pain was a powerful teacher. Not violent pain, like what could be wrought by the knife clutched in his hands. Pain that consumed, without the need for a dagger at all.

The blade had plunged where scars lay already, and where they’d finally healed with his care…. This was not his first betrayal. Her wings tattered, from the impact with earth, hung oddly, dishevelled, soaked in the dark blood of deep wounds made while she had fought, but not from fighting.

He had never told her it was over. Only alluded to it, like a boy scared of the repercussions of his words. Scared to put meaning into his intentions, scared to breathe life into a horrible reality. 'I don’t want you anymore.' The words had never left his lips, still now unspoken. An insult to go unsaid, even as she accepted it. He’d said he still loved her, before. Perhaps partly true, but love didn’t disrespect like that. It didn’t linger out of fear, or turn to predators for comfort. He’d turned to a monster. The kind that preyed on the vulnerable, and he’d willingly been preyed upon, offered himself up to the beast to be torn apart, because it was easier than facing his truth. It was easier than fighting beside her. For her. Easier than facing her, and speaking his truth. He had not afforded her that small dignity.

She was angry because she could not thank him for honesty. "I cannot treasure what love there was because when it ended, I couldn’t feel the difference. Just your sudden absence, and absolute silence that is no different from your spoken one. You never said a word, but waited for me to do your work, to take your hands and press the blade to my breast. Only cowards know truth but refuse to speak it."

“You are a strong warrior,” he breathed, the words jarring him. So close, he could smell her earthy breath. Warm, despite the freezing winds. And it was a horrible presence, intangible hopes like static between them. "I just can't be your knight." Even now he spoke in half truths. No man without courage could claim that title. It wasn't that he could not. But that he chose not to.

"I renounce my fight for you," she whispered, although it was hard to breathe. "I only fight beside men, not for them only to stand by the side-lines, back turned. I do not compete with monsters. I am not your temporary option. I do not exist to keep your bed warm while you seek comfort elsewhere. An immortal life is too short to trifle with your kind.”

The words were said for her. If they touched him, she did not know. She could not care. She could not continue to care for him. To do so would be to break entirely. And that was not an option. She didn't know when the pain, the fury, that sense of great loss - a false loss - would fade. Would it ever? Where was the line between valuing what once was, and questioning what parts of it were truth, and the anger of what was taken away, or the disgust of a great deception, and traitorous actions that left her relieved that it was now gone? To grasp it, was to clutch at smoke. It kept changing, with each breath she took, the rolling surge of waves in a storm ridden sea. Despite her words, she knew actions meant all the more. Still she held on. Even when his actions had spoken all too loudly.

She did not know what to do with the ache, of wanting to be with him, have him embrace her, and tell her everything would be alright, even now. To hear his steady voice, angled in affection - now hollow, or worse, the same. Gone was the comfort he had afforded her. Gone was the comfort in wanting him. All she felt, addled with repulsion, like ink tainting water. This time it was broken beyond repair. And still she struggled to relinquish hope, even in knowing. Even in knowing the truth, she hadn't accepted it. Or couldn't. It did not seem real. Reality. That felt like the true deception. The small hope that this was not real. That she wasn't standing in the doomed battlefield, but safely wrapped in his warm, strong arms. That this wasn't just a horrid nightmare from which she would soon wake. That he wouldn't kiss her, and comfort her as she cried at what a horrible thing it would have been for such torture to be real.