January's challenge

[castorlion.livejournal.com]

The dying sunlight threw long shadows across the room, as he drew the stone along the edge of the blade, and regarded its keeness with a simple satisfaction at a simple job done well. He was not an indifferent warrior, not any longer. The passage of time had brought familiarity and skill, and his blade was now as much a part of him as his arm or hand. He had learnt from the strongest, the most skilled, and in amongst the heat haze he counted himself one of the most skilled warriors among those who had remained behind from the Great Crusade.

Yet there were still others, who in amongst the shadows and the grime were stronger yet than he. Those more ruthless, more cunning, and more dedicated to the art of murder. Even as he had dedicated himself to the arts of the warrior, they had grown stronger, darker, ever more the monster.

And as they had grown darker, so had they cast a longer and darker shadow. He had watched it happen, and as time passed by he watched the shadow fall deeper and darker over those trapped within it, those who could not, would not bring themselves to leave. They had wilted, faded with the passage of time spent away from the light.

Warrior he was, but a part of him was human also, and the time had come when his strength had reached its limit, when despite everything he had tried, he came to a point that he had strived to avoid, a breaking point that he was not strong enough to endure.

Warrior he was, but above all else he was a tactician, and his estimating chances and strengths had made his course clear. Amongst the falling leaves and the tangled thorns he had sought out the Lady of Autumn. Despite her own difficulties, despite the changes that were ripping her body and soul apart, she had helped him with her great knowledge, as she always had.

Warrior he once had been, but his target had suffered greatly, until the very end, waking from slumber to writhe and thrash as the agony burnt its way through the veins, flesh scorching in its wake. He had watched, until the very last, watching both the consumption of a body and the conflagration of his honour, of every last thing he had been.

Murder? Cold-blooded murder, not killing in war? I will never do that.

He had said that, once, long ago. At the time, it had been a simple summation of everything he was, everything he stood for. He had lived his entire life by the many truths encompassed by that statement but here, at the last, he found something just too powerful to contain.

He had known, beforehand, that she would never be able to accept what he did, but he had told her regardless. Across the years, across all the time they had known each other, there was only one thing he had ever kept from her. Her companionship had been a source of great strength for him throughout every trial they had faced. Throughout the War, through the Scourge and the Great Mercy, through the darkest moments he had drawn upon his feelings to give him renewed strength, and he drew upon them now to tell her the truth of his deed, even though he knew it would be too much for her again, and she would turn from him. He had known that, and he had done it regardless. For her.

The sword was sharp, and its edge was faithful as it had always been. It parted flesh and metal fur cleanly, and there was almost no pain, as the last of his strength drained from his limbs and he toppled forward into the last of the light.

And at the end, perhaps he had regained some measure of truth.

Comments

[castorlion.livejournal.com]

That was the feel I was going for, yes.