Work Text:
Fire. Is all he can see for hundreds of miles and miles, fire, and nothing else. Some parts are still lit up, others parts have died down and are now filled the hearth with smoke as traces of the fire that once was.
The land spreads on, if he didn't know any better he'd say the land had no end, it ends two hundred-something miles out, still.
Smoke had filled his lungs years before, before the battle, before the war…?
Why was he even standing here? What is he waiting for? Will something happen that he was once expecting? Or had he stumbled upon it in a blurry mind?
The smoke tainted the air with a strong irritating smell, the air that was a joy to feel hit his skin with a light breeze, replaced with sticking heat. His pointer and middle finger automatically make their way to his collar to punsh it away.
Shockingly his collars were removed, his tie nowhere near his neck, did he misplace it? Did he take it off beforehand?
Why is his mind so fogged up?
The rustle of the dead grass moves him, he takes easy steps getting to know what's on his body all over again.
His white undershirt was messed up and out from where he had tucked it in his dress pants, his suit jacket, which reflects the brightness of the fire, well, it's not in the greatest shape it's been since… He Shakes his head trying to get the mental image of a team that once was.
Surprisingly the only non-messed-up part of his clothing was his pants, unscratched, and dry and if he looked closely he could barely see any wrinkles on them.
Every step he takes it feels lighter, the ground underneath him feels like sponge, it doesn't resemble what it once was.
If he brought an outsider to this place they'd say; this is untouched land made by the Lord's hands.
He highly disagrees but can't disagree with what's true. It is God's plains and always was.
As he walks through memory lane, he hults to an abrupt stop, he finds a singular flower.
A Purple Rose.
How?
This was no place for the beauty of such rose, it was an aftermath.
Of something, why is his mind in a fuzzy state? Has it always been like that? He can't remember, it's hard to recall. It's hard to recall the past hour and not just days.
He stares mindlessly at the rose, wondering how long was it there for… Or who got it there.
Did someone pass by and plant it here? No, that can't be it, no one knows about this field.
Did he plant it? No, he wasn't the green thumb of the team.
Did someone die here then? Who could've died with that much of a great soul for a follower to have grown on their grave?
Why a Purple Rose? Why not a classic red rose? That would be better than the color purple he's so sick of .
He walks past the rose, leaving all his questions about it where he was, alongside all his worries about where it came from.
He stands a few feet away from the small flower and stares up at the sky that is mixed with orange hues with black-gray hues of smoke. The sky used to be so beautiful.
He sits down on the dead grass slowly, he can feel the crunches under him as he does.
Trying to recall what once was, he can't, it makes his head throb against his skull. How have his memories become something he can't rely on? He can't remember what he was doing, what brought him here, how he got here.
He closes his eyes.
He breaths in and out in and out, in and out, in and-
The feeling of something on his neck was more than a cold breeze the wind had carried his way, the heat of the fire was too much for the breeze to be cold against his warm, hot skin. It felt more like…
he feels the hand wrap around the side of his neck, creasing his right cheek.
He opens his eyes.
The feeling's gone. Why was his first thought on what was on his neck a hand? It could be anything else.
His eyes scan the place around him, the fire around him still burns bright as ever, the air is still filled with smoke, and the sky is unclear of it, not showing any signs of fading away.
It's now that he realizes that there's no way of life around him… Except for that one.
He closes his eyes.
The breeze picks up, now it feels cold against his skin, it's not like it was a bit earlier, hot.
The hands are back on his neck, and now there are two hands on his neck. They don't crease his checks.
The hands apply light pressure on his neck, slowly, he doesn't make any move to move.
The thumbs of the hands are where his adam apple is, as the hands slowly choke him, he doesn't feel like his lungs scream for air, his airways aren't cut off by the ghost? Invisible hands?
He moves his own hands towards the ones on his neck, he grips them slightly.
The wrists of the hands are slim and cold, he can feel bones under his hands, he has a feeling of those hands applying it's real pressure on his neck they won't be able to choke him, even.
He moves his hands to the hands on his neck, he doesn't remember them, or at least he tries to and his head starts to throb against his skull again.
Why can't he remember his own life? His past? His years on this God-forsaken plant-
The hands have barely any nails on them, they've been trimmed down to feel the skin under the nails that must have bled.
The hands become tighter around his neck, applying more and more pressure as a second passes by, yet he's not fighting for air.
He keeps his hands on the hands but doesn't make a move to pull them away, keeping them there as they slowly choke him. The nails start to dig into his skin, hard.
He makes no move to free himself from the choke hold.
He opens his eyes.
The hold is gone. He still feels them around his neck, feeling the marks of the hand linger on it, the nails left marks as well, but not ones that drew out blood.
He lies down now.
He closes his eyes.
He waited, one second, two seconds, thirty seconds, became a minute then the hands were back on his neck and there was something on his stomach, he wouldn't have looked even if he could see.
The pressure around his neck grows intensely, the more he breathes in, the less space there is to breathe out.
Then there's something on his forehead, then his nose.
Was it a face? Was…. Someone there? How? He couldn't see anyone from a mile away, how is someone here, he didn't even hear any footsteps.
Deep breath in, and out. His hands don't move from where they lay flatly on the grass. (wasn't it dead?
Why was it dead from the start? Was it an aftermath of a war? Did someone light up a tree and let it spread out? Or did someone burn the world because they were angry?)
He lets the feeling of the other body seep into his, and, weirdly, he can't feel its breath on him, his heart aches because of it.
He opens his eyes.
He throws his head back and looks at the flower. It's still there.
He sits up, turns around looks at it, scrambles up, and moves towards it. He snatches it perfectly from where it was planted. And brings it close to him letting the scent of it fill his nostrils.
It's a warm feeling that fills his chest, and he hates it . He wants to pull it out of his chest.
His heart moves as quickly as it sounds in his ears. Dum-Dum dum-dum dum-dum dum-dum, dumdumdum.
He feels a body against his back he breathes, in and out in and out, hands wrapped around his torso, throwing his head back on the body behind him, he feels safe.
He gets shoved to the side, crunching the stem of the flower in the process.
He knows best to not open his eyes. He listens to the world around him. It's quiet until it's not.
Footsteps come, and fast, and he (shamelessly so) has a delayed response to the weapon that was driven in his back.
Pain shoots through his whole body, and he grunts. Slowly the sword peaks through the other side of his body, making blood spill from his upper abdomen.
He coughs out blood.
He opens his eyes.
Looking down at the weapon, it looks like a diamond sword or a netherite one… or it could be a gold one he can't tell. Why is the sword colorless?
He noticed the flower's crushed stem, and he felt sorry for it.
He slowly gets up from his side, having enough of lying in his own blood. Gripping on his wound with his left hand.
He lets out a long sigh of pain, he uses his left hand on his knee for support, and breathes, in and out, in and out in and out. Returning his hand to the wound.
He closes his eyes.
He straightens enough that it doesn't pain him more than needed, using his right to grab the sword. It might've damaged him a bit but he's going to be fine .
Gripping the weapon tightly, he uses his hearing to advantage; if he can't see he'll use his other senses.
Footsteps could be heard in the distance, not very far though, two or three feet away from where he stood. He angled his body to the left side and held his weapon out.
Something heads his way fast. He blocks it with the weapon, more pressure is on the middle of the sword, so his opponent is using an axe, well if they want to take him down with that they'll have to try harder.
He uses his strength to push them away, making them stumble back, he swings and them, and he hears them rolling away.
'I'm practically blind and you run away? Cowered'
The sounds around him are muffled and the only unmuffled sound he could hear was that of nature.
He breathes, in and out in and out. Someone swings at him wildly. He dodges, taking a step to the side and throwing his sword at it.
What his weapon hit was a shield, he pushed against it making them walk back.
He loses the grip on his weapon making it fall twisting in his palm, the gem of the handle now at the tip of his thumb. He dives his sword right onto the shield, twisting the weapon and showing it around breaking the shield into two pieces.
Moving the weapon, he would have said a cool line and seen how he hits the final blow on his enemy and how their eyes slowly became lifeless.
But he can't.
He swings his sword, a slash then a thud.
He opens his eyes.
The body in front of him. Headless, and blood, so much fucking blood, and he loves it . He grins and looks at the body, examining it.
The detached head had a bandana and two small horns. And long shoulder-length hair that spiraled out in crazy directions.
The bodiless head had a hood that was too big, yet it seemed to fit the person perfectly. Weaponry and war equipment attached to them. A worrier died to his hands. What a satisfying feeling this is.
He lets out a rower of laughter, the wound no longer his worries. He falls to his side.
He still laughs as he watches the blood pool out from the neck, so much blood, so fucking much.
He loves it.
This is what happens to you when you have years of blood on your hands. You can't tell the difference between reality and dream.
This is his life now.