Genre: High Fantasy

Above the acrid concoction of sweat and unwashed bodies was the pervasive scent of death carried through the air from crashing bodies: the cries of men amidst a sticky sea of red; the screams of creatures that transcended humanity and their abilities; the ring of sharpened steel against sharpened steel; and the howls of the arcane brought to bear by both sides.

All around Leia was nothing but a whirlwind of violence, a clash of ideals, and the ever-romantic view on right and wrong, born from the wills of a megalomaniac and the desperate yet organised gamble of a destined hero—the supposed one true king—seeking to end the tyranny.

Salty tears, interviewed with the bitterness of iron, fell from her gore-sprayed face in minute drops, spurred on by the blood pounding inside her mask, drumming to the ferocious beat of her heart. Her lips were parched, made worse by the golden glow of the sun and the dust-choked air.

Yet she soldiered on.

Throbbing pain from a dozen wounds barely registered, drowned out by the single-minded focus of her mind, heightened by the realization her self-imposed mission drew to a close. Nothing else mattered; the guilt she bore from the beginning—incited by her traitorous actions—could not temper her tunnel vision, and her leg, shattered from the sudden fall off her favoured hippogriff, was dragged behind her in an almost reckless abandon.

Nothing else mattered because, regardless of if she achieved her life purpose or not, she was dead. Her gambit worked and the opportunity had come, paid for by the hatred she had incurred from her peers and the exile from her village. The only option left was to succeed, and she would do so for she had promised her grandmother whilst standing before the grave — easily discarding the wizened woman’s sermons on the good of forgiveness in favour of
revenge.

One step, her mind whispered in tandem with each shift of her boot-clad feet, urging her forward—a simple task that ironically took all she had to accomplish — until she stood in front of the kneeling form of the hero. She cared not for the remains of the king she pledged to serve, battered body cooling at the side, as she held no real allegiance to him. He had simply been a means to an end: this end.

The hero could only raise his head, bloodshot eyes wide at her approach, as he was greatly injured from the battle. She had watched him from afar, seen him perform feats that would rewrite the history of the kingdom and allied nations, and bided her time until he was vulnerable to strike.

Because for all that he was a hero, sent to free the kingdom from the tyrannical king’s rule, his actions had led to the death of her most precious person. And for that, he must die.

One deep breath and her cloak fluttered to the mud-spattered ground, exposing pale flesh marred with scars, as she freed her weapon from its holster and raised it with both hands. The glint of the short sword’s point shone under the light of the sun, poised as it was to part through the now-meagre defences of the hero’s armour and enchantments.

One thrust was all she needed to satiate that particular thirst, yet it seemed the rumours of the hero’s good fortune were true. A grunt of exertion was the only warning she got before a heavy weight pushed down on her back, colliding with such force, she lost hold of her weapon along with all the breath in her lungs. She fell and just as she landed, a boot impacted her nose, causing her head to snap back and blood to gush out. The part of her not drowning in pain wondered how her neck had survived the kick.

“How dare you attempt an attack on the one true king, you traitorous scum?” Someone, whose voice was gruff yet distinctly feminine, punctuated their yell with another kick, this time to her already tender ribs.

She gasped, pain overwhelming her senses so thoroughly that she was unaware of the people erupting into motion above her curled form. She was forced on her stomach, and her hands were roughly grabbed and wrenched behind her back. The action returned her to reality and elicited a ragged scream from her lips.

She couldn’t see what they were doing, but even through the haze of agony, she could recognise the familiar clinking of enchanted manacles around her wrist, and could almost
feel its warm glow as the inscribed runes lit up—an action that carried with it the same significance of a judge hitting a gavel.

That, more than anything, told her she had failed. The opportunity had come, but she was too slow to take advantage of it, and now it was gone. She would die without keeping her promise. How would she be able to look her grandmother in the eyes in the afterlife, knowing her killer roamed free?

Unbidden, a great tremor overtook her; her throat tightened, and her breath came out short yet faster with every intake. Tears were forming and she wouldn’t—shouldn’t—let them fall, not here in front of the hero, but she couldn’t hold her frustration for much longer.

She had failed.

All those years spent toiling, the bridges she had burned, the pleasures foregone, the lives taken in preparation for the only one that mattered, and all the guilt she bore were all for naught.

The realisation broke something fundamental within her, and grief poured out in a flood of
uncontrollable tears.

She had failed.

The sound of wailing and anguish echoed as the war ended, with the final enemies slain in an explosion of roaring flames. The remnants of the victorious side came to gather around the hero, who (with the assistance of his most trusted companions) stood and walked over to Leia.

“Stop, Florence.” A raise of his hand, accompanied by his command, prevented an immediate execution—not that the woman was aware of much at the moment—and though many at his side tried to persuade him otherwise, his kind heart moved him to show a little mercy.

When he was a mere hairsbreadth away, he called out softly, hoping to quell her sobs with his words. “A traitor you may be, but I have no doubt your sadness is genuine, and for that, regardless of the reason, I am sorry.”

His words had no effect, but he continued.

“Maybe I had unknowingly done something to you in the past and this was your chance at revenge, and you had failed so you cry. Or maybe, this is the result of numerous failures or frustration at a perceived weakness. Either way, it is unbecoming of a warrior to embarrass themself like this.”

This time, there was a reaction—a flit of her gaze to his—and, bolstered by thoughts that he was getting through to her, gingerly reached out for her with an armoured hand.

“Rise and follow us. The court of the people will mete out your punishment.” He added, his voice taking on an authoritative edge he had grown accustomed to.

However, at his touch, she unexpectedly snarled, “Get away from me!” Her body was a whirlwind of movements as she frantically kicked, flailed, and buckled her limbs in a hopeless attempt to release herself from her restraints, uncaring of her injuries or that her actions were exacerbating them. “It’s all your fault!”

“Stop, you wretched thing!” The hero stepped back and Florence growled into her ear, climbing on top and pressing the full weight of a mithril suit of armour onto her to restrict her movements. Yet, she wasn’t deterred in the slightest.

“You killed her!” The tone of Leia’s voice mirrored the look currently in her eyes, an unseeing gleam in them not unlike those that seemed far gone in the dark recess of their mind.

This observation was true as her subconscious mind wrenched control of her senses, letting images form where there were none. Her mouth was agape, wet eyes fixed on the nightmarish scene that appeared before her: what remained of her grandmother lying among corpses and debris strewn around her village while she was on her knees, paralysed to the spot, tiny hands trying and failing to arrange the mess back into some semblance of a human body.

The reason for the destruction, a young boy of comparable age, stood defiant against an agent of the tyrannical king, a large orc brandishing an equally large club.

She screamed, mouth foaming in her haste to speak words she couldn’t at that time, even as she resumed her flailing with renewed vigour. “Please, no, no, don’t leave me. I beg you. Grandma, please…”

The hero watched warily as Florence swore, hands struggling to tighten their hold over the traitor to ensure she stayed in place. “My king.” The helmet prevented features from being seen, but gritting teeth could be heard even through the noise. “A trial will only prolong her misery. Ending her now will be mercy. She’s too far gone in her madness.”

In lieu of talking, his eyes roved across the traitor’s face, taking note of the scars that littered the surprisingly beatific features. They told the story of a hard life, made worse by hard decisions, and in spite of her attempt on his life, he felt an inkling of admiration well up. As well as pity. No one deserved such an end.

Their eyes met again and Leia turned her rabid words on him. “I’ll never forgive you. I’ll kill you, I swear. I swear! You will pay!” Her eyes moved to the side, and he had a feeling she was imagining things again. “Grandma, I promise you. I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him. I’ll kill him…”

He tuned out the disconcerting repetitions and met Florence’s gaze with a weary sigh. The unspoken command passed between them in that instant and his knight (and closest friend) raised a bloodied axe in preparation.

Ending her would indeed be a mercy, but slight guilt still wormed its way into his heart as, with a grimace, the signal was given. A hand went down and he looked away. The prevailing silence was uncomfortable.

To the goddess, he prayed she found peace in death, free of the burdens she bore in life. Hopefully, that would be enough forgiveness for the damage it seemed he had unknowingly caused in his divine quest.