The drums of war do not beat in a consistent rhythm. They do not beat evenly, nor do they beat out a happy tune. The drums of war are a cacophony of the panicked heartbeats of soldiers staring down their enemies as they barrel toward one another on the war front. The drums of war are not drums at all. They are the pounding of boots upon blood dampened ground, they are the thrumming of adrenaline through harshly beating hearts, desperate to return home, to safety, where they may rest. The drums of war are the screams - anger, anguish, fear. The drums of war are not drums at all, but rather a whole orchestra.
It was with this understanding that Valarosta stood, staring down the hoard of Kathar and Wolond enemies, listening to the frantic beating of her own heart. There was no avoiding it, no deafening the beating of thousands of feet charging toward her and those she had signed on to fight alongside. There was no silencing of their screams, their wails - in a language she had grown up speaking. She knew every shout, every command, every syllable screamed above the orchestra of conflict.
With a slow inhale, the Manathar's left hand fell to her side, where a white orb began to gather in the palm of her hand. She could hear everything around her, could hear the hammering of weapons against shields, the uncertain shift of feet in the wet ground, the prayers of Unionists that would fall upon deaf ears.
There are no Gods in war. There are men and women. There are soldiers. There are corpses.
The screams of Kathar and Regalian soldiers alike were jarring enough, but the rising panic that gripped the Manathar's throat and stole her of her breath was enough to shake her to her core. Across the fields, running towards them, surrounding them, were Kathar. Yes, of course, their enemies were the Kathar, but in those war cries, in those faces filled with hatred, were people she knew.
There was no regret in the choices she had made leading up to that very moment. She had abandoned a life that held no future, forsaken an Empire that knew no love, but only blood and hatred.
But, for a split moment, she hesitated. Her silvered gaze had swept across the battlefield and landed upon a particular Kathar, fighting for his life not too far off from where she was. Her lips parted and a breath was drawn in - the air was sticky with the taste of blood, sweat, and mud - but again, she hesitated.
She could hear the men she was put in charge of yelling, hollering for orders. Hatred for what she was, for who she was, despite being on the same side, rang in her ears. Her lips moved, but the words she spoke were ones that they would not understand. Orders to hold the line, to push, and then…
Silence. The harsh words of the soldiers around her drowned out until all she could hear was her own breath. Not even the clashing of shields, nor the rapidly approaching Kathar broke through the deafening silence. It was like Heaven and Hell all wrapped up into one.
Her voice raised above the death screams and, for a split moment, the Kathar she had been staring at turned to her. There was no recognition when he finally caught sight of her. She was clad in Typhonus colours - the colours of Ailor - standing amidst his enemies, men and women that wished to kill him.
Men and women that would have wished to kill her, had it been several months earlier.
His attention had been split from his fight and she watched on in horror as a sword cut through his midsection as if he were nothing but a piece of parchment. She wasn't even given the chance to watch him fall. The shield wall she had tried to order the men into were failing. She had failed them.
A large Kathar had made his way to her and, taking advantage of her stricken state, plunged his sword into her right leg - a strike that would end her time on the battlefield. She screamed and howled like a crazed animal, tears streaking down her cheeks as she was dragged off by those she had promised to lead to victory.
It wasn't until hours later, after everything had quieted down, after the Kathar had fled, that Valarosta finally moved from the cot she had been confined to. She wasn't meant to be walking and yet she risked ruining the use of her leg to venture back out onto the field. It took far longer than she would have liked to have admitted, wandering through the seas of dead Kathar and Regalian soldiers alike in search of one particular one.
A needle in a haystack, as one might say. But as the Manathar picked her way over mounds of dead bodies, she felt her chest tighten with each glance to the grey-skinned Elves at her feet. While there were thousands upon thousands she did not know, every couple of feet would find her staring into the blank, dead eyes of a soldier she did know. With an alarming increase in frequency, it dawned on her that the section she was walking through were soldiers her father had lead when she was still just a child.
Men and women she knew growing up. Men and women that were extended family. An uncle here or there, an aunt. Cousins.
Despite the familiarity of the faces, there was a certain numbness that had overtaken the Manathar. Tears welled up in her eyes once more as she limped forward, still searching.
She was out there for hours, picking through dead Kathar and Regalian soldier alike, until she finally came to stand before the one she searched for. Valarosta fell to her hands and knees, promptly ripping the stitches to her right leg open as she crawled to the deathly still Kathar.
As she moved, her skin, starting from her left hand, began to bleed grey. The closer she got to the man, the quicker the pigment spread, until she almost blended in with the men and women littered in the field. Tears streamed down her face with no end in sight as the Cardinal lowered herself down to lie next to the still man. With trembling digits, Valarosta reached out to grasp at a necklace that had once hung proudly around the Kathar's neck.
"<K-E> I'm so sorry," came the choked whisper as she pulled the necklace from the man's neck. "<K-E> Father… Please forgive me, I'm so sorry…"
The voice of a younger Kathar man called out from across the small hut as his footsteps drawing closer alerted the small child of her father's approach. She swung a stick around in the small space, mindful not to knock anything off the table whilst giggling all the while.
The young Kathar stared up at her father with a measure of confusion - too young to comprehend the permanence of death, too young to understand that lives were not simply toys or a game.
The adolescent flushed in embarrassment as the group of equally adolescent Kathar, all holding shields in a haphazard manner, began to snicker.
Erran paused in his walk around the group, a fond smile curling at his lips as he stared down at the young woman and her friends.
She didn't move for several hours, not until the calls of those loyal to her roused her from her nightmarish sleep. Blood had soaked into her coat, causing her clothing to stick to her as she pushed herself up onto her hands and knees once more. Valarosta's blackened right hand moved to slip her palm over the man's eyes, doing him the honour of at least closing them, before she leaned down to press her lips to his ashen forehead.
"<K-E> I will see you in the soul rivers," she whispered to him. With the help of the men that came to look for her, she was pulled to her feet and began to limp back off to the tents and ships that would take them home again. She paused not five feet from the man that was once her father and stooped to collect a sword that had once belonged to the Tordoves, clinging to it like her life depended on it, and carried on her way.
All she left behind was a prayer for the fallen Kathar, for Griffin to guide their souls to a place of eternal rest, so that they might find the peace they were never given the chance to have.
It was with this understanding that Valarosta stood, staring down the hoard of Kathar and Wolond enemies, listening to the frantic beating of her own heart. There was no avoiding it, no deafening the beating of thousands of feet charging toward her and those she had signed on to fight alongside. There was no silencing of their screams, their wails - in a language she had grown up speaking. She knew every shout, every command, every syllable screamed above the orchestra of conflict.
With a slow inhale, the Manathar's left hand fell to her side, where a white orb began to gather in the palm of her hand. She could hear everything around her, could hear the hammering of weapons against shields, the uncertain shift of feet in the wet ground, the prayers of Unionists that would fall upon deaf ears.
There are no Gods in war. There are men and women. There are soldiers. There are corpses.
The screams of Kathar and Regalian soldiers alike were jarring enough, but the rising panic that gripped the Manathar's throat and stole her of her breath was enough to shake her to her core. Across the fields, running towards them, surrounding them, were Kathar. Yes, of course, their enemies were the Kathar, but in those war cries, in those faces filled with hatred, were people she knew.
She knew them, because she was one of them.
But, for a split moment, she hesitated. Her silvered gaze had swept across the battlefield and landed upon a particular Kathar, fighting for his life not too far off from where she was. Her lips parted and a breath was drawn in - the air was sticky with the taste of blood, sweat, and mud - but again, she hesitated.
Would he recognise her? Would he be disappointed that she had abandoned her people?
Silence. The harsh words of the soldiers around her drowned out until all she could hear was her own breath. Not even the clashing of shields, nor the rapidly approaching Kathar broke through the deafening silence. It was like Heaven and Hell all wrapped up into one.
"<K-E> Father!"
Men and women that would have wished to kill her, had it been several months earlier.
His attention had been split from his fight and she watched on in horror as a sword cut through his midsection as if he were nothing but a piece of parchment. She wasn't even given the chance to watch him fall. The shield wall she had tried to order the men into were failing. She had failed them.
A large Kathar had made his way to her and, taking advantage of her stricken state, plunged his sword into her right leg - a strike that would end her time on the battlefield. She screamed and howled like a crazed animal, tears streaking down her cheeks as she was dragged off by those she had promised to lead to victory.
It wasn't until hours later, after everything had quieted down, after the Kathar had fled, that Valarosta finally moved from the cot she had been confined to. She wasn't meant to be walking and yet she risked ruining the use of her leg to venture back out onto the field. It took far longer than she would have liked to have admitted, wandering through the seas of dead Kathar and Regalian soldiers alike in search of one particular one.
A needle in a haystack, as one might say. But as the Manathar picked her way over mounds of dead bodies, she felt her chest tighten with each glance to the grey-skinned Elves at her feet. While there were thousands upon thousands she did not know, every couple of feet would find her staring into the blank, dead eyes of a soldier she did know. With an alarming increase in frequency, it dawned on her that the section she was walking through were soldiers her father had lead when she was still just a child.
Men and women she knew growing up. Men and women that were extended family. An uncle here or there, an aunt. Cousins.
Despite the familiarity of the faces, there was a certain numbness that had overtaken the Manathar. Tears welled up in her eyes once more as she limped forward, still searching.
She was out there for hours, picking through dead Kathar and Regalian soldier alike, until she finally came to stand before the one she searched for. Valarosta fell to her hands and knees, promptly ripping the stitches to her right leg open as she crawled to the deathly still Kathar.
As she moved, her skin, starting from her left hand, began to bleed grey. The closer she got to the man, the quicker the pigment spread, until she almost blended in with the men and women littered in the field. Tears streamed down her face with no end in sight as the Cardinal lowered herself down to lie next to the still man. With trembling digits, Valarosta reached out to grasp at a necklace that had once hung proudly around the Kathar's neck.
"<K-E> I'm so sorry," came the choked whisper as she pulled the necklace from the man's neck. "<K-E> Father… Please forgive me, I'm so sorry…"
"<K-E> Tavyani, what are you doing, you silly child?"
"<K-E> Playing war, papa!"
"<K-E> Now, now, young one. War is not a game. If you follow in my footsteps, you must know that. There will be a point where it will be you or them and, no matter what, no matter who it is you face, it must always be you, do you understand?"
"<K-E> Now, now, young one. War is not a game. If you follow in my footsteps, you must know that. There will be a point where it will be you or them and, no matter what, no matter who it is you face, it must always be you, do you understand?"
"<K-E> Yes, papa."
"<K-E> Good girl."
"<K-E> Good girl."
"<K-E> Tavyani! Tighten your soldiers' formations! There are holes everywhere! A soldier with a sword could come straight through and run you through!"
"<K-E> Yes, papa!"
"<K-E> Yes, what?"
"<K-E> Yes, papa!"
"<K-E> Yes, what?"
"<K-E> Yes, sir!"
"<K-E> Good girl."
War raged around the young adult, hollers of orders and the sounds of magic being flung in every direction filled the air. Despite the cacophony, she maintained her cool, barking orders to each Kathar that stood behind her. Her attention never left the enemy line, scouring across each soldier in search of a perceived weakness.
The young woman lifted her fingers to her lips and released a shrill whistle - to which the 'Pack' responded by rushing forward. Men and women, mundane and aberrant alike, rushed forward - a flurry of fur and feathers left in their wake.
Erran stepped up alongside his daughter and placed a hand atop her head, ruffling her hair in an affectionate manner.
"<K-E> There. The Ailor in the middle - his shield arm is not as strong as the others. That is where the Pack will focus their attention, understood?"
"<K-E> Yes, ma'am!"
"<K-E> Yes, ma'am!"
Erran stepped up alongside his daughter and placed a hand atop her head, ruffling her hair in an affectionate manner.
"<K-E> Good girl."
She didn't move for several hours, not until the calls of those loyal to her roused her from her nightmarish sleep. Blood had soaked into her coat, causing her clothing to stick to her as she pushed herself up onto her hands and knees once more. Valarosta's blackened right hand moved to slip her palm over the man's eyes, doing him the honour of at least closing them, before she leaned down to press her lips to his ashen forehead.
"<K-E> I will see you in the soul rivers," she whispered to him. With the help of the men that came to look for her, she was pulled to her feet and began to limp back off to the tents and ships that would take them home again. She paused not five feet from the man that was once her father and stooped to collect a sword that had once belonged to the Tordoves, clinging to it like her life depended on it, and carried on her way.
All she left behind was a prayer for the fallen Kathar, for Griffin to guide their souls to a place of eternal rest, so that they might find the peace they were never given the chance to have.
