The field was blacked by the rising night. Clouds that threatened to open the heaven and pour down its load covered the stars that would have given light in the darkened obis. The setting sun streaked the lower skies red, and as it touched the furthest point the eye could see, it touched red of a different colour. The grass once lush and soaked in a spring time due, now drunk in the blood of a thousand and one bodies, laying still and silent in the lifeless night.
The flag of victory, it pole stood dwindling in the ground leaning precariously close to the ground, waved pitifully in the early night wind, the breeze carrying the stench of death to the armies marching to, what they thought, an easy win. The smell carried a warning to turn back, they’d already lost.
All along the ground lay gun, knives, sticks and stones. Each weapon was used but once and to no avail, they fell as easily as their masters before them. It was depressing to think these men were the best of their class, the ones voted most likely to succeed and yet they now lay around her feet, piled one on top of another. Their eyes open as if they may still see her, glazing over with each passing moment and becoming less and less human in her mind.
Their souls had departed, their last breath wasted on a plea to spare their life and their heart?
Stopped.
One blow to their heart had taken their life and added only to the souls wandering the earth, departed life for a stupid reason, only to protect themselves, she snickered at the thought as she stepped on the arm of a fallen solider, breaking it. That would of hurt had he been alive to feel it, the thought came quick and faded just has fast.
She stopped but a moment, staring into the eyes of the solider, at some point he’d lost his helmet and rifle… or had he had a gun? His eyes were shut. No blood on him or any wound. Suspicious for only a moment she saw the rise and fall of his chest. He’s not dead. The thought caught her off guard and she almost tripped on the leg of a mangled victim, obviously tramped by his own people.
Reaching around to her built she pulled out a small knife with three notches in it. Kneeling down on the hard, cold ground she turned the solider on his back, folding his arms across his chest.
Ill give you some respect, since you were the only one to survive me. She almost felt pride in the young man’s ability, had he not tried to stop her she might have thought him cute.
Rising the knife high about her head she held her breath, 3….2…1…
“Charlotte?” she gasped and looked down, the solider was staring up at her, his eyes wondering as if searching for something in her face he recognised, his hand was held up in a anxious plea of comfort.
“Y-ye-yes?”
“Am I dying Charlotte?” His hand shook violently. She wasn’t Charlotte and she may have killed more than one man and took more than one innocent life but she wasn’t completely heartless, she clasped his hand tightly as he looked onto her adoringly, whoever Charlotte was she was obviously loved.
“Yes. You’re dying.” Raising her knife behind her back she looked down at him with what she hoped was a doting glance.
“But… but I love you Charlotte.” His eyes began to mist with tears.
“I love you too.” The knife entered his heart in a spilt second and his eyes stared at her once more before closing shut. This time she checked his pulse had stopped before she stood.
This was a heart wrenching experience even for her, the boy couldn’t have been more then seventeen and Charlotte couldn’t be much older, she made a promise to herself that when this business was over and she returned to the Tavish she’d find this Charlotte and make amends for this once solider.
“That was a bit harsh wasn’t it?” She didn’t turn.
“Needed to be done. Tavish was in trouble… I’m its guardian.”
“You’re an assassin. Bloods cold and hearts made of stone. Why’d you say you loved him?”
“He survived.”
“Oh! Because the great Celia Whiteheart takes no prisoners. Set in her eyes might as well be set in the ground.” A forced laugh escaped Celia’s throat, that was her story throughout the world. Cross “the great” Cecelia and if your set in her eyes for the kill, you may as well be dead already. Some legend huh?
“He needed to hear it, now leave Kira.” Kira held out a gloved hand to Celia.
Both girls looking out the field of battle one turning to the other and both thinking the same thing.
“You know what this is don’t you?”
“Yeah. Beautiful.”