The Spirit of the Warrior

[Anski]

[Anski]

Look at this scar. This is proof that I was once a mother. I gave up my body and my child for my country.
There is nothing left inside me now. Nothing at all. No hatred, not even regret.
And yet sometimes at night I can still feel the pain creeping up inside me.
Slithering through my body, like a snake.
The Spirit of the Warrior II
- - -

She moved with quiet grace. The walls of her cell were confining, solid and mute.
The two warriors charged at one another, the mighty soldier carrying his axe with both hands and the small wanderer with her straight edged blade carried high above her head. The young woman was staring out the window, although grand in size and clear as day, impenetrable. The outside was a vibrant display of magic colors, people walked back and forth smiling and talking. The aged woman with vibrantly burnt orange hair struck first, leaping into the air with a sharp grace. The blade skimmed across the axe blade with a slight meteor of sparks, and the elf rolled in air, landing behind the orc. She spun, the blade tearing across the air with a quiet, trained whistle. The tip slashed into the back of the thigh of the warrior, who spun around mightily and swung his axe. She pressed her head against the magic window pane, closing her eyes and breathing in quietly. Emotion began to pulse up quietly, like the thinnest blood in a vein. She slowly rolled her head on the mythic nothingness, suppressing the feeling of resentment with all of her might. It had already been thirty years. The power and grace of a thousand years leapt backwards as the axe cleaved the air with enough force to cut a man in two. He grunted, hot breath expelling out of his nose. She swerved forward, her motion fluid like water and her hands rigid like steel as the blade swept upward. He blocked with the wooden handle, and rose up his leg, rearing it back for a slow, method kick. The woman slipped off her sash, releasing her stuck blade to grab the steel weave. She thought of all the things she would not have in her imprisonment. Freedom, naturally. Love, gone with the wind. Hope, tranquility. It was all she had left. For the past three months, she had been sitting in a cross legged position, eyes closed unless needed. The time she had to think was staggering. They let out their prisoners for air and work, but she did neither. The window transpired air and nothing more, keeping the room mentally fresh. Her scar continued to pulse quietly, no matter how long it remained. Her eyes flinched, still closed, as the pain grew louder and louder. She opened her eyes, and the axe connected to the sash. The tight grip held it, the sharp edges unable to tear right through the material. She moved quickly to wrap it around the axe, pulling it from his meaty, yet ungraceful grasp. As the axe went flying, she grabbed her blade, ripping it free from the wood and turning to face the orc. The young woman stood from her position, taking in a deep breath. These past fifty years had become too much to bear. The crippling loneliness was all she knew, and it was making her come undone at the soul. She turned to the window, pulling back her fist. She turned the blade, lowering her elbows and pulling them back. Curling her fingers as tight as she could, the woman inhaled deeply and screamed at the top of her lungs, a banshee cry, as the blade aligned itself to the chest of the unprotected warrior, who stood there waiting for death. Her fist flew through the air, slamming into the window, slaying the orc immediately as a line of blood leapt out from his spine. However, the window didn't move, and the woman didn't feel any better.

She felt alone. As she always had.

- - -