Sword at hand, she slices through anything that comes her way. Swing after swing as if the sword weighed nothing. Human, wolf, anything that got in her way—she slices it as if they all are coming for her neck. She let the anger ride on her back like an invisible shield. She missed no one and forgave no one.
Until she finally reaches where she wants to be, the spot she aims to stand on—right behind a man wearing a crown that has already broken in a few places and will likely fall from his head any minute from now. Her hand, the one she used to hold the swords, is in a burning pain when she stops swinging it, and it feels as if it will fall off along with her arm. Her feet are heavy, and her whole body feels cold when the wind blows on her, along with the rain.
The man with the crown kicked on the wolf he had just stabbed with his sword and staggered back as he tried to regain balance and stand back on his feet. He was just about to pull the blade off the wolf's dead body when he seemed to notice her presence on his back. He turned around so fast to her that she thought his neck might break with the force of it.
"My love," he called, voice trembling and sounding as if something got caught in his throat, "You survived."
The thunder strikes above their head as they stand in silence, one with a sword in her hand while the other has none. Eyes focused on each other as the lips failed to open up.
As her eyes dart to the other's sword that is still stuck in the dead body of the wolf, the man notices it and quickly makes a turn to grab at it just as she lunges at him and pierces his abdomen with her sword—using all of the strength that left of her arm and body.
She hears him choke, eyes open wide as he stares deep into her soul. She pulls his face close to make sure all he sees is her, to remember every detail of her face, to acknowledge that she is the one taking him down—that this is the result of what happens when a man can't take a no. An eye for an eye. He took everything from everyone around him and from her, down to the last bit, in the name of love that only he understood.
"I survived," she whispered, "I always do."
Without bothering to wait for his body to hit the ground, she pulls her sword back up and kicks the other away from her sight. She looked up and stared at the chaos that still transpired before her eyes, then wondered if things would be different if only she did not love the wolf.
If only they did not cross paths, would things still be the same today? They may not have each other, but many beings don't have to jump into the war and lose their lives.
So, was it worth it for her to walk away from her wolf back then if she could turn back in time? At the end of the day, even now, when the war broke, they still did not have each other.
Her wolf died, after all.
Would he still be alive if he did not fall for her back then?
"You do know this is not just about who you fall in love with, right, human?"
She gasps at the sudden voice on her neck and turns around with swords up to whoever is behind her, only to find no one there. She looks around and still finds no one until the voice that must belong to a woman by the sound of it can be heard again. This time, on her right side but far away from her ear. When her eyes dart, she finds a woman wearing an old grey coat looking at her through her mischievous pair of black eyes—just a blank black with no pupil in sight.
She never saw the woman before, nor any creature with that kind of eyes.
"Did you just read my mind?"
The other shrugged.
"You are not human, not a wolf, not a vampire—I have never seen your kind before," she continues on, receiving no answer from the woman in coat, "Who are you?"
The woman in the coat has this unreadable smile on her face—maybe because she can't see the other's eyes to know what is inside her mind or simply because it is just a very weird kind of smile—but she finds it disturbing that she keeps her swords up even when her hand starts to shake from the exhaustion. The other's skin is as pale as ashes when she raises her left arm, showing a tattoo of the number: VIII.
"A savior," the other mutters, "Or a grim reaper, depends on how you will like the offer I'll make for you."
"What offer?"
The woman in the coat smiled at her peek of interest and lowered her gaze to the sword in the other's hand. "I'll tell you if you put that down."
"Why should I? You didn't tell me yet who you are," she claimed while using all of the strength she had in her to keep her hand steady, "Or what you actually are."
Instead of answering, the woman looks at her disapprovingly—by the moves of her brows and lips—before her hands make a motion of a flick, and the woman in a bloody white dress finds herself losing the sword. The sword flew far away as if someone had kicked it off her hand. Without it on her hand, the exhaustion finally rushes in, and she finds herself falling to her knee just like that—like a string puppet whose strings are cut.
"Well, human. I'm sure you heard about my kids once upon a time."
She looks down at the ground, hands holding herself from completely falling face-first to it when the woman in the coat walks towards her and then crouches right in front of her.
"I'm a witch."