Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, the blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere the ceremony of innocence is drowned; the best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of passionate intensity.
It does not matter that she told me to run. It does not matter that her voice, high-pitched with an emotion I cannot name, tells me to flee her. I have been raised my entire life to charge into such cries; to meet the frenzied water horses upon the shoreline, and cull them with adeft thrust of my horns. If I had been asked only months ago, I would have said: I am ready for this at any time. I have trained, and trained, and then been tested in the uncensored field of war. I know my mettle and make.
Yet, the distance closes quicker than I had thought possible; I am taken aback by her familiarity and what it means to me, which is that I had known her, and seen her, and not recognized her for what she was.
This becomes overtly apparent in the wicked length of her mouth; the gaunt, predatory make of her body. The blood on her face.
I have faltered before, in war and in battle. In those instances of personal failure, there had always been another to cover my flank: my err had been salvaged by the preparedness of one of my comrades, one of my brothers in arms. Where I might have slipped, they covered the opening; where the onslaught had become too much, the back rank pushed forward to preserve the front.
In this instance, I am alone, and my aloneness is deafening and strange. It takes on a kind of omnipresence; a kind of fate-like severity. I am alone in my charge and when we collide, it is with her in her prime and me in my decline.
I duck my head at the last second: her teeth pierce the flesh of my shoulder instead of my throat. I expect the white-hot flash of pain, the way the blow extends to the end of the limb; a tingling pain, an almost-numbness that hurts like lightening. I exhale sharply; a practiced response to the pain that, although extreme, remains familiar. I expect the grip to be weak due to the fragile composition I remember; but she pushes into me with shattering strength. She is dragging me toward the sea in the next breath and rather than fight her direction, I continue to push forward, driving from my flanks. I flick my head to the side, horns brandished like twin swords, with the hopes of spearing her wherever they can reach.
The ocean is fast approaching. The sand is deeper, and deeper; each movement feels lethargic, slowed. My first drill instructor had said, “One day, the chaos of combat will slow itself to a tempo you can match: the adrenaline, the experience, all of it becomes familiar. You can recognize events in slow time.”
Yet, I had never experienced a pain so quiet, before. A battle so subdued, as if we are only a pair of gulls careening in the sky. The world continues outside of us and our struggle, unhurried; it does not even pause to consider the trail of blood I leave, fresh and hot, in the sand as we fight toward the sea. It occurs to me then, my breathing beginning to labour, that the silence reminds me of a funeral.
Yet, the distance closes quicker than I had thought possible; I am taken aback by her familiarity and what it means to me, which is that I had known her, and seen her, and not recognized her for what she was.
This becomes overtly apparent in the wicked length of her mouth; the gaunt, predatory make of her body. The blood on her face.
I have faltered before, in war and in battle. In those instances of personal failure, there had always been another to cover my flank: my err had been salvaged by the preparedness of one of my comrades, one of my brothers in arms. Where I might have slipped, they covered the opening; where the onslaught had become too much, the back rank pushed forward to preserve the front.
In this instance, I am alone, and my aloneness is deafening and strange. It takes on a kind of omnipresence; a kind of fate-like severity. I am alone in my charge and when we collide, it is with her in her prime and me in my decline.
I duck my head at the last second: her teeth pierce the flesh of my shoulder instead of my throat. I expect the white-hot flash of pain, the way the blow extends to the end of the limb; a tingling pain, an almost-numbness that hurts like lightening. I exhale sharply; a practiced response to the pain that, although extreme, remains familiar. I expect the grip to be weak due to the fragile composition I remember; but she pushes into me with shattering strength. She is dragging me toward the sea in the next breath and rather than fight her direction, I continue to push forward, driving from my flanks. I flick my head to the side, horns brandished like twin swords, with the hopes of spearing her wherever they can reach.
The ocean is fast approaching. The sand is deeper, and deeper; each movement feels lethargic, slowed. My first drill instructor had said, “One day, the chaos of combat will slow itself to a tempo you can match: the adrenaline, the experience, all of it becomes familiar. You can recognize events in slow time.”
Yet, I had never experienced a pain so quiet, before. A battle so subdued, as if we are only a pair of gulls careening in the sky. The world continues outside of us and our struggle, unhurried; it does not even pause to consider the trail of blood I leave, fresh and hot, in the sand as we fight toward the sea. It occurs to me then, my breathing beginning to labour, that the silence reminds me of a funeral.
