RENWICK
It's more emotion than he ever saw, from those little things, he noted. With their collars wrapped tight around those little necks of theirs, and those dead, dead eyes. Colder than winter's breath. How they'd not even uttered a shriek, as they poured like serpents over sand dunes, erupted from the sand like great sand wyrms his mother had once told him about from distant lands one evening when there was a storm howling off of the coast.
Tales had even reached him, when they had managed to secure a piece of that ill begotten land to rest their heads upon, when the Raven's had managed to find them. How they'd rather choked on their own blood, drowned in it after biting their own tongues and swallowed them for good measure. Taught to kill themselves instead of confessing, what kind of monster trained children that death was the only option? Stole a chance at a future from them? It took a toll on them all too, every day the soldiers became less, and children became more common place. The fire stopped glowing in their eyes, all that spirit sucked out of them as they maneuvered over twisted frames, wet with blood and coarse with the sand stuck to it. No more did they anticipate the fight, but dreaded it instead. They muttered among themselves and wondered if the 'morrow brought more misery to their hooves, more blood splashed upon them that they didn't want.What strategy could you possibly employ against that? It was warfare of another kind. None they had been prepared to wade through.
Renwick remembered the day he had thrown down his spear, left it to be consumed by the sand and made brittle by the arid wind. By that time he'd seen his fair share of the fighting. Gained his fair share of scars and stories to tell around the fire. He couldn't shed tears for the mares and stallion's who crossed swords with him, who traded spears and gnashing teeth with him. But he'd cried that night, for the first time in a long time, they'd found him. It had been a little past the moon at her peak, when Zolin's child soldiers had found them. Poured into their camp and caused chaos from the moment they were spotted. It had ended with him in the sand, desperately scrambling to save the babe who had tried to slice his throat open moments before, before it turned the blade on itself. He remembered tearing at his own cloak, how he'd wrapped it tight around the child as it thrashed and choked, how he'd screamed for a healer for the first time in a long time. The rich green of his cloak had muddied to that dark brown it always did, when blood dyed it. But there had been no healers there with him that night, and all he could do was lay there, until their breathing had become ragged and slow. Then went silent.
He'd marched home after that, declared that he had done his duty to his Sovereign and the Realm. War changed you, good or for ill, and it had left a wound within him which he'd buried deep beneath everything else that was good. Everything that would ease the pang. Now it'd been brought to the surface again, and remembering it was like picking at an old scab. It was strange, to be stood there opposite a piece of his history. The opposite side of the battlefield. He's warm where she is cold. Pine forests and the dunes of the desert. He wondered what kind of scars laid beneath her skin, the ones that others couldn't see. Did her thoughts wander in the late hours, when the candles threatened to burn out and the halls were silent?
What did she make of him? This Knight of Flowers and Shadows. A sworn enemy from long before this current strife.
There is a coldness in her that isn't so glacial as he remembered seeing. It is cold, yes, cold enough that it would sting if he touched it, bite into skin and leave it raw, if it so wanted — but it will not make him brittle boned and shatter him with her next exhale. Her rattled breath is proof enough of that. But then again, he's reminded she has survived the War, and he is not a foolish man. She's dangerous, she has escaped the wolves and the den of serpents that created her. She's dangerous even if she's as lovely as his poetic words painted her to be. Oh Calligo, it's a whirlwind of something he never thought he'd ever have to wade through.
You…were a soldier?
but her voice, it trembled. Like it's foundations were built on quicksand.
"...I was." The Knight exhaled, letting go of a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. He dared to tread closer, mindful of the distance as he inched closer toward the water. Yet, he doesn't treat her as a broken thing, to handle with care, she has survived this far and no doubt wears it like armor. He cannot help but respect that, despite the sadness her appearance brought him. To handle her like glass, a bird with a broken wing would be dishonorable. Disastrous. So his steps are strong and sure, one after another, rather than the hesitant and cautious steps of a naive man. "I didn't see out the War though, killing younglings wasn't what I signed up for. None of us signed up for that." He admitted softly, a note of regret striking the chords like a blacksmith's hammer in a forge.
"Why do you still wear it?" He cannot keep the question to himself, it had burned in the back of his throat and threatened to scald him if he did not say it. Silver orbs dipped to the beaten and weathered collar at her throat, in emphasis. Thoughtfully.
TAG; @
NOTES; <3
