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Fighting is something you’ve always been good at. You enjoyed it, hell, you thrived doing it. The way the blood could flow from someone so easily, like it’s almost nothing. The crunch of the bones as you stepped down harder and harder until eventually all you left was a mess of gore and misaligned wishes. The gasps people would let out as you hit them again and again. It was easy. It was all you ever knew.
The way of the fight meant more to you then you could ever explain. Ever process, even. But yet, like a small fwoosh in the wind. It was gone. Because now you gotta be on the good side and “we don’t beat people up for info, you know!”, prideful bastards. If you had it your way both of these sides would be dead and gone. Goodness is overrated! So is evilness! Simply stand for moral grayness, Gods.
“Sam, Sam. Stand down.” Micah hisses at you, like you’re a wild animal. Maybe you are. You can’t tell at this point.
Someone hurt Mez. Mez. Your Mez. Your little sister who you swore to protect. Someone hurt her on the battlefield because you were to blind to see them at first. Oh, but now you see them. Gods do you see them. You also see red. There’s a rage in your blood, thrumming dangerously as you clench your hand on your sword. You hate this fucking sword.
“Sam!” Micah snaps, the last of his calmness draining out. He doesn’t mean to lash out at you, you know that. But, still, it’s warranted. Especially with what you’re about to do.
You run.
Gods, do you run. The burn in your legs is heavy and familiar and you feel light. You feel like a bird whose clipped wings had regrown on it’s first flight back. You feel amazing, and all you can think about is how did you let them take this from you? And then, near seconds after, I’m gonna kill this fucker who hurt my sister and be ecstatic about it.
You make eye-contact with the guy, for just a few seconds. Of course, that’s as long as you need. His eyes go wide when he sees you and you’re sure you look fucking insane - a mess of hair, wild eyes that have a taste for blood, and have been starving for far too long. You look batshit. You feel batshit. It’s great. You think he might recognize you, you were well known, back in the day. People saw you as a killer. Not human. You can’t say you don’t miss it. Don’t miss this. The ringing in your ears, your blood pumping. Your brain turning into a thing with one objective. Get. The. Target.
You think you hear Macy yelling at you - you can’t tell over the noise of the battlefield and your thoughts. You’re closer to the dude, now. His shitty bow aimed at you. Please. You think bitterly. Do you look like a fucking amateur? Fear is etched into the guy's face, and you almost laugh. Gods, this is easy. Almost too easy. It’s been thirty seconds tops since you started running and you’re already here - the dude - alright, godsdamn, you gotta explain him better than that because calling him ‘the guy’ or ‘the dude’ is getting really annoying, even for you. He’s tall-ish. Taller than you, at least. His hair is an ugly ginger color - it does not flatter his ugly ass tan. The asshole - you’re gonna call him Martin, you don’t know why. He looks like a Martin. Fucker. Anyway, Martin is still aiming at you, because he’s an asshole and has a taste for Aarcher blood, apparently. You’re just standing in front of him, almost daring him to shoot. Like, c’mon. Do it, coward.
He does. You dodge easily because damn is that man a terrible shot. You’re still holding that shitty fucking sword and decide fuck it, you hate this thing anyway. You run at Martin with your sword. Impaling the asshole with it. You relish the scream that rips from Martin's lips. But, for real, fuck this sword. You rip it from his stomach, tossing it somewhere into the field around you. You make a fist, staring Martin down. You’re pretty sure he’s crying. Pussy. You bring the fist down on his face. Hard. You hear a sickening crunch as your fist makes contact with his nose. If you were anyone else maybe you would’ve thought of this as sick. Terrible. Inhumane, even. But you aren’t anyone else. You’re a monster. You’ve accepted that. Like how Martin’s accepted he probably isn’t gonna make it out alive - because, let’s be real, the asshole knows he isn’t living past this fight. You’d say you hope he doesn’t have any other family out there, but, honestly? You. Don’t Care.
The thoughts of disgust towards your own actions fill your head - you shake them away with what you could call almost practiced ease. You make another fist. Fuck it. Fuck it. You bring the fist down on Martin’s face again. And again. And a-fucking-gain. The blood is coating your hand now, your other hand is around his throat. He’s clawing at your hand. You tighten your grip. He claws harder, your grip doesn’t waver. He slows, after a period of time. His face, once eiched with fear, is now… barren. Empty. Dead. You let your hands release your pressure from his neck, but you never take them off. Your brain slows, calms, isn’t screaming at you to kill kill kill fucking kill him end it end it END IT SAM -
It’s, it’s nice.
Then you hear yelling. A voice all too familiar breaks through your moment of calm.
“SAM! Oh - oh my Gods, Sam!” Mez yells, her footsteps seem so loud against the screaming, the murder, the war, and really, they’re in a war so why does you killing one stupid, useless sack of flesh - you dare not call Martin a man, now, lest you actually think about what you did because -
Mez yanks you off of Martin, your limp hands, covered in blood, drag against his face one more time, before falling at your side in the grass. Your head falls back, against her collarbone, she clutches at you. Her breathing uneven, you’re concerned but you don’t say as such - you let her have this. This moment of peace, you had your own mere seconds ago. Her hand reaches for your own - you let her take it. It’s gruesome against her clean skin. The blood smears and dries and you want to apologize, but you doubt she’d let you say it. She understands you when you get like this. Of course she does. You and her were raised together, ‘two peas in a pod’, your mother would always say. Of course, that was before one of her ‘peas’ turned to crime and, well, murder, to keep themself alfoat. After that, she barely noted your existence at all, choosing then to favor Mez, and then ignore both of you completely when Mez took your side. Point is, Mez has always been there for you, always will be, you’re sure. And you, her. She was the one who dragged you into this, after all. This… morally good shit, though, you can’t say you know why. Maybe she thought it would be good for you. You really can’t say.
“You scared the shit outta them, you know,” she says, and she squeezes your hand just a bit tighter and that lets you know that she means and me, too. You’re almost tempted to say, hey, have more faith in me, dummy. But you don’t. You just nod.
You two sit there for who knows how long, long enough where the blood dries and the fighting dies out, and Mez’s breathing is a long steady melody that you almost fall asleep to. She’s still holding your hand, it’s been long enough that you know it’ll make this, frankly, disgusting noise when you finally take it back, and Mez will gag, and you’ll ask how she was able to handle holding it but not letting go, and she’ll smack you upside the head with little heat behind her actions. And, you’ll wince, before letting out a small laugh with her. She’ll grin and drag you back to the others, who will almost definitely be frightened of you, for a while. Even Micah will. And, while it’s far from a fun idea to deal with you will. You’ve been through hell, and it shows, you know.
But Mez is here, by your side, safe and alive - hurt but only barely, you see now where Martin hit her on her shoulder will barely even scar, you’re sure. Maybe that should make you feel terrible for your actions. It doesn’t. Mez is here and she’s okay, so, you are as well.