Chapter Text
The first letter comes bloody and tied to the base of an arrow.
George doesn’t see it at first, even with his color goggles on. It is, afterall, soaked in blood and sticking out of the thick of Sapnap’s arm. And Sapnap’s movement doesn’t help – he is constantly in motion, either to shift his weight or look over his shoulder or both, at the same time. He is a soldier right to the core, even more so than the rest of their army. His mind never falters, never slows, not when there’s a war to be won. And normally George admires that, but not right now, not when his actions are hindering George’s ability to help.
“Is it out yet?” Sapnap asks. He’s got his head so far turned over his shoulder that George can’t see his face, can’t see if he’s wincing or cringing or cursing the ground that George walks. He doubts Sapnap is, though. Sapnap’s fidgeting can be attributed more to adrenaline than to pain. He’s always had thick skin, even thicker than his skull. It’s another thing George admires when Sapnap isn’t being so damn annoying because of it.
“Almost,” George tells him. Blood-stained fingers wrap around the arrow’s shaft, slipping and sliding against the soaked wood. He pulls it free with a yank. It comes out in one piece, the flint tip shining sharp and deadly. Crimson rushes from the wound. Sapnap doesn’t seem to notice. He jumps up even as the blood runs down his arm, even as it hits the dirt floor of the infirmary in buckets. He almost makes it out before George grabs his shirt, tugs him all the way back. He has to press his feet to the back of Sapnap’s knees to get him to settle again. Sapnap sits on the floor by his legs, annoyed and impatient. Still, he stays. Sits, as George unties the bandana from the crown of his head and ties it around his arm instead.
“Now are we done?” Sapnap asks, sounding more like a whining child than a capable soldier. George tightens the knot he’s created, watches as blood leeches its way into the white fabric, tainting it like dye. It’s a terrible bandage, but the wound isn’t fatal, and Sapnap is one of the best fighters they have. They need him on the battlefield more than he needs a fully functioning wrap.
“Yes. Be careful with it, and come back to the infirmary the second the battle is finished,” George says as he steps away. He picks the arrow back up as Sapnap stands. George stares at the arrow for a moment before saying, “Be safe,” but by then, Sapnap is already gone.
George sighs. He runs his finger along the base of the arrow, as if doing so would get it to release its secrets about the enemy and their formations. The arrow is, of course, an arrow, and it has no secrets to whisper, no advice to give. What it does have, though, is an edge. It resides all the way at the bottom, by the freshly plucked feathers. It’s so faint, it could very well go unnoticed by someone less observant. But George is as sharp as they come, and he thinks this person knows it, too.
He pulls the feathers off the arrow one by one. Slides the little coil off of the shaft, unrolls it in his bloody fingers. He sees green on the unstained edges, and thinks of a man he’s only ever seen when he’s playing defense. George only knows him by his merciless violence, aided by his speed and agility. And his mask. His god-awful mask. He is an Achilles among men. Forever and always untouched and unwavering, even when everyone is falling to the ground around him. They fought once before, an uneven match. George has never forgotten the way the man smiled when he pinned George, when he held his sword above George’s head. There was a kind of amusement hiding in the white of his teeth, a promise of more. But George had moved to the right, and the point of the sword had sunk into the ground beside his ear, a mere inch off. Amusement faded into shock. George leapt up, snatched the ceramic mask from beside them, where it had lain knocked off since the beginning of their fight. He clutched it to his chest and ran. He only looked back when he was a half-mile away. His enemy was nowhere to be found. It was then, between heavy breaths and pounding heartbeats, that George realized just how exciting a war could be.
A war. The war, the one between L'Manberg and the SMP. It began a long time ago, so long ago that the constant violence has become a bore. George can’t even remember why it started. He just knows that the two sides fight every day, sunset to sunrise, never losing, never gaining. It’s predictable, and boring, and maybe that’s why George is so infatuated with this fight, with this soldier. Because he needed some change, some excitement, to break up the monotony of the war, and this enemy soldier had been the one to do it. The masked soldier had changed the war for George with that fight, and he’s doing the same now.
George takes a deep breath and closes the door of the infirmary. Then, with shaking fingers, he takes off his goggles and begins reading the letter.
Dear Not Found,
You’ll have to forgive the deliverance of this letter. I’d hoped you’d come today so that I could deliver this message in person, perhaps with my blade against your throat or with my knee to your chest, but when I looked around, you were nowhere to be found. Ha, get it?
Really, I am sorry for your friend and his… arm? Chest? Wherever this lands, I am sure it wasn’t fatal. Be assured, I’m a better shot than that.
But somehow, I am not better than you.
I’m getting ahead of myself. You’re likely wondering what this is, but not who. You know, just as I do, of our unfinished business. But, if you need reminding, think of my blood in your mouth and your fist against my jaw. Or, perhaps, simply think of a ceramic mask.
My ceramic mask.
I pride myself on being careful with what is mine, yet you’ve still managed to steal my most prized possession right out from under me. I’d ask you how you managed it, but I already know. You took advantage of my shock and in doing so, took advantage of me. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised; you always did fight dirty.
I’ll write it simply, so there is no chance of a misunderstanding: I want my mask back.
Leave it where we fought by tomorrow’s sunrise. If you do so, I promise your friend will not die by my hand. This is a generous trade, no?
Until next time.
P.S. In the case that he isn’t your friend – though I’m sure he is – I’ll offer an alternative. Me, begging, for my mask back. Whenever, wherever you want. I’ll even grovel on my knees if you’d prefer. Or perhaps that’s a sight best suited for your imagination, though I am something of a dream myself, or so people tell me.