Chapter Text
The sun beats down upon the field of the fighting, the dying, and the dead, and in the midst of it all a boy takes a moment to breathe. Sweat drips down his body despite the chill in the air that eternally exists this far north. It runs down his back and into his eyes under the ill-fitting green-and-gold armor that covered most of his form, tucking away everything that was Tommy and leaving only the Essempi’s Champion, their Executioner, the King’s favored tamed Beast.
The metal chafes uncomfortably against his skin, pressing and pinching oddly against his back in particular. This armor isn’t designed for comfort, nothing like the set he had been given to wear during Arena fights in the past, but he ignores it. Beasts do not complain. He’s lucky someone like him even got a full set of armor.
Ahead of him, the blond-haired Commander, his handler for this expedition, looks back, his sharp blue eyes expectant, unyielding. This handler was harsher than some of the others he has been loaned to in the past, but is far from the worst. A series of faces flash through Tommy’s mind, but he quickly shoves them away lest they distract him from the task at hand. No, this man isn’t near the worst he’s had the privilege of working under.
Still, hesitating against a silent yet obvious order to try and gain a measly few moments more of rest would likely not be worth the punishments that would follow after the battle is ended.
He deliberates, for half a moment. Weighing pros and cons. His handler’s sword flashes in the sunlight as he readjusts his grip, ready to lead their cohort forward into another push. Tommy was trained well. He follows.
This here, fighting in the war that has existed as long as Tommy can remember, is his purpose. His calling. Sure, he could always serve his Master well enough as the Pet, the Display Piece, the Tamed, following along in his handlers’ footsteps for whatever reason they pleased. Obedient and silent, a show of power, control over the normally untamable. He knew well how to behave in those situations.
But that was never Tommy’s strength, really. Despite the years of strict obedience training, he was always too brash, too loud, too insolent. He struggled to follow orders most of the time. He wasn’t built to be a compliant pet. That’s just never where his strengths seemed to lie when compared to some of the others.
The Champion was built for violence. He was always meant to be a weapon, molded to best serve Essempi under the King’s careful tutelage. While Tommy’s rarity made him an excellent display piece, his temperament made him the ideal pick for a more violent showing of strength. One that was put into use often.
Where Tommy’s use shows itself best is in battle. The thrill of the fight, the tinge of iron in the air, the blood under his claws, that is his main purpose. His hybrid characteristics may mark him as a mutt, vermin, less than human, but they also are part of what makes him so desirable, so deadly. A common cat or wolf hybrid would have lived their life in dutiful drudgery doing caretaker work under their Master, or would suffer through life on the streets of Essempi. Tommy’s traits mark him as special among the others. They are why the old King picked him out to be gifted to the then-Prince. Why the current King, his Master, gifted him with such a role.
A hybrid mutt working dutifully alongside Essempi to take down the rebelling mutts from the North. King Dream was always fond of the irony of such a thing.
The Champion was created and raised and trained to fight, and so that is what he does.
Ahead of their cohort, another is trying to fall back, needing a break of their own. A couple among their numbers appeared to be wounded, and human life was always a priority. Tommy’s handler leads his soldiers, along with the handful of hybrids in their cohort, to cut off the Rebellion fighters that were trying to push the advantage.
Narrowing in on a target, Tommy lets the instinctual fog once again settle over his brain, lashing out with the long daggers he preferred for close range combat. His aim and speed are true, and the target falls. Tommy spins, sharp vision locking onto another blue-and-silver chestplate, and he lunges again. The cycle repeats.
He loses track of the numbers, after a time, he has no need to remember. Tommy just has to take note of the occasional order his handler throws to him, following the man’s lead as they try to push the line back. They seem to gain some ground for a bit, until a new wave of blue-and-silver shifts forward to stall their progress.
One of the hybrids fighting at Tommy’s side falls. No one pauses to check if they are wounded or dead.
Everything is movement, color, action and reaction. The aches in his limbs, the constant pangs of hunger, it all fades into adrenaline. At one point, one of the knives is knocked from Tommy’s hand. The one who did it pushes the attack, confident in their new opening. Overconfident. Tommy dodges the sword swing, then takes his own opening as the attacker stumbles, lashing out with his claws. Another enemy drops. Tommy quickly retrieves his fallen knife and gets back to work.
At some point, one of the Northern fighters tries to say something to Tommy, voice laced in false pity and warmth. There always seems to be those from the North that think he will listen to their lies. His Master has warned him heavily against the words of the enemy that try to twist the King’s kindness into evil. He is not to listen to them. Tommy simply filters out the words, lunging towards the gap in the hybrid’s armor. They fall back, and the fight continues.
The action of battle is starting to drag on, now. The Champion is used to fighting on with little food and limited rest, but long fights are always draining. The other soldiers around him can clearly feel the drag as well, attacks on both sides growing noticeably sloppier and more desperate. The Northerners seem to flag more noticeably, having less reinforcements at the ready. Soon enough, they will have to call a retreat from this battle, and Tommy will be allowed to rest. He just hopes that he has done well enough that his handler has no reason to issue any corrections before he is allowed to recover from the long day. Tommy’s fights have never dragged on this long before. The terrible battlefield rations and too-thin cots have never sounded so good.
A horn sounds in the distance, the Northern soldiers pulling back ever so slightly at the call from deep within the camp at their back. Tommy internally sighs in relief, drawing up the remains of his energy reserves to give the final push to chase the enemies back across the territory line.
In the distance, a horse appears over the crest of a hill. Then another, then a dozen more. A flag snaps in the breeze of the figures’ movements, familiar shades of blue and white. Next to it is a smaller flag adorned in gold, one that Tommy had only ever heard tales of in the fearful whispers of returning soldiers, most of whom sported serious injuries and haunted eyes.
The entire battlefield seems to hold its breath. Tommy’s gaze snaps to the figure at the front of the charge, tracing the broad shoulders, the trailing cape, the flash of pink hair. He looks back to the flag. His gut sinks.
At the back of the group of swarming reinforcements ( too many, too many ) a lone, unmounted figure breaks away from the bunch. They launch impossibly high into the air, outline unfurling to cover the battlefield into their winged shadow.
The flag. The cape. The wings . The leaders of the Northern Rebellion themselves have decided to join the battle just as the end was drawing near.
They were so, so fucked.
The Essempi line immediately falls to shambles as soldiers break ranks to perform a hasty retreat. Everyone there knows that they would not be able to hold the line against the combined might of the Blood God and the Angel of Death. Already, screams sounded from those pinned at the front of the line. A line of black-fletched arrows rain from the sky, originating from a source far too high up for Essempi’s archers to even attempt to return fire. The fresh wave of blue-and-silver fighters cheer uproariously.
“RETREAT!” The General calls, Essempi’s horns blaring a panicked cacophony. “Fall back behind the gates, reinforce the city!”
Eager to flee the tide of fresh, too-strong enemies, the green-and-gold soldiers are quick to comply. Everyone who is able turns on the spot and bolts towards the distant walls, those still trapped in battle struggling to disengage as their allies leave them behind. Tommy’s cohort, having been at a momentary pause when the enemy reinforcements had arrived, is quick to pull back and join the flow, and Tommy is eager to follow suit.
He stumbles to a halt when he suddenly finds a slightly bloodied blade pointed towards his chest.
The Commander pants heavily, exhaustion laced with a hint of fear as he holds back both Tommy and the other two remaining Essempi hybrids from their cohort at swordpoint. His blue eyes are hard, pale hair just visible where it’s plastered to his head under the edge of the helmet much like Tommy’s must be. He is haggard, just as battered as the rest of them are from the drawn out fight.
Tommy is used to fighting until he drops, though. For him, this is nothing new. In that moment, deep down, Tommy knew that if he fought back he would be the one to win. And yet, Tommy finds himself instinctively pausing under the threat of his handler. He can’t fight him, he can’t betray orders. Doing so would go against every fiber of his being, every moment of training. All the same, a hint of true, inevitable dread rears up in his chest as the Commander’s words fall over him.
“Stay back,” Tommy’s handler orders, no hint of remorse as he himself draws away from the fight, away from Tommy and the other hybrids’ desperate expressions. “You guys are to cover our retreat until the gate can be closed.”
Fear and confusion flashes through Tommy. Why would they… Isn’t he special, though? Hasn’t he done enough for Essempi, for his Master? “But… but the King would surely-” he stutters, even as the other two take a step back, resigned, backed into the corner. But Tommy is the Champion, the Executioner, the King’s Beast, is he not? Shouldn’t he-
Tommy’s vision flashes as the flat of the Commander’s blade slams into the side of his helmet, knocking him harshly to the floor. Bloodied fingers dig into the muddy earth as he looks back up at the man in shock, the man’s blue eyes now flashing in anger as his sword is again flourished threateningly. “The King ,” he panted furiously, “knows exactly the risk he accepts when you are sent to the battlefield, mutt. He knows the protocol, he’s the one who decreed them. If you are as special as you claim, Champion , then you will have no trouble holding the line until we have retreated before finding your own way back. Otherwise what use are you to us here?”
And with that damning proclamation, the Commander spins and disappears into the retreating crowd.
Ears ringing, entire body crying out in protest, Tommy shakily rises to his feet, his daggers lost to the dirt. Useless , his brain echos. Hybrid, mutt, worthless. Looking back over the last few months, under the shock of clarity the moment brings, he can suddenly make out the startling pattern. Harder Arena fights, more and more times sent out to the front lines of the war, harsher punishments for his mistakes.
Ah. His Master has been growing tired of his disobedience and failures, then. He had been slowly pushing his Champion closer and closer to the edge to see how long it would take him to finally splinter under the pressure. Tommy had been so naïve, so sure of his relatively stable position as the King’s favored little beast.
He had not been enough, though. He was never enough. And now, he was undoubtedly going to die.
Tommy turns slowly to face the approaching wave of blue-and-silver and a flash of red that glints and blurs together in his wavering vision. He can barely focus on the small remaining pockets of green that steadily fall under the onslaught, the multiple eyes that will inevitably turn to target him. He is unaware of the two hybrids that still hover hesitantly at his side, accepting their fate, considering the truth behind the whispered rumors of the Empire’s kind treatment of captured hybrids from the battlefield. They watch silently as the boy stutters forward a few steps, red making a trail down from his hairline after the recent blow, eyes growing more and more distant.
Tommy is unaware as his body gives out all at once under the stress of the moment, collapsing like a puppet with cut strings. He is unaware how the remaining members of his cohort drop down to their knees next to him, concerned for the formerly steadfast boy and resigned to their fate under the Empire’s hand. Many of the hybrids left on the field, war-worn and exhausted as they are, likewise fall to their knees in surrender before the approaching blue-and-silver, as those who still attempt to fight are quickly dealt with around them.
He is unaware of the attention that his widely-known presence affords him, distinctive armor of the Champion standing out on the dwindling field even as he drops to the ground before the Empire soldiers can even reach him to attempt to talk to him. He is unaware of the pink-haired hybrid that comes to a stop in front of him, hidden expression lined in concern for the fierce, enslaved young warrior. He is unaware of the second hybrid that circles above him, looking for a good spot to drop down and check on the obviously injured child they had heard rumors of, that they had come to try and save. He is unaware of the third hybrid, the prince, who waits anxiously back in the Empire’s forward encampment, mind running endlessly through the likely injuries and their treatments.
For Tommy, all he knows is an overwhelming sense of hopelessness and despair as the world grows more and more unfocused around him, and then, he only knows darkness.