Successful Yet Currently Injured Fantasy Warrior vs Vengeful Youth

Two nerds meet on a fantasy battlefield. Please enjoy this completely random scene. By the way, I'm sorry it's so dark.

I flicked my wrist up, pulling a sword from the ground and out of nothing… out of air and earth came steel in the proper shape, a bound leather handle, falling into my grip. I snatched it, began to absorb the technicalities of its weight and balance into my intuition. Spun it around, felt the hilt twist against my palm. Turned. Caught up the sword, caught the eyes of my first victim, lunge and thrust"

Blood… beginning to pour down the front of his worthless armor, beginning to puddle at his feet. My sword withdrew, and he fell to his knees, then sprawled on his face. A quick glance at the rest highlighted my next target. My next stain.

They were all blending together, and had been for a long, long time. Every new victim’s death seemed to be a callback to that of one that came before. Nothing new under the sun. And by now, my visualizations of how a human body would react to a sword-slash just so were accompanied by dramatic, full-color illustrations. Memories, vomiting blood into the inside of my mind, painting everything the only color my eyes seemed to see anymore…

I blinked, and everything was red. I stood over ten corpses, scattered here and there, some in pieces and others merely cut open. Red, in its various forms, was draped and splattered and coiled alongside them. Dripping from bone-white skin or spilling from a slitted stomach...

I tried not to register much more than that.

Red didn’t have to be an unpleasant color, did it? I thought as I turned away. Strawberries, watermelon, fall leaves, I could feel it, the comfort of pretending it was something else, I could feel my sanity slipping. Yes, I thought, beginning to smile, to laugh at my own absurdity, though my lips didn’t even twitch. Yes, let’s pretend it’s all strawberries! Strawberry juice, or wine, or anything but the thick, disgusting liquid that never quite seemed to disappear from the corners of my vision or the palms of my hands.

Even now, as I strode away from the carnage, cleaned my sword, stripped off my gloves and threw them aside, tried to ignore the blood pouring from a slice in my non-dominant arm, even that was not enough to drive away the clouds of red drifting through my vision. I looked up at the sky, once a friendly blue, now permanently altered, always overlaid with some image or other of the death I’d caused. Looked away, at the ground, the same ground that always sucked up the blood I spilled no matter how much of it there was, and yet could never fully erase the signs of death. Grass, the bright green that made the crimson stand out all the clearer. No, no, just strawberry juice. Just wine, turning the earth herself a little tipsy. Not…

I staggered slightly. Glanced down at the slice in my arm. A little deeper than I’d thought. The blood sheeting my arm refused to dry, was always being replaced by more.

A hard blink, as I suddenly realized why my thoughts had been veering into the inane. The urge to laugh vanished, and I automatically reached up to clasp the wound.

The thought of how much blood I might have lost, the realization that I truly was being affected, unnerved me. More than I wanted to admit. Could I die from something so small as a slice to the arm? Of course… of course I could. I’d seen it happen before. Had caused it before…

A strangled shout of rage, behind me. Someone, friend or foe, but it sounded more like an enemy. I turned, trying to mask a small stumble. Saw a soldier, an enemy, wearing no helmet.

Blurred.

Managed to focus.

His sword was out and up, pointing at me. His face was twisted in fury and hatred. He looked too young for this. Too small, as if he couldn’t quite fit in the armor. Blade trembling too, or perhaps that was my vision.

This was revenge. Something else I’d seen before, many times. Something else I’d caused, but at least when it happened the fight felt a little more justified. Less like the pointless slaughtering of nameless soldiers. More of a purpose to it, as if I were playing a role for an audience. Villain.

Better than “Butcher.” Better than “Thresher.”

He lowered his sword and began to close the distance between us. I had yet to draw mine. My sword hand was still attempting to stifle the gash in my arm. It wasn’t doing much except making my palm slippery.

I was trying to stand straight, to mask the extent of the injury, but the lack of blood was beginning to manifest in disturbing ways. I could feel exhaustion beginning to sink into my bones, in a way it never had before. Dragging me down, not towards the usual lighthearted sleep I’d teased every night. Miles down, towards a more permanent rest.

He was getting close enough to really notice my weakness. I drew myself up, smothering a wince as I let my hand move away from the wound, but I could see his eyes gauging its effects, the sheer volume of blood. I could see his satisfaction.

He stopped, still five paces away. He was ready, it seemed, to announce exactly what my death was going to accomplish, both for him and for whatever maggot-eaten corpse he was fighting for.

“You killed my brother,” he said, and two images came to mind. Two other men who’d said about the same. More blood, blotting out their faces.

Something I’d learned, in my time as a mass murderer. There was always more blood. Always more bodies, always a fresh coat of crimson paint along the inside of my skull. A river of blood had long ago become a lake, was now an ocean. It was, by this point, impossible to get a feel for the scope of it all, when I couldn’t see the opposite shore.

I’d been, perhaps, about to give way to the usual despair, but it lapsed unexpectedly into a sort of sarcastic amusement. So much blood… what was another few liters?

“He was my hero, and you killed him!” he cried, as my sword hand strayed to the hilt. Normally, such a statement would barely have registered. Certainly not enough for a response. I never talked to people I was about to murder. It felt like a waste.

But this time, I spoke up. Shoving down every ounce of exhaustion and rallying in its place the old energy that had kept me going, machine-like, carving through a world’s worth of battlefields.

“I’ve killed many brothers,” I said, “and many fathers, and sons, and lovers. I’ve killed dreamers, and inventors. I’ve killed innocents like you, and I’ve killed murderers like myself.”

My swordhand, though slick, was closed tight around the hilt. The sound of the blade sliding out of its sheath was welcoming. The introduction, a familiar movement, leading into the only song I knew how to play.

“What’s one more brother?” I asked, and the sword I raised was heavy with the blood of thousands.

His response, a wordless yell. He charged, and with every step he took I was analyzing his movements and imagining the directions they could evolve towards. The ghosts of so many others were flickering overtop his form, darting in one direction or another. All meeting the same end.

I noticed the instant his weight shifted, as he planted one foot and began to pivot, his sword lashing out and following a particular path. My sword danced out to meet it, knocked it away, followed up with a swift thrust towards his chest. He jumped back, abruptly wasn’t there, and normally I would have recovered, would have chained my movements into a fresh attack, something a little harder to dodge... but just then I felt the lack of blood seize my brain.

I locked up, falling forwards, and managed to catch myself by planting my sword in the ground. Leaned on it for only an instant. Pushed up, backwards. Readying again.

My eyes, rising to meet his, caught a look of wild excitement. Euphoria.

He was already diving in, an overhead chop falling towards my swordhand’s wrist. I saw it, jerked back and caught his sword’s trajectory on my blade. His chop slid along my blade’s edge, biting ground. A twist of my wrist, and my sword’s edge set a course for his side.

He dodged back, again, but this time his hands foolishly left the sword. It tilted, hit the ground. My sword was up, pointed towards his throat as he backed away. That irritating, bratty confidence he’d shown before was fading from his face, leaving him lost. Things weren’t supposed to go this way, were they?

I let the satisfaction of it sink in a little, at the same time that I wrestled down a fresh surge of inner fog. Rallied whatever blood remained. Crouched, eyes never leaving his, managed to pick up his sword with a blood-slick hand and injured arm. Savage pain, coursing up from the gash and choking my throat. Exhaustion, clouding my chest, but I still shoved it away.

I straightened with a sharp, shaky jerk, managed to focus on the target. He was a little too far away, and I wasn’t about to chase him around the battlefield. I did the calculations.

“Here,” I said, and managed to almost casually toss the sword onto the ground between us. It took me a few quiet gasps to regain control of my voice, until I could say, with a fair amount of strength, “Pick it up.”

To emphasize the evident benevolence of this offer, I made a small show of stabbing my own sword into the ground and leaning on it.

He seemed unconvinced. I merely waited. The small respite was welcome.

After some mental calculations of his own, he seemed to realize that the sword was his only chance of winning. He accepted my offer, moving forward. Cautious, watching me closely. I kept my eyes hooded, a little bleary with pain. Kept my weight on my own sword.

He darted forward, and in that instant I unleashed the energy that had always carried me through, went from leaning on the sword to chopping dirt as I drove it forward into a thrust.

He noticed, managed to change course to one side. The blade sheared harmlessly along his armor as it flew past, and his trajectory towards his sword remained mostly unchanged, but my movement had had more purpose, and one armored boot was planted on his blade. I prepared to draw back, perhaps to chop sideways at him"

And then, once again, the bloodloss struck, vertigo savagely twisting my perception of the world. I could feel myself falling, struggled to adjust.

Sort of saw, through a torrent of fog, gloved hands closing around my sword’s blade, close to the hilt. Felt the twist, but couldn’t do anything; my sword hand had already begun to release its grip, hoping to catch myself when I hit the ground. Felt his shoulder drive into my chest, sending me in a new direction. Saw the bloodstained sky roll past.

Impact, breath jarring from my lungs and the world blurring as my back hit the ground. I blinked hard. Flexed my hand. Nothing there. My sword was…?

Ah. The kid had it.

He moved into view, sword tip trained on my chest, and then, as he stood over me, my throat. Staring down at me, eyes lit with triumph.

There wasn’t much of a point in resisting, or trying to. Whatever he did, I was already dying, and now I could really feel it. Could feel my energy draining away, could feel myself sinking. I closed my eyes. Long, slow breaths. The pain of my arm was fading as well.

“I want to see your face, when I kill you,” he announced from some distance, and my opinion of his innocence dipped a little. Fuzzily.

A couple more deep breaths.

“So… look at it…” I managed, eyes still closed. Seemed my sass hadn’t leaked out with all that blood.

The tip pricked my throat, unpleasantly. A sharp, well-defined point in a sea of lazy fog. Was it a good sign that I could feel it?

Given the situation I was in, probably not.

“Look at me!” he shouted. Evidently I was ruining his stupid revenge fantasy with my noncompliance. Good. I was inspired to new heights. I kept my eyes closed.

“You didn’t avenge,” I whispered, “your brother.”

“Oh?” he growled, and I could easily hear that hint of fear behind his irritating, pretentious pseudo-adult voice.

“No,” I breathed. “I was already… dying… when you found me.”

My eyes drifted open, hoping to see his face. Hoping it was as priceless as it was in my imagination.

“You were lucky!” I gasped out, grinning. “You would’ve… died, in a heartbeat. Just like…” struggling to focus on his expression, “…he did.”

His face twisted, and then everything twisted as his boot slammed down on my gashed arm. Pain lanced from deep within, frighteningly deep. I really had hit a nerve, but … stupid enough to do so while my own nerves were exposed. No, what did it matter? I was dying anyway, let me have my"a shuddering breath past a wave of agony"fun…

And now it no longer felt possible to speak. I only wanted to keep breathing, or trying to, deep breaths to distract myself from the pain. It barely worked, but there was nothing else I could do. My whole body felt heavy as lead.

The moments ticked by. My mind was awash with flashes of blood, injuries, the awful wounds I’d seen, the wounds I’d carved, the many I’d suffered myself, and my soul was bright and shivering with pain and weakness by turns, but the fresh pain was fading out, little by little, unnaturally, while I waited"

And nothing happened. Death failed to take me.

I cracked open one eye to stare at him, and saw the sword blade hovering over my chest. Trembling. No telling how long it had been like that. I traced its shape up to his hands, then his face.

He was conflicted, staring down, but with eyes that didn’t truly see. He was no longer sure whether this was fitting vengeance for his brother, or he really was a child and wasn’t ready to kill anyone, or maybe he was just soft like that. Couldn’t kill a man in cold blood? Who cared what it was, I was tired of waiting. How long had I been ready to die, like this or any other way…

“Do it,” I said, and his eyes jumped over to mine. A long moment, while he only stared at me, and then I reached up, with a bare right hand, and gripped the sword blade. I gave it a hard yank, only pulling the blade a couple inches down. It cut open my palm and fingers and sent a fresh stream of blood down the blade, but the pain barely registered at this point.

“Finish… me…” I breathed, “for your… brother…”

He blinked, and pain contorted his expression for a moment. And then, rather than steeling himself to finish me, or regaining his courage somehow, he suddenly fell apart. His eyes filled with tears, and…

“I’m sorry, James,” he gasped through sobs, “I can’t…”

And he stumbled back, slicing my hand more deeply as he pulled the blade away and threw it behind him.

I felt disbelief and disgust color my expression as he began to cry in earnest. “Oh for"”

I broke off as I saw Vincent appear from behind him, bending down to casually pick up my sword. He examined it for a moment, then smeared some of the blood off with his sleeve. Flipped it over, wiped the other side, while I lay dying in a pool of my own blood. Satisfied, he hefted the sword, and moved to stand directly behind the boy.

I saw his hand clamp down hard on the boy’s shoulder, startling him, and then Vincent yanked backwards as he drove the sword right through the boy’s back, and out of his chest. The kid’s mouth had dropped open, his tearful eyes wide and staring; then, Vincent withdrew the sword cleanly, and he fell to the ground

I watched him stare at the blood on the sword; Vincent had a soft spot for that sort of thing. Then he looked down, at me, his expression disdainful.

“Kid do this to you?” he asked.

I managed a weak scoff. “Not… hardly,” I said. “You… healing me… or…”

He shrugged, stepping carefully over the body, and lifted his hand to hold it palm down over me. A white glow began to suffuse his hand, and I felt the fog burying me starting to shift, at the same time that my wound, now covered in bloody mud from the kid’s boot, started to knit itself together, heedless of the grime it was trapping under my skin. I gritted my teeth against the pain.

“Could’ve… cleaned it first,” I ground out.

“You’ll be fine,” Vincent said. “We’ll fix it when we get back. And anyway, you need the reminder.”

“Fine. Looking forward to it,” I said, not bothering to try to figure out what his “reminder” remark was about. “I need blood, too.”

He glanced at my face and frowned. “Yes, I suppose you do,” he said.

He scanned, eyes falling on the nearest available corpse: the kid he’d just snuffed. A delicate finger dipped into the blood, and there was a brief glow. Orange.

“Want his?” he asked. “You’re compatible.”

I tried to consider the ironic implications of this, but the fog was unrelenting. I managed a weak shrug.

His hands fluttered, a series of gestures I couldn’t really comprehend in my state. A floating, pure-white tube appeared, hovering in midair, before gently coming to rest in his waiting hands. He looked down at me.

“Uhh, got another wound?” he asked.

I lifted my right hand to show him, and he took hold of my wrist, lifted it, and stuck the tube in. My least favorite part. His thumb pinched the tube in place while I focused on deep breaths. Funny how this bothered me more than getting the injury in the first place. Something about the tube.

The other end of the tube disappeared into the kid’s back, and then blood was flowing from him to me. I closed my eyes, waiting for the effects to sink in. Looking forward to my return from the mouth of the abyss that had almost swallowed me. It would be nice, feeling my feet on solid ground again.

He clicked his tongue, satisfied, and withdrew the tube from my palm, briefly healing the wound as he did. I took a very deep breath, enjoying the feel of it, before carefully pushing myself up, then standing. The fog was utterly gone now. I glanced around the battlefield, feeling almost a sense of satisfaction, now that I could see it clearly again.

My arm wound throbbed, and I remembered what he’d said. “What do I need the reminder for?” I asked, turning to him.

He looked at me, odd discontent on his face. “A reminder not to throw yourself into death,” he said. “I’d love to know what the hell that was about.”

I blinked. It was a little odd, hearing him curse like that.

“It felt… right,” I said. “A fitting end, for me.”

“Getting snuffed by a clueless child, a fitting end for you?” he asked, still looking a bit more pissed off than satisfied.

I shrugged, minding my injured arm. “It was a revenge thing, it made sense,” I said. “And it had some poetic irony, too… the killer of thousands, laid low by a mere child in borrowed armor, who got lucky…”

“You think that’s all you deserve?” Vincent asked, eyeing me critically.

“It was irony,” I said. “Look, nevermind… it made more sense when I was dying of bloodloss.”

“I’m sure it did,” he said, “but I’m still not going to fix your wound just yet.” And he turned, began to walk away from the battlefield.

I sighed, following suit.