It Wasn't Love: A Short Story
It Wasn't Love
They met, for the second to last time, on the eve before the final battle. Their respective armies lay but a league or so away from each other, their campfires lighting the night skies. The sound of drunken revelry and merry-making could be heard from both armies. There was a desperate, frenetic quality to the revelry, and for good reason. Every person present in both armies knew that this would be the last battle, the one which would settle this war. Last battles being what they were, the soldiers knew that there was a rather disproportionately high chance of death, and so were determined to have one last good night before that happening.
As the woman slipped into the enemy camp, she noted without surprise that one large tent alone remained dark and silent, without a hint of light or merrymaking within. His tent, of course. The knight-commander's tent. Grim and still, it hulked forbiddingly in the center of their massive encampment.
Making her way to that tent was simplicity itself. The normally iron-rigid discipline which the templarites were famous was nowhere to be seen. Intoxicated laughter and pleasured moans of couples ****ing were rampant throughout the encampment, and several times she herself was propositioned, her interlocutors having noticed her lithesome form and ravishingly attractive features, despite being too drunk to notice that she was dressed (albeit revealingly) in the colors of their enemy.
She slipped into his tent without a sound. Although she had sent him no message, he had known she would come, as she knew he would. He was nearly fully undressed already, seated facing the entrance, his gleaming plate mail carefully placed within a polished wooden armoire by his bedside. He rose to his feet as she entered, and as she walked towards him, she stripped off the little clothing she had on, followed by the rest of his.
No words were spoken. No words were needed. They had never spoken to each other, not even during that first night when each had nearly killed the other before their physical competition turned into a more sensual form. Their lovemaking now was as violent as their battle had been that first time, and it said everything which needed to be said.
As always, there was a competitive nature to their sex, as each tried to batter the other into violent, sensual submission. And yet, there was a difference from in the past. Both of them knew that this time would be the last time. It added an odd poignancy, an odd spice to what they were doing. Although both of them were silent aside from their labored breathing, that desperate, frenetic quality of the revelry outside was very much present inside the tent as well.
When it was all over, they lay together on top of a blanket in a heap of entwined limbs. She lay against him, breasts pressed against his strong back, listening to his deep snores. In the past, not trusting each other, neither of them had never allowed themselves to fall asleep. But even his near-superhuman endurance had limits, and without question, this time he had pushed himself to and beyond them. The soreness and pain she felt down there was testament to that. But it was the good sort of soreness.
Gently, she stroked his neck as she nestled against him. It would be so easy for her to snap his neck and kill him right now as he lay sleeping and helpless. If she did, her side would surely benefit as the enemy forces would have been stripped of perhaps their most powerful leader. For a heartbeat, she seriously considered doing so, and her hand tensed.
But the moment passed, and her hand relaxed. Not because of any foolish sentiment on her part, of course. And certainly not because she was 'in love' with him. The very notion was laughable. It was simply that a man like him didn't deserve to die in such an ignominious way, or so she told herself. He should die on the battlefield, weapon in hand, not in bed.
She gently untangled herself from him, wincing slightly as she stood up. Quickly and quietly she dressed before slipping out of his tent. The scene of drunken festiveness and debauchery still surrounded the tent, which still remained silent.
On the way back to her own army, she did not look back a single time.
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As the woman disappeared into the night, the knight released his tightened grip on the hilt of a blade he had hidden beneath the blanket. He was glad the witch hadn't tried to play any tricks on him. He had felt fairly certain that that she would not, but one could never tell with her type. He would have had to kill her if she had, something which he would have felt regret for.
Not because he felt anything for her. Whatever it was between them, it certainly wasn't love. Physical lust, certainly. Competition, without question. Mutual appreciation for each other's skills. Perhaps a feeling of delicious sinfulness for engaging in such a forbidden act, for which he would need to pray many hours for forgiveness. But not love, certainly not love. No such thing could exist between a knight-templar (commander, no less!) and a reaver-witch. No, he felt no love for her.
But he still would have felt some regret if he had been forced to kill her.
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They met one last time in the midst of a raging apocalypse, in the center of a maelstorm of death, in the place where the fighting was the hottest, where the soldiers of both sides slew and slew and slew, until they were slain in turn.
He spotted her first, from a quarter-league away. Her near-nude form danced a deadly dance, surrounded by a company of his finest templars. She was alone, her enemies numbering in the dozens, and yet she laughed, wildly and exultantly as death flew from her hands in the form of flying daggers. Each of her opponents were armored in the finest steel that the templarite could provide, and yet her knives passed through them like a hatchet through rotted timber. Painted in the blood of her enemies, she appeared like nothing so more than a goddess of death who had suddenly incarnated onto this killing field; beautiful, terrible, and utterly irresistible.
For a moment, the knight-templar simply gazed at her, his loins tightening as he watched his reaver-witch laugh wildly while she killed. As her nearly unclad form carved and danced a bloody swathe through the battlefield. And though he knew he should charge towards her and save his men, still he hesitated, still he only watched.
He knew that this time, he really would have to kill her.
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She finished off the last templar. He had broken and tried to flee at the last moment, but even had he not been covered in heavy metal armor, he could never have hoped to have moved faster than the whirling dervish of death that she was. She nearly decapitated the templar with a single ferocious blow. As the blood sprayed across her face, her eyes rolled backwards as she shuddered with near orgasmic delight.
She allowed herself to savor the kill for a moment further before she turned around, scanning the chaotic, war-torn field for more targets to kill. And at that moment, she saw him.
It was impossible, of course. They were separated by myriad walls of slaughter and countless human bodies, and unlike her, he was surrounded by a company of armored templars that all but hid him from her view. And yet, when she locked gazes with those distant eyes, hidden beneath a massive helm that totally encompassed his head, she knew, without a shadow of a question, that it was him.
No other person had such a presence, such self-assurance in their very posture. He was a very bastion of strength at the heart of the templarite army, emanating a power and confidence which inspired and invigorated those around him. So long as such a commander remained alive, the men and women under his banner would never bend, never break, never collapse. And even if they did, fortified by his will, they would arise anew, stronger and tougher than before. So long as he was alive, her people would never be free, would forever remain bowed beneath the weight of the iron foot of the templarite empire resting on their necks.
And so, he had to die. Today.
She allowed herself to feel the slightest hint of regret as she accepted this truth. Decent guy. Good in the sack. But she'd known long ago what the likely outcome would be. That was one of the reasons why she'd never let herself get attached to him, never let herself feel anything for him. And so, the slight hesitation she felt now stemmed solely from the fact that she would be killing the best **** she'd ever had.
For a long moment, they simply stared at each other through heated eyes.
But the moment passed, and, as if by unspoken agreement, they both started to move towards the other at the same time.
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As they moved towards each other, cutting a bloody path through any enemies which got in their way, he had gestured for his guards to stand back. They obeyed, forming a wide cordon around the two, giving them space for their private duel. And so it was that despite being centered in the midst of a swirling vortex of massacre, of tens of thousands of men and women murdering each other, they found themselves more or less alone.
No words were spoken. No words were needed. Her knives and his claymore and armored fist spoke all the words that were necessary. The war between them was as violent and as brutal as the battle in his tent that previous night. In a strange way, it felt even more intimate as well.
She penetrated his defense with a series of lightning fast stabs that punched straight through his armor and gouged bloody holes in his sides. He responded by landing an armored backhand which made a messy mockery of her face. They traded blow after blow, neither managing to land any fatal ones, but landing enough superficial ones that soon, one or both would die from sheer bloodloss from the number of wounds they had sustained.
When this became apparent to the watching guards, one particularly brave and loyal templar made a particularly foolish decision. He raised his crossbow...and shot the witch in the back.
The woman staggered, her arms dropping. The commander had just launched a cross cut which he could not stop in time. With hateful ease, the claymore cut into her throat.
She fell.
Screaming a wordless keen of rage, the commander turned to face the guard. With all of his remaining strength, the knight-templar lifted up his giant, two-handed claymore, then threw it towards the surprised crossbowman. The claymore flew through the air like an arrow unleashed from a bow. Before the templarite guard even thought to dodge, his head had been severed. Blood sprayed from his neck like a waterfall. But the knight-templar was no longer watching.
His attention was fully focused on the dying woman in front of him.
Her face was a bloody mess. Several of her ribs were cracked, and blood poured from nearly as many wounds as he himself had suffered. If treated or staunched, though, none of those wounds were life-threatening. But the severed windpipe had taken her to death's gateway. Any moment now, it would drive her beyond it.
Her eyes were locked on his as well, a strange look in them. Wordlessly, she moved her lips, as though wanting to say something to him for the first time. But of course, she no longer could. Ignoring the screaming pain and bloody wounds across his own body, the man slowly knelt down next to the woman. He bent his head down, bringing his ear next to her lips, hoping that he might catch those words.
It was at this moment that she stabbed him directly in the heart.
With strength born from surprise, he kicked her away from him as he staggered back. But even before her body hit the ground, he knew that there was no point. She was already dead. And very soon, he would join her, for her aim had been true. The blow was a mortal one.
As he fell to the ground, he stared at her corpse, lying bloodied and crumpled in the dirt. Surprisingly, his own gaze contained no anger, no surprise, no hate. It contained the same strange expression as hers did, the moment before she knifed him.
Death took him. His eyes closed. None of his guards, all of whom had come running to him when they saw him fall, could understand out what that gaze held. None of them would ever get the chance to.
But surely it wasn't love.
Not love.
Never love.
