[Odin Sphere][FIC] Soft Shadow
So, I really like Oswald from Odin Sphere. He's like an albino Sasuke except more emotionally retarded! It occurred to me I have yet to post anything that's not about the fairy girl. I thought I ought to fix this. WARNING: boring character introspective. Spoilers for Gwendolyn's book and vague vague allusions to Oswald's. Oswald being a stalker.
The ice encasing him gave with a groan. The blurred point of the Belderiver swept up into the troll’s jaw. Its large, trundling form fell backwards. A mass of yellowing matted fur spread eagle on the cleaner snow. Ice crunched in the joints of Oswald’s armor as he pulled the sword free. He planted his boot on its barrel chest. The beast did not stir. It was very thoroughly dead. The Belderiver accepted its soul with a warm pulse, its glow especially hot in the dimming light.
“Damn,” muttered Oswald, through blue lips. He’d wanted to make the summit before nightfall. The dragon would have good night vision, and at this height would have no problems attacking from above. Caution had never been a quality natural to Oswald, but he found himself in the peculiar position exercising it. It was a strange, unfamiliar tension in the stomach and the neck. His face was covered in cuts from shattered ice. The medicine must have been thinning in his blood, because his ears were beginning to burn from cold.
He found a small alcove between two stones on the path and shouldered his way between them, finding some mercy from the wind. He drew from his bags a thinly sliced turny, stuffed the pieces down a vial and, gritting his now chattering teeth, shook it ‘till it turned a welcoming pink. Steam rose against the stopper. It tasted sweet. Oswald drank until he could feel his fingertips again. His skin turned from blue to its more common pallor. Snow turned to clear droplets on the surface of his armor. His eyes drifted shut. He could hear no shuffling. No squeals. No wing beats. He put away the medicine and took the feather instead. He held it in the curve of his palm, staring down at it. He’d kept with him since the mission to Ragnanival. It had gone stringy and bedraggled, its natural coatings worn down from constant handling, but it was as blue as ever.
“Gwendolyn,” he breathed. It was hard to keep her from his thoughts. How could he not? He was so close to seeing her again. Oswald hardly cared for that fool king and whatever scheme he had in mind. The suggestion that he should meet that girl had thrown a possibility before him and, wildly, he had grasped for it.
Two memories of her shone harsh in his head. The first: her wings splayed out as she’d lunged for him, surging up from her crouch, the tip of her spear grazing his ribs and her shoulder ramming him. Even in the grip of darkness, the force of her recklessness had startled him. There was something hot and familiar about it, as they’d torn the hell out of each other, feathers and blackness smoking in their wake, men on both sides scattering. There was something more he recognized, pinning her to the blasted earth, her face at the opposite end of his blade. Her eyes, her eyes, it had all been in her furious glare. She’d come to this fight seeking Death. She’d nearly come to just the right man…
The second: a girl in Demon Lord’s throne room. Her cheeks and lips flushed with a color his would never have. Her he head slightly inclined, her sleek, snowy hair framing a graceful neck. How uncertain she’d looked, and how at odds that was with sleek poise in the hand holding her gown. He knew of her. Gwendolyn. Odin’s Witch. Lieutenant of the Valkyrie forces. Second only to the terrible Griselda in reputation for success on the field. He knew these things. He saw…
A breath of frigid air spat snow in his face and nearly blew the feather from his palm. Oswald closed his fingers around it. He levered himself up, leaning on the stones. The Belderiver was as weighted as it ever was, but he hefted it with a renewed purpose. He had made this journey before. The summit could not be so far off. The dragon could not be too fierce. Odin may have feared the beast, but the Shadow Knight knew no such trivialities. The valkyrie. The valkyrie. He would see the valkyrie. She might hate him. What room was there for anything else when there was that?
“Gwendolyn,” Oswald whispered again. “Forgive me. Gwendolyn.” He opened his hand. The wind caught the ragged plume, carrying it high over the pass and upwards. He got back underway with a strong leap that carried him to the next ridge, following that small shadow.
The ice encasing him gave with a groan. The blurred point of the Belderiver swept up into the troll’s jaw. Its large, trundling form fell backwards. A mass of yellowing matted fur spread eagle on the cleaner snow. Ice crunched in the joints of Oswald’s armor as he pulled the sword free. He planted his boot on its barrel chest. The beast did not stir. It was very thoroughly dead. The Belderiver accepted its soul with a warm pulse, its glow especially hot in the dimming light.
“Damn,” muttered Oswald, through blue lips. He’d wanted to make the summit before nightfall. The dragon would have good night vision, and at this height would have no problems attacking from above. Caution had never been a quality natural to Oswald, but he found himself in the peculiar position exercising it. It was a strange, unfamiliar tension in the stomach and the neck. His face was covered in cuts from shattered ice. The medicine must have been thinning in his blood, because his ears were beginning to burn from cold.
He found a small alcove between two stones on the path and shouldered his way between them, finding some mercy from the wind. He drew from his bags a thinly sliced turny, stuffed the pieces down a vial and, gritting his now chattering teeth, shook it ‘till it turned a welcoming pink. Steam rose against the stopper. It tasted sweet. Oswald drank until he could feel his fingertips again. His skin turned from blue to its more common pallor. Snow turned to clear droplets on the surface of his armor. His eyes drifted shut. He could hear no shuffling. No squeals. No wing beats. He put away the medicine and took the feather instead. He held it in the curve of his palm, staring down at it. He’d kept with him since the mission to Ragnanival. It had gone stringy and bedraggled, its natural coatings worn down from constant handling, but it was as blue as ever.
“Gwendolyn,” he breathed. It was hard to keep her from his thoughts. How could he not? He was so close to seeing her again. Oswald hardly cared for that fool king and whatever scheme he had in mind. The suggestion that he should meet that girl had thrown a possibility before him and, wildly, he had grasped for it.
Two memories of her shone harsh in his head. The first: her wings splayed out as she’d lunged for him, surging up from her crouch, the tip of her spear grazing his ribs and her shoulder ramming him. Even in the grip of darkness, the force of her recklessness had startled him. There was something hot and familiar about it, as they’d torn the hell out of each other, feathers and blackness smoking in their wake, men on both sides scattering. There was something more he recognized, pinning her to the blasted earth, her face at the opposite end of his blade. Her eyes, her eyes, it had all been in her furious glare. She’d come to this fight seeking Death. She’d nearly come to just the right man…
The second: a girl in Demon Lord’s throne room. Her cheeks and lips flushed with a color his would never have. Her he head slightly inclined, her sleek, snowy hair framing a graceful neck. How uncertain she’d looked, and how at odds that was with sleek poise in the hand holding her gown. He knew of her. Gwendolyn. Odin’s Witch. Lieutenant of the Valkyrie forces. Second only to the terrible Griselda in reputation for success on the field. He knew these things. He saw…
A breath of frigid air spat snow in his face and nearly blew the feather from his palm. Oswald closed his fingers around it. He levered himself up, leaning on the stones. The Belderiver was as weighted as it ever was, but he hefted it with a renewed purpose. He had made this journey before. The summit could not be so far off. The dragon could not be too fierce. Odin may have feared the beast, but the Shadow Knight knew no such trivialities. The valkyrie. The valkyrie. He would see the valkyrie. She might hate him. What room was there for anything else when there was that?
“Gwendolyn,” Oswald whispered again. “Forgive me. Gwendolyn.” He opened his hand. The wind caught the ragged plume, carrying it high over the pass and upwards. He got back underway with a strong leap that carried him to the next ridge, following that small shadow.