[Deaths] the Morrigan
Title: gambit, response
'Verse/characters: Deaths; the Morrigan
Prompt: 31C "denial"
Word Count: 1130
Notes: within the space sketched in escalation. This is gory.
"They're planning something--" Teufeltod tapped at the map, the salt cellar and whetstones he'd used to indicate the ranging of the Council's children. "See how they're ranged?"
She glanced at it, mildly disinterested, because she left the planning to him and always had. Bad things happened when the crows in the back of her head took an interest--legendary things, the kind that led to songs and stories, but they were more than a little rough on the poor bastards who had to live through the events--and it was safer not to plan at all, leave it up to the De'Ath.
Not least because he was good at it. His niece, the First and the Horseman's Son were all leaning forward over the map with him, nodding and exchanging shorthand comments about the Council's planning.
"What would you have us do, then?" his brother's daughter asked in her father's place, and Teufeltod gave her a black grin.
"See if you can get into their command, bring someone or what papers you can carry with you."
She laughed, saluted, went to grab her scythe and the sword she rarely used but carried anyway.
"Gentlemen, lady," Eduard nodded to the First, to Azrael, to her, and she nearly curtseyed in response, "as usual--go and do what you do best."
She let a crow sitting in the tree outside the window give her reply for her, though she grinned through the brief cackle of corvid laughter.
It was a fight they went to. Much as any other in the last month, the Council's children getting older, cannier, more cautious as they whittled away the newly-apprenticed and the foolhardy down to the ones who might have lived to found their own councils, given time.
And a lack of her. The crows laughed with her, circled, pecked at eyes and dodged blades in clouds of dark feathers, gave her shots at bared throats, wrists, arms, let her kick knees, stomp insteps, take advantage of every inch they towered over her and every year they lacked in comparison.
Teufeltod was living up to his name, she thought, and laughed louder at the fear in the children's eyes. They'd forgotten him, or never been told, and more fools them--the De'Aths were an old family, famous for it, and he was the most famous of the ones everyone knew to be alive.
She kicked a girl in the shin, punched the girl's face as it dropped within range, hand wrapped solidly around the handle of her sickle, and heard bone crunch, saw mingled sparks and blood fly. The sound of wings grew stronger in her head, and she blew a mocking kiss to the girl before she made the cut, tore out the first big thread.
A shot rang out, then, loud and close and not a cannon-shot, or a musket, but a pistol. Everyone froze, her included, waiting to see who it was, and if the hole was large enough to stop them.
When she turned and saw Eduard De'Ath on the bloody ground, not moving, she thought at first she'd been shot herself, felt the cold lead in her belly like an unexpected fist. When she tried to whisper "No," nothing came from her lips, because he was down, and not moving--not even breathing, from what she could see.
One of the boys between her and the De'Ath took a step towards him, and this time the denial was a scream, not human language but corvid and goddess and hate, and she put her right hand's blade through the back of his neck as the crows dropped down around them, around him, screaming as loudly as she was.
It had been her and him holding this flank, the First and the smith holding another, Azrael and the others half-visible in the center and his niece going for the reserves and the command.
Which meant if anyone touched him, they meant him nothing but harm.
She caught a glimpse of the pistol-holder through the swirl of bodies, ducking away from a shouting raven, bigger than the crows and angrier, too, and she sent curses his way as she fought her way towards the bo--no, towards her commander, her friend.
You're not allowed to be dead, she was screaming at him in her head, while she screamed at the man with the gun, ducked under a boy's long-armed swipe with a scythe and gutted him with her left hand, shoved him away with her shoulder to drop, blue haze rising from his body. I can't do this without you!
He wasn't fading, not yet, and he was more than old enough to if he was dead and truly so, and she held onto that thought with the fraying remnants of her sanity, the human voice among the crows, among the hate and terror.
She'd just dropped another girl, kicking the body's chest to get it out of the way as it faded when she saw Azrael coalesce out of the tinted fog of the field, his arm already swinging at the pistol-holder's unaware head.
She felt her face split into an inhuman grin at that sight, but couldn't spare voice or attention to crow about it, let the raven sing his praises instead, laugh as he caught the pistol as it fell, put the other bullet through a field-commander's head then tuck it into the back of his belt, take up his sword again.
You're not dead, she thought towards the De'Ath as she punched what looked like an old priest in the face, hard, you can't be.
And then Azrael was there, fading prudently in on the other side of the clearing she was making from her, gave a polite nod of greeting over her physically present head--she wondered briefly if he could actually see her patron, then had to let the thought go, reverse a sickle's arc to catch a blacksmith's arm, tear a new skein free with a white-glowing blade.
One more, than another, then another. Her shoulders were screaming at the work she was putting them through, nearly as loud as the crows--Hell, as she was.
Her right knee began to buckle suddenly, and she looked down to find that the smith had tagged her before he died. She hadn't felt it at all, and didn't still, but cursed anyway, because she didn't have time to tie it off with cloth or sparks.
A crow hit her next victim between the eyes, claws first, and his head snapped back as he flailed. She obligingly spiked the man in his fully exposed neck, pulled it back, then wiped the bloody glowing blade against her leg and hoped the skein would seal.
Couldn't stop now, not with the screaming in her head.
He wasn't dead. Couldn't be.
'Verse/characters: Deaths; the Morrigan
Prompt: 31C "denial"
Word Count: 1130
Notes: within the space sketched in escalation. This is gory.
"They're planning something--" Teufeltod tapped at the map, the salt cellar and whetstones he'd used to indicate the ranging of the Council's children. "See how they're ranged?"
She glanced at it, mildly disinterested, because she left the planning to him and always had. Bad things happened when the crows in the back of her head took an interest--legendary things, the kind that led to songs and stories, but they were more than a little rough on the poor bastards who had to live through the events--and it was safer not to plan at all, leave it up to the De'Ath.
Not least because he was good at it. His niece, the First and the Horseman's Son were all leaning forward over the map with him, nodding and exchanging shorthand comments about the Council's planning.
"What would you have us do, then?" his brother's daughter asked in her father's place, and Teufeltod gave her a black grin.
"See if you can get into their command, bring someone or what papers you can carry with you."
She laughed, saluted, went to grab her scythe and the sword she rarely used but carried anyway.
"Gentlemen, lady," Eduard nodded to the First, to Azrael, to her, and she nearly curtseyed in response, "as usual--go and do what you do best."
She let a crow sitting in the tree outside the window give her reply for her, though she grinned through the brief cackle of corvid laughter.
It was a fight they went to. Much as any other in the last month, the Council's children getting older, cannier, more cautious as they whittled away the newly-apprenticed and the foolhardy down to the ones who might have lived to found their own councils, given time.
And a lack of her. The crows laughed with her, circled, pecked at eyes and dodged blades in clouds of dark feathers, gave her shots at bared throats, wrists, arms, let her kick knees, stomp insteps, take advantage of every inch they towered over her and every year they lacked in comparison.
Teufeltod was living up to his name, she thought, and laughed louder at the fear in the children's eyes. They'd forgotten him, or never been told, and more fools them--the De'Aths were an old family, famous for it, and he was the most famous of the ones everyone knew to be alive.
She kicked a girl in the shin, punched the girl's face as it dropped within range, hand wrapped solidly around the handle of her sickle, and heard bone crunch, saw mingled sparks and blood fly. The sound of wings grew stronger in her head, and she blew a mocking kiss to the girl before she made the cut, tore out the first big thread.
A shot rang out, then, loud and close and not a cannon-shot, or a musket, but a pistol. Everyone froze, her included, waiting to see who it was, and if the hole was large enough to stop them.
When she turned and saw Eduard De'Ath on the bloody ground, not moving, she thought at first she'd been shot herself, felt the cold lead in her belly like an unexpected fist. When she tried to whisper "No," nothing came from her lips, because he was down, and not moving--not even breathing, from what she could see.
One of the boys between her and the De'Ath took a step towards him, and this time the denial was a scream, not human language but corvid and goddess and hate, and she put her right hand's blade through the back of his neck as the crows dropped down around them, around him, screaming as loudly as she was.
It had been her and him holding this flank, the First and the smith holding another, Azrael and the others half-visible in the center and his niece going for the reserves and the command.
Which meant if anyone touched him, they meant him nothing but harm.
She caught a glimpse of the pistol-holder through the swirl of bodies, ducking away from a shouting raven, bigger than the crows and angrier, too, and she sent curses his way as she fought her way towards the bo--no, towards her commander, her friend.
You're not allowed to be dead, she was screaming at him in her head, while she screamed at the man with the gun, ducked under a boy's long-armed swipe with a scythe and gutted him with her left hand, shoved him away with her shoulder to drop, blue haze rising from his body. I can't do this without you!
He wasn't fading, not yet, and he was more than old enough to if he was dead and truly so, and she held onto that thought with the fraying remnants of her sanity, the human voice among the crows, among the hate and terror.
She'd just dropped another girl, kicking the body's chest to get it out of the way as it faded when she saw Azrael coalesce out of the tinted fog of the field, his arm already swinging at the pistol-holder's unaware head.
She felt her face split into an inhuman grin at that sight, but couldn't spare voice or attention to crow about it, let the raven sing his praises instead, laugh as he caught the pistol as it fell, put the other bullet through a field-commander's head then tuck it into the back of his belt, take up his sword again.
You're not dead, she thought towards the De'Ath as she punched what looked like an old priest in the face, hard, you can't be.
And then Azrael was there, fading prudently in on the other side of the clearing she was making from her, gave a polite nod of greeting over her physically present head--she wondered briefly if he could actually see her patron, then had to let the thought go, reverse a sickle's arc to catch a blacksmith's arm, tear a new skein free with a white-glowing blade.
One more, than another, then another. Her shoulders were screaming at the work she was putting them through, nearly as loud as the crows--Hell, as she was.
Her right knee began to buckle suddenly, and she looked down to find that the smith had tagged her before he died. She hadn't felt it at all, and didn't still, but cursed anyway, because she didn't have time to tie it off with cloth or sparks.
A crow hit her next victim between the eyes, claws first, and his head snapped back as he flailed. She obligingly spiked the man in his fully exposed neck, pulled it back, then wiped the bloody glowing blade against her leg and hoped the skein would seal.
Couldn't stop now, not with the screaming in her head.
He wasn't dead. Couldn't be.