FE7 - drabble: "dreaming in supply lines and weapons triangles", gen-ish, PG
Can't help this feeling, like the world's lost all of its color. Too bad, so sad, dilly dally shilly shally.
Here, have some sloppy on-the-spot FE drabble. :<
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The sun beats down overhead, muffled by the thin clouds always over Valor. Cirrus, Canas calls them. Between nocked and fired arrows, each finding their marks with deadly accuracy, Rebecca calls them mare's tails. Nino calls it a furry sky right before she rattles off an Elfire incantation from memory, not looking at the pages burning up one by one in her tome.
The sun is not as strong on Valor as it is Nabata, or even in Sacae. Bern too had its days of harsher sun. Guy blows his bangs out of his eyes and falls into the familiar pattern of ducking and weaving, of attacking and falling back, of never straying far from Matthew's side as they carve a bloody wedge into the enemy lines. The tactician shouts orders over the din of battle, redirects their people to one side or another, reinforces the weak points in their lines. The enemy comes in a deluge of steel and magic.
Guy finds himself down to the last few uses of his iron sword, back to back with Matthew whose remaining weapon is in even worse shape, surrounded by cavaliers. Half of them are lance wielders. They put up a fight, at least; most of their enemies can't land a hit. The hits that do land hurt.
Matthew succumbs first, sagging behind him with a lance through his chest and blood seeping from his mouth. His dying whisper sounds like "Leila" but Guy can't tell, woozy from blood loss and still stubbornly fighting. With Matthew dead, though, his limbs feel suddenly heavier and the enemy closes in. He lands one last hit on the cavalier in front of him and slays him, sword shattering in his hand; another jumps his horse over his fallen ally to slam a lance home.
“I will be… the best… swordsman in all of Sacae,” Guy croaks, choking on his blood halfway through. The words are garbled at best. Death is something else, though. It is silly, he thinks, to miss Matthew when he hadn't been dead more than two minutes, silly to miss him when he will be joining him soon anyway. He only wished that the sun could be a little stronger; he felt so cold suddenly. If only the sun were stronger... he could close his eyes and pretend he died in Sacae-
The tactician jerked awake and swore before realizing it had been a dream. Only a dream, only a dream. Dreams could be reset, dreams could be rewritten. Dreams didn't leave names in a death roll marked ominously in the log book.
Dreams could leave sad afterimages, though, of comrades in arms who fell together; the gut-wrenching false memories of crumpled bodies wearing familiar faces. The tactician swallowed and hurried out to check on the army.
Here, have some sloppy on-the-spot FE drabble. :<
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The sun beats down overhead, muffled by the thin clouds always over Valor. Cirrus, Canas calls them. Between nocked and fired arrows, each finding their marks with deadly accuracy, Rebecca calls them mare's tails. Nino calls it a furry sky right before she rattles off an Elfire incantation from memory, not looking at the pages burning up one by one in her tome.
The sun is not as strong on Valor as it is Nabata, or even in Sacae. Bern too had its days of harsher sun. Guy blows his bangs out of his eyes and falls into the familiar pattern of ducking and weaving, of attacking and falling back, of never straying far from Matthew's side as they carve a bloody wedge into the enemy lines. The tactician shouts orders over the din of battle, redirects their people to one side or another, reinforces the weak points in their lines. The enemy comes in a deluge of steel and magic.
Guy finds himself down to the last few uses of his iron sword, back to back with Matthew whose remaining weapon is in even worse shape, surrounded by cavaliers. Half of them are lance wielders. They put up a fight, at least; most of their enemies can't land a hit. The hits that do land hurt.
Matthew succumbs first, sagging behind him with a lance through his chest and blood seeping from his mouth. His dying whisper sounds like "Leila" but Guy can't tell, woozy from blood loss and still stubbornly fighting. With Matthew dead, though, his limbs feel suddenly heavier and the enemy closes in. He lands one last hit on the cavalier in front of him and slays him, sword shattering in his hand; another jumps his horse over his fallen ally to slam a lance home.
“I will be… the best… swordsman in all of Sacae,” Guy croaks, choking on his blood halfway through. The words are garbled at best. Death is something else, though. It is silly, he thinks, to miss Matthew when he hadn't been dead more than two minutes, silly to miss him when he will be joining him soon anyway. He only wished that the sun could be a little stronger; he felt so cold suddenly. If only the sun were stronger... he could close his eyes and pretend he died in Sacae-
The tactician jerked awake and swore before realizing it had been a dream. Only a dream, only a dream. Dreams could be reset, dreams could be rewritten. Dreams didn't leave names in a death roll marked ominously in the log book.
Dreams could leave sad afterimages, though, of comrades in arms who fell together; the gut-wrenching false memories of crumpled bodies wearing familiar faces. The tactician swallowed and hurried out to check on the army.