breakfastofchampions: (fiorel: thoughts and trouble)
[personal profile] breakfastofchampions
Title: Recurring
Universe: Goldenhour
Characters, pairings: Fiorel, Bertrand
Rating: R
Warnings: Violence, blood, death. Also, quite spoilery for the novel.
Word count: 555
Summary: Fiorel dreams.
Notes: Written for [community profile] origfic_bingo, for the prompt "nightmares".

The man's eyes are blue, dark, and wide as she slides her sword into his body. That is what she is most aware of in that moment: his eyes.

He leans toward her, not away, welcoming the blade. He grasps it, cutting his hands, pulling her closer. She almost loosens her grip on her sword's hilt, something she's never done before.

The sensation of his body shuddering around her blade vibrates up into her wrists. He must be in pain, and she sees that pain in his face as it contorts. He opens his mouth, and a fall of blood pours from it. Yet he can still move forward, taking in more blade, damaging himself further. He's a big man; he can spare more blood than most. The agony twisting his features looks like ecstasy. If not for the blood running down his chin, she would think he was smiling. Maybe he is smiling.

Fiorel thinks he wants to say something. She almost wants to stop him. He doesn't deserve to speak again. Yet she is curious. She wants to know if what he says will add some meaning to what he did, if it will explain how they ended up standing here, on either side of her sword. He does not look away from her as he dies, and she does not look away from him. There is no fear in his expression. There is only pain, and kindness.

His face was always kind.

Then he says them to her, his last words in his bloody mouth as he gazes into her eyes: "You should kill monsters."

Fiorel's body starts. Her eyes open. She sees the warm, familiar darkness of the tent, feels the familiar weight and coolness of Acacia lying beside her. The world is silent, except for the sound of her own breathing, because Acacia does not breathe. Fiorel's breath sounds rough in her throat. It feels rough, too. Her mouth is dry.

She's had that dream so many times. Every time the same, exactly how it had been in life, except reality hadn't ended so abruptly. On that day, she'd watched him bleed out and die. Without the life in him, he had been so much dead weight, heavy and difficult to move. She'd wrenched her sword out of him and walked through his blood.

You should kill monsters.

Those words had answered none of the questions she'd had. He had seemed so happy to say them, and it was likely they had been more for himself than for her.

Fiorel has dreamed that dream so many times, she has little desire to ponder those words. Perhaps he meant to call himself a monster, or perhaps he wanted her to kill other monsters. She once hated the thought that she might have been acting out his wishes all along, but now she is at peace with it. She was acting as she wished, and that is what matters. She kills monsters. That is what she does.

Not that she has never regretted it, the shiver of his body on her blade. Once you know what death is, you regret murder.

Closing her eyes again, Fiorel returns to sleep easily. When you've had a nightmare so many times, it's hardly a nightmare anymore. It starts to become just another dream.
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