The Weight of a Weapon, the Weight of a Soul

"Rejoice. It's been quite a while since someone's pushed me this far," Artemis states.

Hannibal's eyes narrow, studying his opponent's new-found weapon. A golden quiver, slightly shorter than the arrows, rigid and unfit for combat. Yet something is off about it. The quiver's shape is unlike anything Hannibal has ever seen! It's too straight, and its edges are so sharp they make it look more like a flat-ended spatha than anything! The sight of it alone makes the general's hair stand on end as he raises his own sword in anticipation. Deep inside, he's realised it already. If he gets hit with that, it's over!

Artemis takes a few steps forward, swinging the weapon around as if to get accustomed to its weight and length. She's lost quite a lot of blood, and her movements are much slower now. However, Hannibal isn't looking too hot either. His legs shake as he follows the goddess' example sans attacking the air. They are both weary, but, at this point, he stands no chance of winning a battle of attrition. Yes. The next moments will decide the fate of the battle, and the two fighters are aware of that!

As soon as they both get in range, Artemis delivers a swift vertical slash. The air reverberates with a grating whistle as the goddess' quiver comes crashing down. Hannibal braces himself, striking upwards with his falcata. Instead of trying to block the attack like he did before, he uses both hands right away, aiming to cut the quiver straight in half!

Artemis' weapon and the blade of air collide with a deafening roar, and the audience grimaces. Hannibal's knees creak under the weight of the blow. The goddess' motions were identical to those of her last attack, but the force behind this one is on another level. His jaw tightens as the quiver mercilessly pushes down on the sword. The realization comes to him in a flash. Not even the Völundr's enhancement can cut through the divine weapon. An unbreakable weapon equipped with an edge sharp enough to effortlessly cut him in half! That's what he has to overcome!

"You really are cheating," the general says bitterly.

"And you haven't seen anything yet."

As if empowered by the deity's words, the quiver moves ever so slightly. And then it moves again. And again. Constantly drawing closer to Hannibal' sword, the weapon slowly advances through the invisible force surrounding it, until…

Whoosh!

With a desperate howl, the quiver dispels the enchantment and clashed against the now unprotected falcata. A triumphant grin splits Artemis' lips as her weapon slams into Hannibal's. A loud crack ruptures the air, and a tiny fissure appears on the general's sword. Hannibal's eyes go round. Every fibre of his body screams with pain as he fruitlessly tries to push the goddess back. More and more sad crackles leave the blade, as if the Valkyrie herself is crying…

"A little more damage than I expected, eh?" Hannibal remarks sourly, dropping to one knee.

With the sword slightly out of the way, the quiver slides off towards Hannibal. It cuts through the air at a dangerously fast pace, but, just as it's about to slice his shoulder, it inexplicably loses all momentum!

Artemis hesitates for a split second, and Hannibal doesn't miss the opportunity to put some distance between him and the goddess. Dust rises up as he kicks the ground, and another jolt of pain runs through his body. The arrow lodged in his chest is becoming a nuisance, but he can't do anything about it. No. That arrow…

"Maybe it's time I do something about it," Hannibal mutters.

He glances at the damaged sword as a feeling of dread sweeps over him. He's on his last legs, and the goddess probably knows it already. She will probably attack soon. Yet, in this desperate situation, he is even calmer than he was before the beginning of the fight. In this desperate situation, an odd tranquillity overtakes him… and memories of a certain night spring to his mind.

***

Before his courageous march through the Alps even began, a great number of challenges hindered Hannibal's journey. Amidst the many perilous situations was the crossing of a certain river called Rhône.

"We might have a problem, sir," Hanno, a Carthaginian officer called out.

"What is it? We've just set camp."

"The Gauls are gathering on the Eastern bank, sir. We cannot prepare for crossing, sir."

A deep sigh left Hannibal's lips, and only then did he realise how cold the night air was. He'd already lost so many good men. The ones still at his side were tired and hungry. Yet he had no chance but to order them to fight. Again.

Hannibal didn't respond right away, signalling Hanno to take a seat instead. The man stared in disbelief for a few moments before sitting down next to the general. His gaze was fixed on the heavens, and his body was eerily still.

"What are you looking at, sir?"

"The Moon," Hannibal said absent-mindedly. "Up there in the sky, reigning over the night… It looks so peaceful, don't you think?"

"It does indeed, sir," Hanno replied with a smile. "I do apologise if this comes off as inappropriate, sir, but have you grown weary of fighting?"

The general smirked. Weary… He felt like that word was too weak to describe all of his conflicting feelings. Yet he pondered the question for a bit, and told him, "Yes, perhaps I have. Take a look at our soldiers, officer. They're bravely facing battle after battle for the sake of our homeland, but deep inside, they all wish this hell would be over soon."

Hanno scratched the back of his head with a confused expression plastered across his face.

"You know, those Roman bastards say that the Moon is actually a goddess. Stupid, right?" Hannibal mentioned with a short laugh. "Diana. That's what they call her. The almighty goddess of the Moon and the hunt. Supposedly, she shines brightly during the night, showing travellers the way, and protects the righteous Roman warriors during their hunts. Such convenient lies they tell themselves… But I've always found it contradictory."

"Which part, sir?" the officer inquired in a shaky voice. It was rather rare to hear the general speak so mildly of their sworn enemies.

"How could a supposed goddess that commands this peaceful Moon be so eager to watch the gory displays that are hunts? No, those bastards don't care about any god or goddess. They just want to believe that someone's watching over them, ready to go to their aid at any time." Hannibal paused briefly, his smirk fading. "They want heroes, officer. Just like our men, they are waiting for someone to save them."

Hanno rubbed his hands together in a feeble attempt to warm them. He could hear a group of soldiers arguing behind them, and the noise annoyed him more than it should have. After a speech like that, he was unsure what to say.

"In that case, sir," he started after a while. "Aren't you a hero too?"

"Me? I'm no hero," Hannibal said promptly. His tone was cold, and his fists clenched hard enough to turn his knuckles white. "Many have died because of me, both allies and enemies. The hands of a hero are never stained with blood," he added.

"I don't know, sir… But to me, you will always be a hero. And excuse my boldness, but I think any of these men would say the same." Hanno pointed towards the camp. "We're all here today thanks to you. I pray you won't forget that, sir."

***

"I think I've finally figured it out, Hanno."

Hannibal's lips curl into a smile. He doesn't know why he recalled such a specific event, but he's glad he did. One glance towards the audience is enough to make him understand.

"We're all here today thanks to you," Hanno mouths, saluting the general.

"I'm sorry, but I can't let everyone down just yet," Hannibal says, his fingers curling around the falcata's blade. A drop of blood runs down the sword, and another small fragment falls off. "I've heard your voice. Now please listen to mine."

With those words, his muscles stiffen. For one second, he looks like he's about to attack the goddess. However, Hannibal turns around and raises his hand above his head! A cold sweat breaks out on his forehead as he throws the weapon towards the spectators!

"Undo that Völundr thing, Kára!" the general yells at the top of his lungs. "You've fulfilled your role!"

The green light fills the arena once again almost immediately, its source rapidly approaching the Carthaginian soldiers.

"What are you doing, fools? That order was as much for you as it was for the Valkyrie! Help the girl, you imbeciles!" Hamilcar roars.

The warriors line up as orderly as the tight space allows them to, extending their hands towards the blinding light. What follows is a soft sound, followed by multiple sighs of relief. The light dies down… and there she is. The soldiers gently lower Kára to the ground. Her short blonde hair is smeared with blood, and she's covered in bruises, but she's still breathing.

"She needs medical aid right now," Scipio tells them, biting one of his nails. "Find someone, anyone. So this was Hannibal's will after all..."

"He chose to save Kára?" Herfjötur whispers faintly, watching some of the Carthaginians desperately run towards her. "No, it doesn't make sense. Why would that man choose to…" she says, but the tears of joy in her eyes steal her voice.