Dove And Crow

I died.

I died betrayed.

I died fighting.

A rivulet of hot blood trickled down from a pair of calloused hands, staining the musket gripped tightly within my grasp.

The rough yet distinct soil of the battlefield was a constant reminder that I was not at a place of peace but at war.

A fresh stream of blood stained my unkempt white hair, trickling down onto my dark skin.

Who had slain me?

Enemies, of course, but were they truly my enemies? Why would a mere sixteen-year-old mercenary from Liborn make enemies out of a nation?

No, my true enemies were the ones who had drafted me to this god-forsaken landscape. And yet, I was dying for them, fighting for them…

Fighting for the ones who had taken everything and everyone away.

"It's because you are weak!" The voice of a long-forgotten father broke through my thoughts.

My father.

The one who had left.

The one who I had sworn revenge against, but paradoxically, the one who I was fighting for.

"Hahaha!"

Laughter drowned the heart-wrenching screams in the vicinity as the absurdity of the situation became clear.

Why was I fighting? For what?

But such thoughts only gnawed at the psyche. Death was inevitable; how could pitiful worry stop the inevitable?

Anger roared within, the sweet melancholy of bloodied screams reached my ears, while the smell of sweat flared my nostrils. My hand clutched even tighter, solidifying its grip on the rusty firearm.

"I have held a weapon for so long, I can't even let go," my wavering words were followed by solemn chuckles.

Six years, from the tender age of ten, I had lived on the battlefield, dodging death by a hair more times than I could count.

For six years, war was home, it was the brother I never had, a reliable yet unstable rock. A war, for which even I didn't know the actual cause.

War was a tacky subject, truly a tedious one to ponder over. An individual could fight in one, by force, by pride, by money. Yet no matter the reason, everyone died. Died equally.

All men are not born equal, but all men die equally.

My skin grew numb and cold, but I could still feel the approaching embrace of death. Soot filled my eyes, as blood filled the lungs.

My body recognized the harsh, war-torn ground below. Strength was fading, but the grasp on the sword remained tight.

There was a distant commotion of clanging bayonets mixed with explosions of dynamite; such sounds demanded attention. My mind wandered.

Has war always been this loud?

"It's because you're weak," a distant memory of Father echoed through my cranium once again, like it had many times before.

Most people would feel at ease with the memory of their loving father—I didn't. Maybe it was due to the fact he wasn't all that loving.

The thought of him alone fueled a dark fury within. A single tear made its way through the rage. The tear was cold.

As desirable as revenge was, I couldn't obtain it; I could only remain there, lying in wait.

Waiting for the inevitable.

The inevitable didn't approach; rather, something did. Something vile.

The air became imbued with a palpable density. It was bloodlust, so deep it scraped at the soul.

An audible pair of footsteps was accompanied by the unnerving stench of death. The smell alone caused my nostrils to flare in a way they never had before.

The stench and footsteps only amplified as the figure drew near…

Then I knew…

Though my body was on death's door, I found my grip gaining strength, a strength that could only be attributed to pure anger.

It was a Crow…

Cloaked in an ominous dark robe and donning a bird-like mask with hollow, piercing red eyes, the Crow exuded an eerie, otherworldly presence that chilled the air around him.

The hooded robe concealed much of his face, leaving only his unsettling gaze visible through the plague doctor-esque mask. His long, white hair flowed out from beneath the hood, adding to his enigmatic aura.

A damn Crow.

Thoughts became clouded with rage, a rage secretly laced with terror.

Crows were the godforsaken apostles of Masse, or in other words, the brainwashed executioners of a cult that dominated the Earth.

The same cult I was fighting for, the one that had taken everything.

With a musket gripped tight enough to pierce the skin, with every bit of musterable strength, I lifted my fatally wounded body and aimed at the Crow.

"I don't care what you wretched monsters can do. Come any closer and you're dead." It wasn't the best threat ever uttered, but it had to be said, for it was to protect me rather than him.

It did not speak. It remained motionless.

Maybe due to the pitiful threat or the fact that it could massacre entire armies within the twitch of an eye. But something inside felt as if it had another reason. With a slight gaze into the Crow's eyes, anyone could tell.

The cloaked figure had eyes that I had seen far too often, the eyes of someone who had just lost someone, eyes devoid of human emotion.

My eyes…

For a moment, the relentless grip on the firearm loosened, hands stopped sweating, and racing thoughts soon slowed down.

Was it the fact that we were similar?

The unknown figure brought his face toward mine, its eyes meeting mine, his breath containing the same stench of death his steps had before.

Then it struck, his eyes struck, his piercing gaze. His uncanny ability to alter the atmosphere with a simple blink they all struck gave clarity.

We weren't similar, not in the slightest.

Sure, I could fend for myself on the battlefield, take out a few soldiers here and there. But it still wouldn't amount to him. Not in the slightest.

Within the flap of a wing, a pair of large, unforgiving hands connected with my diaphragm. Somehow death wasn't just approaching, but was rather behind me.

"Gh—" words struggled to escape.

Once more, he didn't speak.

Why isn't he speaking? I scrambled to collect my thoughts. But puzzling thoughts only wasted time and clouded the conscience.

And I found mine quickly leaving.

In a desperate attempt, my hands clawed at him, but internal resources such as strength and speed were already gone. The only organs available were contaminated lungs gasping for air in a futile struggle for survival.

Surrender seemed rational but with the fleeting chance of revenge in sight, it only enraged. The slim chance for vengeance was truly enticing.

Rather than encountering a growing fear, it was anger.

With newfound strength amplified by adrenaline, another escape attempt ensued. This time more promising than the last. Anger soon turned into bitterness as my soot-stained hand approached an undefeatable giant.

He was strong. Too strong.

The man draped in black clothing and a beaked mask only tightened his grasp further. His unconquerable stench clogged the nostrils, blood rushed to the head, and my vision began to fade.

Then I was gone…