Status: Comment if you'd like me to somehow continue this.
She Was Fire, and He Burned
one/one.
It was her face, he later came to learn, her face that he had remembered through all those years. Not the way she had walked (although the whole memory remained intact through his ordeal, just like all the others), or the way her fiery red hair whipped back in the wind as she shifted through bodies littering the battlefield, intent on the only kill she would make during those long four months.
It was her face.
The way the light hit her high cheekbones, creating strong, dark shadows and causing her face to appear sharp and almost lethal, the way her pale lips narrowed into a thin line that was recognized as an action she did when she thought, before splitting into a grin that showed too many teeth to even be considered friendly. The way her blue eyes zeroed in on her target, pupils narrowing with concentration before blowing wide at the excitement and adrenaline that came with blood and death.
Only then did the other factors of the memory come into play in this dangerous scene.
The way she walked, shoulders back and the blade of her long, sharp sword dragging along the ground, the way she held it, as though she had no worries, totally relaxed and in the zone despite the bullets flying around her. The way her feet padded lightly through blood and various body parts, stepping over fingers and arms as though she were stepping over pebbles and fallen branches in the forest, with such casualness and ease that it set nerves on edge and hearts skipping. The way her hair whipped about, caught in the maelstrom of war and casting her head in a fiery halo, appearing to ripple about her like blood. It would have hung down to the middle of her back had it not been so windy, he recalled distantly as he worked through the memory, in thick, luscious waves that girls had dreamed of. Only now it was strung out, making her look wild, like a Faerie child that had succombed to bloodlust.
He knew her victim was doomed the moment she stepped past the safety of the borders. She seemed so calm, so sure of herself and her blade despite the modern technology around her. Sure of her life, of her prey’s death, of the stars that had aligned the night before (you remember her murmuring something about it being time as you and your crew gazed up towards the weird anomaly the night prior).
What he also knew was that he was her victim.
It had become clearer on the battlefield, the way she had watched him the day they rescued her from the no-man zone in the middle of the bloody field, and continued to watch him for the three and a half months they had protected her. She spoke little to anyone, although she made it clear that she understood English, and could speak it fluently. She practiced with her sword against the poor trees that littered through the base camp, cutting deep gouges into the strong wood as though it was butter, and afterwards would always, always catch his gaze as she walked away, looking smug as she strutted to the sounds of the tree finally giving away and falling. Some whispered that she wasn't human, wasn’t of this time, or even of this century.
Slurred stories of a woman born from fire, born to kill, an assassin for hire with the heart of coal, hair the color of fire and movements like ash in the wind. A woman who could always return from death as though nothing had gone wrong, a phoenix in human form. The woman was nothing but a legend, they'd say after, reassuring themselves, she was some folklore created from the Indians that they had found just as they had arrived on this land. They brushed the words off like old dust, moving past the lore by morning and pushing it back in their minds.
It wasn't real.
It wasn't real.
And then, of course, because this strange woman was the only one in the camp, it happened.
With her voluptuous curves and graceful, sure movements, she had been a target since she had set foot in the camp. But of course it was him that caught her fancy. Of course it was, he realized much later, it had to be.
And it was after she shared a night of intimacy with him that he started to notice things. Dangerous things, things that warned him of danger.
The way she snuck out of his tent when she assumed he was asleep, the way she always glanced into the trees, a flitter of sadness passing over her features, the way she always watched him practice with weapons, in hand-to-hand combat, in stealth.
She was slowly learning about him, his strengths, his weaknesses. How he favored his left side when attacking with hands, how he seemed to forget about the world around him when he looked into the focus of a gun. How his anxiety peaked during stealthy moves. She watched all of these things, nodding to herself during one of his failures, making a small grimace when he succeeded.
And that was why he broke it off. Two weeks, she spent watching him, both inside his tent, and out.
And now, not even a week after that, she was here.
And he watched her come towards him, that toothy grin (pointed teeth, all with tiny serrated edges he’d notice later) tugging at her cheeks, sword out and completely at ease among the destruction around her.
She was fire, and fire burned. Her betrayal burned through his heart as she raised her sword to his chest, knowing that he was in too much shock to properly fight back. Her eyes burned into his as she watched his emotions pass over his face, and then continued to watch as she pushed her blade clean through his chest, taking him to the ground and lodging her weapon in the dirt below. The wound burned once she pulled the sword free. His tears burned as they slid down his cheeks.
She was fire, and fire burned.
He just happened to died in the process.
And so he sat back in the midst of this memory of a field, watching his death be replayed before him and resting his chin on his knee.
And then he remembered one last thing.
Her name was Phoenix.
It was her face.
The way the light hit her high cheekbones, creating strong, dark shadows and causing her face to appear sharp and almost lethal, the way her pale lips narrowed into a thin line that was recognized as an action she did when she thought, before splitting into a grin that showed too many teeth to even be considered friendly. The way her blue eyes zeroed in on her target, pupils narrowing with concentration before blowing wide at the excitement and adrenaline that came with blood and death.
Only then did the other factors of the memory come into play in this dangerous scene.
The way she walked, shoulders back and the blade of her long, sharp sword dragging along the ground, the way she held it, as though she had no worries, totally relaxed and in the zone despite the bullets flying around her. The way her feet padded lightly through blood and various body parts, stepping over fingers and arms as though she were stepping over pebbles and fallen branches in the forest, with such casualness and ease that it set nerves on edge and hearts skipping. The way her hair whipped about, caught in the maelstrom of war and casting her head in a fiery halo, appearing to ripple about her like blood. It would have hung down to the middle of her back had it not been so windy, he recalled distantly as he worked through the memory, in thick, luscious waves that girls had dreamed of. Only now it was strung out, making her look wild, like a Faerie child that had succombed to bloodlust.
He knew her victim was doomed the moment she stepped past the safety of the borders. She seemed so calm, so sure of herself and her blade despite the modern technology around her. Sure of her life, of her prey’s death, of the stars that had aligned the night before (you remember her murmuring something about it being time as you and your crew gazed up towards the weird anomaly the night prior).
What he also knew was that he was her victim.
It had become clearer on the battlefield, the way she had watched him the day they rescued her from the no-man zone in the middle of the bloody field, and continued to watch him for the three and a half months they had protected her. She spoke little to anyone, although she made it clear that she understood English, and could speak it fluently. She practiced with her sword against the poor trees that littered through the base camp, cutting deep gouges into the strong wood as though it was butter, and afterwards would always, always catch his gaze as she walked away, looking smug as she strutted to the sounds of the tree finally giving away and falling. Some whispered that she wasn't human, wasn’t of this time, or even of this century.
Slurred stories of a woman born from fire, born to kill, an assassin for hire with the heart of coal, hair the color of fire and movements like ash in the wind. A woman who could always return from death as though nothing had gone wrong, a phoenix in human form. The woman was nothing but a legend, they'd say after, reassuring themselves, she was some folklore created from the Indians that they had found just as they had arrived on this land. They brushed the words off like old dust, moving past the lore by morning and pushing it back in their minds.
It wasn't real.
It wasn't real.
And then, of course, because this strange woman was the only one in the camp, it happened.
With her voluptuous curves and graceful, sure movements, she had been a target since she had set foot in the camp. But of course it was him that caught her fancy. Of course it was, he realized much later, it had to be.
And it was after she shared a night of intimacy with him that he started to notice things. Dangerous things, things that warned him of danger.
The way she snuck out of his tent when she assumed he was asleep, the way she always glanced into the trees, a flitter of sadness passing over her features, the way she always watched him practice with weapons, in hand-to-hand combat, in stealth.
She was slowly learning about him, his strengths, his weaknesses. How he favored his left side when attacking with hands, how he seemed to forget about the world around him when he looked into the focus of a gun. How his anxiety peaked during stealthy moves. She watched all of these things, nodding to herself during one of his failures, making a small grimace when he succeeded.
And that was why he broke it off. Two weeks, she spent watching him, both inside his tent, and out.
And now, not even a week after that, she was here.
And he watched her come towards him, that toothy grin (pointed teeth, all with tiny serrated edges he’d notice later) tugging at her cheeks, sword out and completely at ease among the destruction around her.
She was fire, and fire burned. Her betrayal burned through his heart as she raised her sword to his chest, knowing that he was in too much shock to properly fight back. Her eyes burned into his as she watched his emotions pass over his face, and then continued to watch as she pushed her blade clean through his chest, taking him to the ground and lodging her weapon in the dirt below. The wound burned once she pulled the sword free. His tears burned as they slid down his cheeks.
She was fire, and fire burned.
He just happened to died in the process.
And so he sat back in the midst of this memory of a field, watching his death be replayed before him and resting his chin on his knee.
And then he remembered one last thing.
Her name was Phoenix.
♠ ♠ ♠
So, comment if you'd like me to try and turn this into something. C:I'm new to this, so please forgive any mistakes in the chapter. This was a late-night drabble I did while listening to [link=http://www.yourepeat.com/watch/?v=VMWglkrjXZs&start_at=0&end_at=252]this[/link] song, at 1am. XD