- 35
- Posts
- 14
- Years
- Seen Jul 3, 2011
Rated T for mild violence, but really, I'm sure you've seen worse.
It was a good day for a war.
The grass was lush and wet beneath his scales, tickling his belly as he slid along with the rest of his pack. He barely noticed it.
The breeze was cool and refreshing against her fur, and she inhaled deeply as she strode forward. The others, her fellow soldiers, did not. She walked with them.
His eyes, glinting red and black, did not leave the field before him – or the army of Zangoose approaching the other end. And an army it certainly was, he thought, his tongue flicking nervously in his mouth.
Her ears pricked upward in anxiety of what was to come – anxiety, and no small amount of fear. The Sevipers gathering in the battlefield across from them were great in number. Greater, certainly, than she had imagined.
The packs gathered on opposite ends of the field, each standing utterly still, watching each other intently. Hatefully.
There was a pause.
They would fight, certainly. But first they would wait.
The whole formality struck him as ironic, mostly; one moment they were organized, civilized, willing to respect the traditions of the frequent battles that occurred between their two races.
The next moment, she thought, they would be at each other throats, claws extended, fangs bared, searching for flesh to tear into or scales to cleave open.
In minutes, he realized, his heart sinking, hundreds of Pokemon either side would be dead.
Hopefully, she hoped, begged, she would not be one of them.
A cold wind blew past. A collective shudder shot through all creatures in the area, snakes and mongooses alike.
Why did they fight? He wondered again. His eyes narrowed for a second.
It made no sense. She bit her lip, careful not to let the comrades surrounding her notice.
He turned to look at the Seviper beside him. He did not recognize him, but that look in the other snake's eye was unmistakable. A glint. A spark he knew – one of sheer loathing. Why it was there in the first place, he did not know.
She glanced at the faces of the Zangoose lined up beside her. Their arms positively trembled with eagerness, and their lips were drawn thin over their canines. They clearly wanted to fight. But did she?
The time was coming.
He straightened himself, pointing his gaze straight ahead once more. He blinked once, twice. He was scared.
She extended her claws and trembled. Half-heartedly, she imitated the half-growled expression the others so fervently sported.
He would murder.
She would kill.
Why?
In self-defence? Hundreds of Zangoose across the field from him were perfectly willing to end his life in cold blood. To even hope to survive, how could he do anything but the same?
To fulfill her obligations? To fulfill the expectation that she would fight the endless war with the Sevipers? To help destroy the species that was supposedly the bane of her own's existence?
To make good on the promises he'd made? The teachings he'd grown up on?
To follow her destiny? As a warrior, as a soldier? As a Zangoose?
No.
They fought because of hatred.
Simple, simple hatred.
The hatred that belonged to their kind, but not to them.
Hatred he had never felt.
Hatred she had never known.
Still, they would fight.
They readied themselves.
…
A scream, distinct only to Zangoose ears.
A cry, understood only by Sevipers.
A roar, universal in meaning. A signal.
There came the sound of grass being parted and trampled underfoot as the first charge swept forward,
swift over the waterlogged battlefield. Battle cries filled the air. Flashes of white and red, of black and gold darted along the sea of green.
The first rows met. The Zangoose leapt, horrific shrieks escaping their lips, black claws swiping. The Sevipers spun, hissing and spitting, fangs glistening in the muted sunlight.
He charged, swept up and pushed forward by the tide of writhing bodies.
She charged, buoyed by the adrenaline – and her horror.
Suddenly, a still, a momentary hush.
All creatures on the battleground, snake or mongoose, smelled it. The stench of the first kill.
He did not know who it was. What it was.
She knew it did not matter.
He could sense it, an immediate thickening of the atmosphere, as the distinctive aura of death descended upon the land and the combatants' hearts.
She thought she glanced it, the drops of blood, the single pool of crimson staining the emerald grass. It was so… red.
The shiver, the break in the action, was brief. The fighting resumed quickly and brutally. After all, it was just one death.
But it was, he knew, so much more than that.
She had fought before, and she knew there was always one. A death that broke the floodgates.
There was no turning back the tide now. Many more were to come. Many, many more.
The battle raged on. Duels began and ended. More fell on either side. Blood flowed freely, spurting grotesquely from punctured sides and slashed chests.
He found himself stranded, dances of death and fury spinning wildly around him, trapping him in.
Around her, comrades and enemies paired up and squared off, tails stabbing and claws striking.
A Zangoose appeared before him, a mocking grin plastered on its face.
A Seviper slipped its way behind her. She turned, and caught a glimpse of its malicious glare.
So I will fight, he thought grimly.
She had dreaded this moment.
Another two duels joined the war.
He sized up his opponent. A male, scarred. Probably experienced. He moved slowly in wide circles around the mongoose. It did the same.
She took a step back. The Seviper, a girl, was young. But it was silent, and probably fast. She stood her ground, eyeing the snake with caution.
They waited. There would be no strikes until an opening appeared, be it a lapse in confidence, or a loss of concentration, however brief. An opportunity.
It came first for him. He lunged, aiming his knife-like tail straight for the mongoose's heart. Better to make it quick.
The Seviper struck first. She saw the attack coming and dodged it just in time, her opponent's fangs barely missing her neck. If she had mistimed by just by a second…
His opponent flung himself out of the way. A streak of red painted itself across the Zangoose's shoulder. It thrust his lethal claws right at him, nicking him across the belly. He winced in pain.
The Seviper she faced was certainly fast. She found herself sidestepping and evading more than attacking in return. But she bided her time. Her opponent was clearly new to battling, and would soon tire itself out.
The Zangoose stabbed at him again, this time ripping the layer of scales that shielded his side. Ignoring the pain, he swung his tail back towards his attacker, this time slicing him hard beneath the knee.
She kept her eyes wide open, tracing the sinewy movements of the Seviper before her. It drew itself up for another lunge, but before it could she jumped and kicked it to the ground, her clawed toes punching bloody holes into the snake's body.
The Zangoose swayed, stumbled, then fell on one knee. But the white Pokemon was soon up again, despite the blood pooling around his feet. He opened his mouth, baring his long, red fangs.
The injured Seviper gasped in agony, then collapsed on the ground. The wounds weren't deep, but they sure would hurt like hell. She walked towards it, her mind numb.
Another leap from the Zangoose. He matched the leap, swishing and turning in mid-air, and when he dropped his head his fangs parted skin and flesh.
A tail coiled around her leg, and she fell hard. The Seviper shot over her, opening its fanged mouth. She swung out an arm blindly, panicking.
He fell on the ground, the dying Zangoose pinned under him. He kept his fangs plunged in the mongoose's back, holding on sorrowfully until its final, agnonized struggles finally died away.
She felt her claw pierce scale, penetrate muscle and lodge in bone. A spray of blood splashed across her white fur. The snake fell on top of her. It twitched desperately but uselessly, its red eyes horrified and wild. Then, no more.
A moment passed; an eternity in a second.
His opponent lay still, unmoving.
Her opponent lay cold, silent.
Dead.
Slowly, he pulled his fangs from the Zangoose, the salty, coppery flavour of blood powerful in his mouth.
He spat instinctively, then coughed as hard as he could, trying to force the taste from deep within his throat.
She pushed away from beneath the Seviper's corpse, letting it slump motionlessly onto the grass beside her. Its eyes were still open, terrified, but still and cold like polished marble. She turned away, unable to look.
He gasped for air, his mind tortured.
She buried her face on her hands, ignoring the bloodshed around her.
He had killed.
She had killed.
Another moment passed. Another eternity.
When he looked up, his eyes were determined, fierce. He uncoiled himself and hissed at no one in particular, then darted back into the battle, barely feeling the blades of grass that tore against his open wounds.
When she looked up, her expression was grim, her lips drawn tight. She hoisted herself onto her feet and wiped her bloodied claws on the grass. Her body ached with cuts and bruises, but they did not mean a thing to her.
The war was beckoning to them both. There was no turning back now.
The first kill was, after all, always the hardest.
…
The battle raged on.
Beneath the shade of the trees and clouds, blood continued to spill and lives continued to end. The clash dragged on slowly, gruelingly, and hours later barely fifty stood on the field where hundreds had gathered in the light of dawn.
He was still alive, against all odds. Gashes adorned his wretched form and his dented scales glistened red, but fresh air, stale with the odour of death, still filled his lungs, breath after ragged breath.
She had survived, miraculously. Her arms were heavily from exhaustion and her eyelids drooped low over her tortured eyes, but her heart still beat, thumping rhythmically, strongly inside her chest.
Fights were rare now, and inevitably slowed by the weariness descending upon the duelists' bones. But the ferocity remained, and as long as the fire of hatred within the Pokemon's minds burned, so would they.
He slid along the battlefield, ready for another fight.
She dashed back into the fray, though she loathed the thought.
He didn't want to fight now, not anymore than he had so many hours ago.
But did it matter what she wanted? The battle had consumed everyone trapped within it; the first blood had been spilt.
He couldn't turn back. He had no choice. Right now, right then, the war was the only thing that mattered. The war, and the brutal, sadistic need which it birthed.
The need to continue her mission.
To pierce with fang…
To rip with claw.
There would be no other way.
…
It was gruesome.
The tide of the battle was ebbing slowly away, leaving a sea of corpses and blood in its morbid wake.
The bodies of slain Zangoose and Sevipers alike littered the once-pristine field. A timid breeze swept the area, mixing its welcome gasp of pine and perfume with the stench of death that hung low in the air like an endless, repulsive smog.
Few were left. The symphony of clashing blades and snapping bones had long past its crescendo, but still it continued to play, albeit softer and less intently.
Another enemy fell to his bite.
Another enemy fell to her slash.
He was tired, exhausted, even.
She wanted to run. Find somewhere to nurse her wounds, and cry.
But how he even consider such a thing?
She would suffer for fleeing the battle. There would be questions to answer, repercussions, both societal and physical, to account for. Repercussions that would haunt her if she stopped fighting while any Seviper yet breathed.
He had to fight.
She had to stay.
…
Another fight.
Another enemy.
He sized her up, as was the standard battle procedure.
She eyed him, careful and apprehensive as always.
A female Zangoose, of average size and didn't look too intimidating, though she was covered in blood, most of which, he suspected, didn't belong to her.
A male Seviper. He was young, but had clearly fought many a battle before; old scars adorned his body, and fresh ones were not in lacking either. He would be tough.
But… something was different about her, he knew.
She couldn't place what it was.
He slid around her, staring into her eyes.
She circled him slowly, staring into his.
A moment, an eternity.
The heat of the battle, its reality of bloodshed and violence – in an instant, all of it suddenly seemed far, far away.
He saw something strange in her gaze. In her slumped shoulders, in her world-weary expression.
She saw something foreign in his manner. His hesitant movements belay an old, old soul.
It was unmistakable.
It was impossible.
He saw no hatred.
She saw no fury.
He saw remorse.
She saw turmoil.
No, he thought, his mind reeling. He was wrong. It… it couldn't be.
Her enemies were animals, incapable of emotion or sympathy or kindness or desire, save the desire to fight. To murder.
That was what he had been taught. What he had grown up on, the fundamental teaching that had been to shape him, to mould his mind.
To make her hate. To make her become angry, furious, to make her want nothing but revenge from the Sevipers for an injustice she herself did not know of.
But in his eyes…
But in her eyes…
He stopped moving, standing his ground. His gaze never left her for a second.
She, too, stopped, her form still, her eyes wide.
No words were spoken between them, but it was like entire lifetimes of conversations and moments and shared experiences flittered between them in those few, silent seconds.
He saw in this strange, strange creature something he had never seen before, not even from his own race.
She saw a kindred spirit, a Pokemon plagued by the same doubts, the same questions, the same guilt as her.
He suddenly knew. Knew that this Zangoose, this mortal enemy before him, was the only Pokemon on the planet who would ever understand the way he felt.
The knowledge pained her, but at the same time thrilled her.
With just a glance, a simple connection of their eyes, they knew with all their weary hearts that they had found someone.
Someone who's waking hours and dreams alike weren't filled with cravings for blood…
Someone who realized the futility of it all, who wanted peace while others wanted violence…
Someone who wanted out.
Someone who wanted to run; to run so far away from it all.
Like him.
Like her.
He gasped in amazement. In excitement.
She inhaled sharply, a single tear dampening her cheek.
He made a tentative movement towards her.
She did the same.
There was the sound of silence, save that of gentle breezes rustling leaves high above their heads.
He didn't speak her language. He couldn't tell her.
But, she knew, she didn't need too. He understood.
Another slide forward.
Another step ahead.
Then, suddenly, he stopped. He drew back, averting his gaze.
She stumbled backwards, away from him.
He realized.
She understood.
He looked at her, his expression tortured.
Her eyes fell. She felt pain, pain that cut far deeper than the mere superficial wounds on her flesh.
He couldn't.
She mustn't.
He wanted to flee, to escape, to be forever rid of the horrible, horrible burden he bore: the expectation that he would kill. He wanted to run. He wanted to run, but only with someone who felt the same way as he did. Someone who could give him strength when he was weak, to reassure him when he was scared. A confidant, a guardian. A friend.
But it was impossible. She could never experience that joy. Never while her fur yet remained white, or while her jagged stripes flashed red. Never while claws yet adorned her palms, or while teeth grew in her mouth. Never while she was a Zangoose. Never while she lived.
The war had claimed them. Both of them. The hatred burning in his race's heart had not engulfed him, but it had burned him. It had scarred him forever.
She couldn't explain it. She didn't hate him. She never would. But she could not be with him. There was only one thing she could do. One thing she had been trained to do.
He looked at her again, his red eyes desperate but resigned.
She looked up at him, wanting so much to cry.
He assumed his regular battle pose, back upright and razor tail raised half-heartedly behind him.
She planted her feet firmly on the ground, extending her shaking claws before her.
Despite everything, their entire relationship would ultimately amount to no more than a single duel, just like the hundreds that had tainted the battlefield for the better part of the day, and like the millions that had tainted their kinds' histories for hundreds of years. They would fight. One of them would emerge victorious, and the other would die.
The field was an open, unbounded arena, but there would be no escaping its walls. There was no other way.
If only, he wished, there was.
If only, she yearned, there was.
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry.
They flew at each other, battle cries escaping their lips, louder than they had ever known possible.
It was a duel they both had to win.
It was a duel neither wanted to.
They spun and danced as they traded blows, dodging and swiping and swinging and leaping in a warped, deadly waltz.
He knew that if he won, he would regret it for the rest of his life.
She knew that if she won, she would never forgive herself.
Nonetheless they fought to win, their kinetic figures framed forever by the glow of the setting sun. Even the trees seemed to bow down, awed by the sheer ferocity, the sheer beauty of their relentless strikes.
They strung attacks and counterattacks with a grace and understanding unlike any other, choreographing an elaborate ballet, telling a tale of a romance so sweeping and eternal that would stay with the survivor for the rest of his or her wretched life.
A tale which would, inevitably, draw to an end.
And finally, it did.
There was blood, and that was all.
Far away, the sound of a cawing bird.
A fitting curtain call.
…
Dusk settled upon the land.
The clearing was a gruesome, horrifying mess, full of trampled grass and pooling blood, already beginning to rot in the humid air. Countless corpses of both snakes and mongooses, undistinguishable in the dim moonlight, lay scattered across it, and no living soul remained to clear them away. A small, lucky few who had gathered so many hours earlier had managed to return home to nurse their wounds. Most had not.
There had been a winner, of course. Every battle, every conflict, every war had a winner, even if winning amounted to no more than having more of your kind surviving at the end of the day.
But no one knew who that winner was. And any unfortunate soul who bore witness to the carnage could be forgiven for believing there wasn't one.
Ultimately, it didn't matter.
This war wasn't about keeping scores; about counting victories or ruing losses of individual clashes. A single battle meant nothing. Deaths, sacrifices would be commemorated, respected, and eventually forgotten.
Forgotten simply because there were too many to remember.
Too many to keep.
And there would be many, many more.
He had known.
She had known.
But had anyone else?
...
Wrote this as a bit of an experiment for a slightly different narrative structure. My main concern is whether or not the story itself flowed well; I was worried about that at first, but I think it turned out mostly alright.
Comments?
If Only
It was a good day for a war.
The grass was lush and wet beneath his scales, tickling his belly as he slid along with the rest of his pack. He barely noticed it.
The breeze was cool and refreshing against her fur, and she inhaled deeply as she strode forward. The others, her fellow soldiers, did not. She walked with them.
His eyes, glinting red and black, did not leave the field before him – or the army of Zangoose approaching the other end. And an army it certainly was, he thought, his tongue flicking nervously in his mouth.
Her ears pricked upward in anxiety of what was to come – anxiety, and no small amount of fear. The Sevipers gathering in the battlefield across from them were great in number. Greater, certainly, than she had imagined.
The packs gathered on opposite ends of the field, each standing utterly still, watching each other intently. Hatefully.
There was a pause.
They would fight, certainly. But first they would wait.
The whole formality struck him as ironic, mostly; one moment they were organized, civilized, willing to respect the traditions of the frequent battles that occurred between their two races.
The next moment, she thought, they would be at each other throats, claws extended, fangs bared, searching for flesh to tear into or scales to cleave open.
In minutes, he realized, his heart sinking, hundreds of Pokemon either side would be dead.
Hopefully, she hoped, begged, she would not be one of them.
A cold wind blew past. A collective shudder shot through all creatures in the area, snakes and mongooses alike.
Why did they fight? He wondered again. His eyes narrowed for a second.
It made no sense. She bit her lip, careful not to let the comrades surrounding her notice.
He turned to look at the Seviper beside him. He did not recognize him, but that look in the other snake's eye was unmistakable. A glint. A spark he knew – one of sheer loathing. Why it was there in the first place, he did not know.
She glanced at the faces of the Zangoose lined up beside her. Their arms positively trembled with eagerness, and their lips were drawn thin over their canines. They clearly wanted to fight. But did she?
The time was coming.
He straightened himself, pointing his gaze straight ahead once more. He blinked once, twice. He was scared.
She extended her claws and trembled. Half-heartedly, she imitated the half-growled expression the others so fervently sported.
He would murder.
She would kill.
Why?
In self-defence? Hundreds of Zangoose across the field from him were perfectly willing to end his life in cold blood. To even hope to survive, how could he do anything but the same?
To fulfill her obligations? To fulfill the expectation that she would fight the endless war with the Sevipers? To help destroy the species that was supposedly the bane of her own's existence?
To make good on the promises he'd made? The teachings he'd grown up on?
To follow her destiny? As a warrior, as a soldier? As a Zangoose?
No.
They fought because of hatred.
Simple, simple hatred.
The hatred that belonged to their kind, but not to them.
Hatred he had never felt.
Hatred she had never known.
Still, they would fight.
They readied themselves.
…
A scream, distinct only to Zangoose ears.
A cry, understood only by Sevipers.
A roar, universal in meaning. A signal.
There came the sound of grass being parted and trampled underfoot as the first charge swept forward,
swift over the waterlogged battlefield. Battle cries filled the air. Flashes of white and red, of black and gold darted along the sea of green.
The first rows met. The Zangoose leapt, horrific shrieks escaping their lips, black claws swiping. The Sevipers spun, hissing and spitting, fangs glistening in the muted sunlight.
He charged, swept up and pushed forward by the tide of writhing bodies.
She charged, buoyed by the adrenaline – and her horror.
Suddenly, a still, a momentary hush.
All creatures on the battleground, snake or mongoose, smelled it. The stench of the first kill.
He did not know who it was. What it was.
She knew it did not matter.
He could sense it, an immediate thickening of the atmosphere, as the distinctive aura of death descended upon the land and the combatants' hearts.
She thought she glanced it, the drops of blood, the single pool of crimson staining the emerald grass. It was so… red.
The shiver, the break in the action, was brief. The fighting resumed quickly and brutally. After all, it was just one death.
But it was, he knew, so much more than that.
She had fought before, and she knew there was always one. A death that broke the floodgates.
There was no turning back the tide now. Many more were to come. Many, many more.
The battle raged on. Duels began and ended. More fell on either side. Blood flowed freely, spurting grotesquely from punctured sides and slashed chests.
He found himself stranded, dances of death and fury spinning wildly around him, trapping him in.
Around her, comrades and enemies paired up and squared off, tails stabbing and claws striking.
A Zangoose appeared before him, a mocking grin plastered on its face.
A Seviper slipped its way behind her. She turned, and caught a glimpse of its malicious glare.
So I will fight, he thought grimly.
She had dreaded this moment.
Another two duels joined the war.
He sized up his opponent. A male, scarred. Probably experienced. He moved slowly in wide circles around the mongoose. It did the same.
She took a step back. The Seviper, a girl, was young. But it was silent, and probably fast. She stood her ground, eyeing the snake with caution.
They waited. There would be no strikes until an opening appeared, be it a lapse in confidence, or a loss of concentration, however brief. An opportunity.
It came first for him. He lunged, aiming his knife-like tail straight for the mongoose's heart. Better to make it quick.
The Seviper struck first. She saw the attack coming and dodged it just in time, her opponent's fangs barely missing her neck. If she had mistimed by just by a second…
His opponent flung himself out of the way. A streak of red painted itself across the Zangoose's shoulder. It thrust his lethal claws right at him, nicking him across the belly. He winced in pain.
The Seviper she faced was certainly fast. She found herself sidestepping and evading more than attacking in return. But she bided her time. Her opponent was clearly new to battling, and would soon tire itself out.
The Zangoose stabbed at him again, this time ripping the layer of scales that shielded his side. Ignoring the pain, he swung his tail back towards his attacker, this time slicing him hard beneath the knee.
She kept her eyes wide open, tracing the sinewy movements of the Seviper before her. It drew itself up for another lunge, but before it could she jumped and kicked it to the ground, her clawed toes punching bloody holes into the snake's body.
The Zangoose swayed, stumbled, then fell on one knee. But the white Pokemon was soon up again, despite the blood pooling around his feet. He opened his mouth, baring his long, red fangs.
The injured Seviper gasped in agony, then collapsed on the ground. The wounds weren't deep, but they sure would hurt like hell. She walked towards it, her mind numb.
Another leap from the Zangoose. He matched the leap, swishing and turning in mid-air, and when he dropped his head his fangs parted skin and flesh.
A tail coiled around her leg, and she fell hard. The Seviper shot over her, opening its fanged mouth. She swung out an arm blindly, panicking.
He fell on the ground, the dying Zangoose pinned under him. He kept his fangs plunged in the mongoose's back, holding on sorrowfully until its final, agnonized struggles finally died away.
She felt her claw pierce scale, penetrate muscle and lodge in bone. A spray of blood splashed across her white fur. The snake fell on top of her. It twitched desperately but uselessly, its red eyes horrified and wild. Then, no more.
A moment passed; an eternity in a second.
His opponent lay still, unmoving.
Her opponent lay cold, silent.
Dead.
Slowly, he pulled his fangs from the Zangoose, the salty, coppery flavour of blood powerful in his mouth.
He spat instinctively, then coughed as hard as he could, trying to force the taste from deep within his throat.
She pushed away from beneath the Seviper's corpse, letting it slump motionlessly onto the grass beside her. Its eyes were still open, terrified, but still and cold like polished marble. She turned away, unable to look.
He gasped for air, his mind tortured.
She buried her face on her hands, ignoring the bloodshed around her.
He had killed.
She had killed.
Another moment passed. Another eternity.
When he looked up, his eyes were determined, fierce. He uncoiled himself and hissed at no one in particular, then darted back into the battle, barely feeling the blades of grass that tore against his open wounds.
When she looked up, her expression was grim, her lips drawn tight. She hoisted herself onto her feet and wiped her bloodied claws on the grass. Her body ached with cuts and bruises, but they did not mean a thing to her.
The war was beckoning to them both. There was no turning back now.
The first kill was, after all, always the hardest.
…
The battle raged on.
Beneath the shade of the trees and clouds, blood continued to spill and lives continued to end. The clash dragged on slowly, gruelingly, and hours later barely fifty stood on the field where hundreds had gathered in the light of dawn.
He was still alive, against all odds. Gashes adorned his wretched form and his dented scales glistened red, but fresh air, stale with the odour of death, still filled his lungs, breath after ragged breath.
She had survived, miraculously. Her arms were heavily from exhaustion and her eyelids drooped low over her tortured eyes, but her heart still beat, thumping rhythmically, strongly inside her chest.
Fights were rare now, and inevitably slowed by the weariness descending upon the duelists' bones. But the ferocity remained, and as long as the fire of hatred within the Pokemon's minds burned, so would they.
He slid along the battlefield, ready for another fight.
She dashed back into the fray, though she loathed the thought.
He didn't want to fight now, not anymore than he had so many hours ago.
But did it matter what she wanted? The battle had consumed everyone trapped within it; the first blood had been spilt.
He couldn't turn back. He had no choice. Right now, right then, the war was the only thing that mattered. The war, and the brutal, sadistic need which it birthed.
The need to continue her mission.
To pierce with fang…
To rip with claw.
There would be no other way.
…
It was gruesome.
The tide of the battle was ebbing slowly away, leaving a sea of corpses and blood in its morbid wake.
The bodies of slain Zangoose and Sevipers alike littered the once-pristine field. A timid breeze swept the area, mixing its welcome gasp of pine and perfume with the stench of death that hung low in the air like an endless, repulsive smog.
Few were left. The symphony of clashing blades and snapping bones had long past its crescendo, but still it continued to play, albeit softer and less intently.
Another enemy fell to his bite.
Another enemy fell to her slash.
He was tired, exhausted, even.
She wanted to run. Find somewhere to nurse her wounds, and cry.
But how he even consider such a thing?
She would suffer for fleeing the battle. There would be questions to answer, repercussions, both societal and physical, to account for. Repercussions that would haunt her if she stopped fighting while any Seviper yet breathed.
He had to fight.
She had to stay.
…
Another fight.
Another enemy.
He sized her up, as was the standard battle procedure.
She eyed him, careful and apprehensive as always.
A female Zangoose, of average size and didn't look too intimidating, though she was covered in blood, most of which, he suspected, didn't belong to her.
A male Seviper. He was young, but had clearly fought many a battle before; old scars adorned his body, and fresh ones were not in lacking either. He would be tough.
But… something was different about her, he knew.
She couldn't place what it was.
He slid around her, staring into her eyes.
She circled him slowly, staring into his.
A moment, an eternity.
The heat of the battle, its reality of bloodshed and violence – in an instant, all of it suddenly seemed far, far away.
He saw something strange in her gaze. In her slumped shoulders, in her world-weary expression.
She saw something foreign in his manner. His hesitant movements belay an old, old soul.
It was unmistakable.
It was impossible.
He saw no hatred.
She saw no fury.
He saw remorse.
She saw turmoil.
No, he thought, his mind reeling. He was wrong. It… it couldn't be.
Her enemies were animals, incapable of emotion or sympathy or kindness or desire, save the desire to fight. To murder.
That was what he had been taught. What he had grown up on, the fundamental teaching that had been to shape him, to mould his mind.
To make her hate. To make her become angry, furious, to make her want nothing but revenge from the Sevipers for an injustice she herself did not know of.
But in his eyes…
But in her eyes…
He stopped moving, standing his ground. His gaze never left her for a second.
She, too, stopped, her form still, her eyes wide.
No words were spoken between them, but it was like entire lifetimes of conversations and moments and shared experiences flittered between them in those few, silent seconds.
He saw in this strange, strange creature something he had never seen before, not even from his own race.
She saw a kindred spirit, a Pokemon plagued by the same doubts, the same questions, the same guilt as her.
He suddenly knew. Knew that this Zangoose, this mortal enemy before him, was the only Pokemon on the planet who would ever understand the way he felt.
The knowledge pained her, but at the same time thrilled her.
With just a glance, a simple connection of their eyes, they knew with all their weary hearts that they had found someone.
Someone who's waking hours and dreams alike weren't filled with cravings for blood…
Someone who realized the futility of it all, who wanted peace while others wanted violence…
Someone who wanted out.
Someone who wanted to run; to run so far away from it all.
Like him.
Like her.
He gasped in amazement. In excitement.
She inhaled sharply, a single tear dampening her cheek.
He made a tentative movement towards her.
She did the same.
There was the sound of silence, save that of gentle breezes rustling leaves high above their heads.
He didn't speak her language. He couldn't tell her.
But, she knew, she didn't need too. He understood.
Another slide forward.
Another step ahead.
Then, suddenly, he stopped. He drew back, averting his gaze.
She stumbled backwards, away from him.
He realized.
She understood.
He looked at her, his expression tortured.
Her eyes fell. She felt pain, pain that cut far deeper than the mere superficial wounds on her flesh.
He couldn't.
She mustn't.
He wanted to flee, to escape, to be forever rid of the horrible, horrible burden he bore: the expectation that he would kill. He wanted to run. He wanted to run, but only with someone who felt the same way as he did. Someone who could give him strength when he was weak, to reassure him when he was scared. A confidant, a guardian. A friend.
But it was impossible. She could never experience that joy. Never while her fur yet remained white, or while her jagged stripes flashed red. Never while claws yet adorned her palms, or while teeth grew in her mouth. Never while she was a Zangoose. Never while she lived.
The war had claimed them. Both of them. The hatred burning in his race's heart had not engulfed him, but it had burned him. It had scarred him forever.
She couldn't explain it. She didn't hate him. She never would. But she could not be with him. There was only one thing she could do. One thing she had been trained to do.
He looked at her again, his red eyes desperate but resigned.
She looked up at him, wanting so much to cry.
He assumed his regular battle pose, back upright and razor tail raised half-heartedly behind him.
She planted her feet firmly on the ground, extending her shaking claws before her.
Despite everything, their entire relationship would ultimately amount to no more than a single duel, just like the hundreds that had tainted the battlefield for the better part of the day, and like the millions that had tainted their kinds' histories for hundreds of years. They would fight. One of them would emerge victorious, and the other would die.
The field was an open, unbounded arena, but there would be no escaping its walls. There was no other way.
If only, he wished, there was.
If only, she yearned, there was.
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry.
They flew at each other, battle cries escaping their lips, louder than they had ever known possible.
It was a duel they both had to win.
It was a duel neither wanted to.
They spun and danced as they traded blows, dodging and swiping and swinging and leaping in a warped, deadly waltz.
He knew that if he won, he would regret it for the rest of his life.
She knew that if she won, she would never forgive herself.
Nonetheless they fought to win, their kinetic figures framed forever by the glow of the setting sun. Even the trees seemed to bow down, awed by the sheer ferocity, the sheer beauty of their relentless strikes.
They strung attacks and counterattacks with a grace and understanding unlike any other, choreographing an elaborate ballet, telling a tale of a romance so sweeping and eternal that would stay with the survivor for the rest of his or her wretched life.
A tale which would, inevitably, draw to an end.
And finally, it did.
There was blood, and that was all.
Far away, the sound of a cawing bird.
A fitting curtain call.
…
Dusk settled upon the land.
The clearing was a gruesome, horrifying mess, full of trampled grass and pooling blood, already beginning to rot in the humid air. Countless corpses of both snakes and mongooses, undistinguishable in the dim moonlight, lay scattered across it, and no living soul remained to clear them away. A small, lucky few who had gathered so many hours earlier had managed to return home to nurse their wounds. Most had not.
There had been a winner, of course. Every battle, every conflict, every war had a winner, even if winning amounted to no more than having more of your kind surviving at the end of the day.
But no one knew who that winner was. And any unfortunate soul who bore witness to the carnage could be forgiven for believing there wasn't one.
Ultimately, it didn't matter.
This war wasn't about keeping scores; about counting victories or ruing losses of individual clashes. A single battle meant nothing. Deaths, sacrifices would be commemorated, respected, and eventually forgotten.
Forgotten simply because there were too many to remember.
Too many to keep.
And there would be many, many more.
He had known.
She had known.
But had anyone else?
...
Wrote this as a bit of an experiment for a slightly different narrative structure. My main concern is whether or not the story itself flowed well; I was worried about that at first, but I think it turned out mostly alright.
Comments?