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The flickering light of lanterns cast dancing shadows upon the infirmary walls. The scent of medicinal herbs, the stale tang of iron and rotting flesh mingled with the sterile air. The muffled voices of medics, the scraping of metal against metal and the occasional pained groan from another wounded warrior filled the space, yet Veredra heard none of it. It was white noise against the heavy silence that pressed into her skull.
The woman lay motionless upon the cot with her body unwillingly compliant beneath the hands of the healers tending to her. Linen pressed against the gash upon her brow, absorbing the slow trickle of blood that painted a crimson path down her cheek, pooling at the corner of her lips. Their gloved fingers moved with urgency yet care trying to stop the ceaseless river. The warmth of it spread to her lips. It tasted metallic and bitter. But she did not care. And she did not move.
She had wanted to die.
This was supposed to be it. Alcadizar's battle should have been her final stand. The perfect ending. A warrior's death. An end to the years of suffering that had chipped away at her, layer by layer, leaving behind nothing but a husk of the woman she once was. "Demon Slayer, my ass." she thought.
She had already made her peace with it and accepted it as her fate. The one thing that would restore her honour and give her ancestors something to look upon with pride. What better way to silence the echoes of loss, betrayal and grief that clawed at her constantly? Yet, she was still here. Still breathing. And she despised it. Her fingers twitched against the coarse blanket covering her. Every inch of her body was screaming, burning, torn apart by wounds. The scars from her previous trauma had never fully healed. Her legs still carried the memories of the fire and the agony that had seared away her ability to stand and walk as she once did. And now she was left with even more pain. More reminders of what she had become. Useless. Incapacitated. A warrior who could no longer fight. She clenched her teeth, swallowing the bile rising in her throat. The memories were returning, much to her dislike. She had once thought she wanted them back. She had spent so long yearning for the missing pieces of herself. But now that they were here, they crushed her. Remembering was nothing but a curse.
She remembered her mother's voice, always strong. A whisper from the past full with promises and burdens alike. Yet her mother was gone. Cold in a murky grave with her love nothing more than a distant ache Veredra could never touch again. She remembered her father, a man she had barely known. A ghost whose shadow had loomed over her. Gone. Lost to time and to a name of a bloodline that meant nothing now. Her cousin, dead. Her nephew, dead. Her children, Sylvia and Maximilian, grown into people she barely knew, who barely knew her. What had been stolen from them could never be restored.
She remembered Karl. The boy she had always brought along to meetings, not just for company, but to teach him the art of diplomacy. The boy who had stumbled through his lows before standing tall and shaping himself into a man who mirrored his father's image. Arrogant, yet righteous. A shadow of the child she would forever see when she closed her eyes. Her little boy. And Wilhelm, once so much like his father, yet ruled by impulse. The boy she had once forced to sever the finger of an innocent man as a test of strength and ruthlessness. To teach him that mercy had no place in power. A blade honed not by wisdom but by misdirection. Tempered for all the wrong battles. And yet, within him, she had glimpsed something of her beloved son, the one she had convinced herself was already lost. She had tried. To make them cherish what she herself had never been given. Tried to bridge the distance between them. To make them understand that blood does not run thin. That brothers should stand together not against, because one day, she wouldn't be there to remind them. And when that day came, they would only have each other. No guiding hand, no voice to mend their rifts. And yet, she had failed. And then, there was Diederick.
Her husband. The man who had once shattered her heart, disappointed her, abandoned her when she had needed him the most. The man who had stood in silence when she had been torn apart by the words of others. Who had not shielded her when they called her filth, voidal, a blight upon the Empire. He had let them and watched as she was broken, spoken only when it was too late. When the damage was already done. But also the man who had fought beside her, bled beside her, who had searched for her when she had disappeared. The man who loved her more than anyone ever could, who had begged for her forgiveness, swearing that no matter how broken things had become, he would not leave her again. The man she would do it all for, again and again, if it meant he would still be there by the end of the day with her hand on his chest, feeling the strong rhythm of his heart. Did it even matter anymore?
Her throat tightened. An unbearable ache pressed into her chest. She felt pathetic. Weak. Trapped in this frail body that refused to grant her the release she so desperately longed for. If she was going to die, let it be in battle. Let it be with a sword in her hand, not in a bed with bandages wrapped around her. The hands of a medic pressed a clean linen cloth against her neck, wiping away the blood and she recoiled from the touch instinctively. Her breath hitched. She loathed being handled, pitied, watched over like she was something fragile.
"I am fine." she rasped, though the words felt unconvincing even to her own ears. She did not look at them as she spoke. She only stared ahead with her gaze fixed on the window across the room where the moon hung low.
Her husband. The man who had once shattered her heart, disappointed her, abandoned her when she had needed him the most. The man who had stood in silence when she had been torn apart by the words of others. Who had not shielded her when they called her filth, voidal, a blight upon the Empire. He had let them and watched as she was broken, spoken only when it was too late. When the damage was already done. But also the man who had fought beside her, bled beside her, who had searched for her when she had disappeared. The man who loved her more than anyone ever could, who had begged for her forgiveness, swearing that no matter how broken things had become, he would not leave her again. The man she would do it all for, again and again, if it meant he would still be there by the end of the day with her hand on his chest, feeling the strong rhythm of his heart. Did it even matter anymore?
Her throat tightened. An unbearable ache pressed into her chest. She felt pathetic. Weak. Trapped in this frail body that refused to grant her the release she so desperately longed for. If she was going to die, let it be in battle. Let it be with a sword in her hand, not in a bed with bandages wrapped around her. The hands of a medic pressed a clean linen cloth against her neck, wiping away the blood and she recoiled from the touch instinctively. Her breath hitched. She loathed being handled, pitied, watched over like she was something fragile.
"I am fine." she rasped, though the words felt unconvincing even to her own ears. She did not look at them as she spoke. She only stared ahead with her gaze fixed on the window across the room where the moon hung low.
A shaky breath left her lips. A laugh tried to form but it died before it could truly surface. She had no laughter left. Not even tears.
Her hands clenched the blanket beneath her, her nails dug into the fabric. A part of her wanted to rip it away and force herself up to walk out of here and never return. But where would she go? There was no place left for her. Not in this world. Not in the Empire.
Not even in her own skin.
A voice called her name. Distant. Muffled. She did not react.
She was tired.
So very, very tired.
