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Early in dev, I wrote some drabbles according to Libby's prompts on RMW. They are of varying lengths. You should play the game before reading them.


Some things don’t change no matter how many years may pass.
The thick scent of rain; before, after, and during the deluge; always retained its same sweetness. The approaching spring bore the same tantalising hints of new life, buds blooming on the nibs of tree branches, beginning to fill once spindly, haunting limbs with the sway of the season.
This hadn’t changed, either.
The thick clack of plate armour echoed throughout the field, their commander barking orders, as all commanders do. Or generals, drill sergeants, kings. Enforcing mental law and discipline constructed via the human mind.
Single file.
The soldiers turned, drawing their swords into a respectful stance, and one fell out of line, quickly to be ripped into by the commander, as though he were a hail of enemy arrows. The same words, of course. Different languages, different dialects, but the concept was still the same.
He remembered what it was like to stand in those lines very clearly. Like moments caught in amber, preserved as a spectacle and a reminder of what he once was, what he once did.
Who he once was.
A lump became lodged in his throat, and he swallowed it back, flicking a bit of his burnt orange hair out of his face, and glanced up at the pearly crescent above him.
Perhaps it was fate, mocking him in some twisted manner, as it had always seemed to do, that he had stumbled upon the night-time drill. The soldier’s eyes were still full of gunk, their movements in the armour laboured by the lethargy still present; clearly roused from blissful slumber into the mechanics of war. He recalled it had happened a few times to him, as well; tugged out of bed by a raven-haired friend, who was barely awake himself, forced to pull on his breastplate and greaves in dark.
Of course being in the dark had bothered him back then, but now he had grown used to dressing and bathing by candlelight, or with no light besides the moon. Used to it. Far from enjoying it, or being beyond finding it a hindrance. What he would give to be able to dress at the crack of dawn again, and not feel disturbed by the twitter of morning birds.
The soldiers turned again, resuming the drill, the gruff voice of the commander echoing across the valley.
None of the movements he had found frustrating or painful had changed at all, and yet here he was wishing for a second chance at it. The situation is always better when viewed from the other side, he reasoned; he’d probably find it just as irritating now as he did back then.
But hearty chortle of fellow soldiers as they shared their meagre rations, laughing despite the torment they faced, the easy going smiles of boys who had yet to experience raw horrors, there was no rose coloured glasses of reminiscence over those memories- they were, and always would be, some of his most missed and longed for moments.
He stood up, brushing off his tunic and breaches and flicking his ponytail back, mentally trying to push the thought to the back of his mind. Dwelling on what was and what could have been had never done him any favours; there was no changing what had happened that night. He wasn’t sure if he would have changed the outcome, even if given the opportunity, but that was a thought for another time.

He called himself selfish often.
No matter how much he insisted and claimed it was of his own free will, to stay by his side, for them to journey together, he suspected- to the point of near certainty- that he merely stayed out of pity.
Unlike him, who- despite the apathy of his adopted family- had managed to find friends, people who knew him, loved him, cared for him, he had been alone for a very long time.
He wasn’t really a likeable person in retrospect. A narcissistic brat, a street rat barely able to speak coherent English. If someone did manage to end up liking him for his personality, they’d most likely feel uncomfortable every time he accidentally slipped into his native tongue.
It was an unwinnable situation, really.
There were a few. One he betrayed. The other betrayed him.
She probably never saw it coming, because neither did he. How does one predict that? That someone you care for is going to turn on their heel and rip you to shreds?
How do you predict that you’re going to do it, when you’ve never been inclined to do so?
It would be far easier to make such an assumption now; it had been three decades, after all, he had grown used to calling himself a monster. Back then, though…he had betrayed her, and in a sense, betrayed himself.
Although he would never voice such a thought, he firmly believed, though rarely acknowledged, that every person he met would eventually leave him behind. Just has his parents had with their deaths, and others had left under a variety of circumstances.
It was a matter of time before he, too, would leave him alone again.
Perhaps he was better off if he was alone.

There were a few times he considered leaving just for the sake of his safety.
He wasn’t exactly unknown, and those who did know who he was knew the stories, of what he was capable of.
Human word of mouth often distorted the facts, so sometimes he would occasionally come across a story that was unbelievable even to himself, so much so that he would have to reveal himself and set the story straight as best he could.
In the happenstance that they did eventually decide to come after him with a vengeance, he would become no more than collateral damage in a bloody crusade, and he didn’t want that to be the case.
In the one time he attempted it, however, he caught his sleeve and gave him a gaze so piercing he thought maybe he had seen inside his core and knew exactly why he was doing this. Those eyes- an infinite green, impossible to describe or capture, blazing with emotion. No spoken word passed between them in that moment, but he gave up on the attempt. He had seen something akin to pain and desperation in those eyes.
There was more at hand here than just saving him from becoming collateral. For one who blazed so brightly, even with their heart dulled by the inky blackness of monsterhood, feelings needed to be considered.
Leaving him this way would be the worst thing he could do.

She was his first kiss.
He was still a teen, a true teen, not a man trapped within the guise of one. And she knew him, saw him for all his ugliness and raw, abhorrent humanity and took pity on him.
She had stopped him under a sprig of mistletoe while the glistening snowflakes of an English winter drifted down around them, her eyes sparkling, an image that had managed to become a haunting memory.
The warmth of her lips against his, for a brief moment before she dashed away, her laughter echoing down the streets, was one he kept tucked inside, carefully preserved even under the weight of the new.
His icy fingers had brushed the spot, his cheeks flushing red. He could still remember that warmth, since his fingers now forever held that icy touch- perhaps a symbol of what he brought with his presence.