In the smoky haze of a battlefield, two swords crash, glinting in the dim light as their wielders dance around each other. Reminisce of swaying daffodils of the fields surrounding them, they circle and bob with each movement. Hues of red, yellow, blacks and grays litter their line of sight, some of the colors moving, others still. 

Screams of the dying, groans of the injured, cries of the beasts, and the clunks of metal dull every other sound except for the huffs of breathing in close proximity.

A petite and demure Child of God, with white armor the hue of smooth ivory, stands planted with two feet apart, a sword in her hands. Her white hair wavy and long, cut into messy bangs across her forehead and flowing down her back. She lost her leather tie early in the battle and the wind lay claim to it, pushing it across her face, sticking it to her sweaty brow and neck. Her unwavering gaze like the moon, round and bright in the clouds. 

The other, a tall woman, slender with sinewy, muscled curves, tainted by the greed of humans. Her short raven black hair and armor seemingly absorbing the light as she stood opposite, gripping her own sword off to the side. Her long bangs covered her eyes, but the Child of God was very familiar with what color they were. They bore into her every being, reading her movements with the slightest of effort.

Their feet leave the ground at the same time, ignoring all except for each other.

Another clash, and a pause to catch their breath, swords at the rest. 

The pearly vision of the Child of God huffs, tears falling down her cheeks in earnest as she shuts her eyes and turns her head away from her enemy. This would normally cost her life, yet she could not throw all trust away in the familiar silhouette that had brought her such joy any other day. 

“Why do you cry?” The tall woman crumples her face, in anguish or disgust, the fog on the battlefield coupled with teary eyes made it close to impossible to discern.

“Because I don’t want to kill you, Asura.” The Child of God’s voice wobbled as it was carried over the small distance to the black adorned knight. Her armor looked shiny, and she knew it was the blood of the souls that Asura claimed across the plains.

They collide again, the tears of the curly haired warrior decorating the battlefield in what looked like glitter. 

“There needs to be a clear victor” Asura rasps out with a grunt, insistent.

Their eyes meet, a tearful blue meeting a black gaze. 

Asura held respect for this small creature, this shy thing, taking up the sword and waging war. War against all that was wrong, against all that was evil. Against her.

“Or both our people will die” Asura holds her eyes, drawing up her sword with intent before lunging. Her sword was getting heavier with each swing. 

The gore on the ground made it slick, turning it into ghastly mud. As Asura stepped forward, she felt the soil underneath shift with her weight, creating instability. 

Stumbling backwards, Asura lands on one knee before the Child of God. Hearing the scrape of metal upon metal of shoulder armor, she knows a sword is raised against her. 

The Child of God gazes down as the disheveled Asura looks up at her, awed by her ferocious beauty, even on one knee before her. But the white knight hesitates, unable to strike down, and after several eternal seconds, her face falls. 

Each tear drop landing on the daffodils dilutes the blood pooled there. 

Asura opens her eyes wide in disbelief at her pause.

You must do it, Quinny!

The clamor of the battlefield starts to subside in her ears, the rush of adrenaline crashing through her body with desperation. 

Kill me! Free our people from this strife! 

But as she looks at Quinn, the stillness extends, until Quinn drops her sword. 

“I can’t” and drops to her knees, reaching for Asura’s hand, gripped on the hilt of the black sword she wields. Her other hand stretching up to brush the cheek of the black knight, cupping it. 

Quinn lurches forward, the hill they kneel on making her as tall as Asura, and gently touches her lips to lips of Asura, taken by surprise. Asura’s hands loosen on her sword, and it finally falls from her grip. 

But as Asura raises her hands to hold Quinn, the white knight falls to the side. Asura tries to catch her, but Quinn lands on her face and partially slides down the hill, a dagger stuck through the back of her neck. 

The coal of Asura’s armor contrasts with the falling strands of iridescent hair, cut from their master’s head. Tasting blood on her lips, her eyes finally register Quinn, still and face down in the thick mud. 

Asura quickly rushes down, sliding on her knees, and turns Quinn to the side, being careful of the dagger in her neck. Quinn’s eyes are still open under her muddy bangs, but there’s no light in them.

Gone.

The world feels so cold, as if her armor became her skin. 

Looking up, Asura spots one of her own, a lowly mercenary hired for this war, panting with triumph, his dirty eyes on Quinn’s fallen corpse.

Asura gently lays Quinn on her side, softly closing her eyes. She takes her own sword in one hand, his hair in the other, and beheads him in two strides. Still holding his decapitated head, she whispers coldly to his face, snarling.

“Who told you to kill her?” Her black eyes bore into the brown eyes of the mercenary, his face turning gray. 

Tossing his head to the side with a thud, she lunges forward, killing every last one of her hired forces, including the beasts. 

Through her rage, Asura will make sure Quinn is the victor. There can’t be any other outcome in this battle of fools. She swings her sword upward, sideways, and through the pawns, cutting her numbers down to single digits. 

Spent, Asura drags herself back to the lifeless Quinn, picking up her body and gently removes the dagger from her neck. Asura sweeps a hand on the back of Quinn’s head, the chopped hair draping across her fingertips in chunks as she does so. 

The rage that occupied her so thoroughly drains from her expression and is replaced by an empty ache, parching her.  Gazing upon her face, she sees past the drying blood on her mouth, the grime and mud to the beautiful silvery lashes, the pale powder pink of her lips, now tinted black. Asura’s eyes shift across the lovely face of the young woman who dwells in her heart, even after death.

You were supposed to be the hero for the both of us.

Quinn’s hair swinging, Asura carries her as gently as an injured fawn until her steps thunk on stone and the air clears to a palpable draft. Stepping into a destroyed building, it’s walls are torn, the catapults making quick work of the masonry weeks prior. Pillars frame the shattered pews in a hoary stance, some toppled and none whole. 

Asura’s steps no longer echo in the hall, but resound muted as she approaches an altar. A statue with a broken wing and smashed face, it’s hands extended in grace on the floor, leaving nubs of stone upon its shoulders. The only intact feature was a wreath of flowers, of which Asura did not remember the name of. 

But Quinny would have.

This was the white knight’s deity. The God she chose to worship, the Goddess she was to embody, Piatys. 

In the unremarkable temple, Asura lowers her head with as much respect as she can muster. The foggy remnants of the battle several miles away cloak the open space in a veil, turning the ruins into a surreal hallucination. 

Asura kneels down, mindful of Quinn’s body still in her arms. 

“Goddess” she starts hoarsely. 

“I do not pray to you, but I pray to you now” Her eyes are lowered, staring at the toes peeking from the sculpted robe. 

Asura closes her eyes, fighting back tears of despair.

How different would it have been if we were on the same side? Or if our forces weren’t at war? 

She couldn’t help think to herself as she sets Quinn’s body softly at the feet of the deity.

Her fingertips skim Quinn’s limp face, stopping at the blood drying on her mouth. She takes out a handkerchief from under her armor, clean save for the slight dampness of sweat. Wetting it with her saliva, she wipes the blood and mud from Quinn’s lifeless face, revealing a peaceful expression. Asura’s lip trembles and she gasps out a breath.

You always had a big heart, Quinny. How could I not reciprocate your kiss?

The handkerchief lingers at Quinn’s bottom lip, swiping the gray skin gently.

Lifting the handkerchief, she doubles it over neatly and places it in the folded hands of the white clad woman before her. 

“Bring her peace” She holds Quinn’s hand, speaking aloud her prayer.

“When we meet again,” her voice trembles with the effort, stroking the lifeless face, resting her finger on the fullness of Quinn’s cheek, “I pray I can return your love tenfold in a world made just for us.”

Bringing the white gloved hand to her own forehead, she touches the cold metal to the crown of her head in reverence before bringing it to her lips.

Asura closes her eyes tightly, fighting the stinging in her eyes as she lays the hand back over the top of the folded cloth.

Feeling empty, she raises herself to her feet and begins to leave the temple when dizziness slams into her, almost knocking her off her feet. The world starts to spin.

My little raven…

A voice seemingly echoes in her head. Or was it in the building?

She falls to her knees and looks back at Quinn in alarm. A single ray of moonlight shines upon the decrepit statue and Quinn’s brow, illuminating them both. 

Asura struggles to focus, and looks up to find no such moon in the sky tonight. 

Confused, she falls backwards, the vertigo thrusting her back and she starts to lose consciousness. The glowing vision becomes brighter.

What world will you bring me…?

As the world turns white despite her struggle, Asura hears the last words like the whisper of silk on stone. 

Sleep well, my child.