How peculiar, war.
Countries will slaughter each other to the last man, tear families away from their homes to throw at their rivals, and burn an entire region's crop to cause hunger amongst their fellow man.
Soldiers will loot, plunder, and still have the gall to call themselves righteous.
They'll tell themselves they fight for peace, or for honor, or for the ones they left behind, but at the end of the day, the silver lining their pockets tells a different story.
And when the wars are done, when the shouting dies, and the smoke clears.
There's nothing but pain and suffering for all those still fighting against the cruelty of life.
//////////
Artoria knelt in the dirt, a strip of dried salmon between her teeth, its tough hide-like texture rough against her teeth.
Before her, the ground was having a war of its own.
Ants poured from their mound in dark lines clashing with a similar amount of termites that must've wandered from the cabin.
She chewed slowly, watching one ant drag a termite half its size, its mandibles locked like a wolf dragging away its prey.
He was the lucky one.
Another ant off to the side wasn't as fortunate, its frail body torn apart piece by piece beneath a writhing mass of termites. By the time she took another bite, there wasn't much left to even recognize.
"Why do you guys fight?" Arotria asked , brushing a loose lock of hair behind her ear.
It's not because you're just different, right?
Because that'd be silly.
She tore another piece from the salmon, savoring the faint ghost of seasoning left in it. Whoever had dried it had known exactly what they were doing. It was old, sure, but it had lasted the test of time.
Not ba- oh, hey.
Her thought broke as one of the ants reached her boot and began to climb, perhaps trying to flee the carnage… or maybe just trying to steal her food.
Either way, she blew softly. The ant sent tumbling backwards into the dirt, landing somewhere in the fray.
"Go on then," she said softly. "Win for me, yeah?."
Then she sat back, knees drawn to her chest, watching the battle play out beneath her… the endless cycle of life and loss, repeating itself once again.
Artoria stayed there a while longer, long enough for the wind to pick up, teasing the tips of her hair and scattering loose dirt over the insects below.
The ants were winning now.
The termites, disorganized and sluggish, were pushed back towards the base of the cabin, their bodies crushed under the combined onslaught of an entire ant colony that refused to budge. For every one that fell, three more ants seemed to take its place, a relentless strategy in their little war of attrition.
"Guess numbers win in the end…" The girl murmured, resting her chin on her knees.
Her stomach gave a soft growl.
She ignored it, having gotten a tad used to the feeling.
In the quiet between breezes, she could hear the faint tapping of wood inside the cabin… a birdie, maybe, alas it didn't matter.
The war at her feet was enough to keep her mind busy, to keep her from thinking too hard about her current situation.
Cause when in doubt, find an animal to annoy.
Tends to work mostly.
The sun had begun to tilt westward, its light catching on her hair, turning the edges to molten gold. She tore off another small piece of salmon, chewing without thought.
For a moment, she imagined the ants as soldiers... tiny knights, banners flying high, armors of steel.
Then, she imagined herself as a knight, standing on top of some hill, sword raised, heart hammering. If she were stronger, strong enough, maybe Mum would've stayed. Maybe she wouldn't be here, alone, gnawing at a strip of dried salmon while the forest stretched far around her.
Her fingers brushed at the coat wrapped around her shoulders, tracing the damp, rough fabric. It smelled faintly of her father, of him somewhere out there, and of all the warmth that had once kept the cold away.
…SNAP…
A twig snapped in the forest across from her.
She froze.
And with her heart hammering, Artoria clutched the salmon tighter and scrambled to her feet, accidentally crushing a few of the insects under her boots in her haste, but their fault really.
She ran in the opposite direction, darting past the cabin, her small legs pushing her away from this place, her lungs burning, and knuckles white in fear.
Low branches slapped at her face and snagged her hair, leaving tufts of blonde locks hanging behind, roots occasionally caught her feet, trying to trip her, but she managed to bypass them all. The forest around her blurred, leaves whipping past in streaks of green and gold.
Her mind raced.
Where do I go?
Where do I hide?
Ahead, the trees thinned again, light spilling through in jagged columns. She risked a glance over her shoulder. A tiny figure, roughly her size, weaved between the trees, keeping pace despite her speed.
"Come on… come on…" she whispered, panting, heart in her throat.
Then she spotted it.
A hollow, deeper and wider than the one she had sheltered in before. Without thinking, she dove towards it, the strip of salmon clutched tightly to her chest, and pressed herself into the darkness, holding her breath as the forest and whatever hunted her passed by.
Her body shook with adrenaline, sweat mixing with the grime on her skin. She dared not move, not even to peek.
You're not safe.
"What w-"
A sharp tug at her ankle cut her off before she could ask why.
She yelped, spinning around just in time to see a monstrosity, its claws digging into the soil, tail whipping behind it, and its green scales glinted faintly in the shafts of sunlight, giving it an almost jeweled sheen, while a faint smell of sulfur rolled off it in waves.
Two curved horns jutted from its head, and eyes like pitch fixed on her. Its talons scraped against the roots, digging into the earth as it dragged her backwards with terrifying strength.
Artoria's arms flailed. She kicked, thumped, and punched, but the creature's grip was relentless. Its tail lashed, knocking leaves and dirt into her face. She clutched the strip of salmon to her chest as if it could save her, while the small, scaled monster continued pulling her out into the open.
I've forgotten how frail children can be
'HELP?!'
She frantically thought... she didn't care how, or even if this mysterious voice could help.
All that mattered was its reply.
You can do it yourself.
You always could.
Just remember
A sudden flash, like lightning behind her eyes, seared across her skull. Pain tore through her temples, a sharp, stabbing ache that left her faltering.
Every heartbeat throbbed in rhythm with it, deafening to her very core.
Images, smells, and sounds she couldn't place clawed at the edges of her memory... faces, voices, and screams all colliding in a rush that made her flail in the creature's grip. She gasped, trying to pull away, to find her breath, but the pain wrapped itself around her mind, and the world narrowed to a blur.
…
…
…
"Ser, our forces are shattered."
"I can see that."
The old lord didn't lift his eyes from the ruin. The rain clung to his lashes, ran down the worn lines of his face, and dripped from the edge of his beard
"We should retreat," the younger knight stammered beside him. "If we march north now, we might- might reach the Caledonians in time."
The lord turned his head just slightly, eyes distant, almost amused. "And what then?"
The knight hesitated. "We regroup. We… we wait for reinforcements, for better ground, for-"
"For him to reach them too?" the lord interrupted, voice dry as the steel in his grip. "For the boy to slaughter all his opposition in one fell swoop? Us included?"
A crack of thunder swallowed the silence between them.
Below, through the mist and smoke, the standards of the young King flickered in the rain … blue and gold against the ash. Knights moved among the dead, unhurried. Even from here, the lord could see the discipline, the quiet unity of a force that no longer fought for coin, but for something far more dangerous in his eyes.
Hope.
Hope that the age of tyranny is over.
That the constant slaughter will quell forevermore.
"He's no boy anymore," the lord muttered, though his squire didn't hear. "And I think the land's already chosen its king."
He sheathed his sword with a grunt, mud sucking at his boots as he turned toward the ridge.
"Sound the horn," he said at last. "We'll fall back to the woods… and live knowing what a folly this was."
The wind carried the call, the low mournful cry of a fox who believed its cunning stronger than a lions bite calling out one last time.
And on the far side of the field, where the young King's banner gleamed through the haze, Artoria Pendragon watched in silence as the remnants of another one of The Vile King's subjects turned to ghosts.
…
…
…
Her mind tore itself free from the memory, and like waking mid-fall, her body lurched back into a world of summer heat and stinking breath.
The creature was still there, dragging at her leg, claws raking through the torn weave of her trousers. A pulse surged through her veins, molten and electric, burning away the fog of fear, the ache of exhaustion.
The sense bled into clarity.
Every sound sharpened. The wheezing of the beast before her came ragged and sharp, each inhale a wet scrape, each exhale a dying hiss. She could smell the rot blooming from its throat, feel the tremor of its weight through the mud, sense the pulse of its hunger pressing against her like heat from a forge.
Time slowed, and for the first time in what felt like forever... she was aware of herself.
Her heel lashed out in but a moment.
The crack split the air. The creature's skull whipped back, jaw twisting grotesquely as it staggered away.
It took a step, then another.
Before falling to the floor like a stringless puppet.
Artoria just stared, watching the blood escape in droves.
Her ears still rang with the echo of her kick, that sharp, perfect moment of control... then nothing. The body at her feet twitched once and stilled, but her attention wasn't on it anymore.
Her hands.
Her hands were small.
Pale, smeared with dirt and mud.
Not the hands of the King of Camelot, nor the calloused, sword-worn tools that had gripped Caliburn, Excalibur, and many of their kind alike.
These were soft.
Barely those of a labourer, let alone a monarch.
She stared at them as if they belonged to someone else, and they did, albeit barely.
The King, she, had returned in that instant of violence. The part of her that had once commanded armies, that had stood unflinching before death, had stirred awake.
But now, trapped in a body that couldn't have seen more than five summers, it felt… wrong.
Too light.
Too weak.
Too young.
She turned to the pool of blood beside the fallen creature... staring at her reflection while the blood had yet to settle into the dirt below.
A child's face, streaked with mud, framed by tangled hair. Her own eyes, green and bright as polished jade, stared back at her.
No, pierced into her.
A quiet breath escaped her lips.
"Strange," she murmured, her voice startling her. "What just happened?"
The pulse of power faded from her veins, leaving only the ache in her legs and the steady rhythm of her heart.
Mordred got his wish, no?
To slaughter me… so.
She glanced around.
Trees stretched high, their trunks dark and close. The forest floor was littered with roots and fallen leaves, damp and soft underfoot. Light filtered through the canopy in thin, shifting bands.
Why aren't I dead?
Why do I have memories of another... me? of another Pendragon?
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Apologies, got caught up in an Epic: The Musical rabbit hole yesterday‐ in exchange, hope you enjoyed the longer chapter.