Post by Kosovo on Jan 22, 2013 18:13:47 GMT -6
Astrit didn't really know where he was. Not that he ever had, really, but now he wasn't even bothering to try to keep track. It didn't ever seem to work out, for it seemed that the hallways of this place shifted in ways that he didn't understand.
He was alive, and he didn't know why. He breathed in and his lungs expanded and his heart sped up; he breathed out and his heart slowed a little but kept beating. His legs were carrying him down a hall somewhere in the manor. He lifted his whole, undamaged, unstained left hand. It moved when he told it to, it turned the doorknob to allow him into one of the bedrooms. His right hand was almost as good, but he didn't want to look at it now, not when...
He had no right to be alive. By all rights, he should be dead now, and it was a source of both wonderment and horror to him that he wasn't. According to the rules by which this manor allotted death, he could hardly have earned anything else. He was the weaker, the smaller, the vulnerable, and so his life had been essentially forfeit. It should have been him who was pierced through and left to bleed out. He had been so vulnerable, after all--with no shield and only a knife to defend himself with, it should have been easy for a trained soldier with a sword to run him through, or cut him in half when he left his side exposed, or any number of other things. He could have died so easily--he should have died. It should have been his body that rotted now, soul ripped away, life and will and strength vanished. Except that, somehow, mercy existed even here.
Insofar as he was a boy, Astrit struggled with the thought that he had killed a man. Gilbert, who like Astrit was someone's brother and someone's friend, who had stopped fighting--had deliberately chosen to save the boy's life at the expense of his own. Why? Why would anyone sacrifice himself for Astrit? What had he ever done to deserve to live?
Gilbert was someone's brother and someone's friend, but the way he had spoken during the run-up to their duel had made Astrit think that someone he cared for must have died. So maybe it had been a kindness to kill him, to reunite him with that lost one... or maybe the boy was just grasping at empty comforts, he couldn't tell.
Insofar as he was a nation, Kosovo felt even more lost and unworthy. People had fought for him before, and Serbia had made sacrifices on his behalf, but the sacrifice of an entire nation far larger and more powerful than himself--even if Prussia as a country was indistinguishable from Germany now--was something he could not see himself meriting. Kosovo was so little.
The boy was carrying two weapons, his own still-bloody knife that had cut Gilbert's life away and the sword that he had been defending himself against. The sword was heavy, and he had just proven that he had little chance of wielding it with any competence. He was not sure why he had taken it with him, other than a vague thought that if he met back up with his sister perhaps she could make use of it. He dropped it at the foot of the bed and stumbled through the doorway to the attached, empty bathroom.
There was a mirror above the sink, but it took a few moments for Astrit to realize that. At first all he saw was wide reddish-brown eyes in a face far too pale, and a hand soaked in blood. Images flashed in front of his eyes--that blood flowing freely over that hand, an alternate possibility where those eyes were empty with death--before what was before him coalesced into an ordinary bathroom in which a small teenage boy in a brown coat stood, staring at his reflection in the mirror and looking slightly nauseated by his bloody right hand.
He had come in here to wash his hands, hadn't he? To get the coagulating stains of the death he had inflicted off of him... the boy shuddered and turned on the water. There was no point to rolling up his sleeves; the cuff of his right sleeve was already soaked with blood, and he didn't want to get the left one in the same state.
Most of the blood came off, but even when he scrubbed his hands pink with plenty of soap and hot water, he could still see traces of it, down to tiny pools that would not come out of the creases in his fingers. Blood on his hands, as the saying went. He could see where that saying had come from now, if he had ever had any doubt.
Cleaning his sleeve was harder, but he managed to get some of the blood to come out of it. That was something, at least.
A hand towel nearby proved suitable to dry off his hands, blot his soaked cuffs, and wipe off his knife. The weapon had tasted blood before, as he had had to fight his way to independence first alongside his sister and then against her, but never so much at once, and never lifeblood before. Never before had he been forced to kill, and it was affecting him far more than he had expected.
The boy pocketed his knife and returned to the bedroom. He stared down at the sword on the floor--did he need it? Was it useful? Snezana was without a weapon save for a tennis racket, and Astrit still clung to the hope that maybe they could fight their way free together, the hope that had kept him going during the first terrifying part of his death match even while Gilbert had tried to persuade him that it was hopeless. His sister... he missed his sister. He hoped she was alive.
It was funny. He had been hoping to win so that he could prove to his sister that he was a man now, but now that he had killed he just wanted her to come comfort him as if he were a little boy.
Astrit collapsed on the floor next to the sword, turning everything over in his head, wishing he could cry. He didn't care who saw him, anymore. He had killed a man, and no amount of bravado could erase that, or cover it up, or reduce the way it made him genuinely dangerous.
He was alive, and he didn't know why. He breathed in and his lungs expanded and his heart sped up; he breathed out and his heart slowed a little but kept beating. His legs were carrying him down a hall somewhere in the manor. He lifted his whole, undamaged, unstained left hand. It moved when he told it to, it turned the doorknob to allow him into one of the bedrooms. His right hand was almost as good, but he didn't want to look at it now, not when...
He had no right to be alive. By all rights, he should be dead now, and it was a source of both wonderment and horror to him that he wasn't. According to the rules by which this manor allotted death, he could hardly have earned anything else. He was the weaker, the smaller, the vulnerable, and so his life had been essentially forfeit. It should have been him who was pierced through and left to bleed out. He had been so vulnerable, after all--with no shield and only a knife to defend himself with, it should have been easy for a trained soldier with a sword to run him through, or cut him in half when he left his side exposed, or any number of other things. He could have died so easily--he should have died. It should have been his body that rotted now, soul ripped away, life and will and strength vanished. Except that, somehow, mercy existed even here.
Insofar as he was a boy, Astrit struggled with the thought that he had killed a man. Gilbert, who like Astrit was someone's brother and someone's friend, who had stopped fighting--had deliberately chosen to save the boy's life at the expense of his own. Why? Why would anyone sacrifice himself for Astrit? What had he ever done to deserve to live?
Gilbert was someone's brother and someone's friend, but the way he had spoken during the run-up to their duel had made Astrit think that someone he cared for must have died. So maybe it had been a kindness to kill him, to reunite him with that lost one... or maybe the boy was just grasping at empty comforts, he couldn't tell.
Insofar as he was a nation, Kosovo felt even more lost and unworthy. People had fought for him before, and Serbia had made sacrifices on his behalf, but the sacrifice of an entire nation far larger and more powerful than himself--even if Prussia as a country was indistinguishable from Germany now--was something he could not see himself meriting. Kosovo was so little.
The boy was carrying two weapons, his own still-bloody knife that had cut Gilbert's life away and the sword that he had been defending himself against. The sword was heavy, and he had just proven that he had little chance of wielding it with any competence. He was not sure why he had taken it with him, other than a vague thought that if he met back up with his sister perhaps she could make use of it. He dropped it at the foot of the bed and stumbled through the doorway to the attached, empty bathroom.
There was a mirror above the sink, but it took a few moments for Astrit to realize that. At first all he saw was wide reddish-brown eyes in a face far too pale, and a hand soaked in blood. Images flashed in front of his eyes--that blood flowing freely over that hand, an alternate possibility where those eyes were empty with death--before what was before him coalesced into an ordinary bathroom in which a small teenage boy in a brown coat stood, staring at his reflection in the mirror and looking slightly nauseated by his bloody right hand.
He had come in here to wash his hands, hadn't he? To get the coagulating stains of the death he had inflicted off of him... the boy shuddered and turned on the water. There was no point to rolling up his sleeves; the cuff of his right sleeve was already soaked with blood, and he didn't want to get the left one in the same state.
Most of the blood came off, but even when he scrubbed his hands pink with plenty of soap and hot water, he could still see traces of it, down to tiny pools that would not come out of the creases in his fingers. Blood on his hands, as the saying went. He could see where that saying had come from now, if he had ever had any doubt.
Cleaning his sleeve was harder, but he managed to get some of the blood to come out of it. That was something, at least.
A hand towel nearby proved suitable to dry off his hands, blot his soaked cuffs, and wipe off his knife. The weapon had tasted blood before, as he had had to fight his way to independence first alongside his sister and then against her, but never so much at once, and never lifeblood before. Never before had he been forced to kill, and it was affecting him far more than he had expected.
The boy pocketed his knife and returned to the bedroom. He stared down at the sword on the floor--did he need it? Was it useful? Snezana was without a weapon save for a tennis racket, and Astrit still clung to the hope that maybe they could fight their way free together, the hope that had kept him going during the first terrifying part of his death match even while Gilbert had tried to persuade him that it was hopeless. His sister... he missed his sister. He hoped she was alive.
It was funny. He had been hoping to win so that he could prove to his sister that he was a man now, but now that he had killed he just wanted her to come comfort him as if he were a little boy.
Astrit collapsed on the floor next to the sword, turning everything over in his head, wishing he could cry. He didn't care who saw him, anymore. He had killed a man, and no amount of bravado could erase that, or cover it up, or reduce the way it made him genuinely dangerous.