How strange it is what a man – or woman – thinks, when they have passed the point at which the pain can hardly get any worse. How do such thoughts suddenly have significance?
'My body is ruined now,' she thought – a thought so distant from what a woman like Lasha would usually think. 'These cuts will scar. No man will ever look at my body and claim it to be beautiful.'
The strangest thought for her, considering how strongly she'd detested the notion of getting married as a youth. The very idea of being sent to a stranger for the good of her house repulsed her. She'd seen what men the noble world offered and she'd had no interest in any of them.
In contrast, the battlefield seemed like a relative paradise. Freedom, and danger, and death – but freedom more than anything else. Lying in her own blood, wracked with pain, it was a wonder to Blackthorn that she'd ever dreamed of such a thing.
Rivera's sword flashed, intending to bore out her neck.
There was a clang of steel, and the sword was knocked aside.
Belatedly, Blackthorn realized that it was her hand and her blade that had guided that sword away. Some part of her still clung to life, even though her body had long since given up. The fact of the incongruence surprised her, and infuriated Rivera.
"Give up," Rivera said coldly, slashing again. With his injured army, it angered him immensely how much effort he'd had to spend on a woman that had not even made it through the first boundary.
"Lady Blackthorn!" Judas shouted, looking over his shoulder. But that man was in no position to help. He was busy trying to keep the left flank from folding in on itself entirely, enduring the hellish chaos of dozens and dozens of men fighting to kill each other all at once.
In comparison, Blackthorn knew her role to be a simple one. She'd merely had to keep this Second Boundary man in check, away from the chaos. It was just like training with Oliver back at the Academy… Except it wasn't.
Oliver had never looked at her so coldly. He'd frightened her at times – yes, indeed, there was a frightening component to him, but once one understood it, even that part did not seem so frightening. It was like dealing with a ferocious beast, knowing that there were certain boundaries that should never be crossed.
Blackthorn wondered whether that odd kindness that he had, hidden behind so many layers, was what had distorted her image of the battlefield so completely?
'No,' she thought, rejecting the idea. She could not blame him. She deflected Rivera's blade again. She could blame no one but herself, for her own weakness. She tried to struggle to her feet, but could not find the strength.
Rivera's blade did not let up. Blackthorn parried it a third time, but by then, her quickness was lost, and the blade danced across the shoulder, searing the flesh with another deep cut, piling on the many layers of relentless abuse.
'You're being a burden,' a part of her said. An old part. 'Just as they thought you'd be. A woman is always going to be a burden on the battlefield. They were right. Now, when you die, you'll burden them the same.
The flank will fall and everyone will die. You won't repay anyone. You don't have the power to.'
She tried to her feet, rejecting that voice. It was a wasted effort. She didn't have the strength.
"Shit!" Judas shouted, realizing how close she was to perishing. "Beam's going to kill me if I let her die…"
'Beam?' Lady Blackthorn thought. That name again – from the people that claimed to know Oliver better than she. Beam. Who was that?
"TALON'S HEAD IS MINE! HE RUNS, OUT OF FEAR OF MY BLADE!" A roar cut through the ringing in Blackthorn's head. It was about the only thing that she could hear clearly. She had a feeling that she would have heard it even if she didn't want to.
It wasn't just words that reached her, it was as though someone had grabbed her by the shoulders. She flinched, and raised her blade – but Rivera hadn't swung yet. He'd been distracted by the voice, and was looking off in the direction that Oliver was likely in.
Blackthorn drew in a sharp intake of breath. The hands on her shoulders were gripping her with an awful tightness. Now it felt less like they were on her shoulders, and more like they were reaching towards her heart. Instead of one heartbeat, she could have sworn she heard two.
There was hers, weak, and gentle, slowly and softly fading out with the dying of the light. Then, there was this great thudding behemoth, pounding as loud as a drum beat, overwhelming her, seeming to demand more from her. No, it wasn't seeming to – that was exactly what it was doing.
There'd only been a single roar, yet an entire conversation's worth of intent reached her and overwhelmed her, with an intimateness that she'd never felt.
It was a warm feeling in her cold body, but it was also terrifying.
There was a kind woman, coaxing her in a way that almost felt familiar. Blackthorn could have sworn that she'd heard that voice at times. It was the voice of a better her, calling from the future, bidding her forward – or at least, that was what Blackthorn had thought it was.
Alongside that voice, there was something else, however. Something darker, growling like a wolf pack in the shadows, filled with a menacing that made her want to cry. She instinctively knew to fear that darkness even more than she feared death.
"Blackthorn," something said. She could hear that voice as clear as day. It rumbled like thunder. It was the voice of something mighty. She'd never heard it before, and yet she had the sense that she'd heard it every day for months on end, but never truly understood it. "Rise," it said.
"Reach," it demanded. "You are mine – everything I am shall empower you."
She trembled. There were too many emotions running through her at once. To reach for one individually was like sticking her hand into the strong current of a dangerous river. There was anger, there was love, there was pride. They were her emotions, yet it wasn't she that had stirred them.