text: >*(Fantasy, battlefield, tragic romance, 930 words.)* > > *Again, this was inspired by a picture, but the words are all mine. It's never been on Reddit that I know of.* > >*Moderate battlefield violence, a bit of body horror.* > >*Hope somebody likes it. Any comments, votes etc. gratefully received.* "I heard she beat him one on one," said an older swordsman, rust on his armour, grey in his beard. "In some Eastern lord's grand melee. To claim the choicest prize." The woman charged, sprinting across the field in the sunlight, sword flashing in her hand. The archers facing her notched their arrows. An officer screamed a hoarse command and they loosed, a ragged volley that arched over the grass. "I heard he *was* the prize," said a spearman, a Southerner, his skin so black it was almost blue, his bald head neatly bisected by a lumpen scar. The woman never slowed, even in the face of what looked like certain death. She was small, and slight, and wore nothing but a thin jerkin padded with scraps of chain. The arrows hung in the air a moment, then sank down towards her. A giant shape moved in a nearby copse of trees. There was a hissing noise. A great, flat disc span around and around out of the wood, slid through the air and landed in the ground directly in the woman's path. She dropped to her knees, as if she'd expected this all along, and crouched behind the shield's bulk, clutching her saber as the arrows spent themselves against the shield, or in the mud all around her. The giant in the copse lumbered out of the shadows. Twice her height, he wore nothing but a ragged loincloth. He was huge and fat, but powerful with it. He carried a sword almost as long as she was tall. Yet he never spoke, and she never turned to acknowledge him. And he looked unwell. His skin was sallow, and his veins a livid purple. Half his face was hidden by the brim of a wide straw hat, and just beneath it the onlookers could see two glowing green streaks, like tears, coursing down his face. "I heard they was lovers," said another spearman, a skinny youngster who looked no more than a few days off his parents' farm. "You *what?"* said the old swordsman. The woman reached the archers, while behind her, the giant claimed his shield. Her enemies scattered. Some tried to stand and fight her, thinking numbers had to count for something against one. They died messily. "That's what I heard!" the boy protested. "You reckon everything's a fairy tale?" the old man said with derision. "Look at him!" "No accounting for taste," the southerner murmured. But when the giant entered the fray the onlookers could see he made little attempt to protect himself, and only waved his great shield around when one of the few surviving archers threatened the woman. "Told you," the boy said triumphantly. "But how...?" the old man wanted to know. "It's not a fairy tale," said a fourth voice. "Not exactly." &#x200B; She was tall and lean, with a mop of red curls. She wore their colours, with a shortbow slung over one shoulder. She led a weary-looking white horse with bloodshot eyes that tugged listlessly against its bridle. "They *were* lovers," the woman said. "But he didn't always look like death warmed up. They fought for the old duke, before the war. Signed on as a pair. Swore they'd never lose sight of each other, and all the rest of it." "We all say that," the old man muttered. "These two..." The woman shrugged. "They were on the frontlines in the west when it started. Right in the thick of it. They were sent to harry a scouting force that turned out to be quite a bit more. Relief turned up in time to carry her off the field. Not him, though." "I've heard," the boy said. "What they do out there. To prisoners." The giant struck the last archer with the shield so hard the man seemed to fold up, boneless, over the edge. "Plucked out his eyes," the woman said. "Left poison to fester in the sockets and eat away at his mind. One of our raiding parties laid siege to the fort where they had our friend in chains, but they thought he was a lost cause. Turned him out on the streets, far from home." "What did she do?" the southerner wanted to know. "Searched for him," the woman said flatly. "For years. Nearly went mad herself." "But she found him in the end?" the boy pressed her. "Well, yes," the woman admitted. "But look at him." &#x200B; They looked; at the great, silent bulk of him; at the darkness beneath the edge of that hat; at the great sword, clotted with gore, and at the shield, the dark, imposing silhouette it struck against the afternoon sun. "He never lost sight of her," the woman said quietly. "In the end it was all he could remember. He knows where she is, like magic, any time, anywhere. It's all he lives for. To put himself in harm's way." "There's worse ways to end up," the old man conceded. "You think?" the woman observed. "Do you *really?* Think about her. She remembers, too. Where she left him. *How* she left him. She sees it every time they head into battle. Every time she charges. You think part of her isn't hoping that just this once he'll miss his cue?" The onlookers fell silent. Out on the sward, the archers had all fallen. The rest had long since fled. Corpses dotted the field, and black smoke climbed over the trees at the crest of the hill beyond. The giant stood there silently, and for a moment the woman clung to his broad grey belly, arms around him, shoulders shaking.