JEONGCHEOL || Flower Collections

Wisteria

The first time she lays eyes on him is in the middle of a battlefield.

Amidst the red haze of bloodlust and the carnage all around her, his dark locks stand out like a sore thumb. Beheading her men one by one, face crusted with what was probably her soldier's entrails, uniform colour unrecognizable due to all the blood.

She finds him oddly attractive.

The man slips out of her mind just as easily as he slipped in it. One doesn't have time to daydream when their throat could be slit any moment. She rides off, and he's just another speck among the slaughter.

They meet again. Face to face. Sword to sword. She can't feel her arms from all the chopping and disemboweling, she probably hasn't showered in what felt like a week, and her ribs hurt like hell when she got her air knocked out of her earlier by some bastard. She killed him.

The man opposite her doesn't look any better. He looks like shit. Although she has to give it to him for looking this good bathing in guts and blood.

Their swords clash again, and even though her arms hurt like a bitch from that, her blood sings. Finally. Someone who can match her blow for blow. Adrenaline rushes through her. He gives her no leeway, no breathing space. She does the same – it's only courtesy. She nicks him in the face, and that red trail runs down his cheekbones. How beautiful. He can only be even more beautiful covered in his own blood. At the thought, she feels her lips curving up into a maniacal smile and resists the urge to cackle.

Still needs a little more training, but pretty good. Has potential.

His right side is open, so she kicks him there. His face contorts in pain and he doubles over. Lightning-quick, she tackles the sword out of his hands and has him pinned on his back, hands above his head – he buckles furiously, but she's stronger. This close, she can finally observe his eyes: brown with a ring of green around his pupils. His neck artery is prominent and pulses furiously under his skin, a sign of life. She idly wonders how it might feel to slit that vein and watch him bleed out slowly, watch his life fade before her eyes. It's extremely tempting.

Her demon salivates at the thought holding his life in her hands. Strangely enough, it doesn't seem to wish her to act upon it.

She's not going to let him off scot-free, though. It'd be nice souvenir, she thinks, as she fishes out her own dagger and slashes a line across his stomach. It'll scar. And it's not deep enough to be fatal. He doesn't have enough of her marks on him yet.

She lifts herself off of him, and throws his sword next to him.

"Run now, or I will kill you" she turns around and leaves.

Her country is winning.

As she storms castle by castle, her men die off one by one. Their country expands like a hungry abyss swallowing everything on its path, and their opponent gets pushed closer and closer to the capital.

How befitting that the road from one castle to another is traced with red ink. The colour of blood. Its coppery smell, embedded on the ground, slushing the soil, paving the way to victory.

The King of the other country sends in his unconditional surrender letter, promising castles and boons and treasures and slaves. As General, she gets first picks. None really interests her, it's not like she can get any richer, being second in ranking only to the King. She indifferently listens to her reward lists, and offers a half-hearted thank you when it's done. She thinks she will go to the camp. At least it can't be any more monotonous than everything else in her life. She misses being in war, when every cell in her body comes alive with the thrill of killing and being killed. When her life is put on the line, and walking that rope is the best feeling she's experienced in years.