The Little Wolf

Weaponless

Alongside Roseroad, Near to Highgarden

Just as everything was clicking into place, and the tower was building and lifting its destruction off Lyra's little body... everything started to crumble.

Again.

Nella, oblivious to the commotion outside, hobbled out of her hut, humming merrily a tune to herself. She happened upon the beast of a man, and without so much as a pause, he had snatched the aging lady into his tight embrace. He held a sword to her neck, and chuckled when Arkadah and Trynn screamed for mercy.

Once more, Lyra knew more than she could possibly let on- there was no such thing as mercy. Lyra didn't believe in mercy, and she knew Ser Deacon didn't either. She knew this, and like she had walked this reality before, she braced herself for impact. She knew, Lev knew, Chief knew and deep down, Kaelo knew the outcome. Mercy was not an option.

A sword sliced through the air, and after a dreadful dance, the sweet old lady's body ceased its struggle, and her head, held high in the sky by her few white strands of hair, had been divorced from her body. The man held her head high in the air, in front of Trynn's horrified, shattered world and Arkadah's daze, and grinned. He shook the head, cackled, and flung it in the air allowing his other men to make a ball game out of it. His menacing grin reminded Lyra of Ser Deacon back at King's Landing, and it angered her to realise he was not the only of his cruel kind.

Trynn, in her own dreadful dance, wailed and howled and fell to the ground wishing, undoubtedly, to just die then and there. Lyra knew it. She had felt it too when her father had lost his own head. The excruciating pain ripping through her body like she were being gutted.

Arkadah emerged from his state quicker than Trynn, and yanked Toothpick off Kaelo, and began his charge toward the man. He screamed in rage and summoned his Soul to attack in the most brutal form possible. "Zennah!" he screamed to his Helai, "Zennah! Kill them all, make them suffer!" His face was wet with tears, and fire and fury flickered within his Soul. Zennah shot out from her hiding spot, a lion of a magnificent red, and ripped one of the men to shreds in one chomp of her mouth.

Lev looked to Lyra, and after a nod from his master, he too joined in the battle. "My Soul!" Lyra yelled at him, "There is no such thing as mercy!". And, with that, Lev mimicked Zennah, at Lyra's soulful command, and landed on the ground as a lion; snow white in colour, still with shining blue eyes. He roared in spine-chilling rage, and, in less than a blink, had pinned two men to the ground beneath his heavy paws. Chief, too, dashed from the hut and pounced from the shadows, wiping a man out who was ready to ambush Kaelo from behind.

The words echoed through their hideaway: "Monster!"

They knew now. There was no turning back. There was to be no happy ending, there was to be no leisurely trek to the Land of Souls as Lyra and Arkadah had envisioned. There was just this. Constant hate of their kind, constant evading, and constant belittling.

Lyra drew another knife and flung it at another man. It slotted into his neck, hit and artery, and he staggered forward spraying blood all over the ground. The man concluded his life with a gob of bloody spit, as he attempted to slur an obscenity to the girl. He died in a puddle of his own blood, and died with his emerald eyes staring up at the sky.

She ran to him, allowed her Conscience to scream "forgive me!" before prying the knife out of the man and lobbing it at another. This time it hit the man far from the target she had intended. He yelped and howled like a wounded dog, before turning and rumbling like thunder at Lyra.

Killing was never her first plan, but it certainly wasn't her last. The fact of the matter was, if she needed to kill anyone for her own safety, she did so quickly. The suffering was to be minimal. It was the one kindness she felt she could offer in this cruel world. After all, though she understood now the absence of mercy, she believed it still lingered in death. The only mercy was death. There was truth to it, and that truth was her philosophy. This missed shot was not what she had planned, it was a failure not of her skill, but of her belief.

It struck the man in the shoulder blade, where it had been projected to crack into his skull, or at least his neck. He pulled the knife out of his back, growled at it, before pitching it back at Lyra with appreciable brawn. Lyra threw herself to the dust and felt the knife whiz over her head. Before she had time to get to her feet, he was stampeding toward her. Lyra looked over for help, but Kaelo was furiously fighting a man with quick hands. For a moment Lyra forgot about her own dire situation, and worried about Kaelo - the man he was versing held two swords, one in each of his hands, and swung them each so quickly, the silver of the blade blended with the sky.

It was then Lyra snapped back to her own reality. The man, staggering slightly, but persevering with deep aggression and will to slaughter his little enemy, barrelled forward toward Lyra. She reached to her belt to draw a knife, but was met with nothing in her embrace. Her knife belt was empty, and she was weaponless.

Only one weapon remained, and she screamed to it desperately - "LEV!"

The man dashed closer and closer toward the girl, his face growing in more detail with each step he took. His brow was covered in sweat, his clothes damp with blood, mud and perspiration, and his fists were clenched so tightly around his massive sword his knuckles had faded to white. He screamed and continued his mad bolt, his feet so hard on the ground, Lyra felt its vibrations.

"Lev!" she screamed again, lost in her Souls absence. She snapped her head over her shoulder in search of her one final weapon, only to find Lev in the fight for his life. Lev was trying to peck at Ser Deacon's head, while the beast of a man chased Trynn around the clearing. She was petrified and red with her own blood and Nella's, but her will to live remained. She spun and tried to swing her mace and hit the man, but failed and fell to the ground. Lev swooped in to protect Trynn from the blow, but was hurled away by Ser Deacon's heavy hand. There, on the ground, Lev tried to rally himself and get over to Lyra, but was unable too.

Stay where you are, my sweet Soul, this battle is mine, Lyra spoke to him.

She considered Kaelo's lesson: Get up. She recalled reaching for the white flag of surrender but being hit each time she did and being urged to "get up!"

'Get up, Lyra!' she told herself, despite her fear, 'Do not give up'.

She had no weapons in a physical sense, and even her Soul was unable to fight. Yet, she urged herself to remain strong. She could crumple to her knees, she could yield and accept defeat. She could reach her hands out toward Death and proceed to dance with him until she took her last breath.

But she never could.

She had to get up. She had to utilize the weapon Kaelo was adamant was the strongest. "Yes, my dear knight", her friend had spoken that day as he squeezed her into a hug, "Your mind, you brain, your Soul".

"When you are knocked down, get up. When there is no hope, get up. When you are too weak to bloody well stand, at least try and get up", Kaelo's voice continued to inspire her.

And she did just that; she got up. The man was so close to her Lyra could hear him growling, and his sweat flicked onto her with each step. The ground thundered, and her heart skipped several beats before resuming, albeit thumping away quickly in her little chest. No weapon. No Soul. All she could use was her brain.

The man heaved his sword in the air and swung it at her little body, but just before its blade sliced her body like meat in a cook's kitchen, she ducked out of the way. She ran straight under the blade and had picked a rock up from the ground before the man turned around. She launched herself onto him, and hit his head with the rock, her weapon. She was weak and the man was tough, it was like trying to break through steel with a feather, but she couldn't give up, she had to fight and persevere while she could.

She hit the man, ignored the blood, and growled as she hung off his shoulders. She tried to kick the sword out of his hand, but he got the upper hand and hit Lyra in the face with the hilt of his sword, sending her flying backward. She refused to be beaten, and almost as soon as she found herself on the ground, she was on her feet again, fighting like a true knight. She wiped the blood off her face and endured, accepting that the pain was only temporary.

She stood tall and readied herself for yet another attack, courage roaring inside her despite her chilling fear.

She was Ser Lyra, and a knight could not be afraid.