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Entry tags:
Impatient
Title: Impatient
Fandom: Fire Emblem: Radiant Dawn
Characters: Jarod
Word count: 373
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Notes: Possible fe_drabble entry, I dunno. I started another playthrough of FE10 and in the narration for one of the last two chapters of Part I it mentioned Jarod murdering a Begnion emissary, and I was all, "what? Personally? Clearly I need to write fic that has nothing to do with this! Nor will I explore the potential for awesome scary evilness inherent in that situation, because, like I said, nothing to do with it."
In other words, this took a wrong turn somewhere but Jarod is still a very handsome man.
Death was something that happened to other people. The logic by which he convinced himself it wouldn’t come to him was unremittingly circular, but even knowing that, he could not quite push it aside.
He had, directly or indirectly, killed hundreds, with never a backward glance. He was a military man, and he was strong and clever and ruthless enough to keep himself alive. One lived or died by one’s skill; the dead deserved it. It was beautifully unambiguous.
It only took Numida to ruin everything. Numida and one unexpected maneuver –
It’s only fair that every man use all the power at his disposal. If you were really the best, you would have expected it. You lost.
He was going to die. The power over life and death had been his, and he had slipped. He was going to die.
He should have died facing the Black Knight. Alder’s foolish act of misguided charity had accomplished nothing but to defer that end a few weeks.
A few weeks of restlessly pacing Daein Keep. A few weeks telling his men that nothing was more honorable than to die with a purpose, killing any who displayed a shadow of a doubt until he saw how low their numbers had dwindled. The rebels would tear through them like paper. Alder would have stopped him sooner. But did he need the weaklings Alder would have had him spare? Did he need weaklings like Alder?
He was going to die. He didn’t know much about honor – as if anyone still did by the time he could call himself a general of Begnion – but he did know this: better to die armed, with your blood running hot. Better to die standing up. No peacetime execution for him. He would wait for the Priestess of Dawn, and he would live no longer than it took to see her brought down.
He would die violently, spectacularly, preceded by scores of weaklings. He would fall only to the one who had defeated him – the girl. All others would perish. He would deal death just as he always had.
He had no real quarrel with death, he decided, two days before the keep fell to the rebels. In fact, he could hardly wait.
Fandom: Fire Emblem: Radiant Dawn
Characters: Jarod
Word count: 373
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Notes: Possible fe_drabble entry, I dunno. I started another playthrough of FE10 and in the narration for one of the last two chapters of Part I it mentioned Jarod murdering a Begnion emissary, and I was all, "what? Personally? Clearly I need to write fic that has nothing to do with this! Nor will I explore the potential for awesome scary evilness inherent in that situation, because, like I said, nothing to do with it."
In other words, this took a wrong turn somewhere but Jarod is still a very handsome man.
Death was something that happened to other people. The logic by which he convinced himself it wouldn’t come to him was unremittingly circular, but even knowing that, he could not quite push it aside.
He had, directly or indirectly, killed hundreds, with never a backward glance. He was a military man, and he was strong and clever and ruthless enough to keep himself alive. One lived or died by one’s skill; the dead deserved it. It was beautifully unambiguous.
It only took Numida to ruin everything. Numida and one unexpected maneuver –
It’s only fair that every man use all the power at his disposal. If you were really the best, you would have expected it. You lost.
He was going to die. The power over life and death had been his, and he had slipped. He was going to die.
He should have died facing the Black Knight. Alder’s foolish act of misguided charity had accomplished nothing but to defer that end a few weeks.
A few weeks of restlessly pacing Daein Keep. A few weeks telling his men that nothing was more honorable than to die with a purpose, killing any who displayed a shadow of a doubt until he saw how low their numbers had dwindled. The rebels would tear through them like paper. Alder would have stopped him sooner. But did he need the weaklings Alder would have had him spare? Did he need weaklings like Alder?
He was going to die. He didn’t know much about honor – as if anyone still did by the time he could call himself a general of Begnion – but he did know this: better to die armed, with your blood running hot. Better to die standing up. No peacetime execution for him. He would wait for the Priestess of Dawn, and he would live no longer than it took to see her brought down.
He would die violently, spectacularly, preceded by scores of weaklings. He would fall only to the one who had defeated him – the girl. All others would perish. He would deal death just as he always had.
He had no real quarrel with death, he decided, two days before the keep fell to the rebels. In fact, he could hardly wait.
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