The scent of blood saturated everything. Over the clamor of crashing metal could be heard the far-off screams of dying men. She knew she didn’t have much time left; the wound in her side burned like hellfire, and the edges of her vision were growing darker with each second. Slowly, painfully, she wrenched herself from the pile of bodies she’d slain, limping on the leg that was not pierced by a spear towards the tower. She hoped the guards would have relocated to the battlefield, but knew better. The first she dispatched quickly; the second was alerted by the clatter of armor, the sound of death. He feinted, she struck. His head departed from his shoulders with ease, and she continued on. Her blood slicked the stone steps, running down her legs like the river Styx, slowing her pace. She was too weary of fighting. She leaned heavily against the cold stone wall, listening to the triumphant scream of Death as it claimed victim after victim. She pushed herself on; she could not die here. Not yet. Death would have to wait for her mission to be done. She reached the tower’s peak at last, breaking the lock on the door with an arc of her blade, and stumbled through.
“Helen,” she breathed, as her captive wife rushed to her side. She fell to her knees, struggling to keep her eyes open.
“Gwendolyn,” Helen cried, tears beginning to swell from her eyes. She saw the extent of the damage to her lover’s body, and she was not a fool. “What have you done?”
Gwendolyn sighed, leaning her face into Helen’s bare shoulder, memorizing the scent of her skin. “We have one. You are free once more.” She was so tired…
“Gwen—no—stay with me. Please,” begged Helen as she snapped the spear from the other’s leg and dragged her over to the bed. Gwendolyn knew she should be screaming in pain, but she hardly felt anything anymore. She reached up, brushing Helen’s hair from her eyes.
“I love you, Helen. I will carry your heart to my grave.” Helen kissed her, long and slow, to discourage any more talk. She rested her forehead against Gwendolyn’s blood-soaked own.
“You shall reign in my heart if nowhere else, my queen.”
Gwendolyn smiled as Helen’s tears washed the blood from her face. “Live long, my love. Make our country great again.” Her last breath was swallowed by Helen’s lips.
I’ve been playing around with prompts lately and this is one of my favorites so far. Gotta love lesbian queens.