Hopelessness stings deeper than the coldest bitter winds of the highest peaks of Cho Oyu. Mulan had been lost and wandering with no particular direction in mind for days. The woman had not even realized that her surroundings had changed. The snow was falling harder even as she moved down the mountain. The flakes melted against her fever warmed cheeks. Ice had begun to form on her pristine armor, so much so that the feather in her helmet had begun to hang in her face. The layers under her armor barely kept her warm and the pack and bow which loosely hung on her shoulder had started to become a burden. Her gloved hand rested on the hilt of the elaborate Chinese Jian hanging off her belt in an extravagantly decorated sheath. The gold and silver glistened in the sunlight filtering through the clouds. Even weather-worn and ill Mulan still held a well traveled but dignified appearance.
The snow crunched lightly under her boots. Her armor clinked ever so softly as she moved. Each labored breath she took sent a small cloud into the air. Faintly she could hear voices drifting into the mountains from the nearby Camlann. She could smell the fires burning inside the hearths of the houses below and suddenly her body longed to be warm.
Her footsteps faltered as a hare crossed her path. She teetered unbalanced on one foot before tumbling forward. She landed face first into the snow, her pack landing next to her with a small ‘pft’ sound as it sank into the powder. The sudden sensation of cold against her fevered face caused her to jerk and shiver uncontrollably. The woman forced herself into a kneeling position before drawing her sword to support the weight of her lithe body. The point of her weapon was buried in the frozen earth as she rested her weary head on the handle. She almost looked like she was praying, and maybe in her own way; she was.
They had her kneel like this against her sword, mostly naked and utterly vulnerable. They branded her and cast her out. They would not let her return home. They exiled her, sent her away from the country she’d given so much to. They had no faces but they haunted her every sleeping moment. She heard them when she closed her eyes, whispering about her fate. Speaking about her like she didn’t exist. Calling her a traitor and a dishonor to her family.
Her grip on the sword tightened, surely the knuckles beneath the gloves would be white. She made several attempts to calm her breathing. Sooth the anger boiling under her skin. She rose to her feet and began moving forward again. She whispered to herself in very soft Chinese. Reminding herself that she was not a Traitor. The fever was beginning to affect her senses as well as her mind. She was slow to react to the soft but audible crack of wood being snapped in two. Twigs being stepped on.
“
Who’s there?!”*” More of a demand than a question as she whirled around, her eyes moving from sparse evergreen to the low winter brush. Her sword was pointed and she was ready for a fight even if the woman was in no condition.
There! She heard it again. The tell tale crackling of twigs underfoot. She turned again, again, almost losing her footing and falling once more. She caught herself before her eyes rested on the hare not five feet from her. Its nose twitched before it ran off and she swore it was being followed by a faceless child.
The town she had been heading for couldn’t be too far. Mulan thought she could make out the barest of outlines from what was probably a road or path into the mountains during the warm summer months.
The snow had started to fall again. She needed to move but her feet seemed frozen in place and her eyes were glued to the underbrush where the rabbit had disappeared.
*in Chinese.
Tags:
mordred, mulan