Pairings/Characters: Diana, Princess of Themyscira
Genres: Challenge, Drama
Warnings: Aftermath of battle
Summary: Diana’s thoughts as she walks the battlefield.
Date Of Completion: March 16, 2011
Date Of Posting: March 17, 2011
Disclaimer: I don’t own ‘em, DC does, more’s the pity.
Word Count: 449
Feedback welcome and appreciated.
Author’s Note: Written for my 2011 Wonder Woman Love Fic/Art 70th Anniversary Celebration Challenge.
Diana, Princess of the Amazons, walked across the battlefield, her boots crunching on the hard ground. Wisps of smoke curled up from remnants of fire arrows, and the dead had been cleared away, but scraps of cloth and broken jewelry could be seen here and there, bright-eyed birds scanning the field and sweeping down to snatch up glittering bits, returning to their tree branches triumphantly. The vultures had long since departed.
Patches of ground were darker than others, a testament to Warriors’ spilled blood. The cloying scent was strong in the noontime sun, scraggly bushes and looming boulders offering the only shade. Limbs of broken trees littered the field a few feet away, a copse destroyed in the heat of battle.
Diana remembered the sounds of battle: the clash of swords, the battle cries of men and women, the screams of the wounded and dying. She remembered the smell of blood and sweat, the sensation of the sun beating down upon her skin and reflecting off her golden battle armor, and the taste of fear in her mouth. It was healthy for a Warrior to know fear, as long as it did not paralyze her from doing what must be done.
Instead, she had felt her blood sing and her eyes sharpen as she drove forward, using her shield to ward off blows and her sword to cut a swathe through the enemy. The enemy had fought bravely and gallantly, as did her allies, and for a time it appeared as if they were locked in a stalemate, but then she found her second wind and surged forward, a smile of feral joy on her face, her muscles straining and hair flying as she advanced, her comrades beside and behind her, all pushing forward with inexorable passion.
It had been a hard-fought battle, but she and her allies had triumphed in the end.
As she walked across the scarred field, she thought of the genuine thrill of battle. It was the application of long-practiced skill and the knowledge that she was one of the best that gave her that rush. She did not glory in death or blood or the ultimate waste of war, but she understood that there were times that war must be waged.
The sun glinted off the golden armor of the chief standing at the edge of the field, feathers waving in the breeze, blond hair glinting. She smiled. She had a fondness for blonds.
The breeze blew her cape behind her and caused her skirt to flutter as she approached, her sword sheathed and her bearing regal as she held out the olive branch.
Amazons were wagerers of war but also bringers of peace.