Having forgotten to close the heavy curtains the night before, a frown creased the otherwise smooth features of a young woman as the morning sun fell across her face, her eyes darting behind still heavy lids. Her hand, slender and white, moving to relieve them of the glare, came to rest lightly against her forehead.
A minute passed while the woman's body held unnaturally still in a vain attempt to retain sleep. Finally, sensing a loosing battle, she sighed and stirred. Smooth, long limbs moved languidly, crumpling the already lined cotton sheets. A wide yawn escaped the woman's mouth, finishing off with a rush of breath as her eyes fluttered open to stare at the ceiling.
Her dark brown hair was strewn on either side of her pillow, framing her face as a slow smile of satisfaction crept guiltily upon her face. She stretched, her muscles straining stiffly against the movement, the place between her legs tender. With a rustle she pulled the duvet up to her chin, warding off the cool air, and turned her head to look at the space beside her. She blinked in surprise.
Peeling back the duvet, she revealed the vacant space beneath it, and blinked twice again. Slowly, her arm stretched out to touch the sheets. Cold. The blanket should have retained some heat if he had only left the bed a short while ago. He had been gone for some time...
***
The white and blue flag snapped angrily in the biting wind, its blood soaked edges proclaiming its bloodthirsty origin. Beneath its shadow lay a battlefield blooming with thousands upon thousands of bodies, so entrenched in the grime of war that they seemed be part of the earth instead of once living flesh and blood.
The sky was beginning to darken into the hopeless black of night, though twilight had arrived prematurely as huge thunder clouds rolled into the early afternoon, black and ominous.
Iana looked out over the horrific scene, her grey eyes seemingly impassive to the bloating massacre before her, her face expressionless even as the smell of waste wafted up with the wind. She held still atop her horse, straight backed and composed, an austere sentinel and unyielding leader to all those who followed her.
Soldiers who had yet to fall to the war's hungry jaws took encouragement as they filed past. Seeing their Lady unhurt and determined, looking like a real hero, like those heard of in the tales, lifted their hopes and renewed their belief in the future.
Iana knew their looks, knew what they wanted to see but failed, for once, to give a damn. 'This is what I have come to,' she murmured to herself, tiredly. 'To stand impassive as the world around me burns.'
In truth, she was in turmoil. It took all her will to keep up the façade. Inside, a rage was roiling through her, burning its way through her stomach and up though her throat, leaving a bitter taste in her mouth. And beside the rage was a bone deep sadness.
What a bloody waste. Every battle, every life lost was a waste. Man killing man, brother fighting father, and countryman against countryman. It was a war without compromise, a war with only one victor: death.
Iana raked a hand through her thick, dark brown hair. The war had gone on too long, far too long. They had lost so much, she had lost so much, but today had been the tipping point.
Finally she allowed herself a small smile, and the rage and sadness receded into a small corner of her soul for the moment. It would return sooner or later as it always did. But not now.
Today, they had won. It had been long and bitter but, Dear High One Above, she had lead them to victory! After seven years of fighting, it finally looked as if the end were in sight. Iana kicked her horse forward, making her way down from her vantage point and headed around the hill, back towards the camp.
It had been seven years since, at the age of 17, she'd stepped onto her village's small herald stage and urged the villagers to resist the new regime. She remembered it like it was yesterday: the heat and dust of the rural square, the frenzied voices of her friends and family and the burning excitement of addressing the large crowd. From that moment on, her popularity had grown like a wild fire and she had risen to become the most prominent leader of the rebellion. The passion she felt echoed those of her fellow citizens, her love for her land equal to any farmers while her hatred of the new anarchists was as fierce as the strongest nationalists. She had a talent for words and knew how to inspire the deepest loyalty in every man, woman and child who heard her. From simple village girl to captain commander and leader of the rebellion's army, Iana had come very far in just seven years.
At an age when many women her age were married to good, stable farmers and had had five babies already, she had been beaten, tortured, left for dead, recovered, traveled the length and breadth of her country, learned to fight with a sword, quarterstaff and her hands, had gathered an army and led it in countless skirmishes and over fifteen large field battles, and had become the most wanted woman and man (reports sometimes varied on her gender) in the entire country.
So far, her life was not shaping out as she imagined it would at the age of five, she mused, as she entered the camp and made her way towards her tent. She was so tired from the long day of battle that all she wanted to do was wash and crawl into bed.
With a groan, she opened the flap of her tent, entered and caught sight of the pile of paper work that had already been delivered onto her desk. Damage reports. Damn it.
She'd come a long way, not only in position but also in character. Gone was that naïve little girl who had believed in good conquering evil and the promise of someone's word. She no longer had any interest in dresses and mysterious princes riding to her rescue. She'd even lost all childlike softness that she once had, with her features sharpening, the angles almost as hard as her eyes: Eyes that could, it was whispered amongst the soldier's ranks, pierce a person's soul. Her body had toned into the muscle needed for a warrior, yet her naturally thin build kept her slim. Tall, she held herself with confidence, and had a presence that often ignited a room.
Because, besides from her fierce need to protect her people, and the respect gained from her unusual skill as a warrior, people were stunned into silence and sometimes jealous fits when they saw her.
She didn't realize it, but she was beautiful. Stunningly so. And her incomprehension of the fact made her all the more attractive. Men would die for her; woman couldn't help but respect her. She was Iana Fireheart, Lady of the Land, and Leader of the Free People. She was an icon and to many a god, but not many saw her as a normal person.
And that, she decided, as she flopped onto her bed, her horse taken away by a helpful soldier for a rub down, is half the problem. Gods never got tired, nor did they have needs.
Nor, she thought wryly as she heard someone approach her tent, did they have personal time.
'Come,' she called out, refusing to move from her prone position. The approaching footsteps halted, then continued hesitantly. Her messengers still couldn't get used to her superb hearing.
'My lady,' a man's gruff voice spoke respectfully just beyond her tent, 'I have news.'
With a groan she lifted herself to sit at the edge of the bed and briskly rubbed her face with her hands. 'Come in, Murdana,' she called out to her second-in-command.
Once he'd entered, she got up slowly and walked over to a rickety table that held a bottle of shampuk, a fiery alcoholic drink favoured by the soldiers. 'Is it good news or bad news?' She poured a little into two horn cups and offered one to the older man.
Taking it, he regarded her with amusement as she tipped her head back and swallowed her drink in one gulp. 'To tell you the truth, Iana, I don't know.' Seeing her frown, he just smiled. 'We have acquired a very interesting prisoner. My company found him pinned beneath his dead horse, unable to move head or tail. He's cut up pretty bad but no bones are broken. But the interesting thing is that he wears the badge of a commander.'
Iana's brows shot up. A commander? 'Where is he?'
Murdana hid a smile. Even exhausted and battle worn, Iana always wanted to deal with things immediately. 'Outside, my lady. I thought you'd like to see him.'
'Has he come peacefully?'
'Nope, battled every step of the way.' There was a satisfied glint in the warrior's eyes. 'Gave us a chance to decorate him black and blue, just so he looked extra nice for you.'
Iana couldn't help but smile. She couldn't ask for a better second-in-command than Murdana. Her right hand man, he was trustworthy and loyal to the bone, and to top it off, he tried to make her smile at every moment.
