Inktober #27: Coat

Focus on the cuff. Start there. Just past where you're holding her hand.

Cracked black leather. Worn. Chafed. Scratched. Used. Scorched on the inside. Buttons of polished steel standing out in stark contrast, holding it to the sleeve. Each emblazoned with a different relief of a different battalion. They'll be there, at the end.

But for now you have to keep going.

The gray wool hides well its scars. Finely sewn back together after being slashed apart. Here, from the Midlands. Here, from Parth. Here, the longest, trailing in a curve not hidden but embroidered, stretching from just below the elbow to near the shoulder. The most recent. The badge of honor. The sacrifice that let her get the killing blow on Sehad. The embroidery intertwining and highlighting, making bold, the patch of her rank.

But there's too much there. Keep going.

The shoulder, bare of the traditional fringed epaulet, instead weighed down by a black iron pauldron of her own design. Enough to block any wayward strikes, yet keep her view open through a small crescent when she aimed. Since losing most function in this arm, it was more a style choice than anything, but she always said it felt like having another piece of pride with her. Just like the badge, it was something she earned and made for herself. It was as much a part of this coat, of her, as anything.

We're getting closer now. Be ready.

The grey wool climbs back up again out of the black iron to wrap around her neck and two more perfectly polished...but for that fleck of red...steel buttons. Emblazoned again. One for the crown, one for the land. The crown was always unbuttoned. She said it was because it was tailored wrong. Helped her breathe. Yet she always refused to have any alterations to it. You never got that story, did you? You sneak a glance up to her face.

Too much there.

Too much to come.

Keep going.

Down to her chest.

And there you are.

And there it is.

Between the alternating black and white straps.

Another scar.

And so much blood.

You'll have it stitched. It's what she would've wanted.

Sit with it.

Be there.

Red among the monochrome.

Grieve for the life lost. The warrior. The joy. The love. The smile in the flashes of steel.

Breathe.

Check the other arm now.

Slashed. She had tried the Sehad maneuver again. Maybe she thought she could get a shot off with the pistol you moved from her grasp to hold her hand. Where this began. You'll mend that too.

Have you taken your time?

Will you take up the sword she dropped, the pistol you moved?

"Are you ready?" comes the voice, barely above a whisper. An enemy, but one who knows respect.

And a coat to match hers.

He stays sitting in the chair across the room, this cabin in the late afternoon hiding amidst the pines where you had thought to find some rest, an ally. Rest he had given you. Rest of a kind to her. Though you knew her fight continued elsewhere.

You squeeze her hand. You take up the pistol in your left, the sword in your right.

"Ready," you say.

He stands. Salutes with his own weapons, and readies.

The poor bastard.

Her coat hid the small scars, and reveled in the big.

What better way to honor her than to make some big scars yourself?

And you charge.