Edgar (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
hate_gettin_older) wrote2015-04-19 10:21 pm
hate_gettin_older) wrote2015-04-19 10:21 pm
Entry tags:
Yekaterina Bridge
It's the bit with the fish that first makes Edgar feel like he's dreaming.
He's seen pictures of fish, heard stories about them, but there's something surreal about actually seeing this one: this heavy little body dangling from the hand of the axeman, swaying with the motion of the car and gleaming in the sunlight through the windows, staring eyes and gaping mouth and sudden dripping blood. They pass the fish hand to hand, each axeman dipping his weapon into its belly, and he gets it; he doesn't want to get it but he gets it, oh yes, it's a show and a message just like smashing some poor bastard's arm and it says this is your death, this is all your deaths, if you come any closer.
Be careful, Curtis murmurs, and it clears his head like a swallow of cold water.
Yeah, he whispers back, you too, and then the first blows are swinging and they're moving forward into the car.
The second dreamlike moment, not long after, is also blood: looking up at Curtis as he straightens up and wipes a dead enemy's blood from his face, slowly picking himself up from the floor, staring after him as the fight swirls around them both. He doesn't know how to begin articulating what he's (remembering?) feeling right then, and it doesn't matter because there isn't time. He grips his weapon and tightens his jaw and hurries forward, fighting his way to Curtis's side.
And the fight dissolves into a series of interruptions. The bullhorn that makes everybody lower their weapons; the bridge crossing, the axemen cheering for the New Year, the officer screaming impact! and the hideous jolt as the train strikes ice; the kronole-head and his daughter standing in the middle of the car and pointing at christ-knows-what out the windows; the sneering, scolding speech from Minister Mason. Precisely seventy-four percent of you shall die.
The darkness sweeping over them as the lights go out should feel dreamlike, should feel nightmarish, but doesn't. He's terrified right down to his guts, swiping blindly at unseen enemies with his axe and hearing people die around him, but nothing about it feels unreal. It feels horribly real, utterly immediate: he can't see, none of them can see but their enemies can, and they're going to die.
And then Curtis shouts, and Edgar feels his heart leap: Chan! We need fire!
Other voices take it up, crying the message back to the tail. And fire follows it back, one torch becoming two, and four, and ten, and too many to count; and they surge forward again, roaring with a hundred voices, driving back the darkness.
He swings his torch full into an axeman's face, exults as sparks fountain up around him. It's working. They're winning --
His head swims with the heat and smoke as though with a fever, but everything around him seems sharpened instead of blurred, painted in vivid red and gold, glittering with countless sparks. Blows seem to float toward him, to be effortlessly dodged; enemies loom up before him and topple to his axe one by one, like crumpled papers blown aside by a gust of air. In a flicker of movement some yards forward of him, Grey dodges around an enforcer and flings a knife, and Mason goes down with a shrill cry, and Edgar opens his mouth to give a whoop of approval.
The blow to his temple comes from behind, sends darts of light shooting through his eyes, nearly knocks him down. He staggers, half-turns to swipe at where the enemy should be with his axe, feels his arm seized and twisted, his weapon falling from numb fingers. A heavy hand expertly twists him around into place, a heavy arm fastens around his throat, a sharp blade nicks the side of his neck.
There's nothing but panic in his head when he yells Curtis's name.
He's seen pictures of fish, heard stories about them, but there's something surreal about actually seeing this one: this heavy little body dangling from the hand of the axeman, swaying with the motion of the car and gleaming in the sunlight through the windows, staring eyes and gaping mouth and sudden dripping blood. They pass the fish hand to hand, each axeman dipping his weapon into its belly, and he gets it; he doesn't want to get it but he gets it, oh yes, it's a show and a message just like smashing some poor bastard's arm and it says this is your death, this is all your deaths, if you come any closer.
Be careful, Curtis murmurs, and it clears his head like a swallow of cold water.
Yeah, he whispers back, you too, and then the first blows are swinging and they're moving forward into the car.
The second dreamlike moment, not long after, is also blood: looking up at Curtis as he straightens up and wipes a dead enemy's blood from his face, slowly picking himself up from the floor, staring after him as the fight swirls around them both. He doesn't know how to begin articulating what he's (remembering?) feeling right then, and it doesn't matter because there isn't time. He grips his weapon and tightens his jaw and hurries forward, fighting his way to Curtis's side.
And the fight dissolves into a series of interruptions. The bullhorn that makes everybody lower their weapons; the bridge crossing, the axemen cheering for the New Year, the officer screaming impact! and the hideous jolt as the train strikes ice; the kronole-head and his daughter standing in the middle of the car and pointing at christ-knows-what out the windows; the sneering, scolding speech from Minister Mason. Precisely seventy-four percent of you shall die.
The darkness sweeping over them as the lights go out should feel dreamlike, should feel nightmarish, but doesn't. He's terrified right down to his guts, swiping blindly at unseen enemies with his axe and hearing people die around him, but nothing about it feels unreal. It feels horribly real, utterly immediate: he can't see, none of them can see but their enemies can, and they're going to die.
And then Curtis shouts, and Edgar feels his heart leap: Chan! We need fire!
Other voices take it up, crying the message back to the tail. And fire follows it back, one torch becoming two, and four, and ten, and too many to count; and they surge forward again, roaring with a hundred voices, driving back the darkness.
He swings his torch full into an axeman's face, exults as sparks fountain up around him. It's working. They're winning --
His head swims with the heat and smoke as though with a fever, but everything around him seems sharpened instead of blurred, painted in vivid red and gold, glittering with countless sparks. Blows seem to float toward him, to be effortlessly dodged; enemies loom up before him and topple to his axe one by one, like crumpled papers blown aside by a gust of air. In a flicker of movement some yards forward of him, Grey dodges around an enforcer and flings a knife, and Mason goes down with a shrill cry, and Edgar opens his mouth to give a whoop of approval.
The blow to his temple comes from behind, sends darts of light shooting through his eyes, nearly knocks him down. He staggers, half-turns to swipe at where the enemy should be with his axe, feels his arm seized and twisted, his weapon falling from numb fingers. A heavy hand expertly twists him around into place, a heavy arm fastens around his throat, a sharp blade nicks the side of his neck.
There's nothing but panic in his head when he yells Curtis's name.