If you feel so empty, so used up, so let down [closed]

[tookthewheel]

Who| Bucky and Eowyn
What| Bucky short-lived killing spree comes to an end at the hand of a shieldmaiden
Where| The farmland
When| Near end of the arena
Warnings/Notes| Violence and death

He's tired. His body is starting to shake, doing too much on too little. He hasn't eaten properly for over a week and fresh water is hard to come by, not that he can care enough to stop and find a drink. The irrepressible fury still courses through his veins, buoyed by loss and whatever the hell it is the Gamemaker's are pumping into the air for the end of the arena.

It smells like fire and death, the constant bombardment from the ocean reminding him of the trenches in the war. The whole thing makes him think of the war, with the destruction and mud churned up with blood. it's dizzying, it's thrilling. It makes his body burst with energy it doesn't have.

Bucky's running on empty; filled with the Soldier's single-minded purpose and the repressed anger of the man that was torn up to make him hauled to the surface. There's really only one way this can end.

The woman whose name he should know from his studies of the Tribute roster but can't, in this moment, remember, is just another target, another means to make this end. One way or another he needs this to end.

Comments

[shieldofrohan]

Éowyn's world does not have cannons. When the bombardment started and startled her out of fitful sleep, her first thought was that the sky was falling in on them. It's been a while since then, and she's learnt to watch for the cannonballs, but they still sound unnatural and awful to her, like a thunderstorm that hovers without rest - and without rain to put out the fires. It sets her nerves on edge, makes her jump at every shadow.

She's tired, too, and hungry, her bones starting to press against the skin. Her lips are crinkled inwards with thirst, her grey eyes duller than they once were. But she hasn't lost the iron will burning away inside her, and when she sees the man approach, her sword leaps into her hand as fast and easily as it ever did. At this point in the Arena, her instinct tells her, anyone she doesn't know can be assumed to be an assailant.

In a way, she's glad of it. Waiting has never suited her. She shifts her weight onto the balls of her feet and readies her stance, her messily-braided hair blowing around her face, her tabard flapping. For a moment, it strikes her to hail him, to give him a chance to flee or surrender. It isn't a long moment.

He's still a hundred yards or so from her when she charges, ignoring the dull ache in her shield arm, ignoring the ongoing bombardment. His expression kills any doubt she might have. That look is the look of a killer, and she will not come this far to fall to such a man.

[tookthewheel]

It makes it much easier on the shades of humanity inside him when the opponent chooses to charge first.

Bucky steps back, fully relinquishing his hold over his fragile psyche and let's the Winter Soldier, HYDRA's Asset, take control. Being the Soldier is simpler than being a man, there is only one thing of importance to him: the Target. Set, locked, no stopping until it's dead.

That was how the Soldier operated, that was how he was the terror of the intelligence community, a ghost story only whispered about in the shadows.

She charges and the Soldier hurtles forwards to meet her. He lost his sword but he has a knife, more than that he has the arm. The metal, tarnished and not so gleaming after weeks in the arena swings up to block any swing of her sword while his knife goes for her eyes. Despite everything he's gone through, all the toil and wear on his body, he's still preternaturally fast.

[shieldofrohan]

It's luck as much as judgement that allows Éowyn to see the blow and duck it. She's fast, though not as fast as him - the speed of a strong woman who's trained, not an augmented super-soldier. The knife misses her eyes by a fraction, slashing a bloody cut in her scalp. A few locks of hair fall from her head, and the blood begins to flow immediately; she barely pays it any mind, except to hope it stays out of her eyes.

His parry, too, is unexpected, but easy enough to deal with; she lets the momentum of his block carry her into a low spin, bringing her sword up and around to slash at his gut. Despite her depleted state, she moves with grace and purpose, her full weight behind the blow. Her face is pale and hard, her jaw tight and her eyes like stones. Like the Soldier, her world has narrowed to one thing; live, and see your enemy dead.

Blood trickling hot and thick down her forehead, she takes a half-step back. She can't strike him from the left, that's clear. Well, then. No different, she tells herself, from a man with a good-sized shield. The same tricks should apply. The most important thing is not to hesitate too long, for with that speed on his side, she may never regain the offensive if she loses it.

She feints at his neck, to the left, then pivots and strikes low and hard for his right thigh, as much to test his reflexes as in real hope of striking well.

[tookthewheel]

His teeth bare at the triumph of drawing blood but it's no smile. That's not the kind of fighter he is. He doesn't fight with bloodlust, there's no sadistic delight in him like there is in others, the Soldier fights because it's a purpose and he needs purpose in his life. His satisfaction comes in the form of a job well done.

For several decades it was the only thing approaching joy that he was allowed to know.

The woman is good; she fights with strength and experience, possessing a skill with a sword that speaks of prior training outside of picking it up in this arena. He didn't have that with his sword and he's far more comfortable with a knife anyway, though he still longs for the weight of a good firearm or two.

His arm shakes, metal vibrating down to his shoulder, his collarbone, his ribs when her sword glances off it, then she spins and he's throwing himself to the side, rolling out of the way and back up onto his feet to face her next attack. She goes for his neck and his eyes read her feint, jumping backwards again outside the reach of her sword.

The Soldier circles, like the predator they made him to be, slow and steady up if she allows it, like he's trying to pick apart her capabilities the same way she's feeling out his. He snakes forward again in a sudden burst of violent speed, grabbing for the sword with the metal hand that can't be cut by any blade while his right strikes out with his knife again at her torso.

[shieldofrohan]

Éowyn circles with him, shifting her grip a little on the sword, her eyes darting up and down to check his guard, calculating her movements and trying to anticipate his. When he actually does move, though, it's so outside the scope of her experience that she's taken entirely off-guard. Her people fight in light armour, and even the Orcs have gauntlets mostly of leather; she's never fought anyone who would grasp a blade with so little hesitation. The moment catches her off-balance, and although she moves with his blow to minimise the damage, she feels the knife pierce her breast with a sharp explosion of agony. She grunts in pain, but doesn't cry out, grabbing for his knife hand and trying to wrestle the weapon free.

Blood is blossoming from her chest where the knife went in, a spreading stain dark against the green and white of Rohan's banner. Grateful only that the blade was stopped by her breast and ribs before it could drive through something more vital, she throws herself backwards away from him, using the sword as leverage to kick out at his gut. She's learnt a few tricks from Firo, but she can't stand against a man like this if it comes to a fistfight; she needs him to relinquish her sword. If she can wind him, loosen his grip...

[tookthewheel]

Her strike to his gut connects and sends him stumbling back a step or two. He's taller and stronger than she is, heavier, which in this environment isn't necessarily an advantage. The Soldier feels the slick muddied ground slide under his feet as he's forced to let go of the sword or fall.

The environment is not to his advantage, in another time or place logic would dictate he pushes the fight in a direction that would be but as he's already established logic is not ruling him right now. Earth squelches under his feet, once pleasant fields on the way to becoming a graveyard bog as he uses brute strength to heave himself forward. He swings his metal arm at her, wild and powerful while fighting to draw in breath from where she winded him.

[shieldofrohan]

Éowyn does fall as he releases the sword, but she's expecting it and is able to roll back onto her feet without missing a beat, bruised and bloodied but still very much alert. She dives under his blow with a grunt of effort, dripping liquid mud as she rises, and tries to get behind him, where his metal hand has less advantage.

She may be smaller than him (though hardly small, and all of her is hard-packed muscle), but she does have one advantage: even through her pain and her bloody-minded stubbornness, she is still able to think. Think, for example, of how to use the terrain around her. She slashes for his kidneys, but is already moving back, drawing him out, judging the slickness of the mud and the hardness of the stone beneath. If she can find a solid footing, get him to charge her...

[tookthewheel]

He slips in the churned up ground, a snarl writ across his face as he guesses her game. A part of him begrudges her some approval for her choice of tactics in this ground.

The knife he ripped back out of her shoulder when they broke apart; it's his only weapon and he's loathe to let it go, even as he contemplates briefly seeing if throwing the blade between her eyes would be successful or not. This needs to be over, he needs the whole damn thing to be over.

He slides back to avoid her strike at his kidneys, a new coating of mud splattering up his legs before he's shaking his head and charging forwards once more. The Soldier needs her in close, then it will be over. He'll crush her neck or slice her throat, let her blood join the rest that's on his hands.

[shieldofrohan]

Silently thankful for Firo's tuition, Éowyn sets her stance as the Soldier charges, then jerks her body forwards to meet him, driving her shoulder against his chest and kicking out to unsettle his balance. Her shield hand flashes out, grabbing for his arm, aiming to help him over her shoulder and onto his back in the mud. It's a simple move, the first one Firo taught her, but if it works...

She slashes out as she turns, a low, hard blow with all her weight behind it. Let him fall, she prays silently. Let him fall, and not rise again.

[tookthewheel]

He let's out a guttural, animal sound. There's nothing like words to it, just helpless fury at the world around him.

The move doesn't go exactly as she plans it, as he tries to reverse his charge and throw his weight back against the throw, only to find his momentum was already too great to stop completely. He still goes down as the ground slides treacherously out from under his feet but more in a startled twist around her body than over her shoulder. The important thing is that he goes down.

Pain lances through his side as he falls, because oh right he's dressed in simple cloth and not leather or kevlar, not that he's sure they could halt the path of a sword either. He hits the earth and spits up blood, shoving his hands under him still in an effort to get up that isn't working, metal hand reaching for the woman's ankle.

[shieldofrohan]

Éowyn lets out a sound of something like disgust as the metal hand closes around her ankle. It's not quite a scream, but it's very close. Don't let him get up! her instincts shriek, as she tries to pull herself loose. Don't let him bring you down! But the ground is slippery, and she's only just recovering her balance from his unexpectedly difficult fall. There's only so long this fight can go on before they're both wrestling in the mud, and he'll have every advantage then, between weight and hand-to-hand skill.

She has to end it, and end it quickly. That's what going through her mind as she lunges, giving up on trying to free her ankle, and stabs down at his back with all her weight, hoping he doesn't manage to roll out of the way, hoping he's mortal, hoping he dies and stays dead. The wound where he stabbed her bleeds more freely than ever at the exertion, and between the pain of it and her own high adrenaline, she feels oddly giddy and distant.

[tookthewheel]

He's disorientated, bleeding, dying. His right arm slips out from under him but the left is still steady, still powerful.

The Soldier can crush her ankle and -- he feels it in a way that's almost distant, like the pain is someone else's and he's just an outside observer. There's a blade going through his back, cutting through flesh and to the earth underneath and he... he...

He's tired.

After heaving up another lungful of blood the life floods out of him. His body goes limp and heavy, metal fingers still grasping at her ankle even in death. Bucky dies with his eyes still open, glazed over and staring into nothingness as the cannon fires over the distant noise of the pirate ships bombardment.

[shieldofrohan]

Éowyn stumbles back a half-step as he goes limp, and is brought up short by his still-closed metal hand. Gritting her teeth, trying to ignore the dizziness that's humming at the edges of her vision, she drops to one knee in the mud to pry herself loose. By the time she's managed to get herself free, they're coming for his body. She casts a look up at the strange craft in the sky, and struggles to roll the dead man over, searching him as quickly as she can for anything that might help her. His knife goes in her belt, and she strips off his shirt, thinking she can use it to bandage the bloody gash that's plastering her clothes to her with the spreading stain.

Last of all, as the claw lowers to take his body, she reaches up to close his eyes, an odd sense of duty driving her. "You fought well," she tells his corpse, letting it fall back into the mud and stumbling to her feet. "May we meet again in less vile climes."

There's not much time for sentiment, though. She wants to be out of the open, out of this bog and filth, somewhere she can clean her wounds and - more importantly - bind them up. Without another glance at the man she killed, she lowers her head and strikes out for the village.