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kathierif_ficTitle: Head Held High
Author: kathierif_fic
Fandom: Grimm
Pairing: none, pre-Monroe/Nick
Rating: FRT-13
Disclaimer: This is a transformative fanwork and I get no money for this.
Summary: A break in the fight, like the proverbial calm before the storm.
Author’s Notes: AU, written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
au_bingo for the prompt “war”. 1733 words.
They sat together, huddled against each other and sharing body heat under a plane of tightly woven, heavy fabric while the rain turned the meadow around them into a muddy bog. The sound of the fat raindrops hitting the metal of the armor of the fallen soldiers was deafeningly loud, and the moaning and screaming of the wounded was barely enough to pierce the wall of noise they produced.
Monroe grimaced, the smell of thick, cloying blood in the damp air heavy enough to coat the back of his tongue and making his stomach roll. He could feel the wolf itch under his skin, and it was a constant and tiring struggle stop it from taking over in battle rage.
He was more than a weapon to be pointed at the vast armies of Reapers and unleashed to wreak havoc, he told himself fiercely. He would not give in and sacrifice the last shreds of his human side, he would not risk to get turned into a beast of rage, unable to remember himself through the red haze of bloodlust.
He would not.
Something stirred against his side. "Hey," a voice said softly, the words slurred together by exhaustion. "Eveything all right with you?"
Monroe took a shallow breath and closed his eyes. "I'll fine," he answered. He has meant for his words to come out gruff, but instead they were soft.
Tired.
The last wave of fighting had taken a lot out of them, physically and mentally. Monroe ached everywhere, and he was certain the young man next to him didn't feel any different.
He probably felt worse, since he wasn't a blutbad and didn't have a blutbad's strength and stamina, but then, Monroe had to admit in the privacy of his own thoughts, the kid was a special kind of person: not a wesen, but not an ordinary human either.
There was no sign of the ancient horror tales about Nick's kind to be true, but there also was no sign that they were just fairy tales told to keep disobedient children in line, either. As furious as Nick could be on the battlefield, ruthless and deadly, he had never given any indication that he was fighting because he enjoyed it, and that he would continue fighting long after the war was over.
"You?" he asked belatedly and shifted, to catch a glimpse of Nick from the corner of his eye.
Nick snorted with grim, humorless laughter. "What do you think?" he asked, but his words lacked bite. He sounded just exhausted, a fine tremor wracking his body every now and then, leftover adrenaline from the battle still catching up to him.
They made a fine pair, Monroe thought as he peered out into the grey-brown area beyond them: a blutbad refusing to use the battle rage that made his kind so dangerous and deadly, and a Grimm fighting along with the kind of creature he was meant to hunt.
The war had forged some unusual and strange alliances.
The dark grey of the sky turned inky as dusk settled over the battlefield, and Monroe couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief. Night meant a break in fight, it meant the opportunity to retreat to the camp and his little, lopsided tent right at the edge of their temporary settlement. It meant food, and the chance to take off the restricting armor he wore.
It also meant the chance to lie down and sleep. Granted, it wasn't the kind of refreshing sleep he was yearning for, since he always had to keep one eye open, but it was better than nothing.
He gave Nick another brief glance from the corner of his eye. "Funny," he said into the silence that had fallen over them, "you know, this war has been going on for months now, and we've known each other almost as long."
"So?" Nick asked and turned his head toward Monroe. "I don't see what's so funny about that."
"Nothing." Monroe shook his head slightly. "I still don't know anything about you. I don't even know where exactly you sleep. Or if you sleep, in the first place. Grimm."
Nick gave him a smirk. "Why would you want to know that?" he asked, trying hard to sound amused, but Monroe could still detect the sharp suspicions running through Nick's head, the smell of fears and worry suddenly pouring off of him in waves.
He had every right and reason to be worried, Monroe realized with a sharp pang. Nick was a Grimm in an army full of wesen, and everyone here would gladly murder him in his sleep just to brag about having killed a Grimm, no matter that he was on their side.
"No particular reason," he muttered and inhaled sharply, trying to detect the opponents’ troop movements without gagging again on the cloying sweetness of blood.
Nick tensed slightly. "I'm staying with the regent," he admitted after a long moment of silence. His voice was even and without emotion. "He gives me shelter and food."
Not for the first time, Monroe wondered why the regent had brought a Grimm to the battlefield, knowing perfectly well that Nick wouldn't be safe even among the most trusted of his men. He knew of course that Nick was a great fighter, skilled with the blade and with the crossbow and more than capable ode defending himself, but nobody could be on their guard for months on end. It really wasn't a surprise that Nick looked as if he would fall over from exhaustion any minute now.
The thing that had surprised Monroe the most was that he had found himself genuinely liking Nick. Under different circumstances, he was almost certain, they could have been friends, or even more, if not for the damning fact of their heritage.
Before he could follow that particularly morose line of thought any further, he caught movement from the line across the valley, where the enemy was lying in wait.
"They are starting an attack now?" Nick asked in disbelief. He, too, had seen the sudden outburst of activity.
"Reapers, man," Monroe muttered and reached for the horn on his belt, to alarm the rest of the army. "They are a disgrace."
"That's not a Reaper," Nick muttered. "Look at that...is that a troll?" He was aiming his crossbow at the creature lumbering closer to them, but it was still too far away for a hit.
Monroe swallowed dryly. He recognized the man, not just the kind of wesen he was, but also the blood-red shield hanging from his arm.
"That's Oleg Stark," he managed to press from between tightly clenched teeth. "They brought an ogre to this fight."
~~~
Word of Oleg Stark's arrival spread like a wildfire through the troops, and it didn't take the regent too long to arrive at their little outpost. Following him was his aide, a hexenbiest that Monroe didn't recognize. She wore armor, like the rest of them, and her hair was twisted out of her face in a gravity-defying hairstyle.
"Report," the regent ordered. He didn't need to raise his voice to make himself heard, and Nick dutifully reported the time he and Monroe had caught sight of Stark, who was still screaming insults at them from a safe distance.
The hexenbiest snarled. "He's not gonna do anything," she said. "Not today. They brought him forth to bring fear to our troops."
"Successfully," Nick murmured under his breath. He too had realized that the mood of the fighters had turned to fear and restlessness.
"Adalind," the regent said sharply, but the reprimand didn't change the fact that his own face was marred by a deep frown. The loss of confidence could be fatal in a fight like this.
In the background, Stark continued to yell.
Monroe could hear the sound of Nick's teeth grinding. It filled him even more with dread than the ogre's presence. He just knew that Nick would do something rash, something that would endanger his life.
"Take the crossbow," Nick finally said and handed the weapon to Monroe. "Keep an eye on Renard."
"What are you gonna do?" Monroe asked as he gripped the heavy contraption tightly. As blutbad, he preferred to fight with his claws and the short, broad sword he was carrying on his belt, and not even the fact that he was a reformed wiederblutbad who had sworn not to kill humans again could change that fact. He was a natural killer, the instincts running close to the surface, especially in times like these.
Monroe considered himself a peace-loving man, but the sight and smell of innocent people murdered by Reaper marauders had made something in him break, something that hadn't healed yet.
There had once been a time when he enjoyed the blood and endorphine rush of a kill and didn't care if he hunted man, beast or wesen.
Those days were long gone. Now he only felt sick when he killed, but he knew the Reapers knew no mercy and would not hesitate before killing him.
Monroe was a peaceful man now, but he didn't want to die, and when the call to arms came, he followed, reluctantly but in the knowledge that he was only defending himself and his home.
He knew how to handle Nick's crossbow, and his ability to hit a target was not smaller than Nick's, himself.
Nick ignored his question and drew his own sword, a strong, elegant blade that was an heirloom from his aunt. He tested the edge against the pad of his thumb, grabbed the straps of his shield tightly, and began marching toward Stark, his shoulders a defiant line under his armor.
"Nick!" Monroe bellowed, pulling the attention of the regent, who had walked a few steps off to exchange words with one of his blutbad generals, and every soldier that was huddled around them.
Nick didn't slow down as he marched straight toward Stark, straight toward a fate that was almost certain at this point.
This was going to end badly.
And all Monroe could do was watch as Nick walked straight into his fate, his head held high and his blade in his hand.
~end.
Author: kathierif_fic
Fandom: Grimm
Pairing: none, pre-Monroe/Nick
Rating: FRT-13
Disclaimer: This is a transformative fanwork and I get no money for this.
Summary: A break in the fight, like the proverbial calm before the storm.
Author’s Notes: AU, written for
au_bingo for the prompt “war”. 1733 words.They sat together, huddled against each other and sharing body heat under a plane of tightly woven, heavy fabric while the rain turned the meadow around them into a muddy bog. The sound of the fat raindrops hitting the metal of the armor of the fallen soldiers was deafeningly loud, and the moaning and screaming of the wounded was barely enough to pierce the wall of noise they produced.
Monroe grimaced, the smell of thick, cloying blood in the damp air heavy enough to coat the back of his tongue and making his stomach roll. He could feel the wolf itch under his skin, and it was a constant and tiring struggle stop it from taking over in battle rage.
He was more than a weapon to be pointed at the vast armies of Reapers and unleashed to wreak havoc, he told himself fiercely. He would not give in and sacrifice the last shreds of his human side, he would not risk to get turned into a beast of rage, unable to remember himself through the red haze of bloodlust.
He would not.
Something stirred against his side. "Hey," a voice said softly, the words slurred together by exhaustion. "Eveything all right with you?"
Monroe took a shallow breath and closed his eyes. "I'll fine," he answered. He has meant for his words to come out gruff, but instead they were soft.
Tired.
The last wave of fighting had taken a lot out of them, physically and mentally. Monroe ached everywhere, and he was certain the young man next to him didn't feel any different.
He probably felt worse, since he wasn't a blutbad and didn't have a blutbad's strength and stamina, but then, Monroe had to admit in the privacy of his own thoughts, the kid was a special kind of person: not a wesen, but not an ordinary human either.
There was no sign of the ancient horror tales about Nick's kind to be true, but there also was no sign that they were just fairy tales told to keep disobedient children in line, either. As furious as Nick could be on the battlefield, ruthless and deadly, he had never given any indication that he was fighting because he enjoyed it, and that he would continue fighting long after the war was over.
"You?" he asked belatedly and shifted, to catch a glimpse of Nick from the corner of his eye.
Nick snorted with grim, humorless laughter. "What do you think?" he asked, but his words lacked bite. He sounded just exhausted, a fine tremor wracking his body every now and then, leftover adrenaline from the battle still catching up to him.
They made a fine pair, Monroe thought as he peered out into the grey-brown area beyond them: a blutbad refusing to use the battle rage that made his kind so dangerous and deadly, and a Grimm fighting along with the kind of creature he was meant to hunt.
The war had forged some unusual and strange alliances.
The dark grey of the sky turned inky as dusk settled over the battlefield, and Monroe couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief. Night meant a break in fight, it meant the opportunity to retreat to the camp and his little, lopsided tent right at the edge of their temporary settlement. It meant food, and the chance to take off the restricting armor he wore.
It also meant the chance to lie down and sleep. Granted, it wasn't the kind of refreshing sleep he was yearning for, since he always had to keep one eye open, but it was better than nothing.
He gave Nick another brief glance from the corner of his eye. "Funny," he said into the silence that had fallen over them, "you know, this war has been going on for months now, and we've known each other almost as long."
"So?" Nick asked and turned his head toward Monroe. "I don't see what's so funny about that."
"Nothing." Monroe shook his head slightly. "I still don't know anything about you. I don't even know where exactly you sleep. Or if you sleep, in the first place. Grimm."
Nick gave him a smirk. "Why would you want to know that?" he asked, trying hard to sound amused, but Monroe could still detect the sharp suspicions running through Nick's head, the smell of fears and worry suddenly pouring off of him in waves.
He had every right and reason to be worried, Monroe realized with a sharp pang. Nick was a Grimm in an army full of wesen, and everyone here would gladly murder him in his sleep just to brag about having killed a Grimm, no matter that he was on their side.
"No particular reason," he muttered and inhaled sharply, trying to detect the opponents’ troop movements without gagging again on the cloying sweetness of blood.
Nick tensed slightly. "I'm staying with the regent," he admitted after a long moment of silence. His voice was even and without emotion. "He gives me shelter and food."
Not for the first time, Monroe wondered why the regent had brought a Grimm to the battlefield, knowing perfectly well that Nick wouldn't be safe even among the most trusted of his men. He knew of course that Nick was a great fighter, skilled with the blade and with the crossbow and more than capable ode defending himself, but nobody could be on their guard for months on end. It really wasn't a surprise that Nick looked as if he would fall over from exhaustion any minute now.
The thing that had surprised Monroe the most was that he had found himself genuinely liking Nick. Under different circumstances, he was almost certain, they could have been friends, or even more, if not for the damning fact of their heritage.
Before he could follow that particularly morose line of thought any further, he caught movement from the line across the valley, where the enemy was lying in wait.
"They are starting an attack now?" Nick asked in disbelief. He, too, had seen the sudden outburst of activity.
"Reapers, man," Monroe muttered and reached for the horn on his belt, to alarm the rest of the army. "They are a disgrace."
"That's not a Reaper," Nick muttered. "Look at that...is that a troll?" He was aiming his crossbow at the creature lumbering closer to them, but it was still too far away for a hit.
Monroe swallowed dryly. He recognized the man, not just the kind of wesen he was, but also the blood-red shield hanging from his arm.
"That's Oleg Stark," he managed to press from between tightly clenched teeth. "They brought an ogre to this fight."
~~~
Word of Oleg Stark's arrival spread like a wildfire through the troops, and it didn't take the regent too long to arrive at their little outpost. Following him was his aide, a hexenbiest that Monroe didn't recognize. She wore armor, like the rest of them, and her hair was twisted out of her face in a gravity-defying hairstyle.
"Report," the regent ordered. He didn't need to raise his voice to make himself heard, and Nick dutifully reported the time he and Monroe had caught sight of Stark, who was still screaming insults at them from a safe distance.
The hexenbiest snarled. "He's not gonna do anything," she said. "Not today. They brought him forth to bring fear to our troops."
"Successfully," Nick murmured under his breath. He too had realized that the mood of the fighters had turned to fear and restlessness.
"Adalind," the regent said sharply, but the reprimand didn't change the fact that his own face was marred by a deep frown. The loss of confidence could be fatal in a fight like this.
In the background, Stark continued to yell.
Monroe could hear the sound of Nick's teeth grinding. It filled him even more with dread than the ogre's presence. He just knew that Nick would do something rash, something that would endanger his life.
"Take the crossbow," Nick finally said and handed the weapon to Monroe. "Keep an eye on Renard."
"What are you gonna do?" Monroe asked as he gripped the heavy contraption tightly. As blutbad, he preferred to fight with his claws and the short, broad sword he was carrying on his belt, and not even the fact that he was a reformed wiederblutbad who had sworn not to kill humans again could change that fact. He was a natural killer, the instincts running close to the surface, especially in times like these.
Monroe considered himself a peace-loving man, but the sight and smell of innocent people murdered by Reaper marauders had made something in him break, something that hadn't healed yet.
There had once been a time when he enjoyed the blood and endorphine rush of a kill and didn't care if he hunted man, beast or wesen.
Those days were long gone. Now he only felt sick when he killed, but he knew the Reapers knew no mercy and would not hesitate before killing him.
Monroe was a peaceful man now, but he didn't want to die, and when the call to arms came, he followed, reluctantly but in the knowledge that he was only defending himself and his home.
He knew how to handle Nick's crossbow, and his ability to hit a target was not smaller than Nick's, himself.
Nick ignored his question and drew his own sword, a strong, elegant blade that was an heirloom from his aunt. He tested the edge against the pad of his thumb, grabbed the straps of his shield tightly, and began marching toward Stark, his shoulders a defiant line under his armor.
"Nick!" Monroe bellowed, pulling the attention of the regent, who had walked a few steps off to exchange words with one of his blutbad generals, and every soldier that was huddled around them.
Nick didn't slow down as he marched straight toward Stark, straight toward a fate that was almost certain at this point.
This was going to end badly.
And all Monroe could do was watch as Nick walked straight into his fate, his head held high and his blade in his hand.
~end.