Chapter: 6

"Twas brillig along the slithy toves, and I wanted to gyre and gimble in the wab, but some lad had a vorpal blade, and went all a snicker-snack, and then he ran off with my head and left my body dead. Mimsy were the borogaves, and damn the jubjub bird! Longtime his manxome foe he'd sought, and his victory set him chortling with joy through the Tulgey wood. He went galumphing back and forth till the lad lay to rest by a Tumtum tree and had only my burbling dead head with eyes a shadow for company. He did as all beamish boys would do, calling "Callooh, Callay!" and shunning the fruminous Bandersnatch did he go until he stood in uffish thought, now acquainted with my dead head. Beware the Apostle, young lad, the axe that cleaves, the claws that pierce! Twas brillig along the slithy toves, and I wanted to gyre and gimble in the wab, but some lad had my poor dead head, and buried it in his knapsack! But the mome raths outgrabe, and his wocky continued to jabber, and he couldn't leave me in his sack O'knap. So he carried me aloft, passing my poor dead head from hand to hand. One, two! One, two! And through and through. Why my body came back! He thought it had been dead but it just wanted to gyre and gimble in the wab, and had been just fine without its head. I took him in my arms, my breamish boy, and went to whiffing him through the Tulgey wood, till I had his head, my breamish boy…" Poem- Frabjuous Day, Tales of Rory Mercury.

Rory fought down a moan. She could sense the army southeast of Italica, and their…preparations for battle were driving her wild. When Itami's group had arrived earlier, it had been little more than a faint arousal. Around lunch, when they were meeting with the princess, it had advanced to a dull ache. But now the soldiers outside the walls were building to their crescendo, whipping themselves into a frenzy. As far as foreplay went it was becoming too much and her control was starting to slip.

Her face was flushed and her lips had turned purple. Her knees trembled and her breathing was becoming erratic, it was a strain to try and keep it even. She could hear the enemy war drums, pounding a rhythm so primal, so hard, so heavy, that her own life blood was desperate to match its beat. Her heart thrashing against her ribs to the tempo, her boiling blood racing to every part of her, screaming that it was time to fight, time to fuck. She needed to smell blood in the air, to feel armor crumple under her fist, she needed to be stabbed, to feel cold steel pierce her flesh and spill her raging blood, she needed –

"Rory, you all right?" Itami asked, speaking the Imperial tongue as if he'd been born to it. Frankly it was one of the most miraculous things she'd ever seen. Not powerful in scale or scope. She'd seen gods part the seas, summon earthquakes that shattered regions, cover the land in darkness, blight regions with plague. But the precision involved was incredible. Such a tiny, almost insignificant change to the world, which smoothed over weeks or months of poor translations and gave her the opportunity to talk to her fatebound. She'd have to make an offering to her father later; this was a surprisingly shrewd move for him. Of course, there was a cosmic sort of irony that now that she could communicate with Itami, their first real conversation was going to be had while she was randy enough to go for a ride on a cave troll. Her father probably found that hilariously funny.

"Ah," she bit off a moan, "yes, thank you. It's nice to, ah, speak normally."

He stood there fiddling with his helmet. The fatebond between them was pulsing erratically, shaping itself. This conversation was important she realized. A definitive stepping stone in the formation of their relationship. Whether they become friends, lovers, comrades, rivals, even enemies or some bizarre combination could very well be determined by what was said here, on the south wall of Italica.

"Let me, ah, help," she offered, stretching her hands out to take his helmet. She didn't trust her legs enough to try walking forward. Any kind of motion or vibration southward could be… awkward. He knelt down, and she shuddered as she thought of all the things he could be doing on his knees instead of attaching some decoration to his helmet.

"Ah, Itami, do you mind, if, I, ah, ask you a question?" She swallowed nervously, his hand brushed hers as he took his helmet, and it gave her such a jolt, that she almost lost control right there.

"Sure, what's on your mind?" He asked, standing back to his full height.

"Why are we, ah, here?"

"To sell dragon scales." He drawled.

"No, ah, not that, I mean, why are we, ah, fighting here? Italica is a vassal. Of the Empire. Your enemy. Why help them?"

He seemed to mull it over for a second. Maybe. Youji Itami was a hard man to read. He often wore a vacant expression, he had a glaze in his eye, and a habit of not looking directly at the people he was talking too. It made it seem like he found everything around him somewhat dull or at the very least most of his attention was a million miles away.

"I couldn't hear it before," he said, "but you have a different accent than Pina and Leilei."

"I was born farther north." She leaned back against the wall, using it to support her trembling thighs. In the distance the drums and horns were unceasing, the faint echoes of men shouting and singing war songs. She could smell naked steel on the air, polished, sharpened, and ready to be coated in blood. Flickering torches miles distant that were clear as if she stood right next to them. Her toes curled in her heeled boots.

"But, ah, Itami, you, ah, didn't answer. My question. I'm, the Apostle of Emroy. God of War. Fighting and violence, are not good, or evil, by themselves. It is, our will, our motivation, which, ah, frames conflict. Makes it right, or wrong, necessary, or foolish. So, ah, please, I must know. Please. Why are you fighting?"

He looked at her then. Not his usual ambivalent gaze, but a studying look, a judging stare. She must have been quite a sight. Her face flushed, her breathing erratic, her legs writhing…

"I guess I want the princess to see that we'd make better friends than foes."

"Practical," Rory said, "but the enemy of your enemy, is, ah, your enemy's enemy. No more, no less. The people in this, ah, city, work in shops, they provide goods, services, money, to the empire. Aren't you, ah, risking the lives. Of. Your comrades from Japan? Prolonging the war, by intervening? What about the soldiers outside the wall? They're enemies of the Empire. Leaderless men, desperate to flee Alnus. Their homes are south, but the JSDF bars their, ah, way. They cannot go east, they'll be killed by Imperial soldiers. Their only hope is west. Past Rondel, the Arrun Labyrinth, and the hundred kingdoms. A long, dangerous, ah, journey. An expensive journey. Without the money from sacking this city, they aren't likely to make it home. "

"Are you saying I should leave?" There was an edge in his tone. Slightly hard, perhaps surprised. "Let them rape, pillage, and murder everyone in the city? Burn the whole town down?"

'I want you to put my legs behind my head and fuck me like you hate me.' Rory thought, her eyes crossing as she fought off a particularly strong surge of pleasure. Thankfully she managed to keep her mouth shut until she could compose an answer.

"I'm Rory Mercury. Apostle of Emroy. Emroy the bloody handed. Hierophant of Skulls. Lord of the Brass Throne. Warriors and, ah, soldiers, are my flock. I serve the legions of the empire. The huscarls and shield bearers of the north. Sellswords, mercenaries, and thugs. The broken and, ah, desperate men outside the wall. The ten thousand sons and daughters of Japan. Shiho. Mari. Kurata. I serve you, Youji Itami. I think that your desire to, ah, fight for the people in this city is, ah, a good thing, an, ah, moral thing. But is it the right thing? Will your actions here shorten the war? Prolong it? Do these people, ah, the women, children, and menfolk of Italica, ah, deserve your protection more, than the desperate souls outside the walls?"

He was silent then. Simply staring off into the distance. If it had been any other man, he'd certainly have been blowing her off. But from Itami it wasn't rudeness, and he wasn't being dismissive. He was just a laid back sort of fellow, and sometimes it took him a while to muddle through his thoughts to get to what he wanted to say.

"Maybe it isn't the smartest thing to do." Itami drawled, his gaze still on the horizon, "but I can't leave a bunch of women and kids to get slaughtered. I just don't have it in me Rory." There was bitterness in his voice. A sadness… but also iron. Itami was not a man who dreamed of glory, conquest, or bold acts of daring-do-well. He did not want to be a hero, took no joy in violence, and the last place he wanted to be was fighting in a battle. Yet, Rory felt, that there was a goodness in him. A moral compass that would not allow him to stand aside from what he perceived as wrong… even if he wanted to.

"Then we'll save them." She gasped, fighting would start soon. She could feel the echoes of boots on dirt, the feet beating a marching rhythm. "You and I, and that's all there is to it."

"…" Itami gave her a dry look but he didn't press her. He wasn't a man to interrogate others about their motives or desires. He didn't need a profession of love, an oath, or a longwinded explanation. A simple statement that she'd help was plenty. So instead of asking questions he simply pulled out a tube of some kind. When he lit it, it burned. It reeked of tobacco. Fire danced in Rory's eyes. She was no stranger to fire and smoke, and all the brutal joy that they heralded. It was the scent of the villages of Vanaheim and so many other fields and hamlets since.

"Emroy save me it's too much!" Rory whimpered as the warning horns blared on the eastern wall announcing an attack. Her thighs were squeezed tight enough to bend steel, and she couldn't stop squirming. She was panting uncontrollably now, her face and chest flushed with lust and the savage urge to rend flesh and metal. Her blood simmered, her loins ached, her legs quivered, and she couldn't stop rubbing her thighs together. "Ah, ah, hnnn, an! They, they, they, ahhnnn, were supposed to attack here."

Itami stood there awkwardly as she shivered on the ground next to him. His gaze glancing about nervously, like he wasn't sure what he should be doing. She could see other Japanese soldiers on the ramparts. The old sergeant Kuwahara was staring off into the distance deliberately not looking at her. Mari Kurokawa, the blue eyed and fair skinned Japanese woman, had covered her face with her hands and was peeking out at Rory between her fingers. Shino Kuribayashi grew red faced and stomped further down the wall, dragging a drooling Kurata with her. Only Leilei seemed unperturbed by Rory's… passionate display.

"Uh, Rory, is everything okay?" Itami asked, trying not to look at her directly.

Rory made an unintelligible sound. If the Apostle had to point out one flaw that seemed universal to Japanese men, it's that they seemed to think their dicks were fragile pieces of glass that should never be used. In any other army in the world someone would have had the decency to drag her into a corner and bang her brains out until the fighting started. Yet there stood Itami, doing his damnedest not to look at her, and she had enough pride that she wasn't going to beg for it.

"Lieutenant," Leilei said, stepping forward and pulling on Itami's arm. "There's nothing you can do." Rory's eyes watered. She tried to push herself up, but her grand grimcleaver was in her hands. When had she picked it up? It was heavy. Too heavy. It needed blood. Sparks flew as the sharpened edge along the stone.

"What's wrong with her? What's going on?" The soldier asked.

"We should give her some distance. She's an Apostle. A proto-goddess. She's reacting to the dying souls nearby. They're passing through her body on the way to the overworld and its having an aphrodisiac like effect. She won't experience any release until the fighting finishes, and soon she won't be able to stop herself from killing."

Rory's gaze fixed on the young spellcaster, the girl clinging to Itami's arm. A frail, paltry, wretch of a girl. Probably mistaken for a boy half the time. Wench. And wrong. Rory didn't have any power over souls. Well, not much anyway. Certainly not enough to force every soul across miles to do anything. The girl was sprouting some sort of peasant superstition she'd probably pulled out of a book and taken as gospel.

Rory rose. Her thighs still quivered. Her hands shook. But her Grimcleaver weighed nothing. Her first step wobbled. She stretched her arm toward the bluette. She'd see how smug the girl was after Rory squeezed her neck and popped her head like a cork from a bottle of wine.

Itami shifted, pushing Leilei behind him. Rory froze, her fingers brushed against Itami's armor. It was soft. Some kind of lamellar, hard plates wrapped in fabric. Her face split into her murderous grin as her fingers began to pierce the plates. She could rip right through this third rate armor and strangle the smug little fifth rate wizard while his blood spewed down her arm and she'd- Rory wrenched her hand back. Eyes wide and wavering, she coiled her legs and hurdled into a powerful leap, fleeing her fatebound. The stone of the wall cracked asunder from the power behind her bound.

She rocketed through the sky. Toward the fighting. When she landed the earth shook, and the soldiers on both sides fell to the ground. Some with fear. Some with hope. But all in terror.

She tried to say something. But it came out as a wordless scream. She couldn't tell anyone apart. Her grimcleaver swung wide. Blood fountained across the street, it spilled over her arms and face. Warriors piled in around her. Attacking her. Fighting each other. There was no order in the ranks. No clear lines. It was a mashpit, with soldiers spilling over the wall and natives racing over the barricades to meet them.

Then the orchestra started playing, a pounding rhythm that drove her to a greater frenzy. A Japanese warmachine hovered over the wall. It flew, majestic and glorious. Then it fired. Its guns shrieked. Bullets tore into the crowd, slaughtering attacker and defender alike. They ripped into the blood soaked pavement, sending debris and dust into the air. Rory flopped to the ground, a searing pain in her stomach. Cold metal burrowed in her innards.

She tried to stand. "Where, where are my legs?" She asked Emroy, blood spilling from her mouth and ruined abdomen. "You're all fucking dead when I find my legs."

A/N

I'm sorry this chapter took so long. I had family in town, and I find it hard to write with a gaggle of relations running around. I'm not sure how well this chapter came out, I rewrote it a bunch of times. The truth is in the anime Itami and Rory's scene on the wall always feels weird to me. It's the line he says, about the JSDF being better friends than foes. It just doesn't seem a very Itami line.

Anyway, thanks for all the reviews so far. Especially Pikanet128 who commented on every chapter. I know this fic is a bit of a divergence from most Gate fics, and I could use all the support I can get.