Micheal shuffled into the arena with a deliberate unease in his step. He tried to instill his usual paranoia in his movements so that no one would think the wiser, but it was proving oddly difficult. He was a master of stealth even among the best at the orphanage, and while that extended to the kind of stealth that let him walk even in the most open spaces of the market, it did not aid him in copying himself.

Each step was a deliberate copy of his usual lurch, each movement of his eye an attempt to scan his surrounding. Only, this time he did all of it for no reason other than to keep up appearances. Each movement was a disguise of his actual intentions hidden under the predictable paranoia that he always tried to present himself under. Layers on layers of deception, and for what? His own distrust? It sickened that small part of himself that still insisted he might one day be a good person. As usual, he crushed it. His logic was sound enough. He wouldn’t let he and Samantha end up as another set of bodies floating down the canal. Even if it meant tricking the only noble that would ever see him as a man and not a thing to be sent to die for his own means. He’d made his decision. If that led him to a grave, he would at least make sure that Samantha wouldn’t end up beside him.

He took his usual fighting stance across from the large man. Micheal was all about speed in a fight, racing around an opponent to deal a single, brutal strike that would end everything as soon as possible. Strength and speed meeting in a singular, decisive blow. The beast that stood opposite seemed to take another method to heart. A large, beastly chest covered in hair and a great bald head atop it, he could tell his opponent meant business. The scar at his lip leant him an air of danger, but it paled to what lay in his eyes. He’d seen that look before. A madness - manufactured as well as any shelpiece, wielded as a tool. Micheal had no doubt the big bastard was no madder than he, but a persona was all the large man needed. That, and a reputation for violence. Micheal had no doubt that the thing in front of him wielded both as easily as the average men wielded the tools of his own labor.

Behind those eyes was a cold calculation that had begun breaking him down the moment he’d stepped onto the arena. Micheal might have felt nervous at that proposition, at least when he was a boy. At 17 some might have still considered him such, but by any notion that mattered he was a man beyond the everyday bone-rankers that wandered Dasgad’s sullen streets. The calculation beneath his opponents gaze meant only that he was an opponent to be wary of, more so than that thin wretch Samantha had gone against, which made sense when considered. As nobles, the resources the Anise estate had at their disposal were truly staggering in their number, but they were not lost. They did not know that prevailing culture among lost dueling, and so they had acquired a sub-par duelist for the prizefighter that was his best friend. In contrast, Micheal’s own opponent was clearly competent at the very least. Only, Micheal did not fear competence. Just as the baker doesn’t fear the burn from his own oven, Micheal didn’t fear the strength of an opponent. To fight was to live another day as a lost, and that was one thing that Micheal would never forget. It had been engraved into his very bones at each break and crack the world had seen fit to give him.

Micheal barely heard Char finish his count down, and he certainly would not have claimed to have heard its beginning. And yet, at the very instant of its completion Micheal leapt with an unstoppable force toward his opponent. Crystal heeded his call with the splintering of bone and the explosion of blood that always heralded his apostle. Likewise, pain spread to his hands as black and white geodes shot from them. He didn’t bother with shaping them this time as he rose his fist above his head in a brutal hammer strike. The man, for what it was worth, was rather fast for a foe so large. Micheal guessed he would be in the latter end of bone-rank, at least based on what he would need to make a body so large move so quick. That is, so long as his apostle had no bearing on his speed.

A conclusion that seemed likely as the panicked man threw a wooden shield in Micheal’s wake. Lesser chosen of the forest? No, smaller than that. He wondered. Ah. A new-sworn of the lesser God of the branch. The man would probably be a bit more sturdy than the average for his rank, but he wouldn’t have much more going for him. At least, no more than Micheal could handle safely. A panic-stricken look had already sunk into the man’s facial expression as Micheal pivoted away from the wooden shield at his feet and toward his new position. The bigger man dodged once more, and again left a wooden barrier sprouting from the earth in his place, not that Micheal considered this to be a problem.

The moment things grew outside of expected proportions the man had completely thrown away his façade. Thus was the great detriment to wearing a face such as that. While Micheal had ruled the lower hall with an iron fist when he was younger, he had only rarely faced those that truly believed they could best him alone. They saw him as a beast - fueled by anger and hate and unable to be conquered by any man - and thus would refuse to fight him alone unless circumstances forced them. The reason for the success of this strategy was its accuracy. Micheal was a beast in a fight. He would beat those that faced him with savagery and ferocity that had no match in the weak wills of those that sought his position. In essence, he was a beast in a fight. This man, however, fought first with his reputation and expected all else to follow. He played the calculated maniac, but in truth, all plans fell apart in the presence of a true anomaly. Micheal rushing headlong into the man twice his size and nearing two span his greater, seemed a conclusive case for anomalous.

Thus the man had fled. Clearly he was seeking to gather his bearings and likely form a more cohesive defence, but Micheal wasn’t planning on letting him. Fast, concise, and impactful could describe Micheal’s fighting style. This was indicative of his time as a small, vulnerable lost boy. He was always light on his feet and heavy on his fist (or more accurately, his iron pipe). On this day, he wanted to go with something a little different after his failed spar with Char on his previous visit. Pressure. Applying a constant pressure against his opponent would only work to his benefit considering exactly how weak his mental state when fighting looked to be. Whenever he stepped, Micheal followed. When he moved away, Micheal pursued. When he finally, finally, gathered his bearings enough to send a staff of wood in Micheal’s direction, he did as the best pressure fighters did.

Micheal bobbed under the staff and sent his club-like hand straight to the liver of the larger man, staggering him to the side and sending him immediately into a crouch. The bigger duelist, as well as those nobles that had come close enough to spectate this lovely fight, likely believed this to be a moment of reprieve. A round won for Micheal that would ensure a point went to whatever scoreboard they imagined was being kept somewhere or other. That was how duels were done, of course. Instead, to the audible gasps of some of the watching crowds, Micheal sent his apostle bursting from his boots, ruining both them and the lower half of his leg in the process. This time he did control his blood enough to at least make it spiked in places like a mace.

The following kick to the wounded man’s head ruined his right eye and fractured his skull with a wet crunch. Not quite dead, but certainly not in any position to continue fighting either. As far as Micheal was concerned, he’d gotten off rather well. The aghast expressions of those lucky few to witness his fight told him that they didn’t agree. Except for two, that is. Samantha, he expected. Frankly, he’d seen her do far worse to her own opponents. The other was Lagran, both referee and trainer for the participant on Char’s side of the tournament. Instead of the condemnation he expected, he saw only a slight smirk at the man’s mouth, as if approving of what Micheal had done. Micheal hadn’t pegged him as the sadistic type, but he wasn’t unwilling to revise that opinion. Only, Lagran didn’t quite seem the type. If anything, Micheal would bet it had something to do with Char’s nearly retching form at his seat residing over the small arena.

Perhaps there was something of note to the trainer after all.

______________

Char oversaw the unfolding violence with a look of horror as bile rose to his throat at the sight before him. Char knew he was sheltered. It was more or less in the noble handbook. But it wasn’t until then that he truly understood what that meant in a practical standpoint. Oh, he knew of the death that lost suffered. He knew of their hardships, he’d seen the projections laid out plain as day. He knew how many starved, how many were beaten, raped, killed, and tortured. He knew it because it was all fastidiously recorded by the governor to the noble estates that ruled Dasgad. Estates like the Anise, the Smith and the Demenis. He knew suffering in the intellectual sense that all nobles seem to understand. Oh, he never felt the need to justify their cruelty, he knew they were evil. He’d known it every single day since his father had made his position known. But it was only then, staring at the nonchalance on Micheal and Samantha’s face as Micheal broke the very skull of his opponent did Char realize exactly how far out of his depth he was.

“Micheal wins,” he shouted without gusto, at least aware of himself enough to know that he had to officially end it. Micheal might have actually killed the guy if he didn’t. He was different to Char in that sense, but he had only begun to see the world of difference that always existed.

Char thought he understood Samantha to some degree. She was definitely someone special, but also in a way that made sense to Char. She was hard, yes, but it was obvious that her life had made her that way. She was fierce, and loyal, but she was also fun and seemed to enjoy his company. She was someone that Char felt would be friend for life if only he could drop the constraints of his station. The unknown parts of her began making a lot more sense after seeing her reaction to the near-corpse that Micheal had just made, and frankly Char was a fool for not seeing that side to her earlier. Samantha had grown up lost, just as Micheal had. The difference seemed to be that only Micheal had come out of it truly broken. He was paranoid, always on edge. Nothing Char did could change that, no matter how much he might have wanted that. Not as things stood.

____________

Micheal sauntered out of the arena with a spring in his step. The fight might have been easy, but he couldn’t say it wasn’t fun to kick the briny crap out of someone that might have killed him only a few months ago. Heck, the healers would have him up and about in a day anyway, he might as well have been fine. Looking at Char and his still slightly green expression told him that the noble was at least satisfied with the utter domination that Micheal had wrought in the arena. At least, going by the contemplative expression on his face.

Micheal flashed a smile at Sam as well, just to let her know he was doing fine, and then he slipped back into his persona. He needed to act as expected for this act to work, because being caught meant death. He and Samantha needed this to work for them to ever make something of themselves. The opportunities were simply too good to pass up. Even if he destroyed himself in the process. He trusted Char enough to make sure they didn’t kill Samantha. Char was better than him like that. He looked to Char as he stepped off his miniature judges chair and made eye contact with Micheal. He motioned for Micheal to speak with him, and Micheal saw no reason not to at least grant him that. He was benevolent in that way.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

_____________

“Impressive showing this time, Micheal,” Char said as neutrally as possible. Honestly, despite Micheal being a rank lower than himself, he still feared the man a little.

“Thank you, Char. Though that fighter certainly wasn't anything special. He didn’t know what to do after things didn’t go his way,” the Lost replied. “Why did you need to speak with me in private?” He asked Char.

Thus they arrived at the crux of why Char had decided to do this. He swallowed the nervousness in his gut and decided to simply power through. If there was one thing that Alistair instilled in his children, it was decisiveness. “You don’t like me, Micheal. Maybe not as a person, but certainly as a noble,” he said more calmly than he felt.

Micheal looked uncomfortable but did not immediately reach to deny the accusation, though eventually he spoke up to stop him from continuing “you’re somewhat correct in that assumption, I guess. But it’s a bit more complicated than that,” he said, surprising Char a little.

“How so, Micheal?”

Micheal chuckled and got a dark look in his eyes that Char recognized as the one that soldiers returning from war often had when telling an old joke from the service. “Do you know where Lost come from, Char? I’ll give you a hint and say that it isn’t what you’re thinking,” Micheal said, seemingly changing the subject.

“Then enlighten me, Micheal,”

“No one really knows,” he said with a dark chuckle.

“I don’t really see how that’s relevant, Micheal. I would like to know why you don’t seem to like me very much, not hear your interesting take on comedy” he said with a light hint of annoyance, perhaps the first he’d ever shown to the shorter boy.

“I’m gettin’ there, alright? No one knows where Lost come from. Some people think we’re born like we are, but that’s just superstition and justification for all the shit they do to us. Honestly, the best theory is that we’re just whoever Nero’Un seems to hate that day.

All we know is that it hits everyone a little differently. For me, I was only six or so when I was dropped off at the orphanage. It was different for Sam. She was a good bit older than me when she got put in her own place, and I meant it when I say this next part. It. Broke. Her.” Micheal said. As he did he looked into Char’s eyes with an expression that knew no match on any world that Char knew of. Char knew better than to try and lighten the mood, and he wasn’t embarrassed to say that what Micheal said surprised him. Samantha was the broken one? She was the normal of the two.

“I suppose It broke me too, but the difference is that she might put all the pieces of herself back together again one day,” Micheal continued. “She beat her way through her first orphanage at only thirteen, half the size of any of the briny bastards she was up against. By the time she was fourteen, she ran the place. But that wasn’t her, Char. Not the her that you know.

I was different back then too, of course. I’d just killed the leader of the first hall at my own place when Sam arrived. We fought twice, and I kicked the crap out of her both times. It was only finding each other that she realized exactly how bad she had gotten, and she’s been putting herself back together again since then,” Char listened on silently, more shocked at every next sentence coming from Micheal’s mouth. He never would have supposed that Samantha could have been such a monster even back then, even having seen her beat a man silly that first night in the Lost fighting pits. He’d always assumed she had simply trained as a duelist under a teacher, not that she was self-taught. Did that mean Micheal, even as monstrous as he was, was also self-taught? “What I’m trying to say is that Samantha likes you because she’s different than me, Char. She’s better than me,” he said with clearly conflicting emotions on his face.

Finally, looking resigned Micheal continued as Char sat silently. “When I look at Samantha I see a friend. My only friend. When I look at you, Char, I see an enemy that hasn’t decided when to attack yet. I’m not like Samantha, Char. Frankly, I don’t think you even really see her for the person she is, and not the image of her that you have in your mind,” Micheal said, leaving Char sputtering for a response.

“What do you mean by that!? Of course I see her for who she is,” he responded, outraged. Who was Micheal to say who Samantha was or wasn’t! True, Char might not have known everything about Samantha like Micheal did, but that didn’t mean he didn’t know her at all!

Micheal sighed and looked Char in the eye with an angry but tired expression, once more looking every inch the exhausted conscript returning from war. “I’m saying that you know Samantha exactly as the person she is trying so desperately to be again, so much so that you might miss who she is now. She is putting herself back together, Charlie, but she can’t go back to an innocent girl again. It’s too late for that. You don’t see it because you’re not Lost. You don’t see how she checks every corner of the room she enters. You don’t see how she cringes a little every time a Bone-Ranker looks at her like a peace of meat! That’s what I mean by that!” Micheal said, raising his voice as Char started to grimace and cringe back against the verbal onslaught.

He looked for a response but, for the first time in a long time, found his repertoire of words wanting. So he gaped for a moment, looking back at his interactions with Samantha, realizing exactly how true Micheal’s words had been. Finally, as if after years, he summoned a response. “And that’s why you don’t like me? Because only you know Samantha? She belongs to you, is that it?” Char knew his words were bitter. He knew that. Honestly he wanted Micheal to tell him that he didn’t like him because he was a noble, and that everything was going to be fine once Char told him his plans for the future. He knew that he was making a mistake.

Micheal just gave him a scathing chuckle, rousing his anger even more, and part of him simply wanted to slap him down for his arrogance to treat him like that.

“Hah!” Micheal spat bitterly. “You think Samantha can’t make her own decisions? She can kick the crap out of a guy twice her size, she doesn’t need protection or friendship advice from me, she’s her own person, you briny idiot!” Char cringed back at Micheal’s shout before finding his spine and anger. Oh, he found his anger.

“Than what was that whole story for, then? Were you just regaling me, the silly little noble, of your hard life? Oh, it must have been so difficult for you Micheal. Walking around everyday while everyone suffers your presence, you briny animal. You talk about how hard it was as a lost, but here you are! Five span tall and yet you’re still here, being lost couldn’t have been so hard if you came out of it, you fucking moron!” Char shouted with as much venom as he could manage. It wasn’t the same part of Char that he strove to be everyday, nor was it the cold politician that Alistair had wanted from him, it was a mix of both slathered with a dusting of juvenile hurt. Micheal grew angrier with each and every word, looking for all the gods that he would attack Char. He almost wanted him to, not so that he could kill him, but just so that he would have an excuse to put him on his ass once more.

Micheal stepped up to Char and spat on the floor next to him, and it only then struck him to his core the very extent to which he had fucked up. Char believed much of what he’d said, honestly. He believed the life of a Lost was hard, obviously, but it couldn’t have been as bad as the stories, or even Micheal made out. Looking at Micheal in his grey orphans clothes, or the hard look that spread across his face at Char’s rant told him otherwise. This was Micheal when he wasn’t trying to be a Bone-ranker. This was Micheal the Nameless, as he had always been.

Char felt himself cringe back from the gaze of the smaller boy, nearly suffocated by the sheer presence that his crushing gaze levied on him. It was only pride that kept his gaze locked to Micheal’s.

“I told you this because I believe you’re a kind man, Char. I believed that you were one of the few men of this world that would look upon a man like me and see a man, not some beast once-forsaken by the Gods. I told you what I did because I thought that when you looked at Samantha, you didn’t see a tool for your desires, but my friend. My best friend. I didn’t like you, Char, because while I thought I could trust you, I knew that once you got what you wanted from us, your family would leave us dead before we ever made it to the hedgeside tournament,” Micheal said with a cold, cold hatred that he had never seen from the boy before. It was the hatred that he assumed the lost boy carried with him to create the persona that he always wore. It wasn’t just for show, after all. Micheal wasn’t a man trying to look like an animal. Micheal was an animal trying to convince himself that he could be a man, and Char had just told him that he only saw a little animal.

The anger left Char in an instant as he felt himself deflate while Micheal looked up at him with pure hatred. “I… I’m s… sorry, Micheal. I d-d-didn’t mean that-”

Micheal reached out and slapped Char before he could possibly react, even with his Earth-ranked speed. He gaped like a fish with shock for a moment, too surprised even to feel angry, and too ashamed to try and rouse himself to it anyway. “Don’t you dare apologize to me, you briny prick. You don’t get to pretend you’re sorry for that shit. You’ve dug yourself a deep hole today Char. Don’t make it any deeper,” he said, turning to leave. Honestly? Char was thankful he didn’t have to keep making an ass of himself. Worse, he couldn’t bring himself to look at just what he had done to himself.

It looked like he wasn’t quite free of the demons that his father’s ‘love’ had left him with. He only hoped that he would have a chance to make things right with the pair before too long, not that he particularly believed he deserved their friendship after that display.

He also wondered just how much truth there was in Micheal’s last statement about his family, but that was for a different day. He was tired.

_______________

Micheal stormed out with a vicious anger that he thought was lost to him, but seemed to have never truly left. Samantha caught his eye quickly, as did the drunken trainer who straightened up quickly. The nobles, of course, eventually noticed as well, seeming to hide their laughter politely under the kerchiefs.

Samantha was quickest and practically dove on him to give him a hug, which seemed to have the desired effect, given that any anger left him immediately. He smiled as he looked down at his friend, before slapping her on the head for nearly making him fall over.

“OW! What was that for, dipshit!?” She laughed with good humor.

“Just keeping you on your toes is all,” he said to her, before receiving a totally uncalled for kick to the shin, which caused Samantha to break out into an evil laugh.

Their leave from the Anise estate mostly seemed to blur after that, but Micheal didn’t much care. He knew Char had fucked up, but he just wished that maybe, just maybe, the noble would prove to be a better man than he’d made himself out to be in their argument. Even better, maybe he would finally see his family and their intentions after Micheal had spelt it out to him so clearly. If he was particularly, he might not even see any Anise assassins coming to kill him in the night, though he doubted Char would go that far. Still, it looked like it would be a long night of stolen coffee for both he and Samantha.

At least, if Samantha didn’t decide to just kill the pair of them regardless.