“I’m going to get my face beat in, more like,” Twain grumbled.

Spar shook his head and wiped tears from his eyes. “Damn. I’m dying already.”

"One of us might be literally dying soon," Twain pointed out.

Spar clapped him on the shoulder. "Good luck."

"I... I'm sorry," Fell stammered.

"It's fine. It's... I was desperate, and it's not your fault. It's this idiot's damn fault."

Spar shrugged, unrepentant.

Twain turned to Fell and held up his hand. “Here, throw a punch. Let’s just give it a try.”

Fell wound back his arm, swirling it around like a windmill, then stepped forward and punched. The blow struck the center of Twain’s hand like a wet butterfly.

Twain closed his eyes and ran a hand down his face, internally screaming. In the background, Spar laughed even harder. At last, when he was finally composed enough to speak, he turned to Fell. “Why did you volunteer? Did someone pay you to sabotage me?”

Fell shook his head, eyes wide behind the pillowcase. “No! Never! I just…” He paused. His eyes darted around, searching. “I, er, I wanted to try it out.”

“Try out. Try out the Arena,” Twain said disbelievingly.

Spar wheezed. He slapped his leg and shook his head.

Fell stared at his feet.

Twain couldn’t see the blush, but he knew it had to be fierce. He sighed and sucked in a breath. “Alright, listen. If you can’t do it, back out. But if you think you stand a chance… even a ghost of a chance, then… take this.”

He reached into his pocket and drew out the tiny vial of fairy’s breath. Fell took it, wide-eyed, and turned those big puppy eyes on Twain.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

“Puff that in your opponent’s face. Don’t breathe it in, mind you, or it’ll get you just as bad. If you do it right, it ought to stun your opponent for a few seconds. Use that time to shove them out of the ring, sabotage them, something… you saw me in that fight a moment ago. A moment’s distraction can be the line between victory and failure, and if you’re careful about how you use it, even someone who’s never fought before can win.” He paused. "Like you."

Spar stared enviously at the vial. “You’ve known the man ten seconds and you give him the vial full of fifty-gold powder? What am I, chopped liver?”

“You don’t need dirty tricks to win,” Twain said.

“Neither do you,” Spar returned.

“But they do make it easier,” Twain said, grinning.

“Did I somehow give you the impression that I like to work hard? I’d like to amend that, please,” Spar said.

“Anyways,” Twain said, ignoring Spar, “you’ve got two, maybe three shots of fairy’s breath left in that vial. Use it wisely.”

Fell nodded. He clutched the tiny vial to his chest, then glanced around, panicked, and slipped it into a pocket instead.

An attendant rushed up to them, her long hair half-fallen out of its bun. “Twain and…” she checked a list, “…Fell? Your match starts in a minute. You should get back to the ring.”

“Already?” Twain furrowed his brows, then shrugged. “Fell, remember the fairy’s breath. And remember to concede if you’re in over your head. Better to lose a match than die.”

Fell nodded obediently.

--

The Arena roared around them once more. This time, boos rang out more than cheers. Twain smiled and waved. Boos are quieter than cheers. It hurts my ears less.

Spar shot them a casual middle finger.

“Why are you coming back out? What if they try to kick you out again?” Twain asked.

“I’m your coach,” Spar declared.

“Right…” Twain shook his head, then shrugged. I guess Spar knows what he’s doing?

Their opponents already stood in the ring. A human and a green-skinned undead awaited them, both carrying swords. Arms crossed, the human tipped her head back and looked down her nose at them, dusty hair falling in waves over her shoulders. The undead beside her adjusted his dusty tricorn hat and yawned.

“Showed up at last?” the woman asked. She stepped forward.

Twain glanced at her, then at the undead. Shit. Does fairy’s breath work on undead? “Fell, you’ve got this.”

“Me?” Fell squeaked.

“You’ve got this. Remember the vial.” Twain kicked him in the ass and propelled him into the ring. Limbs flying, Fell stumbled over the ribbon. Sand kicked up around his boots.

The woman eyed Fell up and down. “First time?”

Fell nodded.

She smirked. “I hope you’re not attached to that pretty little head of yours.”

Fell twitched and went pale. He glanced back at Twain.

Twain grinned and gave him a thumbs up.

“First round! Fell vs. Taybell! Fight!”