Consciousness is a sheet draping my face; light and noise come through in scraps. Aches seep into my stupor and stain it in a dingy discomfort. Intermittent flutters of familiar and strange faces punctuate my unending fall. I try to move and find that my body stays. It's not that I can't physically move; it's more like I’m trying to push against something. This rebellion drains my faint fight and pulls me back under the sheet. These are puzzles for an older, more discerning me; I have an endless fall to resume.
White fills my vision. I attempt and fail to blink away the soreness. I look around on rusty gear for a neck as soft groans pop unbidden from my lips. I am in a white room from floor to ceiling; all four ligaments hung from the bed's poles. Jer precariously lays atop three chairs scooched next to each other. His snore clatters through the ambient clacking and chattering coming from somewhere. Neither the bindings nor my body allow an ascertainment of the noise’s source. It is okay. Jer is here, so this will be okay. They can’t know-
The last match tears a pit in my stomach as it shatters my confusion. Unless a miracle hurdled out of the sky to crush my undamaged opponent, I'd lost. I have failed. Though I have been mentally preparing myself for this outcome, the defeat— anguish tumbles from my chin, and contempt constricts my throat. All the years I have spent training and working, all the things I have gone without focusing on, and all the miles I have run— now a loss. Jer shoots up, ready to fight, but instead beholds my vulnerable form. I wail feebly against the straps, and Jer’s fury evaporates as he descends on me. He sits on the bed and pets my head, a quiet comfort leaking from him, filling the cracks in my future.
“You did so well,” He cooes once I start.
“I am a failure. How can I-” I sob.
“You are not. You are a person who did much better than most.”
We stay like this, him radiating confidence and strength, me warming from despair. He has this effect on me. His consolation allows me to express myself and feel comfort. It makes sense why he won, and I have not. I am not strong eno-
“Wait!” —sniff— “how long has it been? Did you win your match?” I start after sniffing away my sobs.
“Not long, and obviously.”
“That is great. You are in the finals. When is the match?”
“Shit! I have to go.” He curses, bolting from the room after catching the sun's height.
“Stop running!” Someone admonishes, entering from a door behind me. “Oh, you are conscious. You're speaking? Check. Are you experiencing any severe pain in your head?”
“No.”
“Are you seeing or hearing things that are not real?”
“How will I know if they are not real?”
“They will be out of place. They are voices of unseen people, strange occurrences, or actions of a similar nature,” the voice of the person I can't see explains.
“Well, I sure hope not.” I attempt to turn my head, pulling against restraints.
“We just have to ensure the treatment has no unforeseen side effects before we finish with you.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“It is routine. If you will let me continue, hallucinations?”
“No.”
“Rectal pain?”
“No.”
“Eye bleeding?”
“Fuck, no. Wouldn’t you see that better than me?” I burst.
“Well, that should be enough."
The cloth shackles containing me crack as she presses a symbol on the pole, sprawling me across the bed. Bones and joints screech upon landing. My arm is my first concern. Where before was a useless mess, blemishless skin stares back. I should have been halfway to death with weeks of travel to get around, and instead, I am sore but whole.
“How did you do this?”
“That is not something I can speak about.”
“Well, thank you. I could have died.”
“From what I hear, you nearly did.”
The offhand comment speaks volumes of my situation and theirs. Moments from the arena come back to me, the blaze that had propelled me to continue, the hopeless fury that seeing my failure brought. I could have died railing against inadequacy. Shame joins the mix of repressible shortcomings. I have lost at every turn. I have underestimated every challenge and overestimated myself. All I want stands before me, and I can't keep up. The tears are still close to the surface, but I blink them away.
I don't have time to kick myself. For all I know, Jer is already fighting; therefore, I am running. I am up too quickly. Gingerly adjusting gets me to the counter and clothes on my body. I don't have time to marvel at the glass walls or the giant water feature in the likeness of a bear. Eventually, the spectators’ entrance is in sight under half an hour later. Have I gotten here in time to see Jer’s match?
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Admittance only costs a couple of copper. A large circular staircase behind the entrance ascends me to the stands. Uncomfortable stone seats stretch for tens of rows, fuller than at my match. Rooms are visible behind the furthest benches, each with a glass wall that obscures the inside. I lift my chin to see the whole arena. After assuring myself that Jer is not one of the two combatants, I look for my friends in the stands, spotting them after several minutes.
“Did I miss his match?” I ask, walking up and sitting down.
“No. How about you? That duel was just so-” Ker trails off, looking to me for approval.
“I would rather not talk about it—for now, at least,” I deflect, carving a smile on my face.
“That’s okay— I just think you did well.” Ker mumbles.
“Let’s focus on Jer and Gale. Tell me, Gale, how did you do in your match yesterday?”
“Well, yesterday was a tough fight against this person with a polearm. They kept me away while they were cutting into me. I snapped the thing in half, and they surrendered after that. Today's match kind of sucked; they were just better than me. After a few minutes, I knew I would lose. I tried to showcase my strengths with the last of it, and I almost thought I could make it,” She pauses, but with a nudge from Lisen, she continues, “I gave them a fight. I put everything I had into those last few minutes, and it was enough. I got the word today. You’re now looking at a new Veebel of the Tartu house.”
“Gale! That is amazing! When does your commission start?”
“A week. Sending me off to bolster the Wall.”
“Really? At least it isn’t some kingdom or bandit business. Are you nervous?”
“It is an adjustment, but this is what I want.”
“I’ll be joining her, keeping the peace and all,” Lisen adds.
“Oh? In what way?” I ask.
“That’s right, you and Lisen never talk. Vesh probably still thinks you’re from a northern village.” Gale mocks.
“I did,” I admit.
“I was in some northern villages doing work and came down with the horde. I do humanitarian visits. I travel around aimlessly.”
“She is so full of it; she healed your arm; she is a saint.” Gale boasts, whispering the middle bit.
“You can't even whisper it.” Lisen admonishes.
“Thank you. I hope you two write.”
“It’s not entirely your fault. Lisen turns into an awkward mess in front of Jerd-”
“Gale!” Lisen objects, covering Gale’s mouth.
“I got you. Jerduan has that effect. Ker, tell him how he did.” Gale directs.
“Well, it was just great. Jer comes wreathed in chainmail and tosses it off. You would think he would keep it on, but instead,— he throws it away like he doesn’t care. The crowd favors him already. The other one wasn’t interested in the crowd, and they could feel that, you know? Anyway, the fight is tense. Jer is pushing into their guard, but they keep just out of reach. At one point, it seemed like Jer would lose, but he gets this strength in the last moments and pow. Over just like that.”
“That is amazing, truly by the skin of his feet.” I needle, not buying the show.
“Teeth,” Ker mumbles a correction.
The current match ends with the katana wielder slicing through the abdomen of a person with a couple of shortswords. Katana is from a noble family and performs a show similar to Jers's. Most spots go to noble families, which is how the tournament works. Nobility is a peerage that comes with little in the way of hard power, though this does not stop them from using soft power to monopolize opportunity. They then hoard that power. This practice isn’t a problem seen in the north. Places like Brinx and Willows Grove honor accomplishment, not lineage. The person I faced was a noble among nobles.
Jer emerges with a cape of chainmail atop his muscular body. He wears his grin like a crown as his arms raise to the cheers. I scream along, pounding my feet. His challenger enters from the other side, their bristles pointing at Jer’s show. Looking closer, I can see that it's the woman I fought in the first match of the preliminaries, Shannai Sage. Her stance is low, with a firm grip on her blades. Jer prances to his position, reveling in the jubilation of the crowd. The moderator steps between them as Jer hits his mark.
“Jerduan, son of Steel, will now face Shannai, Daughter of Sheikh Sage, until determined death.”
The moderator, stepping back, drops their hand. Jer advances, slides his grip, and swings. The crowd is on its feet as Jer opens. The gambit provides anyone in the way with ample reason to move. She deceptively ducks before leaping above the swing, propelling her sword toward his chest in a mid-air plank. He loosens his stance, leaning back to avoid the thrust. Shannai twists in the apex of her flip, landing behind Jer. He shifts and attempts to leverage the momentum of his blade, which stays in motion. She is too quick, however, scoring a hit on his back. He allows the blow, and his rebuttal pushes her to a manageable distance.
I’ve never seen Jer match so equally. I’ve never seen him equaled at all. He embodies that which all look to for power, the pinnacle that can’t fall. I thought back to the years of blood given to the cause— tears given to the craft. He is the better of us, the moon that holds our dreams aloft. I have never questioned if he can succeed; in all my self-doubt and deprecation, he remained untouchable.
Now, he is struggling. Confidence is missing from his step as he retreats. His face rains liquids as bulging muscles swim the sword in impossible ways. This strain keeps him up until Shannia moves impossibly— I lose track of her. He reacts by following through with the miss while leaning against the weight of the sword in a twirl, stretching his body at an odd angle to dodge her blade. She appeared behind him. Jer’s grip is loose, the attack too sudden, his swing goes wide, and the hilt slips from his hand. He remains unstabbed but loses the weapon for his troubles. She smiles and speaks to him. Nothing of what she says is audible over the crowd. Jer smiles while walking to her, smashing his fists together and shouting something back. The roar raises her foot in a cautionary retreat. Yet, she places it back down.
Jer runs directly at her. A dagger snaps into his hands, and he drives it straight at her chest. She smacks the dagger aside but loses her guard. Jer grabs her sword hand and tosses her like a sack of feathers, and her sword remains with Jer. She soars five feet before slamming into the ground, sliding into a roll. The crowd cheers as the moderator approaches to check on her— before they can, she stands. She looks at Jer with pure rage. Spitting blood onto the ground, she bellows loud enough to cut through the crowd.
“Another. Fucking. Dagger.”
Confusion slants Jer’s face as he tries to assemble something for which he only has half of the pieces. His confusion is superfluous as she appears a meter from him again and strikes out viciously. He's ready this time, parrying her dagger with her pilfered sword. Each connection leads into the next as a hurricane is born. I can not make out half of the exchanges; my mind only registers their existence with a perpetual tally of clashing metal. He disarms her dagger, smashing his fist into her face before grabbing her vest and placing her sword to her throat.
“Deathblow!” The moderator calls.
Jer raises her sword with a scream before prancing around. The crowd explodes with built anticipation. He shines under the praise, reveling in the moment he knew he could achieve. Pride ravages his face in a charade of red. I cheer as our new friends cheer beside me, and thousands of people cheer around us, reminding me of a panther’s roar. Looking at the man who has accomplished everything we wanted, I see only the child who befriended me. He deserves all that will come of this and a friend that doesn't feel jealous.
We wait outside the competitors' exit to congratulate Jer. Ker retells the match with commentary as we escort our champion to the nearest intoxicants. Amber ale wets the lips of parched participants. We indulge in roasted cauliflower with light ricotta tanging through sweet tomatoes. This trek continues across several taverns. My retelling of the tournament is contributed once enough booze is consumed. Jer makes out with ten people, using his victory to deadly effect. The parade ends at our tavern. Jer and I share a stoop in the alleyway.
“It feels like it’s not even real, Vesh.”
“I know what you mean. I still haven’t quite wrapped my head around it.” I agree, after considering the last few days.
“What do you think you will do now?”
“Probably look around the fair for the next few days. Maybe I’ll visit down in Brinx; I’m not sure. Either way, we won't see too much of each other.”
“Vesh. Won't you stay here? I’ll miss you if you leave.”
“You’ll be busy in the Sanctum even if I stay, even if I find another profession, your program is as inclusive as the mages. But I still plan on getting a certificate. The ‘where’ depends on what there is for me here. The tournament was always the means to an end, a way to envision me outside my father's plan. In truth, I knew I could never win. It was always going to be you. And we were always going to be separated.”
“We still have our plans. An adventure to go on together.”
“That we do. For now, let’s enjoy this night.”