“That wasn't you, little one.”
“Then why can't I get his face out of my head? Why do remember?”
The creature stood over him, sadness emanating like heat from a stove. So strange, a monster concerned?
“Perhaps, a bit of you. Worry yourself not, before the end, let Moder make this gnackish-tek k-k-k, better.”
And just like that, the memory was locked away. Where? Where in the forest of his mind was-
The landscape blurred around him, the dream becoming estranged. Now, he was a bird looking down. The forest below walled off just before a ridge, the steep cliffs making it near pointless to even have walls. There below, a plump child ran along that border, knocking at the wall, trying to find a way in.
Dorian woke. He was being clutched from behind, it was an odd feeling though not necessarily uncomfortable. Then the events of last evening unfolded in his mind.
His knuckles had been healed, he had been washed off and provided with monk’s robes. Upon returning to his rooms, Jack, Ingrid, Malik and Benny were all standing there waiting. He broke down, though he had the grace to hold it down until they were inside. Even then, he held back all he could, not wanting to be a blubbering mess in front of his friends. Benny always had a rotten joke to cheer him, and Jack's stiff-necked-yet-goofy form of comedy had them all laughing before long. Each had discreetly taken a moment to either ask him if he was okay, knowing full well that he really wasn't but going through the motions anyways. Somehow, Ingrid had gotten out of duties tonight, which made Dorian grateful.
Not that he was grateful to be breaking down in front of his girlfriend, but if there was anyone he could drop all his walls for, it was Ingrid. She would let him hurt the right amount, knew how to tell him it would be okay.
Of course, that meant that Dorian had to listen to her say things like “toughen up,” or to “put his panties on straight.” She'd say it with a smile, but Dorian knew it was her way of saying that she was there for him. Some relationships might work differently, but Dorian didn't care for those relationships. His eyes were for her, and her eyes for him.
He wavered, of course, throughout the night. The memories eating at the back of his mind, the images flashing back vivid as though they were happening that very moment. But, Ingrid was there, catching him as he fell, pulling the shattered bits of himself back together in a weave strong enough to suffice. Before the end of the night, he was whole, though it wouldn't have taken much to tip him over and break him once more. Still, she stayed. Stayed until he was one piece, stayed until the glue had set enough that she knew he wouldn't need support. She was a wonder like that.
Extricating himself gingerly, he managed to rise without waking her. He moved quickly to the washroom, making his way through his regular morning routine as quietly as he could. Just as he was dressed in his own tunic, now that the first day was over he didn't have to wear that bloody vest, a knock came at the door. Dorian grabbed his boots, opened the door and quietly shut the door behind him.
“Good morning Basil.”
“Good morning sir, I take it you didn't want me to disturb any of your... uh, fans?”
“Oh, this fan is a very important fan. What are your plans today, Basil?” Dorian asked as he peeked out at the balcony. The patrons were stirring, but it was still early yet. To his surprise, many of them simply slept in the stands.
“Oh, well sir, you're my last stop. I've already taken care of the other contestant, and I wanted to take to watching the show today. I like the javelin throw.” For a young lad, he wasn't all too bright, but for what it was worth Dorian could tell he had a good heart.
“Would you like to help me with some errands, then? I'll throw in some coin for good measure.”
Eyes going wide, Basil nodded his head enthusiastically as he placed the food he was carrying on a small foldout table. “That would be great! Uh, sir. I got a jump on the good rates when the temple opened last night.”
“Oh? I assume the temple of Kressor is taking wages.”
“Oh, they are sir, I put all my earnings on...” Basil's face seemed to go red as he realized who he was talking to. “Dreadfully sorry, sir. No offense.” He shrugged awkwardly.
Dorian smiled and laughed, a deep and full laugh that filled the hall around him. “It's quite all right. So tell me, did you wager on the whole tournament or just one round at a time.”
“Mm, well, both sir. I put it all on Tender though, that real big Kressian.”
“You mean the one I'm fighting this morning?”
The whimpering smile he shot at Dorian was a piece of art. Dorian laughed, shrugging it off. “How much did you wager on the first match today?”
“Well, two full tokens, sir.”
“Tell you what,” Dorian said as he found the purse that Malik was kind enough to drop off the night before. It was a full roll of Vega tokens, though no longer in its sleeve. He pulled two out and rubbed them together. “If you'd be willing to run a few errands for me I'll cover your loss for today's match.”
“Oh, that's mighty generous of you sir, mighty generous indeed.” He was getting excited, which made his voice come out nasally and in a rush. “What do you need, sir?”
Dorian thought it over for a moment, wondering how much he could trust the young man. If Dorian had his guess, the boy was about fifteen, an age where wisdom seldom won over mischief. Figuring that if the boy was smart, he would know that he could make a few more coins off Dorian before it was through if Dorian happened to win today.
“What are my odds today of beating this Tender?”
“Oh, when I placed it, I got one to two, which isn't bad. Now though, anyone wagering on you would likely get eight to one. Tender is the top seed, I think.”
Dorian nodded once and retrieved his purse once more. He counted out ten Vega tokens. “Now, keep in mind I'm trusting you, Basil. First, I'd like you to buy a shit ton of flowers. I think I saw a vendor selling some yesterday.”
Basil nodded as he looked around, then pocketed the coins. “How much is a shit ton, sir?”
“An impressive amount, enough to surprise my very special fan in there.” Dorian pointed at his door with his thumb. “With the flowers, a breakfast comparable to the one you've brought me.” Dorian eyed the breakfast, noting eggs and oatmeal. “Scratch that, a better breakfast than the one you've brought me.”
Basil looked sheepish for a sec, then nodded. “And with the rest, sir?”
“I'd like you to place the rest on me in the first match. After I win, I'd like you to come find me.”
With that, Basil was off like a dart. In two breaths he was down the hall turning to head down the stairs. By the Gods, did I ever have so much energy?
He worried briefly over the rates of the wager, wondered what to expect from Tender. Scooping all the various bits of the breakfast into the stone bowl the oats were in, Dorian left, bowl in one hand, boots in the other. He was the first match of the day, he didn't want to go unprepared.
Kurt woke softly, though his head felt like a melon. He wasn't sure where he was at first, then remembered the luxury of the rooms he'd been given. Gods, do people actually live like this?
He took his leave to empty his bladder, regretting the few sips of Yehalla he had drank the night before. While he was in the washroom, he decided a warm bath might just be exactly what he needed. Realizing that he had the leave to do as he liked, he took an extraordinarily long bath. The heat of the water warmed his cold hands and feet, though he hadn't noticed they were cold until he began bathing. He soaked in the warm water until his hands were pruned like old man Hans.
After drying off and dressing, he came on to the balcony. His first match wouldn't be until afternoon, he had time to spare. He found someone serving out breakfast and put two fingers up as he sat at a table by himself. He listened idly to the chatter around him as he waited.
“Can you believe it? Another Hunt in the tournament. Hadn't there been a championship match about, oh, twenty years ago between two Hunts?”
Kurt grinned at that, though he didn't know that it was between two hunts. Then, he remembered the note that woman had given him. Nephew? Could she have been the other Hunt?
Lost in his thoughts, he hadn't noticed the server drop off two plates of food before he had a chance to thank them. He frowned at himself, decided it was too late anyways, and dug into the oats, eggs, and sausage of questionable origin. He also managed to drink down several pitchers of water, all the while promising himself he'd “never drink again.”
“I don't know though, that Kressian Tender has the top seed. Have you seen him? He's more beast than man, that one, I feel bad for that big one fighting him today. I had hopes for him, what was his name? Hook?”
The other nodded, “odd name that, what does a Hook do for a living? Fish?”
“Hells, it's probably not even his real name. You know how they get when the families try to contact them.”
The other man went quiet at that. Kurt stopped listening in and decided to beg off. Fingering the letter on the inside of his vest, he decided to find his mother, check on his father, and put a bet down on Dorian. Kurt didn't have much for coin, but he figured he'd put a little bit of faith in the Gods. He might not agree with the Way of the Path, but he had his own arrangements. His relationship with the Gods weren’t defined by any man, any priest, and certainly not-
“You! Come with me.”
“Hey, you're that Flint fellow, aren't you. Coming to apologize for that lunch you never bought me?”
“Don't you take that tone with me!” The man was sweating like Kurt had never seen, his face was flushed, and he seemed on edge.
“Hey now, it's okay. I've stood up many a woman, but I never threw myself at their feet. Come on man, get a grip of yourself. It's embarrassing.” Kurt was effortlessly nonchalant as he flicked a back hand at the man as though he were shooing a rodent.
“Why- you- list-” the dark haired man said, then he made an odd noise. It sounded more like a half crazed lunatic than a “Master” from the Monastery.
Kurt sighed loudly, “fine, but make this quick. I actually have to pay attention to the matches today.”
Flint twitched once making a guttural noise as his twisted. Shaking he waved for Kurt to follow.
The path they took was the same confusing one they had taken last time, but this time the Monastery monk was a polar opposite to the man he was just the day before. He seemed to get distracted easily, losing himself in a painting here or obsessing over lining something up correctly. When they came to the appropriate door, Flint unlocked the door, locked it twice, then unlocked it again. Then he turned the nob like it was hot, touching it briefly before pulling his hand back as though burned. What an odd fellow.
As soon as Kurt came in to the room the door behind him slammed shut. He jumped, turning in midair. The black mop that was Flint's head was covering his face as splotches of wet seemed to cling to it from the man's face. He was haggard, snot and tears coming down his face. “What have they done?!” The man shouted, shaking Kurt.
For Kurt's part, he didn't knock the guy on his robed ass for two reasons. First, he had to admit, he was completely thrown off guard. Second, whatever was going on with this man he was obviously desperate.
Prying Flint's hands from his vest, Kurt calmly asked. “What is your fucking problem?”
“Don't you see? Your father, what, what, what did that to yo-yo-your father? What?!” Flint shouted.
Kurt wasn't going to have that, in fact, with the pounding in his head at the time, he was about out of patience. He punched Flint right in the mouth, not hard, but enough to stun the man momentarily. Kurt grabbed a nearby chair as Flint looked up at Kurt all kinds of confused.
“Bu-but I didn't, did I?” Flint looked up to Kurt as though Kurt understood.
“Enough. What is your problem? Did you take something? Dig a little too deep into that bag of painkillers or had too much tea?”
The man frowned as he looked over himself. A flush, then his natural pale seemed to wash back over him in quick succession. He took a hold of himself, for the moment at least, placed his hands on his lap and fixed his posture. “I would like to inquire if you have any idea what has caused your father to resume his prior state.” This seemed to be a struggle for the man, his body was shaking, though his eyes were steady as the mountains surrounding the valley.
Brows heavy, Kurt stared for a moment before saying, “the food. We think it’s the food. I don't know how it's different, but it is doing something. You didn't have to drag me all the way down here for that.”
Flint wasn't even paying attention at that point, he was rummaging about for something, talking to himself. “Yes, yes, the food, the food. Of course, he and I, I and he, both had too much taken. I was more though. Yes, for I had more left, he was all waste, yes, yes.” He gasped for a moment, eyes going wide. “No.” His mouth held the “o” shape as he looked around ponderously. Kurt, quietly, oh so quietly, took his leave.
On the way out, he caught sight of someone lain out, stripped down to the waist, with bandages covering most of his face. An eye poked out though it was shut.
“Pretty gruesome, right? Poor kid came in after that beating. He's missing a part of his jaw, it simply couldn't be saved.” Kurt looked over, not realizing someone had been watching him. The woman actually tsked.
“Oh, that's...”
“You know, you look like someone I know.” The woman said as she tilted her head at him, the wrinkles on her face were indicative of someone much older than she seemed.
Kurt put his hands up. “You know, you're the second person from this temple to use a bad pickup line from this place.” He smiled as he said it though.
She laughed, “you act like him too.”
“Uh, thanks?” Kurt asked, sounding confused.
“Wait, did you say the second. Who was the first?”
“Some “Master” Flint. The guy should be locked up, he's raving mad.”
She browbeat him for a moment, then looked pensive. She started to walk away.
“What was this other person's name? The one you know.” Kurt called though not loudly.
She paused and turned. “Dorian.” She looked at him for a moment and recognized something. “He was the one that beat that young man in there near to death.”
“Doesn't that disturb you?” Kurt asked softly.
She looked at him then, really looked, and her eyes came away startled as though she was just noticing him for the first time. “Yes and no. The violence itself is disturbing, but believing who did it? No, not one bit.”
Kurt gave her a disbelieving stare.
After one eyebrow went up, the woman said, “we are all capable of violent things, child. The fact is, I know that young man well enough to know that if he went that far, he had good cause. And if he didn't, by the Gods, we all make mistakes.” She turned as her voice rose an octave at the end of her point, chin high, proud as a cat.
Finding his parents wasn't much of a chase. He thought he might watch the rest of the show with the Kressians, they weren't a bad lot, after all. He figured he'd check in on his parents before “randy Rand,” his new mental nickname for his father's state, decided to get handsy. He sighed at the grand awkwardness of it all, which made his head spin for a moment. Gods, I'm never drinking with those people again.
Kurt wasn't sure if it was just that group of Kressians or just the way they were as a people, but they could drink. By the Gods, could they drink. Gobs of it, unrealistic amounts liquor and ale, so much so that he had little room left for food by the end of the night. Kurt had attempted to slow down, but before he knew it another drink was thrust into his hands. At that point, it was a foregone conclusion, and the blurry night disappeared in boasts, threats and laughter.
His consolation prize? A throbbing headache that reminded him that perhaps he'd keep his own company. He thought he vaguely recalled retching up, maybe more than once? Kurt shook his head softly as he descended the stairs to his parent's quieter nook. As the light of the sun dimmed, as did the sound of the crowd, a gentle ease of alleviation settled on his face. He felt the muscles there relax, and Gwendos be praised, the throbbing in his head was suddenly much more manageable.
He knocked softly at the side of the nook, his mother called back, “come in.”
Turning the corner, his father sat idly holding his mother's hand. They were watching the arena floor, Rand chewing on something was oblivious to Kurt's presence.
“I take it he's not-”
“Holy Hells, boy! Where did you come from?” Rand looked to Rita then to Kurt.
“Oh, you'd never guess. What's got you so captivated down there?” Kurt said as he peered over to see the grounds.
“This Kressian from the Monastery. He tosses the hammer like it's a bola, it's unbelievable.”
Kurt looked over to see a large, though not the tallest, Kressian. If you didn't pay attention, you'd think he was squat, but he really wasn't. He was just broad, like the side of a house, which made him seem shorter than he really was. Kurt watched as the young man spun three times before launching the ball and short chain. It really did fly through the air like a bola.
“Whoa, that is impressive.”
Rand nodded in affirmation, eyes never leaving the arena ground. “That was his last throw, first match should be soon.” He looked to Rita, then back to the grounds. “Suppose, since I'm not fighting in this tournament, I'll have an ale.”
Kurt's brows came together in confusion, then he looked to his mother.
Without a moment's pause she said, “I'll have some tea, the black stuff not that watered down honey they serve at night.” She gave Kurt a look, then bobbed her head towards the door.
Thinking for a moment, Kurt sighed and said, “I'll send someone down shortly.” He placed his hands behind his back, fixing his posture as he did. Turning on his heel, he left the nook, indignation plainly written on his face, muttering as he trudged up the steps.
Eyes shut, Dorian sat on his heels before the gate. Jack had been tearing it up out there, and though he congratulated Jack as the gates opened, Dorian still had a mounting sense of dread over his next match. Nothing Jack said could change the fact that he was about to fight the top seed. He took a deep breath, then another.
Balancing there on his heels, something was different today. He hadn't noticed it the night before, but today there was a sudden lack. The night prior it was thick in the air like humidity, but today... nothing. It was like a veil had lifted. The beauty he’d imagined was gone, replaced with something ancient, all rotten teeth and a single cataract, older than any ten elders combined. Then, just as quickly, the veil dropped again, and there it was, lithe, young, supple hip and all. He worried for a moment that he might be mad but shrugged it off. If he was, then it mattered little. The madness would have to take a number, because the tournament's ticket was up.
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The more he thought about it, the more he couldn't see an escape. If he lost, he could die. If he won, he'd probably die or suffer a fate worse than death, being consumed by the slow meaningless labor of a failed initiate. Well, Dorian, at worst you know your least favored option. That has to be worth something, right?
He scowled for a moment before hearing his name called, the arena gate opening slowly. The chanting began, though not so many as the night before. Now it seemed only the Monastery choir was chanting, making his appearance feel ominous in the extreme. He jogged out to his place, finding the line in the hardened earth. Placing his foot, he waited.
“Our next contender for the Grand Tournament Championship, hails from the vast plains of Kresson, weighing eighteen stone. Blessed by Kressor, the hope of the west, Marcus Tender!” The crowd boomed, loud enough Dorian's ears wanted to pop. The roar was tangible, like standing too close to a piece of Gwam going up in a heap.
The large man started jogging out, and by the Gods, he was large. He had maybe a half finger on Dorian in height, but was as broad as the mountains. He carried a bit more than Dorian did around the middle, but his shoulders made one's eyes pay no mind to it. His legs though, his legs were squat little things by comparison. Dorian muffled a chuckle at the thought of a barrel held up by thin sticks, realized this would be the absolute worst place for it, then laughed anyways.
The crowd slowed in their cheering to watch the two competitors. The other man wore no smile, but Dorian couldn’t help himself, his shone as brightly as the sun.
“You smile? What makes a man such as you smile like that? Unless you are one to smile at death, yes?” His speech had a low drawl, one that was distinctively Kressian. Surprisingly, his voice was a bit high, something you wouldn't expect from a man so large.
“I smile for the chance to combat, perhaps a challenge lay before me at last.” Dorian said, trying to match the speech a bit and surprisingly succeeding.
The cool gaze the Kressian gave him was long and assessing. “You surprise me, I took you for a savage.” He said, head slanted with his chin tucked.
“Hmm, that.” Dorian replied, dripping solemnity. “That one was looking for savagery. I provided it.”
Tender looked him over for a moment. “I want an honorable match, what say you?”
Keeping Tender's eyes, Dorian gave a single slow nod. “I can provide that as well.”
With the end of Dorian's statement, the announcer gave the blessing. “Blessed be the blood that stains this ground, for it shall bring our redemption. Ready combatants? Begin!”
Dorian's heart was beating so hard that he thought he'd start bleeding out of his ears. He started at a slow jog to cover distance and stumbled a bit as he did. He recovered quickly, but for the life of him he felt his face flush hot. He had just tripped in front of every person in creation. A small voice inside his head echoed, Oh, the shame! The shame, Dorian!
He smiled at his self-deprecation. It couldn't get any worse.
Kurt’s stomach churned, but he stayed put. The last thing he wanted was to stand among the Kressians when they cheered against his little brother. Little? No. Maybe not even younger anymore. But hells, he’ll always be my little brother.
Kurt nodded to himself as the announcer called for Dorian. At the sight of him, Kurt still couldn't believe the change, he decided to head down to the nook his parents were using. Upon arriving, his parents were both watching with extreme interest, but his mother wore the brow of worry like a crown. She turned to Kurt, Rand didn't, which is to say he could be reverting or interested.
“Kurt, wha-”
“Ma, I'm watching the match here.”
“So-”
“Mom!” He raised his tone but not the volume of his voice.
She looked him over for a moment, and sighed. “Hopefully he doesn't notice.”
“Perhaps it might be a good thing if he does.” Kurt shrugged as he crouched down to a knee, resting his hand on the back of his mother's chair.
“Ha! The big one from the Monastery tripped. Hey, Rita, you don't know that one do you? Maybe you two tr-”
“Hush! Watch the match, you ape.”
Taken aback, he turned to look at her. Somehow, he hadn't even noticed Kurt. His expression went from vapid stare to affirmation in less than two seconds after seeing Rita's face. He turned back, and watched.
Dorian had regained his footing and was warily circling the Kressian Tender. The tension seemed to build in the air before Tender took the initiative. He lanced out, extending far with one hand. Anyone with eyes could tell it was a distancing tactic, a way to close space especially if you were slow. Dorian was wise to the tactic and stepped in, he managed to swap the ends of his weapon mid-step and instead of impaling his opponent he landed a solid blow to his opponent's sternum. It was the kind of blow that could stop a heart. The crowd had hushed as soon as Dorian stepped in, the solid thump that sounded seemed to carry everywhere at once.
Dorian danced back, whirling his staff to defend against any attacks as he gave space. It was a shame and an honor to the Kressians. Though, Dorian likely didn't know that.
Kurt had known their customs from the wilders that ran their way through the woods. It was an easy transition into the Wilds coming from the southern end of Kresson, if you didn't consider the lions. Some people just had the call, Kurt figured, though when it cost them their fool lives he wondered if they should just leave the Wilds to him. I am the king there, after all.
Dorian was holding position, waiting on his opponent. Arrogant? Dorian?
With a cry, the Kressian was released. Bounding forward, this time there was no testing jab. Though it was hard to tell, Kurt thought Tender's head was a surprising shade of red.
Like a bull, he charged, Dorian taking quick to defense. He tried a parry or two, but the man was so strong that Dorian was ripped out of his stance each time he took the full brunt of a blow like that. How was anyone that strong?
Dorian surprised the crowed, Kurt included, as he managed a barrel roll over a low sweep, and swung wildly with one hand. He connected, not hard but hard enough to put his opponent on the defensive. Back peddling, Tender struggled briefly to regain his poise, then shouted as he ran in again. There was hardly a moment of recovery there, which left Dorian an incredibly short window to take advantage.
Kurt absently started chewing his lip as he watched. Tender was fury once again, but was so gracefully. Every step he took was perfect, his footwork was beyond effective despite how teensy-tiny Tender's legs were.
Kurt snorted aloud, muttering he said, “surprised a barrel on legs can move like that.”
Rand snorted behind him and he heard his mother ask, “what's got you two chuckling?”
Kurt felt the eyes of his mother on his back for a moment, but he was too wrapped up in the bout. Dorian was surprisingly slippery, seeming to take greater risks after a while of being hounded. When he did, the Kressian caught on quickly to the tell. Dorian, Kurt had noticed, tended to spin the bottom of his staff when he was thinking of doing something clever. Or stupid. Or both. Balls, Dorian. What are you thinking?
As Tender's next swing came low, the ridiculous son of bitch cartwheeled towards his opponent. Tender hopped back at the sight of a staff being swung at him, but wasn't expecting Dorian to come off his hands like that, hells, Kurt hadn't either. Dorian used the momentum of his somersault to vault himself forward then took two great bounding strides towards his opponent and leaped.
He smashed down like a thunder strike, but instead of his opponent folding, he took the blow staff to staff. Dorian bounded off of him like a rubber ball against a tree. Taking full advantage, the Kressian struck out, thankfully not with the pointed end, but landed two hard thrusts to Dorian's stomach. Dorian danced back, never breaking eye contact with Tender. Then, without warning, he vomited. No heave, no retch. Just a quiet spill of liquid and chunks onto the Colosseum floor.
If Kurt hadn't been watching Dorian so closely, he might not have noticed it. Outside of the wet on the ground, you couldn't tell. Dorian's eyes were locked, watching every step of his opponent. Kurt's heart was beating out of his chest.
Tender came in swinging, and Dorian was running again. “Damn it, Dor, fight him.” Kurt said without meaning to.
“Dor?” Rand said, looking at Kurt quizzically. His head tilted and his eyes seemed to come in and out. Rand head snapped to the arena, he started shouting madly. “He's red meat, Dorian! The people won’t take it!”
Dorian was on his heels again. This man could move. Dorian thought he was fast for his size, but this guy seemed to pop up out of nowhere half the time. His sudden bursts of speed kept slipping passed Dorian's guard leaving him rushed and reeling. That's when Dorian's ears heard the oddest thing. Normally, when he was in the fight that was where all of him was. The rest of the world slipped away and he was only there in that moment, his awareness dropped to him and his opponent, nothing else. Somehow, someone had said something that rang in his mind.
“The people wont take it.”
What an odd phrase. What had he said before, red meat? Perhaps the oddest-
Something clicked in his brain. The people wont take it, unless you sear a steak before you bake it. He's red meat... sear before you...
Dorian whipped like a sheet in the wind, once, then twice, twisting back to avoid an oncoming blow to his skull. Since they had names, they weren't required to wear the leather padded helmets any longer, but Dorian was hating himself in that moment for not putting his on anyways. Barely getting out of the way in time, he lost sight of his opponent as he involuntarily shut his eyes. He started to lash out blindly until he had focus on his target again, and had to stutter step as his opponent was waiting for him to follow through. Dorian circled, thinking, watching his opponent’s hips. Think damn you, he's fast but it doesn't last. Sear it before I bake it? What does that even-
Dorian was back peddling quickly as the Kressian coiled to begin another onslaught of blows. Dorian wanted to have as much distance as possible so that burst of speed wouldn't catch him unprepared. The man was an animal with a stick, hitting him so hard that he was sure his spine felt the vibrations from the blocks.
Tender took a few deep breaths as he stared at Dorian, seeming... frustrated? Dorian was winded, sure, but his fire had plenty of Gwam left, he didn't even consider burning reserves yet, not by a long shot. That’s it!
Kurt was fidgeting. His instincts were telling him he should be out there, not up where he was in the stands. He should be there, with his brother. The despair that filled him was because he knew he had absolutely no power in this situation. Teeth bared, he watched, holding his breath every other second.
Dorian seemed to come to a conclusion. He took one step forward, stomping each foot as he did. He let out a hoot as each one came down. Taking a stance, he posed in his form which, Kurt had to admit, wasn't half bad.
Tender bellowed in a kind of acceptance to a challenge. He surged forward, but instead of dancing in and out, belting out blows as he went, he held his staff cross-ways as though defending a blow. They came close, much closer than a normal duelist would allow. As Tender took his stance, he mimicked Dorian, stomping his feet and barking a hoot out. Then they shouted in unison.
They began bashing at each other, the sound of the wood clacking became a rapid staccato over the grunts of their attacks. They kept going, never altering their stance, never moving their feet. At first, Kurt was wondering what the hell was going on and said as much. His father, without looking away from the match said, “that boy's got brass nads to pull that.”
“Rand!” His mother shouted, but Rand kept going as though she hadn't said a thing.
“That's an ode to the ancients, that. The first serious Kressian revolt was after a tournament. One man, though talented, claimed he was snuffed from the opportunity to compete, said that he was kept for his responsibility to the people as their future leader.” Rand turned to look at Kurt before turning back to the match. All the while the staves clacked, and the sound echoed across the stands. “Well, the people sided with the champion, he was one of their own. They had some heavy gaps between their leaders and the plebeians, and the people were tired of it. Finally, when things had gotten worked up and there was a mob, the future leader of the people challenged the other just as those two had, the leader figuring it would win over the people. Its a call, to make claim as strongest in the valley. It's also a bit of blasphemy, because the King of Kresson is always the strongest of the Valley, which was a cultural trend set by that very event.”
Kurt didn't look away from the match, but said, “Sometimes, you're real weird.” You're real weird Dad, was what he wanted to say, but he kept that to himself.
“By the Gods, are they still going?” His mother said. “How?”
“I don't know.” Kurt muttered, though he noticed too late his mouth had been hanging open.
Dorian was grinning like a Gods forsaken fool. That'll sear any Kressian, Dorian had thought. Oh, it had. When the man lumbered over to stand against Dorian, he was certain he could feel the fucking ground quake beneath him. The first time their staves hit each other, Dorian had clapped his teeth for how hard the man hit. The first ten hits nearly ripped him out of his feet, every blow seemed to shrink Dorian down a foot at a time. He was downright desperate for a few moments there, his body acting without a thought, his will manifested without filter. His stomach lurched as blood filled his shoulders and chest, then it was the rhythm. It was the tempo. It was manageable. He could do this. Now we bake.
Kurt nearly jumped out of his seat when he saw Tender lurching back. It wasn't by much, but it was a beginning. His body posture shifted, and he was taking blow after blow rather than what it had been for more than two minutes. They should be falling over each other by now, what's keeping them up?
Kurt put himself out there for a moment, thinking of how he would feel in that situation. Then he knew.
It could be desperation, but that wasn't it. Not for the outcome, though Kurt was sure they would tell themselves that. It was a desire, a need to climb. We all have it, a dingle-berry attached to us from our animalistic ancestors, we need to strive. Whether it was conflict that strove our desire to prosper, or prosperity that drove our need to conflict, we simply can't escape these trappings. Our instincts, for all the civilization there was around, still held sway in how people felt. And when some people are confronted by a well met foe, they balk and slink away, but those were not the people that stood toe to toe in the arena. No, Dorian wasn't one of those.
His arms were going to fall off. That was it, they were literally going to fall off his body and roll away. He had been numb for twenty seconds now, and only the repetitive motion had kept him going. The moment one of them did anything but one of these short ranged thrusts, the other would be cheated. If one of them did that, however, the Kressian's might revolt right then and there. It was a touchy subject, as Jack had told him late one night. Dorian hadn't thought much of it then, and only half remembered the story when the thought had struck him.
“You really want to piss off a Kressian?” Jack had said before relaying the tale of the first King of Kresson. It had come with a warning, and a suggestion that he shouldn't do it in public, and if he fucked up the custom, he'd be fertilizer for their awful farmlands. Something about that was bitter when Jack said it. Dorian suspected some cultural trope about pointlessness. Like being turned into fertilizer for a land that can't grow crops worth half a damn is still a better use of your life, or something of that sort. Kressians could be weird.
Startled as he came out of his daydream, his opponent had budged. Dorian, realizing this, doubled down on his assault. Suddenly, Tender was falling back, Dorian pressing forward. Holy shit!
His “doubling down,” was closer to about one twentieth of his rested power, but it was enough. By the Gods, the man toppled back like a tree, fighting the whole way. When he finally took a step back the crowd thundered. Dorian locked eyes with his opponent, who had completely left his guard. He was slouched over, sweating profusely, and trying to steal all the air out of the Colosseum. Seeing this, Dorian's arms dropped like a limp noodle, though his hands stayed firmly clamped to his staff.
Breath, Dorian, just breath. That's all there is, just breathing. Dorian opened his eyes, seeing his target. He surged.
Kurt couldn't believe it, somehow Tender was still giving it everything he had all the way down, but down he went. Well, more like backed down, but still, the moment was unreal. The build up to it was putting everyone at the edge of their seat, and when it happened, he thought the entire structure was going to fall apart. Whatever it was, the moment the first step back was taken, or the moment he fled gasping for breath, Tender was the one to lose the exchange. The chanting of his little brother's name, his little brother's name, was ranging everywhere, but the choir from the Monastery made his spine tingle. “Do-re-an” they sang in near hymn, which made Kurt's skin crawl.
Gods, if we get this right, what's going to happen anyways? Dorian, the next Grand Elder? At that thought, Kurt nearly sicked up. With the sound of the choir, it wasn't impossible to see, which was exactly what made Kurt feel sick. More shivers ran up his spine before one of the duelists moved.
They had been in a staring match with one another as they heaved for air. Shockingly, Dorian moved. It wasn't at full speed, not by a long shot. They had both exhausted themselves completely in that display, it would take some time to catch your breath after something like that. Dorian was probably wagering that he had recovered more than his opponent at that time.
At first, it looked like a mistake. Dorian had taken to the offensive, battering at his opponent who seemed to recoil and counter every attack. Then, every other attack. Then once in a while. Then Kurt caught a glimpse of Tender's face, dread shone like sun beams breaking through the canopy of the wood. He was breaking.
Dorian could see the man's will beginning to bend, his exhaustion taking hold. Dorian still couldn't really feel his arms, so much as he assumed that they were coming along for the ride. He was tired, but the series of attacks he flowed out with was one well practiced. His opponent could take one step out of sequence with the practice combination and Dorian would bite so hard that he'd lose a tooth, but his opponent hadn't. Instead, he had taken all the blows sequentially, stubbornly, a refusal to back down once more. Dorian rounded on him, and thought he'd have this one in the books, when his opponent shouted.
The man totally lunged forward, wholeheartedly believing he wouldn't be skewered. Dorian pointedly didn't but managed to poke him hard in the quadriceps with the blunted cap. Still, he came on, until Dorian was shortening the length of his staff to prepare for what the madman was trying to do. He wanted a rematch, Dorian guessed, and Dorian felt he would be a coward if he didn't stand his ground against this kind of opponent.
As their staves clashed for the first time, Dorian's grip slipped on his left hand. His right hand was already midway up the staff when Tender held and began driving against Dorian. He thought he'd roll Dorian over, but Dorian's feet were still solidly planted while he held a strong stance.
The result was a lockup of sorts. Both of them committed at that point, if one of them had the energy left to twist away, they would have. Now they were stuck in a war of attrition. Dorian would shove harder, then Tender would follow. Their faces slowly grew closer as they both kept their feet, but Dorian's grip was too wide. The amount of pressure being placed on Dorian's stave was too much for how wide his hands were placed.
Tender noticed this and drove down with all his considerable bulk, and Dorian was his with a sudden wave of fury. Not the kind he had experienced yesterday, he hoped. No, this was something else. The outrage, that he had come so far and the slip of his hand might decide whether or not he claims victory? He wouldn't have it, he couldn't. The stave was bending too far, it wasn't that flexible. Fuck it, do what's least expected. What else do you have to lose?
Dorian shoved back, taking all his desire and pulling every last bit of energy from himself, he snapped like a whipcord. He felt it too, his legs and body coiling before movement carried from the ground through his body and forward. The result happened faster than either of them were prepared for.
Tender surged forward, as did Dorian, after his staff had snapped. Where Dorian's hand was, as the two forces came together, the blunted steel cap crashed forward with the support of Dorian's extended arm. It was faster than blinking, a solid strike to Tender’s jaw, all the weight of forty stones between them coming together in a heap of chaos. Somehow, miraculously, Dorian found himself standing alone. Then, a new blossoming pain made him replay the collision in his mind. As the Kressian's staff followed through, he had more weight on the low side than Dorian had. His staff was still solidly supported by both hands and all his weight. The steel cap swiftly came down towards his shin. Dorian winced as fire shot from his right leg. He couldn't help it, he shouted in agony as he dropped to his ass, clutching the damaged leg. Then the boom of the crowd came.
He felt something for the first time, like a call to ascension. A concussive force of volume shuddered his vision, it seemed a new presence had invaded the arena ground. It wasn't savage violence, no, but it had a grip on Dorian all the same. It felt intoxicating, the tears running down his face no longer for his leg. Somehow, shaking, he stood and held his fist high in triumph. The tears still spilling to the arena sands for the beauty and splendor sent through his body.
The presence... it was pride, and in a way, it was glory. Basking in it felt better than warm sunlight drifting through leafless trees on a blustery leaf blown day. Better than breaking the solemnity of a fresh snowfall. Better than...
He knew then that he would have been consumed entirely if not for Ingrid. For all the elation he felt in that moment, all the ecstasy that filled him, even this wasn't all that his love was. Some would be fooled, consumed by the sensation of this tainted ground, this blood stained earth. But, no, not Dorian. He felt this way at times with her, but would never trade what he had for this.
Dorian snapped out of it as he realized he was just standing there, vapid expression on his face. He laughed out loud at the absurdity of it all.
Even without the persuasive wards, he thought he'd enjoy that moment, and, by the Gods, it did feel good. Perhaps, and just the smallest perhaps I can imagine, but perhaps I am good enough.
He smiled a smile he never had, full force and unrestrained. He limped away to the sound of his name, sang more than chanted now. The low “Do-re-an” put a grin on his face he couldn't put down, it was the cadence of things to come. Possibly the sound to which he would greet his own death. Either way, when the time came, he would meet it gloriously.
Kurt watched astonished as Dorian limped his way across the arena grounds. The monks were there already, but he walked unaided. The Kressian Tender, well, he wasn't doing as well. The crowd was cheering Dorian loudly enough to wake the dead. He winced from the headache ever so often as the crowd came back to the chant
Gods, the crowd was so loud it was unreal. Which was odd, he normally loved crowds. There was a sensation to the crowd, a feeling he couldn't describe well. Like he was better than all of them, which was such an out of place feeling that Kurt was sure there was something amiss. It wasn’t just the hangover either, there was something pressing down on him, thick as smoke. Not wanting to be there any longer, Kurt hurried out of the nook. He didn't even say anything to his parents, and they didn't ask.
Making it back to his rooms was a great relief. He kicked off his boots, leaped into bed and covered his eyes with a pillow. He still had a few hours to go before his first match. He had plenty of time to sleep off the rest of this hangover. Then, he would have his two matches back to back. There was an upside to going last today, after they came through left to right on the brackets, they'd sweep back through. He was happy about that, as it would save him the hassle of warming up twice. Cocky, he chided himself before drifting off softly.
Quena was skulking about the outside of the Monastery front. The palace, as she saw it, was the grandest farce of the entire bullshit game the Elder was playing at. This was where the real priests, the representatives, were trained. It was also home to a few other oddities, but nothing could have prepared her for the sight of two Arcanum guards standing at the front entrance. Bastards, each of them.
She crept like a jungle cat, stalked silently along the sides of the massive building until she crept up to the front. She would have simply time dilated herself, but she feared they would sense it. There they were, steady as stone. She thought she recognized them, but knew better. The Elder would have found them new births since then, but perhaps she recognized something in their posture... oh, bugger all. Does it really matter?
She knew that she couldn't hold back if she were to succeed in this mission. She knew this more surely than she knew she was once one of them. Gritting her teeth, she slowed time to a crawl.
This didn't give her super-human speed, no. Time manipulation could kill you faster than anything else, especially if you extended it to your extremities. Instead, she wrapped the smallest bubble around her mind. External to oneself, it was always the shape of a bubble, but internally, one could twist the adjustment any way one willed. The problem was, you could literally rip your own bones out of your flesh if you covered too much. When she isolated the brain, however, she could make a few seconds feel like a few minutes, giving her plenty of time to react if one of them was quick enough.
She summoned her Shade, a crescent moon, crafting the inside turn to be razor sharp. She took two stride, feeling like minutes passed, and hacked at the first oblivious man's neck.
It was best to behead another Priorius, best to keep them from pulling something tricky. Healing oneself was possible, however, the drain would leave you convulsing if you didn't have a heart attack. She'd seen it before, though many that attempted it either a knack for it or was extremely well balanced in their affinities. Few other than the Elder himself had such perfect balance, and almost all of them died. Still, it was best not to take chances.
Even before her crescent sliced cleanly, she was summoning more of her Shade. Pushing three veins of it through her hips and the middle of her back, she vaulted upward just as the first one's head began to lift from his body.
Spinning through the air, she hoped her opponent wouldn't have the time to recover. As the apex of her descent came, she felt the second opponent, a woman, attempting to push telekenetically at her. Quena started to laugh, she wasn't stupid enough to wear anything inorganic. Bits of rock floated passed her, some dust perhaps, but for the most part her opponents first reaction would be the only reaction allotted to her.
As she descended, she pushed more of her Shade in to the crescent blade. As she came down with both hands, it cleanly parted the Arcanum member's head down to the shoulder. Now the time came for the important bit.
As quick as she could, she summoned the nearby stone. Most of the earth around her was just that, earth. Soil didn't respond to stone Shaping, but there were always little bits to be had. She wanted to pull from the Monastery building, but thought better of that. He would notice.
The thin discs that formed underneath each of the dead Arcanists caught them, not even an ounce of blood getting away. She lifted the stone discs, bringing the dead together and wrapping them entire. Their clots were still whole, if she tried to drain these two of their power she'd end up with two other people in her head. It was the most dangerous part of fighting other Priorius, you couldn't siphon their corpses. Those gifted with a few primes, however, they were fair game. Too bad, she thought as she pulled enough stone through the earth to carve out a sizable hole. Quickly, she submerged the two now encased in stone, and did the best she could at making the area blend in. I hope you never get out, you bastards. Teach you to betray your own, by Metae's will.
Quena looked around quickly before heading inside. No witnesses.
She flashed a stolen grin. She had spent too much time with that Hunt boy.