4 weeks later, in the heart of The Kingdom’s south...
With a meaty thud and a crunch of bone, Lurian’s jaw gave to his adversary’s blow, collapsing him to the dirt. The taste of blood, the smell of sweat, the murmurs of the crowd—it all vanished as his rattled mind struggled to maintain its grasp upon reality.
Lying there, bloodied and broken before their gasps, he could feel their eyes upon him. Their disappointment. Their shock. Their contempt. It was palpable in the air. It roused his sleeping rage, reigniting the furnace within; its scorching fires washing through him; its sobering pain returning a semblance of clarity to his fading mind.
It was in their eyes. They looked on. Daring him to stand. Daring him to continue this farce...
And all his pain?
All his suffering?
It was naught but entertainment for the gathered mob.
Something to gossip about whilst they fulfilled their duties.
He, Lurian Ven’nirous, high elf and scion of the line of Pynous, was reduced to playing their fool—a fool forced to gain their acknowledgment—or continue to suffer under his opponent's blows. Swallowing his bitterness, he tried to focus; tried to make out the beast of a man who so brutally knocked him down. He loomed over him now; his blurred, towering silhouette resembling that of a wild bear, ready to devour its wounded prey.
Torvous Black: a human, a giant of a man with a wild black beard and matted mane. Looking up at him, Lurian’s rattled mind conjured the image of the man’s grizzled features, twisted in contempt as he stood over him, looking down at his half-broken form.
He was Arms-master to Irrandor Castle, directly under ‘his lordship,’ watching above. The man’s current task? To be Lurian’s final opponent in this series of spars, spars he was forced to endure.
All this, a mere display—intended to show off the depth of his training...
All this, to demonstrate his might to some mysterious guest...
He coughed, choking on the blood pooling in his mouth. ‘Some display of skill this turned out to be,’ he thought, rolling on his side and weakly spitting the blood from his mouth.
“Get up, boy,” the man said, his words breaking Lurian from his daze. “I ain’t done with ya yet.”
Battling to remain conscious, Lurian shot his blurry assailant a look filled with all the scorn he could muster. He was aware he probably looked ridiculous, but it was all he could manage with a busted jaw and a rattled mind.
“Come on, UP! I ain’t got all day; on ya feet—NOW!” the man roared, kicking at Lurian’s feet, as if the sudden violence would somehow hasten his rise.
Lurian frowned; his vision plagued by stars.
He tried to focus. He had to make it to his feet; Torvous was by no means a patient man, and he was in no condition to test one so lacking in forbearance.
Allowing anger to fuel his actions, he rolled over and slowly pushed himself to his feet. On shaky legs, he rose, setting his feet wide as his concussed mind attempted to take up a battle-ready stance.
“Straighten up—boy. I broke your jaw, not your back. Don’t ya dare embarrass me while the lord be watchin’—ya hear.”
Prompted by the man’s words, Lurian’s gaze floated to the balcony above, trying to catch a glimpse of those who would see him put through such suffering. As dazed as he was, he couldn’t quite make out their faces. He couldn’t help but imagine the lord’s indifference. Those cold, caring eyes staring down from so high above.
Though he tried, he could not fully quash the surge of bitterness he felt when he pictured the image.
Unwilling to continue entertaining such resentments, his gaze drifted to the second, more slender of the two nobles spectating above. And not for the first time, he wondered what all of this was for, and why her presence warranted this series of frankly unfair martial bouts.
Surely she—a noble elf’na-fae—did not come all this way just to watch him bleeding in the dirt. It all felt like some cruel test; as if they sought to see him pushed to the brink... to finally break.
‘Hah, some show this turned out to be,’ he mused, his heart bitter at the thought of what she might think.
‘No, no, no—my pride is not so fragile.’ He would not be their dancing clown. He would fight. He would bleed. He would break. But not for them. Not for those who would stand above him, judging him, as if they could decide his worth.
Done drowning in such toxic, irrelevant musings, he shook his head and turned back to his opponent.
Sizing up the large, hairy brute before him, he inelegantly spat the blood that threatened to dribble from his damaged mouth. He was aware he looked anything but noble, but in his anger, he cared little for the thoughts of others.
“You good—boy?” asked his large, blurry opponent. “I did hit ya pretty hard. If ya need a minute,” he said, sounding oddly unsure.
‘What is this, guilt?’ he thought. ‘No, that’s not it. This is a man who has no qualms beating on a child. If he is showing concern, it is naught but a deception. But for whom?’ Everyone in the castle was well aware of his callous disregard for those he trained. His eyes drifted back to those above; his recovering mental faculties stumbling upon the truth.
They were putting on a show. A show in which he was the leading man, and it just wouldn’t do to have the lead playing punching bag to some lowborn’s frustrations. It looked bad enough already: a human, a servant, beating on a young elven noble. Why, such a crime would have him butchered if they were anywhere else in the Kingdom.
But not here, not under the lord’s gaze...
Lurian huffed and returned his skittered focus to the fight. He was done pondering such things. They were but distractions; distractions he could ill afford.
His blurred world had finally found focus, the scarred, leathery face of his opponent was now clear.
Deciding he had rested enough, he took a breath, nodded his consent, and lunged in—jabbing at his opponent’s waiting guard.
A quick, brutal exchange—followed his sudden attack.
He struck both high and low, trying to land something substantial. But to his dismay, Torvous remained solid, infallible, as if his attacks were naught but wind battering upon hardened stone.
Lurian could see it. The man was building momentum, his fists ready to punish the overeager offensive with a well-timed counter.
And he, slow and unawakened, could do little to stop it...
It came, a heavy blow that struck his exposed side, cracking his ribs and all but returning him to the dirt.
Torvous stepped back, shaking his head. “Boy, that ain’t it, ya need ta get it together. ya all fire when ya should be frost. Cool your head, and get that anger under control—or I’ll put ya back on your-ass!” he said; his voice a toxic cocktail of anger and disappointment; his tone, no doubt intended to taunt Lurian to action.
Lurian wheezed as he rested on a single knee. Though it stung his pride, he acknowledged the truth in the man’s words. He could feel the fire, the rage—the building discontent—that only grew as the fight progressed.
Everything hurt. Everything. He was tired, bloodied—and half broken, but they still expected him to put on a show, a show that seemed to do little else but bludgeon the blood from his battered form.
And for what? To entertain some guest? Some Alf’na-far high-born noble? As if his daily torture in the guise of training wasn’t enough, now he had to fight a human 30 years his senior. A human who spent his youth fighting in the pits of Selarr, where—by the man’s own account—he never lost—not once.
Spitting up the blood pooling in his mouth, he cradled his newly cracked ribs.
Of course, it was naught but utter nonsense. By his reasoning, the man was good, but not that good; for if his claims held true, he would have wealth and his name would be sung across the length and breadth of these lands; he would not be living in obscurity, in the sparsely populated south.
He took a deep, long breath—to calm his raging blood.
He knew the fight was done. In truth, it was done before it even began. The human was too quick, too strong. No amount of advantage in skill or training could make up for the sheer difference in physicality between him—an unawakened—and Torvous—a seasoned fighter.
It was humiliating—
He likened it to a battle between a child and an adult; though giving it all he had, there was no ambiguity in the outcome of this fight. It was merely Torvous humoring him; the man playing foil to his suffering as he prolonged what could have been over in an instant.
“Oh, by all means, take a breath... Go on... ain’t like there’s a waiting crowd or anything.”
Hearing the sarcastic taunt, Lurian’s head shot up—catching sight of the smug bastard’s twisted smile. And in that moment, his anger spiked—causing a tendril of fresh agony to lash out from his center, punishing his rage, and causing him to wince as it twisted—torturing him from within.
The sudden pain caused him to tense, and he had to force himself to relax. ‘Use the pain, Lurian; let it sharpen you.’
In, and out—he breathed, every breath cooling the furnace within.
‘Fine, fine. If they want a show, I’ll give them one. One they won’t soon forget,’ he roared in his mind, his eyes spitting fire at his opponent.
He knew he stood no chance, but he swore to the Faiths that he’d see the arrogant bastard’s nose bloodied before this cursed day ends.
Lurian leaned forward. And without warning, he shot to his feet and darted in—feinting left—as he struck right.
Surprised by his sudden onslaught, Torvous’s block was a beat slow, and threatened to leave him exposed. Yet, before Lurian’s blow could land, an imperceptible blue glow flared from the man’s arm, accelerating the rise of his guard. Having blocked the blow, Torvous continued his rotation and crouched into a wide sweep aimed at Lurian’s legs.
‘That was a binding. The fucker is cheating!’
Furious, Lurian flipped back over the sweep, grabbing Torvous’s outstretched arm as he fell, cleverly opening up the human’s guard for his rising right shin. Unfortunately, Torvous, with a body fueled by trace amounts of magic, had witnessed the whole manoeuvre in slow motion, and simply caught the leg with his free right hand.
“Nice try, kid,” he said, holding him up while grinning. “But now you're at my mercy. What’ll ya do now—I wonder?” he said, his smile—fierce and taunting.
An indignant Lurian answered with a swift, sharp kick to the center of the man’s face with his free left leg.
With a satisfying crunch, the strike connected solidly with Torvous’s nose, causing a loosening of the man’s grip. Seizing the chance, Lurian twisted free and sprang back onto his outstretched arms, flipping back over onto his feet.
Bracing, he held his guard high, expecting a furious retaliation from his foe...
But when none came, he stepped back, cautiously relaxing his raised guard as he surveyed the damage.
A surge of triumph washed through him when he caught sight of the ribbon of blood running down the bastard’s stunned face. ‘That was easier than expected,’ he thought, still managing half a smile despite his shattered jaw.
Torvous reached up, gingerly pinching his busted nose. “Nice one boy’” he nasally mumbled. “Ya got me good; it’ll teach me for gettin’ cocky.” His words were light—almost congratulatory as he wiped the blood from his lip.
But then he lowered his hand, raised his guard, and growled: “But I hope ya know, it won’t happen again.”
With a body flooded with adrenalin, Lurian adjusted his stance and braced for what would come. He could see an all too familiar storm brewing behind the human’s calm facade. In his hubris, Lurian had forgotten just how petty the man could be when slighted; let alone when made to look the fool in front of a crowd of his peers.
Clamping down on his rising dread, Lurian waited... Both knowing and dreading the pain to come...
Suddenly—the large bear-of-a-man shot forward—catching Lurian in a brutal tackle. He tried to stay on his feet, but the man’s mass and momentum proved too much, and they crashed to the dirt, air bursting from his lungs as he hit the ground—hard.
He tried to roll, but with the giant atop him, he was pinned.
Before he could make sense of his predicament, he saw Torvous winding back a punch. Without thinking, he shielded his face with his arms.
The giant struck once, then twice.
The first merely bruise, while the second damn near broke his arm. But his guard held. So the human switched tactics, his large, meaty hand grabbing hold of Lurian’s right wrist.
And he pulled.
Lurian panicked; he was held down by the weight of the man’s knee and could do little to resist the man’s monstrous strength. There was a short, sharp tear—and a sudden brutal pop, before searing pain rushed from his brutalized shoulder.
Awash with agony, he clenched the few working muscles of his jaw, as his furious eyes bore into those of his attacker. The human looked savagely gleeful as he grinned down at Lurian; his blood-stained beard giving him the look of a feasting predator.
“Oops. Did I pull too hard? How ‘bout I even up the other side?” he said. And wearing a vicious bloody grin, he reached for Lurian’s other arm.
Lurian raged, and the old vindictive malevolence dormant within his core—seared its way out of his center. Like an angry, flaming serpent, it swam through his veins, igniting his blood in its rampage. He tried to resist. He tried to buck the man off. But the human proved too heavy. The man effortlessly captured Lurian’s other arm in the struggle, and he began to pull.
He could do little but kick, buck, and suffer as his arm began reaching its limit—
Suddenly, “Enough! Torvous, release him. Now!” barked a harsh voice, hammering down from above. “We’ve had our fill of you rolling in the dirt.”
At the lord’s command, Torvous instantly released Lurian and shot to his feet. He stood at attention, as if eager for the next command.
After a pause, the lord continued; his resounding voice laced with practiced authority, shouted down from above. “Arms-master, I want one more armed bout. Three rounds. You will remain his opponent.”
A murmur swept the crowd as the proclamation fell. Lurian caught their whispers; some questioned if it was truly necessary to continue such an exchange.
‘It must seem so callous and cruel,’ he mused, while listening to the excited hiss of their whispers. He, however, didn’t flinch when the verdict fell. His heart had hardened to such things; having long grown accustomed to such treatment from his apathetic guardian.
“Yes—sir!” Torvous roared before turning to the crowd, “Healers—patch up the boy’s jaw, and see-ta his shoulder. He’ll be needing it to hold up his shield!” At the arms-master’s behest, the awaiting healers sprang into action, swarming him as he lay in the dirt, cradling his dislocated shoulder.
Lurian—unwilling to surrender to his present weakness—sat up. Of the four that came forth, two worked on his torn shoulder, one on his ribs, and the last saw to his jaw. Their nervous, frantic fussing was almost more than he could bear; though irritated, he tried to be as accommodating as his injuries allowed.
Kneeling at his side, the healers aimed their glowing palms at the worst of his injuries. And in unison, all four began their incantations. When they finally finished their long chant, a burst of green light erupted from their palms, blinding him and causing him to wince.
Trying not to move, he once more marveled at the odd sensation of having his damaged bones rapidly mending with the healer’s touch. He likened it to having hundreds of tiny spiders using their webs to knit his flesh back together. It didn’t hurt; just a fierce itch that faded into a faint pleasant warmth—as the magics mended all that needed mending.
Seeking distraction, he looked up and watched the Arms-master peruse the weapon racks strewn across the walls encompassing the castle’s upper bailey. Like an old maid at a market, Torvous pondered over every available option. He grasped each weapon and gave them a swing, only to then return them to the rack and moving to the next.
Finally, he settled on a long baton, a square kite shield, and a hefty wooden club.
Seeing this, Lurian reasoned the baton and shield were for him, while the large club was to be Torvous’s own weapon, as the brute seemed to favor such heavy, inelegant weapons. His heart dropped as he watched the large, intimidating human playfully swinging the heavy cudgel with but a single hand.
‘That is going to hurt,’ he thought—wincing at imagined pain.
Torvous, done testing his weapon, marched over, and—as if throwing down a challenge—the human tossed the baton and shield at Lurian's feet. “Here, this should serve ya well if you want-ta put on a final show for our high-born guest,” he said, a sinister, mocking edge to his voice.
Lurian ignored the insult and looked to his assigned weapons.
Honestly, he was grateful for the shield. Torvous selecting it for him was a pleasant surprise. He would have guessed the man too cruel to provide him a means of defense as effective as a shield. He supposed the man was aware they were putting on a show for their high-born guest, and Lurian, for all his skill, couldn’t put up much of a fight with only a baton.
Lurian rose to his feet and pushed through the small throng of reluctant healers that crowded him. Yes, his body still ached, but any further healing would only be a waste of mana, mana they might soon need to put him back together.
Parting the surrounding healers, he met eyes with a grinning Torvous. The man seemed amused by the extensive damage he managed to inflict throughout their short unarmed bout.
Ignoring him, Lurian knelt, taking up his assigned weapons. Rising, he rolled his shoulder, hoping it was ready for the fight to come.
“Ya ready, kid?”
Lurian nodded; he considered voicing some venomous barbs of his own, but he didn’t yet trust his jaw to manage anything coherent, knowing a few slurred words would only leave him looking more the fool.
After receiving his confirmation, Torvous revealed a vicious, taunting smirk, as he seemed to revel in the coming violence.
Locking eyes with his grinning opponent, Lurian raised his shield, taking up a highly defensive stance. He thought it a wise precaution; he hoped Torvous would take it easy, just throwing out probing attacks that looked impressive—but lacked substance.
A show for the crowd—as it were...
Sadly, given the man’s bleeding nose and petty temper, Lurian knew his future would be filled with naught but violence and pain. Aware that he had little chance of battling the brute in a direct clash, so he planned to play it safe and use his shield to deflect any strikes coming his way; then counter with light thrusts—not committing to any one attack.
There—under the eyes of all—he patiently waited for his opponent to strike. He didn’t know how the human would attack, only that he would; the man was far too impatient for anything else.
Torvous, seeing Lurian surrender the initiative, began to circle, and—like a predator cornering its prey—he approached; his presence suffocating Lurian as he pressed in.
Suddenly—Torvous surged forward; his club raised as if it were the weight of a feather, but he brought it down with all the force of a toppling mountain.
Lurian simply reacted, his years of harsh training proving their worth—as he moved with the coming blows. Never truly blocking, only deflecting, he kept out of arm's reach, anticipating a shield grab from his much stronger opponent.
The pair immediately fell into a familiar dance; every strike—anticipated; every parry—met with a shield or club. Both were so familiar with one another's tactics and style that their fight likely looked choreographed to the crowd of awed onlookers.
Torvous was a thunderous storm, raining blow after blow down onto his younger opponent.
While Lurian, in turn, put up a desperate—yet masterful defense as he moved with the blows; the natural grace he inherited from his elven sires was on full display—as he danced beneath the looming tempest.
However, he knew he couldn’t last; all it would take is one mistake—just one—and his valiant defense would become something far more tragic.
Deflect— Deflect— Parry— Jab— Miss. Seeing Torvous over-commit, he took a chance and aimed for the man’s now-exposed hand. The strike landed, scoring a solid hit across Torvous’s knuckles.
Both combatants jumped back, both showing caution.
Swapping his weapon hand, Torvous raised his hand and shook off the sting. “That hurt, ya little shit,” he hissed. “I let ya have that one for what I did to ya jaw, but ya won’t get another.”
Raising a brow, Lurian communicated his doubt with his eyes. They both knew his attacks were sloppy. Torvous had grown complacent; the man was too used to overpowering Lurian with naught else but superior might. It was a pity, for he was once a competent instructor. But he had grown lazy, forgetting to practice the very forms and discipline in which he preached.
Cautious and wanting rest, Lurian took another step back; he did not trust Torvous so close. ‘It’s a shame he won’t let me get away with hitting him again. What’s worse, he’s petty enough to make me suffer for making him look the fool in front of the crowd.’
He sighed, stretching out his previously dislocated weapon arm. ‘With this, and his bloodied nose, I fear for what’s in store...’
His pessimistic thoughts were only confirmed when Torvous’s smile turned vicious—lacking the eager playfulness of their previous exchange. With growing dread weighing on his heart, he adjusted his feet and braced for the coming clash.
This time, Torvous held nothing back; he charged in, the ghost of the warrior he once was in every swing—in every parry. Lurian attempted to repeat his previous feat of deflecting the oncoming onslaught. But alas, a strong blow caught him flat-footed; the full impact of the strike transferring through the shield and into his bracing arm, breaking it—along with part of his shield.
With his defense shattered, Torvous chose to further punish the error as he switched the direction of his weapon. Slipping it up past Lurian’s guard, and slamming it solidly into his unguarded ribs, there was an audible crack before blood erupted from his mouth as he dropped his weapon and he crumpled to his knees.
Clawing at the dirt, the agony was instantly debilitating and all-encompassing as Lurian’s world became naught but searing pain—and a desperate struggle for breath.
“Get up, boy.” Lurian heard through his suffering. He looked up, his eyes burning with hatred. “The lord said three bouts, by my count—that was only the second. You owe me one more… so get up. On ya feet—NOW!”
Ignoring his taunts, Lurian’s gaze drifted to the crowd. He could just make out the alarmed gasps of those gathered as he did battle with the burning malevolence alight within his blood. All at once, the crowd’s gazed fixed upon the balcony above. For only the lord could call an end to this distasteful display.
His gaze followed theirs; he too—wishing for it all to stop.
But the lord’s chilling indifference was all that met his eyes. Those blue, frosty orbs staring down at him, they had a way of leaving him feeling worthless with but a single glance. They invoked a special kind of heartache—a heartache that twisted at his core.
Lurian had grown to expect as much; always telling himself this time would be different, this time I won’t feel it.
But it hurt... every time…
Unwilling to let his gaze linger, his eyes drifted to the noblewoman standing at the lord’s side. He was surprised; her ageless face—indicative of their kind—wore a look of deep concern. She looked at the lord, as if awaiting an explanation; as if she herself was about to call a stop to this farce.
But no, a few whispered words from the lord instantly halted her burgeoning interference.
Realizing this too was some test, Lurian let out a few wet coughs and returned his bloodshot eyes to his waiting opponent. As he sat there, laboring for breath—his insides aflame with the unique agony only truly known to him—he knew he wouldn’t stay down. He would get up. Not for the lord, nor that fucking guest—and certainly not for that piece of shit Torvous.
But for himself.
Fuck everyone else; he was going to stand for himself. His pride would not allow him the comfort of surrender. He would not stay down—wheezing in the dirt. Not while he could still stand. It would be his own, admittedly strange, probably meaningless ‘fuck you’ to all present.
Despite his desperate, clawing breaths, he marshaled himself, slowly beginning the arduous task of making it to his feet. He could hear a hush of audible gasps as he—with shaky hands, grasped hold of his dropped weapon, and rose unsteadily to his feet.
The crowd watched; their jaws slack; their whispers laced with awe. If not for the pain that besieged him, he would have thought it amusing. For their thoughts were all but written on their faces. They had witnessed him fight battle after battle; each fight more challenging than the last.
Yet here he stood...
To them, the battle was done; there was nothing to be gained through further suffering. So why? Why stand? Why continue this meaningless fight? Their questions, however, would remain unanswered; for how could they fathom the fierce, noble pride that drove him?
They could only look on, in horrified awe, as their gravely wounded young lord stood there—wheezing out his every breath.
With rage and pain alight within his blood, he set his feet, raised his shield, and charged...
And with his charge... the dance; it began anew...