But a thousand breaths later...
After a long—grueling exchange, Torvous locked eyes with the youth. “Come on, boy, give up.” He huffed. “You’ve already proved ya mettle; it’s ‘bout time ya stayed down.”
He felt himself tiring—and he was growing impatient with the boy’s stubbornness. Three times he put him down. And each time, he had relaxed—thinking it the last. But no, the boy rose, each and every time.
‘Damn elves and their accursed pride!’ he thought, near-struck dumb by the sight of the young, half-broken elf that stood before him.
He shook his head. The boy was a shadow of the youth he was when the bouts began; his stooped, battered form—now a canvas of bruises, blood, and slit skin.
Yet his spirit, his spirit was simply unyielding.
The blood and dirt marring his face, somehow did not subtract from the young man’s beauty. But instead, it added a wild fearsomeness to his visage. Though he stood—stooped, beaten, and diminished—his defiance, his unshaken pride—it remained unbroken.
Though annoyed by the boy's tenacity, Torvous could not help but think it glorious...
Despite his years, he felt inspired. To him, it was something primal. Something feral. Something fierce. Especially the boy’s eyes. They blazed like none he’d seen. They held within them an indomitable will—forged in pain and by a fiery, self-destructive spirit too stubborn to yield.
He envied the young elf’s future. He had it all: the looks, the talent, the pedigree, and Torvous knew that once the boy was rid of this place, he would soar to greatness, leaving behind mere mortals—such as himself.
Unsure how to proceed, his gaze drifted to the balcony above. And there—on high—stood a striking pair. They seemed cast from the same mold, and for a moment, Torvous thought them otherworldly, as they stood there—their matching golden hair dancing in the wind, apathetically gazing out over their lessers, crowding the bailey below.
Having received no further instruction, he shook his head and returned his attention to the stubborn brat—that just refused to stay down. “I’m impressed, Lurian. I really am. But you know what has to happen now, don’cha.”
Lurian seemed to ignore his playful words, only responding with a come-heather motion with the fingers of his broken right hand.
“Oh, my boy,” he muttered, his rage pooling in his belly. “Ya shouldn’t have done that. Ya should not have done that...”
Angered, the petty, cruel, vindictive part of himself that slumbered deep within... awoke...
He glanced up, his eyes seeking permission for what he was about to do. However, those calm, indifferent eyes—looking down from above gave no indication of how he was to proceed.
Taking the lord’s silence as permission, he shrugged. “Fine, brat. You asked for it,” he hissed, suddenly overwhelmed by a sudden desire to see this farce come to a final, brutal end.
For he was done playing...
Giving in to the impulse, he mustered his slumbering Will and in a flash of blue, he lunged forward, battering aside Lurian’s feeble defense.
And with a satisfying crunch, he stomped on the boy’s leading knee, collapsing him to the dirt.
Torvous, eager to see what he wrought, reached forward and grabbed the top of Lurian’s raised shield, pulling it away—exposing the kneeling youth.
He wanted to see the boy panic...
He wanted to see the boy plead...
But he didn’t...
No, instead, the boy seemed almost indifferent to his own suffering. He knelled there, his eyes ablaze with that same defiance. The damn brat even had the gall to throw a swing his way.
Torvous caught the feeble blow and paused, expecting a call to stop...
But none came...
With no input from the nobles watching above, he looked down at Lurian, choking on his own blood. He could have stopped it there. He could have let it be...
The fight was done; the young elf was well and truly defeated...
But he didn’t...
For his petty rage would not allow such an end.
So he raised his faintly glowing fist...
And he struck…
And with that, it was done. One final, brutal punch, to end the boy’s valiant—yet futile resistance...
There was silence as the audience processed the battle's sudden, abrupt end.
He could see it in their eyes... on their faces. A look he was all too familiar with from his time in Selarr. It was the look of an unsatisfied crowd. He had played the villain, while Lurian the hero.
But to the crowd’s dismay, there was no last-minute turnaround. No honorable surrender. No call for the bout to stop...
As he stood there, looking over the youth’s crumpled form, he tried to come to terms with what he’d done.
In truth, that sudden burst of violence that ended the fight shocked even him. To his shame, he’d lost himself to rage. His actions—and the motivations behind them—had brought to light some uncomfortable truths about himself; truths that he would’ve rather stayed hidden.
He sighed, deciding to leave the introspection for later. He still had a job to do, and he would have all the time in the world to ruminate on his many character flaws later. It would be at least two days before Lurian would be back on his feet, and at least two weeks before the boy would look him in the eyes with anything other than hatred.
But he supposed it was fine. He deserved it, and the boy didn’t need to like him for him to do his job.
He looked up, projecting cool calm as he addressed the crowd: “Healers, get him to ya Hall! We’re done this day.” It took a moment for the healers to break from their inaction and frantically rush to begin emergency treatment on the half-dead brat—far too stubborn to know when he’s beaten.
He gingerly checked his busted nose. The little bastard had gotten him good; the kick had snapped the cartilage from the bone.
He huffed; he’d have to see the healers once they were done with the boy.
Seeing everything was in order, Torvous turned and looked up at the silent lord. The ever-stoic elf stood apathetic as he gazed down at those below; as if the broken youth were a stranger—and not the man’s own grandson.
Use to such cruelty, Torvous let out a long sigh before addressing his lord. “Mi’lord, the task is done... May I be excused?” he huffed out, sounding tired. He watched as the lord’s gaze left the crumpled Lurian, and, with a slow dismissive nod, he excused Torvous before returning his attention to his guest.
He noticed the look of disapproval the beautiful elf shot his way, but thought nothing of it. He had acted under the lord’s gaze, with his expressed permission, so he knew she could do little. He was tempted to stay and admire her beauty. But no, he couldn’t risk her taking offense, and the looks from the watching mob were grating on his last nerve.
With his gut a swirling cocktail of guilt and frustration, he tossed his club to one side and stomped off.
“I need a fucking drink,” he grumbled, knowing full well it would be hours before the local tavern would serve him a drop....
“Pride is the emotion a man feels just before he experiences a whole lot of avoidable suffering. It is a great motivator for otherwise intelligent people to do incredibly unintelligent things...”
— Lurian Ven'nirous