Whisper in the Stadium, written for my 20 Fandoms challenge.
She is vulnerable, her knees in the dirt and her face turned up towards him. She doesn't flinch, steel gaze meeting his as she says, "Please." Her arms are raised in supplication, saying more than her words do.
This is supposed to be an act. There isn't supposed to be any danger. She is supposed to be safe with him but she feels anything but. She cannot remember the last time being near him felt safe, now that she thinks about it. She is doing so much thinking while his naked blade hovers over her, his black locks hang in his face. There is nothing else she can do while her chest bleeds, her breath knocked from her in a bout of fighting so intense she could not believe this was the same boy she had grown up with.
This is supposed to be an act, so what is he hesitating? Why hasn't he turned away? Why are his arms shaking, his chest heaving beyond the exertion of fighting, his face contorted in a grimace she does not want to understand? She can ask why all day until the sun recedes behind the stadium walls but she cannot provide herself with answers.
"Please," she says, and she realizes with a rush of heat in her veins that she is begging for her life. Her eyes drop, her sight meeting the coarse sand that they were fighting in only moments before. Some of it is still scorched from her bombs.
The will lines on his face shine, and she wonders is he is planning to kill her in some heinous way, as though the sword he holds isn't good enough. No, she remedies, she cannot think that. Even if he slays her outright this day he will not make her suffer unduly. She must believe that; if she doesn't, did she ever really know him?
She believes she did, once. If she closes her eyes she will remember more clearly what it was like to be young, to look up to someone the way she had, to strive to be not only good but great and to cling to hope of future success when your limbs ached and your tongue felt as dry as sawdust.
If she closes her eyes she will remember sparring matches with him, the time he couldn't remember the way to cast certain spells, stealing cheese from the kitchens together and only laughing when they were caught. If she closes her eyes she will remember the nights, the way she preferred it when she cried because it was better than shaking him awake after nightmares. She would remember holding him, biting her tongue as teasing words rose to the fore, trying as best a child can to comfort someone whose pain runs deeper than many rivers.
She does not close her eyes, but raises her gaze to meet his. What has happened in their years after the Guild? What has become of him? She has heard rumors from the Guildmaster but she never truly thought all of what was whispered could be true. A doddering old man, she had proclaimed with a laugh, scared of the stories filtered through the legions of commoners. She will have to apologize, or at least think about doing so. If she lives.
This was supposed to be an act, but they are still standing here. Only a few moments have passed but it feels like an eternity. She wonders if it will ever end or if he will freeze time and leave them here in this stasis. She wonders if he even has to, or if they will remain here regardless, two living statues trapped by the confusing state of not wanting to care but finding that you do, you do, more than you ever thought you ever could.
The crowd is screaming themselves hoarse, their arms flailing as their Hero delays their gratification. They are akin to beasts waiting for their meat, wild in their bloodlust. Kill her, they are screaming. Do it. Kill, kill, kill, but she cannot be mad because this is the life she has always lived. Fight, kill, laugh, rinse and repeat. She has loved it. She still loves it. She always will, whether her life ends in thirty seconds or thirty years. She knows he is the same way, but who is it that he kills?
His arms are now trembling from the effort of holding the blade for so long. She thought he was stronger than this. A poor display. Jack of Blades is laughing, or she thinks he is, but perhaps it is only the echo in her own head. All according to plan, the villain thinks, as though the blow has already been struck. Maybe it has been. But maybe it hasn't.
"We agreed," she says. "Let's stop fighting."
She knows words are pointless now, but she says them anyway, her hard expression visible from under her hood. She maybe have herself pleading for the sake of the crowd, begging for Jack of Blade's pleasure, but she is still Whisper, and she is not weak. Perhaps he will finally remember that. Perhaps he will choose to put his sword away and stop fighting for the first time since he was a child.
She does not know why he is still hesitating. She does not have all the answers, but perhaps she can understand why there are tears pricking his eyes. She wonders what this means. She has never been one to brush tears away, but she hopes someone out there is, no matter his deeds. She hopes no one will have to this day.
"We agreed," she repeats.
He finally decides. She can tell by the shifting of his feet, the squaring of his shoulders, the tightening of his jaw. She cannot tell what he decides, and her heart quickens its beating in her chest. She waits and she decides to have faith in him, because what else can she do?
This is, after all, supposed to be an act.