A/N: This chapter is a little bloody. It's speculation on how Haar lost his eye and inspired by something some character said about Ashnard that I can't remember exactly... Anyway, just something I could see happening; explains quite a lot about how Shiharam and his soldiers got involved with Ashnard. Originally written for LJ's fe_contest, prompt "Wager."
Daein's capital was a horrid place. Nevassa's sprawling streets were filled with crooks and thieves, and the city proper was no better, the nobles just as nasty and corrupt, if not more so. They were all led by a leash, gripped in Ashnard's immovable fist. They did anything in their power to stay alive, for they all knew he discarded their pretty faces and their wealth daily in exchange for raw power. The battle arena in the palace was, perhaps, the foulest place in the city. Battle after battle to the death raged there, the blood of hundreds of fighters lingering on the sandy floor, never cleaned. It was here that Haar stared, horrified, every night for their first month in Daein. Ashnard forced all of his soldiers to watch in the arena's stands.
Ashnard himself had welcomed the wyvern battalion to Nevassa. It was the first time Haar had actually laid eyes on him. At once, fear had begun to creep like ice through his veins: fear of this bloodthirsty, murderous man, whose lust for violence knew no bounds. Shiharam, too, looked uncomfortable, and Haar knew that this was the Daein king's true power – to strike fear in the hearts of his allies and enemies alike, so none would dare to oppose him.
For three weeks, Ashnard fed them well, allowed them the finest home comforts, and provided them many hours in which he suggested that they train. And train they did. Ashnard's eyes were on them, and any man who wished to keep his head would never dream of disobeying his "suggestions."
Then, at the start of the fourth week, Ashnard turned to face Talrega's wyvern knights. Behind him, the gasps and clashes of a duel echoed throughout the arena.
"Rest well tonight, soldiers," he said coldly, his eyes emotionless pits of black. "You have grown strong in your time here. Now it is time for you to prove your strength. Tomorrow you fight, against my soldiers and each other."
He left. They all stared, speechless, terrified. Haar instantly looked to Shiharam, whose face did not share the terror that was blatant in the expressions of all the other men. His face was appropriately schooled into blankness, but Haar knew him well enough to see the despair in his eyes.
"You knew," Haar whispered, so the other soldiers wouldn't hear. "You knew this was what he was planning."
Shiharam blinked. "I suspected," he said. "But I brushed it away. I did not want it to be the truth. I was a fool. But what could we have done?"
And Haar found, then, that he had nothing to say. Shiharam was right. There was nothing they could have done to prevent this – the king's word was law. Haar walked in silence back to their quarters, and like the others, could not sleep at all. He laid awake, staring at the ceiling, staring at nothing, hearing the fast, nervous breathing of his friends around him. Some of them had wives and families to whom they hoped to return. And Shiharam… what would happen to Jill, if they never came back?
The morning and afternoon passed in a blur of tiredness. But when evening came, all his senses were far too alert with the instinctive awareness that comes before a battle. To his body, this was a battle just like any other. To his heart, this was certain death. He could not bring himself to turn his weapon on his friends, his comrades, he knew. He would rather turn his blade on himself.
However, Ashnard knew better. He knew that he would lose all the soldiers if he tried to make them fight each other, for they held too much honor to kill one of their own, and the penalty for failing to fight in the arena was death at the executioner's axe. So he pitted them against strangers, strangers whose eyes gleamed with the same familiar fear, and the dracoknights were indeed able to cut down these strangers, even if they returned shaking and vomiting with guilt and disgust at what they had done. After the first night, three of the dracoknights had died, while four had succeeded and would fight again the next day. One other had won, but was too gravely wounded to ever battle again, and Ashnard merely left him to return, unaccompanied, untended, to his quarters.
Haar and Shiharam had not fought yet. They knew what Ashnard was planning. He had researched them well – he knew they were the strongest in the group. He was saving the best for last. A child's trick.
That night, Shiharam pulled him aside, away from where the others mourned and nursed their own injuries. Shiharam's voice was low and desperate.
"Do not die tomorrow, Haar," he said. "Whatever happens, do not die. You may think there is no hope, but there is always hope if you are alive, never hope if you are dead. Promise me this. Promise me you will not give in to Ashnard's insanity."
The violent intensity of his gaze shocked Haar. "I promise," he said. "And you, Captain, you too – stay alive – think of Jill."
"I already do," he said, his voice flat. "Every day. Every second."
The next day, before he knew it, it was his turn to fight.
Only two of his fellows were left alive now. Ashnard had declared them finished, and said they were indeed strong enough to be soldiers of the empire, and sent them home with his "blessing" and an oath to follow his every command as their sovereign lord. All of that death, all of that fighting, was for nothing – he just let them go. He just enjoyed seeing men slaughter each other, tossing the corpses in a rotting pile for the birds to pick clean, and tossing the living right back where they came from, only with broken souls and broken hearts.
But though comrades were finished, Haar's battles were only beginning. His hands trembled as he lifted his beloved axe, his most trusted weapon, disgusted at how he was about to use it. He stumbled into the arena, feeling hundreds of soldiers' eyes upon him, and most especially, Ashnard's. He refused to look into the stands and see the king sitting there, like a cat before his helpless prey.
Forgive me, Haar thought, turning his gaze the man in front him, who wielded a lance and looked just as terrified as Haar felt. But Haar knew he would win. He could not lose. He would kill this man, this man who had done nothing wrong, who had committed no crime, and yet was to lose his life as surely as if he had been sentenced to hangman's noose. Forgive me.
"Place your bets, spectators," Ashnard said. His voice boomed and echoed over the din. "Numbers thirteen and fourteen, prepare to fight."
The crowd burst into an excited furor. Haar imagined he could hear the tinkle of gold changing hands already. A sick sense of pride coursed through him as he realized he surely must be the favorite. His opponent was just a boy.
"All bets have now been placed," Ashnard boomed again. At once the clamor died down. The king fixed his gaze on the center of the arena, where Haar and the boy stood, frozen. "Kill, or be killed."
And, like a well-trained dog, Haar fought. Killed.
Four battles passed, a short break in between each, while Shiharam fought. He won all of his fights, too, passing Haar as he left the arena, and giving him only a short nod. They were both too tired, body and soul, to do more. The men they battled now were fresh and stronger than before. Haar's arms trembled, not from fear this time, but from exhaustion, as he entered the red sand pit for his fifth fight. None of the other dracoknights had been made to battle more than three times.
His opponent entered after an appropriately dramatic pause. It was a tall, rough-looking man, with mail armor, and a curved sword that reminded him of an assassin. The blade reflected the dying sunlight into Haar's eyes with every twitch of the man's hand. To Haar's astonishment, before Ashnard had called for the battle to begin, the man took his blade and drew it across his left arm, drawing thick blood, dyeing the blade red. His blood dripped from the sword to the congealed, reddish brown mass that was once plain sand. Haar stared, astonished, and when the man's eyes met his, Haar saw nothing but bloodlust. Of course. He drew blood to accustom himself early on to the bite of metal, the longing for pain, the chaos in every man's heart.
It was then that Haar knew – he would lose this fight. He wondered, dimly, how many people would lose their gold.
In the split second before Ashnard sounded the call to begin, thousands of thoughts and images flashed before Haar's eyes. First Begnion – dark streets shadowed by the gleaming white palaces of Sienne – alone, completely alone, until Shiharam had found him and trained him to be a soldier. He remembered his first battle, then fleeing Bengion, then the simple comfort of Talrega – and Jill, little Jill. So many faces lingered in his memory, but few so bright as hers.
The swordfighter charged him. Just in time, Haar raised his axe and parried, sidestepping and sending the soldier sprawling, but Haar was so tired that he, too, nearly lost his footing. The other man lost no time, coming at him again and again, putting Haar on the defensive at every turn. Haar had no energy to search for an opening. He concentrated only on remaining on his feet, blocking the sword, instinct and the force of pattern keeping him alive.
With a violent twist of his blade, the swordfighter hooked the edge of Haar's axe and sent it clattering to the ground. Vaguely Haar heard a collective gasp from the spectators. This was it, then. He stood, defenseless, completely at his opponent's mercy, and he knew what was to come.
The man lifted his sword high. Haar stared at the sky, longing for something beautiful to appear there before he died, like the stars or the moon. He couldn't count how many times he'd watched the night sky with Shiharam and Jill.
Do not die tomorrow, Haar.
Shiharam. He would be quite disappointed with his student, Haar knew. He had made a promise – he'd promised he wouldn't give in – and he'd promised Jill he would come back – how could he break his promises?
The sword struck with lightning speed, but not as much force as Haar had expected – and yet still, he screamed at the mind-numbing pain, his hands flying to his face. Why had the man hit his face? Why had he not just killed him on the spot? Haar felt his hands sticky with his own blood, and he realized, terrified, that he couldn't see. He blinked and felt movement in only one of his eyes, but still he was still blinded by the blood dripping across his face.
All he could hear now were the echoes of the his own broken promises ringing in his ears. The roaring crowd faded into silence. But beneath his knees, Haar felt the handle of his axe. His only chance.
Haar moved one hand away from his face, holding his weapon with his weak left hand while his right hand still clutched his eye in an attempt to staunch the blood. Delirious with pain, Haar waited until he could hear his opponent breathing, directly above him.
With a final grunt of effort, Haar twisted on the ground and kicked at the man's shins. He collapsed, and following the noise of his grunt, Haar rose and drove his axe into the man's chest. Bones cracked under his weight. He felt, rather than saw, as the life poured out of the man's body, like his blood that soon soaked Haar's arms, the man's clothes, and the thick sandy ground. It was a messy kill, but a kill nonetheless.
Haar swayed on his feet. He heard Ashnard's call; the battle was over, and Haar turned at once toward the arena exit. He blinked again – and only his left eye moved, but for now it was enough. He squinted through his own blood, feeling it coating his face and hands and arms like the winter mud in Talrega. Like a child, he stumbled on his tired feet, dragging his weapon carelessly behind him. When he left the arena proper and entered the shadows of the preparation room, somewhere deep under the stands, Shiharam was there, gripping his shoulders and speaking quickly.
"Haar? Haar? Look at me, Haar, find a healer in the city, get away, don't die now – don't - "
But one of Ashnard's men shoved Shiharam away – it was his turn to fight. They shouldered roughly past Haar as they tossed Shiharam into the arena, and Haar heard the roar of the crowd, their bloodlust not yet sated.
He couldn't see, he couldn't think, he could barely feel through the haze of pain his mind. Somehow he made his way out of the arena. No one stopped him; they knew Ashnard would not command him to fight again. An invalid – even a victorious one, a lucky one – was worthless. In the dark alley between the arena and the soldier's barracks, Haar turned and retched in the gutter, his limbs shaking. He was almost glad he couldn't see. Even though the feeling of the man's bones breaking under his strike still lingered in his arms and mind - and would until the day he died - at least Haar had no visual image to match with the sensation.
All he could think to do was follow Shiharam's advice. A healer in the city. There had to be one. Taking a deep breath and spitting the taste of his own vomit from his mouth, Haar began to walk, away from the arena, the palace, the soldiers' rooms. He didn't know where he was going. But anywhere had to be better than the place he was leaving behind.
"Haar! Haar!"
How long he had walked, he didn't know. His sense of time and place was now so skewed that he didn't know the difference between a second and a year. Just before he collapsed, Shiharam caught him, and the last thing Haar knew before succumbing to the pain was Shiharam's presence, the father he had never had, the sole reason he was even still alive.
Hours later – or perhaps days? - he woke in a familiar bed, in Daein castle's soldiers' barracks. When he tried to open his eyes, only his left eye moved, but at least now there was no blood obscuring his half-vision. He saw, blearily, the shape of Shiharam standing beside him, and the shape of a woman in a white dress, who had to be a healer. They were conversing in low voices, and Haar heard the chink of gold changing hands, and she left. Shiharam turned to face him, blinking in surprise at finding him awake.
"Thank the goddess," breathed Shiharam. He passed Haar a glass of water, which he accepted gratefully, and Shiharam pressed something else into his hand too, a small piece of thick black cloth. Haar stared at it, bewildered. An eyepatch.
"There was no way to save your eye," Shiharam said. "But the cut around it is stitched, and will heal well. We saved you. The healer said to place that poultice over there on it every day for a few weeks, to prevent infection, but you will live."
Haar nodded grimly. He caught only a glimpse of his face in the reflection on the water before pulling the eyepatch over his face. He didn't want to look at the scars any longer than he had to. Glancing back at Shiharam, Haar noticed his teacher's hard stare, and frowned.
"There's something else, isn't there?" Haar asked.
"I am to return to Talrega," Shiharam said, "as top commander of Daein's dracoknights. Many of his palace knights will accompany me, and I will lead and train them in service to the king."
Haar nodded; service was to be expected. But there was still something more.
"You are to stay here," Shiharam said. "For four years, as part of the replacement for the knights accompanying me. Ashnard – His Majesty – he said that even with one eye, you could do more than half the soldiers in the palace. He wanted you to serve as a living example of his might. Even the injured fight for him. He said, 'let the rest go, but keep the one-eyed dog here, to serve in my personal army.'"
Barely suppressed rage laced Shiharam's voice. Haar found he was too tired to be angry. He merely shrugged, the hate for Ashnard already so firmly in place in his heart that it did not rise, fresh and biting, to infuriate him. "Four years. Not that much, compared to how much time you spent in Bengion, right?"
Shiharam did not reply.
"When do you leave?" said Haar.
"Tomorrow," said Shiharam.
Now Haar felt silent. Dull apprehension infected his veins at the thought of Shiharam leaving, but again, he was too tired to let it overcome him. Nothing much seemed to matter at the moment, not when the next four years would be, he knew, the worst of his life. Even worse than his years alone in the streets of Bengion, after his mother had left, when he was nothing more than a child. For now he knew the significance of every injustice he would commit at Ashnard's orders, nothing compared to the petty thieving of a starving boy. All of a sudden, Shiharam grabbed Haar's hand, gripping it tightly. Haar noticed there was still dark blood – his own – under his fingernails.
"Do not forget your promises," he said roughly. "You promised not to die, and you promised Jill that you would come back. Do not forget."
"Never," Haar said. "I swear it, Captain – no, Commander. Tell her – tell her that I haven't forgotten."
Shiharam let go of his hand, meeting his gaze squarely. He nodded shortly. "Best of luck, Haar," he said. "It may be all that will keep you safe. And…"
With a sad smile, Shiharam untied a small bag from his belt. He tossed it to Haar, and Haar heard the chink of coins.
"I am not a gambling man," Shiharam said. "But I trusted in you. I knew I would not lose my wager. I placed fifty gold pieces on your last fight, and it was no gamble."
"Why are you giving it to me?"
"You were the one who earned it. And I will not need it as much as you will," he said. His face turned soft and kind. "I am returning to something much more valuable than gold."
With that, he was gone, and Haar was alone. Struggling to lift his arm, he hefted the bag of gold, and was awarded no sense of pride or accomplishment in his earnings.
He closed his eyes – no, his eye, his one good eye – and drifted back into a weary doze, comfortable in unconsciousness, wishing he could sleep straight through the next four years.
