"You have ALL gathered here today, to once again watch the greatest champion this establishment has ever seen in his everlasting rage!"
Head up, back straight, keep your feet on the floor, dig them in if you must. Kismet's words rang in his ears and he instantly stood taller.
"Yet first", the voice of Longclaw's announcer Dustfur continued, "let us greet the suicidal- eh, I mean most brave challengers!"
A roar went through the tightly crowded ranks around the arena as two rats strolled out of the shade. They cheered and circled each other like for practice, and at last gave a somewhat gracious wave at the audience.
"Let us hear it for Threeleg and Crusher – here on free will!"
Another uproar went through the audience but he also heard occasional whistling and mocking cries.
"So, you two dare challenge our so far undefeated human champion?" Dustfur leaped from his announcer space and rose in front of the two challengers, which was not easy considering he was nearly a head shorter than Crusher.
"Oh please", Threeleg snarled, waving the stump of his left front paw dismissively. "We've watched him fight the other day. He is getting insanely lucky, have got to give him that, but he's still only a measly human."
"Measly and puny, no matter if he wears that mask or not!", Crusher added and spitefully snorted. "Brother and I will grind him to dust!"
The boy's jaw clenched. Lucky? He was most certainly not getting "lucky". His hand darted up to straighten out his mask. Maybe he should clean it soon, he scratched at an old bloodstain. Well, there would be enough time for that after the battle.
"Confident as ever, they are!", Dustfur snarled and leaped back towards his post. "We will see if the confidence pays off – if our reigning champion will remain undefeated or if he will finally face his worthy opponents!"
The crowd roared and the boy dug his heel into the sand, eye on his cowering challengers. He had not fought two rats at once yet, at least not in the confinements of the arena. Was this it, perhaps? His hand darted up to grip the hilt of his sword, was this the day he would die?
Dustfur's voice cut through his thoughts as he yelled – "And here he is, our reigning champion, record holder of eighteen straight victories and not a single defeat – he who they claim is feared by Death Himself – the Mighty Achilles!"
Sand whirled up beneath his foot as he stepped out into the blazing light of the braziers and the roaring grew until it became nearly deafening. His jaw clenched, his breaths steadied, and the screaming faded until he barely noticed it. His hand drew his sword to raise it and his eye from behind the horned mask was on Dustfur only.
"FIGHT!", yelled the announcer moments later and the two rats leaped at him at once, claws and teeth bared, from either side. Then again, he had long seen them coming.
You will have to focus intensely until you are more used to it, but to use this skill to its full potential is not that hard in the long run, Kismet's calm voice spoke and his eye shut. You already visualize sounds, now you must learn to analyze them.
One left, approaching at the determined angle and speed, one right, off by some amount, and marginally slower. Countdown started, proceed before calculated impact in 4... 3... 2...
It is almost like aiming with a slingshot, he thought and rolled forward, swinging his sword in the same heartbeat. It caught Crusher's tail and the rat squealed in pain, yet the tail had not been severed.
Left, unprecedented speed, dodge at once.
He barely followed the alarm that shrilled in his head to dodge the claws of Threeleg who leaped at him and stumbled forward, and silenced the rest of the information his echolocation sent. He still felt overwhelmed by it at times, and now that he had two opponents, he found the flood of suggestions and urgency that pressed at his skull more hindering than helpful.
Then again – he cried as Threeleg's claws caught his arm and left two bloody trails – it was also his only real advantage.
His jaw clenched yet as he watched the blood drip into the white sand a strange calm overcame him. It was meaningless, it all. Pain did not hinder him, it did not impact his skill. It did not matter.
Minutes later his sword expertly sliced Threeleg's throat and from then on, everything became almost easy. He had fought a single rat so many times it was barely a challenge anymore, and instead of finishing Crusher off quickly, now was the time to take it a little easier.
A quick glance at the audience had told him they found Threeleg's death premature, and he knew he would have to turn this fight around to not leave them disappointed.
They do not like to see you win, they like to see you FIGHT. It was Longclaw who spoke in his head now. He remembered the day well, he had defeated his first opponent then. In... mere minutes. It is not about who kills who faster, it is about who kills who more spectacularly, the great rat had snarled. And the boy had taken the advice to heart.
As much as Kismet always preached the battlefield was not for dancing, what he performed now seemed very much like a dance. Like an improvised choreography, one where he wielded a blade, and one that would end in the death of his opponent... if the audience so desired.
It hadn't been easy at first, determining the correct moment when to make the final strike, but by now he could read the crowd so well to grasp they were not interested in a seemingly endless battle today. What could have been ten minutes later the tip of his blade hovered over Crusher's throat. The rat squirmed and attempted to wriggle free from under his sword but whenever Crusher got too close he increased the pressure on his tail with his boot until the rat lied still.
His gaze darted up at Dustfur, then fixated the rat who had come up beside the announcer now, wearing his satisfied trademark grin.
"So... our great champion Achilles has once more been victorious", Longclaw then snarled and strutted forward, gazing around. "What shall happen to his opponent now?" The boy relentlessly held his blade at Crusher's throat who grew more and more desperate with every second. Longclaw grinned and spread his front paws – "Who wants to see him live?" A deathly silence filled the arena. It was interrupted by occasional, half-hearted cries, and upward-pointed tails.
"And who wants to see him DIE?!" An uproar went through the audience at once and the boy registered a vast majority of tails raised to point down, like to impale the defeated Crusher themselves. His gaze darted at Longclaw, who gave a swift nod. At once the lifeless body of Crusher sank to his feet.
For a heartbeat he watched the red blood seep into the white sand, then he tore his gaze away and raised his sword. Had he not blocked it on time, the following roars would have certainly deafened him.
"You will one day kill yourself in that arena. It is only a matter of time."
He paid Kismet little attention as he perceived her standing in the entrance to her cave. Instead, he tightened the fresh bandage and gritted his teeth, still sensing the relentless sting of the alcohol he had used to disinfect it. His gaze darted to where he had stashed some ten bottles of the common root bitters the rats freely handed out for every victory in the arena. The stuff tasted atrocious but at least it saved his precious disinfectant reserves, with how strong it was.
"We must further work on your dodging. I do not ever want to see anyone come so close to getting you as that Threeleg-guy today. It can be quite overwhelming, fighting more than one opponent when you are not used to it, but all you need is practice."
The boy sighed. He averted his gaze down at the bandage, this was number three now. Well, the one around his foot hardly counted, it was but a scratch. Though he had shed more blood this last month than ever in such a short time. But that was the foreseeable consequence of such frequent battles, and it wasn't like it affected him much. All it did was numb him to pain altogether, which was a good thing... right?
"Why don't you go sit and watch from the bleachers like all the others?", he shot at Kismet and shouldered his sword belt.
"With those vagabonds?", she shook her head, "Longclaw is not one you want to mingle with... ever. And if you wish to ignore this advice, that is your choice. But I will never again grace his presence, not even to ask what the hell he is doing here... even putting up an arena."
"They fled from the plague", the boy swiftly climbed down the cliff beside her, vigorously fighting the ache in his freshly bandaged arm, as well as the rest of his bruised and banged-up body. "Some stooge of his discovered the icy tunnels a while ago and Longclaw had it scouted out, then followed through with coming here to avoid contact with any infected members of his species. And you can guess why they put up the arena yourself."
"Oh, and you know all this because...?"
"Because I've battled opponent after opponent in his damned arena for eight- no, nineteen battles now. You end up catching one or two things over such a long time."
For anyone else, Kismet's attack would have come unexpected but the boy managed to react to the shrill alarm his echolocation sounded and just about dodged her outstretched paw.
A calculated distance away, will leap in half a second following the charted course, counting down to impact, 3... 2... He twisted before Kismet's claws could land and sliced at her with his sheathed sword. "Not fair, I've not even put up my torch yet!"
"What does it matter, you see perfectly well, do you not?"
Calculating angle and speed, dodge right then slice back, in 2... 1... He barely managed to catch up with the instructions his head sent and scoffed. "At least let me practice under arena conditions!"
"Yes, but...", she suddenly drew back and sat up, "You know what I changed my mind. You should not be fighting with that injury. How about we do something else instead?"
Log 18175 oh who cares, log whatever
Pawns and Kings move almost the same. One square at a time. How is the Pawn the least valuable piece then, while the capture of the King makes the game? Maybe because Pawns can't move back... and one who can't move back is insignificant, a lost cause. One who can not move... look back, one who can not ever right where he has once gone wrong... there is nothing anyone can do for him anymore. Not even the most powerful Queen, as hard as she may try, even she can not force a pawn back. Nobody can. Nobody can force me
When I asked Kismet for the difference between Pawn and King she stared at me weirdly, then laughed. Yeah, you laughed, even though I still don't get what's supposed to be so funny about the question. Their move set is almost identical. How is it fair for one to hold so much more power than the other?
Never thought chess could be so much fun. I've seen Vikus play it occasionally, though always laughed at him for it. I'm sorry I laughed. I want to tell you I'm sorry, I really do... Not that you would want to hear it... from me.
You can really get lost in the game if you don't take care. It makes you think, and it occupies your mind fully, so I urged Kismet to play until we could both barely sit up from exertion. I'm sorry I kept you up, I... maybe I should go back to playing by myself. Maybe it'll occupy me even more if I have to come up with moves for two players. Though we should do something about that one broken Rook. She says it's fallen to the floor at some point, ever since then the tip is missing. Maybe... I should make a new one.
"Henry, put that book away and go to sleep."
His pencil dug into the paper angrily, leaving uncertain then more and more prominent spiral-shaped patterns. Around and around and around...
"You dropped this earlier, too. Weren't you once so possessive over these logs? And now you scatter the pages like they are worthless."
Around and around... his pencil broke the pattern to leave a jagged, fierce point, then another, and another, until he went over to zig-zags, small at first yet ever-growing. Like a blade. Like the pointy, sharp edge of a blade, that...
"Henry, are you listening?"
His hand winced and the pencil went off the paper, tearing a long rip into it in the process. "W... what?"
A stack of tattered papers dropped in front of him. "Didn't we say we would go to bed? Earlier as we were playing you claimed to be so tired you would fall asleep any moment."
He blinked up at her and slowly lowered the book. "I... I'm sorry I kept you up", he muttered yet did not regard the papers with a single glance.
Kismet gazed down at him. "Oh come on, you don't have to apologize. I will gladly teach you anything you want, as long as it is within my power. I just... never took you for a chess-guy. We can play again tomorrow... or is there somewhere else you have to be?"
He stared at her for a moment then shrugged. "I don't have any battles tomorrow, so no."
"Good. I will not let you fight anything with that injury anyway. You have still not answered my question, though." She nudged the papers.
His lips pressed together and with all his will he prevented himself from looking down. He knew exactly which logs those were. "Toss them back out if you want to do me a favor", he hissed and turned, to press his forehead into the cool stone. "Get them away from me."
Kismet remained quiet and he perfectly perceived she had no intent to heed his request.
"No, what are you –!"
"What you can't, so apparently." His nails dug into the pencil as he violently dragged it across the paper until one could barely make out the words. The words he had so foolishly written, so long ago he –
"Henry, your injury!"
Even as the fresh bandage began oozing blood again, from how firmly the muscles of his arm clenched, he did not stop. Specks of blood hit the tattered paper and the boy screamed as he took and ripped the wretched pages in half. "THERE!", he pushed them at Kismet with disgust, "Now you can throw it all away, it is worthless junk!"
"It was not... at the time."
He determinately pulled his legs to his chest and buried his face in his folded arms, to avoid looking at her. "Get it away before I decide it's worth the effort to burn it."
The rat was silent for a long time, all he heard was occasional shuffling. Some five minutes must have passed when she spoke again – "You... don't look so good."
He looked up.
"How long has it been since you took a bath? Or shaved? You're going to grow a full-on beard at this rate."
He understood she was trying to humor him and his hand darted up to brush his much too long hair, then his chin. Maybe he should, he thought for a second, but then realized that meant putting in work, and why should he bother? It wasn't like there was anyone around to see him.
"Well, we can discuss this tomorrow", she sighed. "We are both tired. Will you be able to sleep now?"
He moved not an inch.
"We can do something else if you do not feel like sleeping yet."
His gaze darted up and he stared at her face, dimly illuminated by the torch he had put up for writing, and suddenly felt an incredible surge of shame. You take, and take, and take.
"I'm good", he mumbled without looking at her. He would not be a burden. He would not be a burden anymore, not anymore, not –
"I don't mind, you know?"
His gaze darted up when she spoke, "Having you here. This here...", she sighed, "This is but a place for those outcast by society to spend the rest of their lives in peace. And together is better than alone, so I have found."
"And this is it then, what an incredible achievement, thirty straight victories it is now – can anyone ever top that? We all ask ourselves this, yet we also all think we know the answer!"
He barely registered the babbling of Dustfur, somewhere to his right. Was this really what was supposed to have happened?
Next time they make me fight anything other than a rat I will let it kill me, his own words rang in his head. Maybe he should tear that log page out, maybe he should... His gaze met the large body of the Stinger he had just killed, two rats emerged from a side tunnel to carry it out. Where did they even take the bodies, he suddenly asked himself, all who I kill, where are they then taken?
The sword nearly slipped from his grasp as someone energetically patted his back. "Fantastic battle, Achilles", Longclaw's voice snarled in his ear and before he could do anything the large rat had scooped him up and sat him on his own back, then risen to his hinds. "Look at him!", he cried, "Still barely more than a pup, and already such an excellent killer!"
He barely mustered up the strength to wonder where the so familiar rush of joy was he usually sensed with every bit of praise. The crowd cheered, Longclaw strode around with him on his shoulders, showing him off. They are cheering for me... he meekly thought, yet found it strangely hard to pay attention. Somewhere in the back of his head, he thought he should perhaps raise his sword, cheer along, but he could not bring himself to.
A shiver of cold ran down his spine and he found his head spinning. He should have killed me... the Stinger, he should have... Not by a rat, he could easily come up with about a hundred reasons why he did not want to die by a rat. But by a Stinger? He had never seen one before today, and he would have deserved the victory, with how he had been captured and dragged here. He would have deserved to win. To live. Much more than the boy did.
What was his excuse now? His jaw clenched and his head remained gaping empty. You want to do it, do you not? Pick the time and way you will die. That was always your excuse, yet you still hesitate. Why do you hesitate? A pungent voice in his head overshadowed Longclaw's improvised speech. He could not answer. There was no answer. There was no...
Only when Longclaw put him back on his feet he realized he was shivering. It was not colder than it usually was here, was it? His eye met one of the bright braziers illuminating the sandy circle.
Is it not why you do this?
The voice... he squinted to block it out, suddenly he wished to never hear it again. It was a voice he knew well, yet whose voice it was he could not say. A voice he loved and hated, a voice he longed for, to disrupt his everlasting monotony, yet a voice he wished to be silent forever, to not bombard him with its painful truths.
"See you in a few days, we'll leave a message for you when the next brave challenger arises", Longclaw screamed after him and the boy barely kept himself straight as he walked up the path that led to the lake. As soon as the arena had disappeared out of sight he tore his mask off and took a deep breath, then another, and another.
"Are you alright?"
He winced as he had not sensed Kismet coming. His head was much too occupied keeping him conscious to focus on echolocation.
"Henry, your leg!" Had she not caught him beneath his arms in the second she did, he would have collapsed on the spot.
"I'm... fine", he muttered yet Kismet relentlessly tossed him on her back. "You are not fine. Not with how excessively that bleeds. We will have to take a closer look in my cave, now hold on."
His eye fell shut instantly and he barely registered any of the way to her cave. Only when she dropped him on the floor he saw they were back.
"Now hold still, we must take a look at that injury."
For the first time, his gaze met his leg and he winced at the sight of his left trouser leg, entirely soaked in dark blood. Kismet swiftly ripped it in half and he stared at the long gash that reached from the side of his knee down to the middle of his lower leg. "It doesn't even hurt", he mumbled, his hand hovered above the vicious wound.
Kismet paused, then shoved his waterproof container at him. "The more pain we experience, the more we will numb to it."
For some reason, her words echoed in his head like the ringing of an enormous bell and he squinted. "I... it's not working anymore, I think..." His movement was automatic at this point, disinfect, bandage, tie together. "The fighting... the arena... it... I think it filled the emptiness for a while. It was like... like... like I was good at something again, like I could feel I was good at something again. But it's not working anymore, I think." He ripped the bandage at the seam. "It's not like any of it is real."
"Henry, you...", Kismet drew closer, but he barely registered it. "I wanted to let him kill me, you know? It was the terms... the terms I thought I had agreed to, but then..."
"Henry you... do you have a fever?"
His head shot up and his vision blurred. "What? No, no... I'm not sick, I don't get sick, I..."
"You most definitely have a fever, you're burning up." Her paw hovered over his forehead.
"But I..."
"That's it, take your medication and rest, no more battles until this fever has gone down."
His mouth opened and he stared at her helplessly, but what was he to do? A coughing fit overwhelmed him and he had to lean on the wall to not collapse, at the same time reaching for his container to fetch the antipyretic. Another shiver ran down his spine and his hand trembled so much he nearly dropped the bottle before taking a sip.
"You must drink." His water bag hit his uninjured leg. "Drink up what is left in it and then I will refill it, and you will drink it again."
He had not the strength to protest.
"And have you eaten anything today?"
For a moment he considered lying, just to get her off his back, but then found it too much of a hassle. He shook his head. "Not hungry."
"You eat not because you are hungry, but because it keeps you alive", Kismet resolutely hissed and turned to refill the water bag. "There, and you're eating up three beetles at least. Later I will go to get you some fish."
"But why", he mustered up the last of his strength to raise the water bag.
"I told you, to stay alive."
"But what if I don't want to..."
"Henry, I told you I will not let you die. If it means I must leap into that arena myself to keep whoever it is from killing you, so I will do." She placed something at his side, "And now eat. You know I will stuff them down your throat if you don't do it yourself."
Log something, I don't know
It's pointless, I don't want to. It has no point. Nothing has a point. It's like I'm already dead. I've seldom ever felt more like a walking corpse, hollow and useless. What... is the point? There is nothing... all I do is exist, and there is no light. No hope. No end to this pitch-black, deathly silent tunnel. I've had plans at some point, I think. Plans to do things, to live... to find life again. You search, someone once said. Who... said that? I should know this, wait... someone... someone said that, about searching, that it's not just about being out there in danger, that it's about attempting to discover yourself, your purpose. Is that not what he said? What... what... who said that? Why can I not... WHY CAN I NOT I WANT TO I WANT TO I CAN'T
What even happened that brought me here? There was something... something happened. But also not. I think. I remember I was somewhere... somewhere "home", at some point. Was I not? Where was "home"? Where... is "home"? Who is... "home"? I'm not home now. I'm not safe now. I'm not... me now. Am I dead? Maybe that is why I can not die anymore. I died. I remember, I think. The reaper came, to guide me. I think I might have gotten lost along the way.
Log...
There was something I found today, something I think I should know what it means... I had so many names at some point, I think, so many I barely knew what to introduce myself as. I was the... Death Rider. The scroll with the prophecy, Kismet found it in my waterproof container. She asked for it and I... I think it was me at some point. I remember being called by that name, I remember the lines. Darkness, loneliness, and pain, endure it all and reap the gain. I want to reap the gain from all of this, yet what gain is there still? I want it to end. Was I wrong? Was I never the Death Rider in the first place? Was it all a coincidence? For if I was... am the Death Rider... how can I be a Death Rider when there is no Death? There is no Death, not for me. Not anymore. Not for as hard as I try. There is... no Death. And there never will be.
How much time even passed? Can anyone tell me how much time passed, since... since when... since it was better. Since everything was better. I don't remember. I sometimes look at the old tally and think that's how much time passed but, of course, it is old, I've not drawn a single tally mark since... since it all has been better. I don't want to... maybe I don't want to know how much time passed. I try to look at the logs sometimes for reference but I've given up properly numbering them either. It hardly matters. I don't want to know. If someone tells me, it will all become more real, less of a continuous blur of pain, and rage, and hours of staring at a wall contemplating whether it's worth banging my head on it until the pain goes away.
There are days when I feel like it's bearable, days when I can spar, play chess with Kismet and laugh, listen to her stories, and properly savor victories and successes... and then there are days when I feel like if I move a single muscle I will fall into an endless, silent, dark abyss.
I was once so scared of falling, but on those days it is harder to resist the temptation to just... fall. To fall and know nobody will be there to catch me. I've never thought the concept over until now. There was always someone... always someone there to catch me. Now I sometimes sit high up on that pillar and try to remember how it felt like to fly. I can't remember. I can spread my arms, to pretend I have wings, golden wings like Icarus, but whenever I attempt to recall how it felt like to fly my wings turn black and crumble to dust. Without my wings, I feel so small. Without my wings, it's like a crucial part of me is missing. It's like I am shattered glass, and whoever attempts to put me back together can't because a piece is lost.
I can barely count how many times I've flown and then fallen for my wings had abandoned me in my dreams. It is such a persistent nightmare I can hardly believe it still scares me. But it does, every time. And every time I wish for nothing more than to wipe it from my head, but if I do so, it will reappear the next night, so where is the point. All I want after such a dream is to go back to the lake, to sit there and listen. To wait... I think... for someone. Am I waiting for someone? I am waiting for someone, I think. Someone... someone who isn't coming.
"Henry... what the hell are you doing?"
In and out. In and out. The water it had been... this lake, this water, this was where it had all begun, was it not? Or had it actually begun back at the cliff, had he been doomed ever since?
"Henry?"
"Is betrayed me!", he yelled and kicked the water but nearly slipped. His grip on Mys' handle loosened and the dagger nearly fell from his hand. "Ish all the lakes...s fault, ish all sharted here. I'm sure it did. It's to take back what it did to me. I want you to SAY S...SHORRY YOU HEAR?!" His voice echoed from the walls yet he received no reply.
"Henry, you should be in bed, has that fever even passed yet? I've not checked this morning. I've been looking for you and –"
"Go way!", he yelled and even though he was sure he had been gripping Mys firmly, the handle he had wrapped in a fresh layer of fabric somehow slipped from his hand as he twisted towards Kismet and had she not dodged in the last second, it would have most likely hit her.
"HENRY be careful", she yelped and stared at him intensely, he just plopped back into the shallow water. "Go way..."
"Henry are you...", she stepped closer and sniffed in his direction. The boy only put his hands to his ears, he wanted not to hear. "Are you drunk?!"
"Hmm... noo I'm not DRUNK!", he glared at her yet nearly fell over as his world begun to spin. "I'm not..."
"HENRY!" He was violently yanked up by his collar and although he attempted to protest, Kismet cared little. "The day has barely started and you –!"
"You shhould lemme go", he muttered and she shook her head. "You're not gonna leggo are you..."
She sighed and shook him. "No, I'm going to drag you back to my cave and have you sleep this out. And THEN I will sit you into a corner, to think about what you did." She glared at him, "Man, your breath smells awful, how did you even get yourself to drink that root bitters, it's atrocious!"
He giggled, brushing her paw that still held him up. "Ohh it gesh better over time... and younow what I really really 'preschiate what you do did I ever tell you?"
"What do you mean it gets better over – wait what?" She froze and blinked at him but he beat her to speaking – "You're so awessome to putup with my...e I dunno what I wouldo if you're not here now so I really love you and shtuff thought I shhouldssay that assome point so here I go..."
Kismet stared at him with a widened eye for a couple heartbeats, then shook him again. "Flattery is not going to help you now. You told me you were using the alcohol for WOUND TREATMENT!" Before he could reply, she had tossed him face forward into the lake.
"H-HEY!" He managed to surface and coughed up water.
"There, that should freshen you up some."
He meekly extended a hand up towards Kismet and she reluctantly grabbed him by the collar again. "Better?" The boy only groaned and she decided to take that as a yes as she loaded him onto her back. "From now on, I am keeping those alcohol bottles out of YOUR reach, and why did you say "it gets better over time" earlier? Has this ever happened?!"
"Ohh it'sh not that bad", he mumbled, attempting to comb through his wet hair with his fingers. "Just now and then... when something hurts a lot, you know? And I can't fight so I have to do something else and there isn't really anyshing else..."
Kismet scoffed, then sighed. "Yeah, I am not letting you anywhere near that alcohol ever again. You will not waste yourself on substance, not on my watch. Henry, it may make the pain easier for the moment, but it will make your life harder in the long run, got it?"
"Life... what life", he mumbled yet she ignored him. Before he knew it they were back at her cave and she dropped him on the floor most ungraciously. When he glanced up at her he braced himself for cold, but her gaze oozed only concern and sympathy. "It is one of the worse days, is it not?"
"Longclaw says I got a challenge for tomorrow", he mumbled instead of answering and shivered from the wet clothes.
"Oh no, you are not fighting in that state. Get out of the wet clothes and then lie down. Can't say you'll feel better when you wake up."
He glared at her, in the far corner where she had taken to collecting the standing-around root bitters bottles, and contemplated whether it was worth sneaking away regardless. Well, maybe.
There was something strangely satisfying about sensing the golden blade of Mys dig into the bone, to shape it into whichever form he desired. Well... now he could. His hand hovered over the nearly-finished piece. When he had first attempted to carve something from one of the countless bones and teeth that were part of his arena bounty it had looked like a deformed mishap more than anything, but like every skill, this one was practicable too.
A rook. The tip of his blade dug deep into the soft material. A white rook. Like the one that broke. With a single, clean cut, he severed the rest of the bone and refined the last jagged edge. He twisted the new chess piece, in the flickering torchlight, and even managed a smile.
"So you came around to fulfill your promise for a new chess piece after all. That one looks decent enough."
His gaze darted up and locked on Kismet, she had just descended down the cliff and stood in front of him, with her vision aid raised.
"I can make more of these", he twisted the piece between his fingers more, "like, I can make you a whole new set if you want. One that looks better than the boring one you have now!" An unexpected surge of energy hit him and he threw her a genuine smile.
"Oh, can you?" Kismet smiled back, then stretched out her paw. He handed the piece over and she inspected it, then gave an approving nod. "You have truly become good. I look forward to seeing that chess set soon."
He smiled crookedly and stared down at the piece of bone he had severed. "Yeah, maybe... if I get to it."
"Hey, now you promised, now you have to. All you've been carving so far is that collection of figurines of different species, what are we going to do with those? Play with them?"
He scratched at the bone. "Well, I had to practice up."
"Yes, and now that you're good enough, you might as well use the skill to create something practical, right?"
He sighed. "Well... sure. If that's what you need me to do."
"Oh Henry, this is not about me. It is about you, and –"
"Kismet, can I show you something?"
She froze mid-movement, and the boy reached into his bag next to him to fetch a figurine he hadn't shown Kismet yet. Her eye narrowed as she slowly took it from him and inspected it. "Goodness... this one is marvelous. I knew you were decent, but not that you were this good."
"He needed his own figurine, I thought. He is... Achilles, after all."
Kismet's eye narrowed. "You do go by that name in the arena, do you not?"
He nodded. "I found it... fitting."
"Well, you... Achilles... looks like a champion worthy of thirty consecutive victories." She smiled.
"Kismet?"
Her gaze darted up from the figurine that nigh-perfectly resembled the boy's own features. "Yes?"
"I want to hear... the rest of his story." He swallowed. "I mean, I use his name in the arena, so I want to at least hear what... happened to him."
Her gaze was long and pensive, yet moments later she plopped down beside him and placed the figurine on the floor, in front of the boy. "I see... well, I... I did tell you about the Trojan War, correct?"
"And that he refused to fight, whereupon his best friend disguised himself as Achilles to deceive the Trojans."
"Right", Kismet gazed at the figurine pensively. "Well, although the Trojans fell for the deceit, Patroclus – so was the name of his friend – was not Achilles, he had not even remotely his skill. So even though his plan drew the Trojans into fearful retreat, it was finally Prince Hector of Troy who saw through the deceit and... struck Patroclus down."
A shiver ran down the boy's spine, yet he did not interrupt. Only stared at his own lifeless, ivory face.
"Achilles... then went mad with grief. For all their plan had cost, it had driven him back into battle, mercilessly tearing through foe after foe, all in search of Hector." Kismet sighed and his mind reeled back to how many he had killed in the arena so far. Not thirty, he had been allowed to spare a good amount. But at least twenty.
"In the end, Achilles challenged Hector to a duel, and after he had killed him, he tied his corpse to his chariot, then dragged it around the city of Troy ten whole times."
"Well, he deserved it!", the boy blurted out and Kismet tilted her head. "To give his life for having taken that of Patroclus? Well, that is debatable", she hummed, "yet to be mutilated so atrociously, after death... really?"
He bit his lip and carelessly brushed the figurine so that it fell over. "I don't know..."
"Was it not in truth Achilles' own fault his best friend had been killed?"
The boy froze and stared up at her, he suddenly desired to cover his ears and scream. Maybe he should not have asked. He wanted not to hear anymore. He wanted not to, yet he could not move a muscle.
"Had he not neglected his duty, neither Patroclus nor Hector would have had to be killed."
"Shut up...", he squeezed out and wrapped his arms around his legs, burying his face to suppress the rising tears. "I get it, okay? Now shut up!"
Kismet was indeed silent for a long time. He would have assumed she had left, had he not sensed her presence. "It is often only in retrospect we learn the hardest lessons. Then when it is too late to change our fate."
"Yeah, yeah", he blurted out, "You call me Achilles as there is hardly a more fitting name for one like me."
"And from what I hear, they come from the furthest corners of the Underland to see your rage."
Log (insert random number because who cares)
It's been... forty battles now. Forty victories. Which means I've been fighting... raging for at least ninety days now. If not more. There were weeks without battles altogether, those weeks I barely remember. Actually, I barely remember any of it. It's... spending ninety days on training for the threshold was different. It felt different. It felt shorter. This only feels never-ending, like this is my eternal fate. My eternal punishment. In Ancient Greece, they believed those who angered the gods would be sent to Tartarus, a place of eternal torment. Sisyphus, he who deceived death, was cursed with the eternal task of rolling a boulder up a hill. Tantalus, the prideful king who fed his own son to the gods, was forever deprived of sustenance.
And... Henry? Henry, he who thought himself so high and mighty, he who can not learn, who can only ever fall, has he committed hubris too? Is it now his fate to battle for all eternity, for the entertainment of... his enemy? Well, there are worse fates, probably. I'm not sure. All I know is that this means it has been... a year now. A year of... death, I guess. A year since I first felt the desire to vanish out of existence, to turn back time. To not... live. To be free. To be back home. To see myself and not a total stranger when looking into a waterfall.
Now I stare at a figurine of myself and try to think back, to imagine what my younger self would say if he could see me now. He who asked himself if he could only change as much as he allowed himself to change. Have I allowed this? Have I chosen this? I do not dislike the face of Achilles, but is he who my younger self aspired to see, a year from then? Would he even... recognize me?