"You know, this will be a truly special occasion." The boy barely listened to Longclaw as he glanced over the stack of goods they had rewarded him with for the latest couple battles. What even would he do with all this stuff?
"Next up will be your fiftieth battle, after all."
"Hmm", he hummed and shrugged, "and before we all know it, it will be my hundredth. Then my fifth-hundredth. Then my thousandth."
"Well, someone is confident", Longclaw snarled, "let us see if you survive battle fifty, first. I promise it will be special."
The boy nearly laughed. As if. All battles were the same at this point. It was he and an opponent, and whoever the opponent was – Gnawer, Stinger, Pincher, Spinner, Buzzer, Twister, or whatever else they would find to pin against him, he had fought it all. There is a method to victory against everything, Kismet persistently preached, and ever since he had fought his first non-Gnawer, on his tenth or so battle, she had switched up their training to prepare him for those fights as well. When she found he was well enough for training, at least.
His hand automatically darted up to feel his forehead. Well, he had no fever now, not been severely injured in this latest battle, and most of his other wounds had healed up decently. He had not been entirely uninjured in such a long time he had nearly forgotten how it felt like to not be in pain. Then again, in a way, pain had become like sound. He could embrace it, or block it out – which was exactly what he did.
"We'll see", he threw at Longclaw and grabbed only the container with fuel as well as some bones and fabric. "Can you stash the rest for me here somewhere? I'll come back for it eventually."
The giant rat nodded and though he ignored it, the boy felt like his stare was somewhat more pensive than usual, as the arena master watched his greatest champion of all times ascend towards the lake.
"You did well today", Kismet greeted him back at the cave. He mindlessly dropped off the materials and shrugged. "It's not hard by this point. Hey... what are you doing, get out of my face!"
She sniffed one more time then drew back. "Just making sure you don't drink again when I'm not looking. How is that lower arm? You took a hit, did you not? And your face – goodness, Henry, take care or you will lose the other eye as well."
He only shrugged, unbottled the alcohol, and soaked a piece of clean fabric, then pressed it to two fresh cuts a claw had torn through his left eye. "I told you, I'm not secretly drinking anymore... and it's nothing."
"Your endless claims will not keep me from checking", she snarled, yet he disregarded her to stare at the fresh bandage. It indeed was nothing.
His hand mindlessly brushed a fresh scar tearing his lower arm, then went over to one directly next to it. They were both in different stages of healing, in different shades of pink. Yet as he unwrapped the bandage around his right arm to check how the injury from his battle last week was coming along he froze. White... barely any scar of his was white. They were all too fresh. All except...
He had never been able to count them, he thought as he stared at the confusing network of white lines that tore the skin of his right hand. He had attempted so many times, yet...
"That is one impressive collection of scars. It only makes me wish you had not a single of them."
His gaze darted up to Kismet. "Yeah. Me too." His right fist clenched and for a moment he thought it was supposed to clench around something... something he could not... no, did not want to remember, yet something that clawed its way back into his mind at the sight of the scars. It was not... real, was it? Any of it. It could not be real. This was he now. This was he, Achilles... was it not?
He plopped on the floor, stood up his torch, and leaned on the wall, then rummaged through his bag until he found the figurine of himself. At him stared a face cold as stone, half-hidden behind a vicious, horned mask. A hand tightly clenching a sword. A mouth standing agape to sound a battle cry. This was... he now.
An unexpected shiver ran down his spine. This was... he now. A raging champion destined to battle for all eternity, for the entertainment of others. His thumb carelessly traced the outline of the figurine. Would he ever even see anything outside this cave, this vicinity, anymore? He had once spoken of such grand adventures Kismet had called him Odysseus. He blinked at the figurine, Achilles was not an adventurer. He was a warrior. And he was Achilles, not Odysseus... was he?
"Henry, what are you... what are you doing?!"
He paid Kismet no attention as she rapidly approached.
"Henry, what the... stop, please! It was so beautiful –"
"No, it was not." He barely sensed any resistance as Mys dug deep into the bone, peeling off layer by layer until the figurine was barely recognizable. He drove the blade deep into the ivory face, to leave a gaping hole where his own features had once been. "It was empty and useless. It's not what... what... I don't... I didn't want to see it anymore", he hissed and violently stabbed the blade into the figurine's stomach over and over.
"It... did not deserve to be defaced in such a manner", Kismet mumbled and her tail twitched, she looked like she had to restrain herself to not intervene. "But... if you do not like it, you can always make a new one."
His gaze darted up and in the same moment, Mys became caught in the pale ivory of his figurine. His hand slipped and the neatly tied fabric around the handle loosened until it began peeling off.
"Dammit –", he cursed and tugged at it, but all it took was a firm pull and the outer layer of fabric tore off entirely, leaving –
"How about this piece?" Kismet held up a fresh bone, "It is smooth and large, it will make for a nice figurine."
You are not seriously tying this discarded tissue around the handle of your dagger? It is TISSUE!
The voice permeated his ears. It screamed so loudly he heard not even what Kismet said. His finger trembled as he raised it to brush... he had sometimes asked himself if it was really there, underneath the new layer of fabric, yet now... A knot of a hard-to-classify emotion formed in his stomach as his gaze was locked on the piece of black tissue. The tissue he had...
With one swift motion, he leaped to his feet. The disfigured figurine slipped from his lap as he stumbled at the cliff. In his hand burned the dagger like a fresh ember.
"Henry, what are you doing?!"
This dagger... this wretched dagger... had he never cut it off he would be dead now, he would be dead, and not... You know Teslas will claw your other eye out as well if you so much as make a scratch on that thing. Maybe this was it. His fist clenched hard around the handle. Maybe this was the line he needed to draw. Maybe if he drew it now, all he associated with the blade would at last stop haunting him.
Only in the back of his head, he registered a tear had made its way down his cheek. What was he even doing, keeping it? It was not his, it was Henry's. It was no longer needed. No longer wanted. No longer... The last few steps he nearly ran, at the so familiar cliff, and with the last flying leap he hurled the dagger over the edge with all his might.
The sharp clanking as it hit the stone permeated his ears, in the same moment Kismet's tail wrapped around his waist. Together they stared after the once so beloved dagger as it rolled into a crevice and slid into a narrow crack at the far end of the cave until it had vanished out of sight.
Kismet's tail tightened, and at last pulled him away from the edge. Only as he gazed down he realized how close to falling himself he had just been.
An eternal moment of silence passed, it was finally Kismet who broke it. "What... did you do that for?"
The boy blinked and to his eternal disdain found tears had risen in his eye. "I didn't need it anymore. I didn't..."
"... deserve it?"
His following silence spoke for itself.
Log something...
I'm not going back. I'm not ever going back. To nowhere. It's not home. I don't have a home anymore. For a while I thought out here could be home, but it's not. It's not anymore. Sometimes I think I want to run away, to not be a burden on the last individual pitiful enough to bother herself with me. I feel like a piece of shit for thinking I've lost everything, because then the face of Kismet appears and she is not nothing, and I have not lost her. She is the last one remaining in this world who I can afford to love. But she's also not home. She keeps me alive, but she can't fill the void. With every scar I collect, I just feel more shattered. I know she tries, and I want to pay her back somehow, but as hard as I try, I can't ever make this... make her home. It's not me. It's not really me, here. But I can't bring myself to leave either.
Maybe this battle... this upcoming fiftieth battle Longclaw won't shut up about... maybe I can finally go through with it and allow myself to die like I let the figurine die. Like I let the dagger die. It feels more and more like the only option I have left.
"And so it has then come upon us."
He barely made out Dustfur's voice over the frantic roaring of the audience. Over the pungent ringing of his ears. He blinked and consciously stabilized himself, dug his soles deeper into the sand, and attempted to stop his world from spinning.
Maybe this had not been such a good idea after all. His hand searched for the hilt of his blade on his back. Maybe he should have asked Longclaw to postpone the battle, maybe he should –
"Today, the greatest champion to have ever graced the sand of any arena, famed far and wide, so much so we can hardly fit all attendants at this point!", Dustfur laughed and the crowd joined in, "He may celebrate his fiftieth consecutive victory in our most esteemed establishment today!"
He perceived the frantic cheers only through a cloud of mist and asked himself if this was he controlling his filters or the fever he had woken up with this morning numbing his senses. You can forget that battle, tell the bastard – I mean Longclaw – to reschedule. It can't be that much of a hassle for him. But under no circumstances are you fighting in this state.
Pah, as if a little fever could ever keep him down. He attempted to reinvoke the urgent itch to fight, to do something other than to lie around uselessly from earlier, but now he found himself thinking to lie down sounded like a far better idea than to be here. To fight... now.
He swallowed. Maybe he should have listened, maybe he should not be here. His hand brushed the tight bandage around his left hand, then went up to the one on his lower arm. The injury was barely a few days old, it had not even remotely healed yet. Maybe he should –
"And now let us give him the welcome he deserves, let us hear it for THE GREAT ACHILLES!"
The boy's hand tightened around the hilt of his sword and he automatically stumbled out into the blazing light of the braziers, to be met with deafening cheering.
His brow furrowed and his eye searched for Longclaw, why were they calling him in before his opponent? The reigning champion enters last, so was the rule. And as anarchic as the arena sometimes seemed, that particular rule had never been broken, for all his forty-nine battles it had never been broken. But the arena master was nowhere to be seen, and so his question remained unanswered.
Head up, back straight, keep your feet on the floor, dig them in if you must, it automatically replayed in his head as it did before every battle. He took a deep breath, disregarding the hotness of his dry skin.
His hand reached up to straighten out his mask, then drew his sword and raised it above his head. It was by far not as satisfying as it had been at the beginning, to listen to the cheers of the audience, but it still enraptured him in a way. If only his blade would not feel cold and heavy, if only his forehead would not already pearl with sweat. In and out, he ordered himself to breathe calmly and lowered his blade again, eye on Dustfur.
He knew this was his incentive. Kismet had not seen him leave, she would have never let him leave in this state, so she could not be watching. So she could not intervene. He had long made up his mind this should be it. His fiftieth battle, his fiftieth chance to die. He forced his mouth to curve into a smile. This time he would have the strength to take it.
"And now, for the first time in the history of this – or any establishment of the sort – we present to you..."
The boy winced as something darted over his head, throwing an eerie shadow on the high ceiling. He frowned and ducked, searching for... there it was – he marveled at the phenomenal image the sound painted for him. Only one type of sound had ever illuminated his surroundings so clearly, only one type of sound, but that was not a sound that belonged here... was it?
The creature circled above him once, then landed in the center of the arena. White sand whirled up beneath his talons and the boy's eye widened.
"... the first of his kind to set foot into this establishment, to become the fiftieth mark on our Achilles' great tally – or to become He who STRIKES HIM DOWN!"
The boy let out a surprised yell as the flier who had cowered on the other side of the arena leaped forward and lunged at him. A ghastly scream sounded from behind the mask that covered his face.
Impact imminent, dodge at once. What was this, his eyes searched for Dustfur, he had not even begun the fight yet! He had not –
Yet he had not even a breath to spare for complaints.
He dazedly scrambled up after dodging the outstretched claws and instinctively sliced at the flier. Since... when did fliers even fight without humans? They were not... ideal fighters to pin against each other, a voice echoed in his head, he stumbled back and coughed from the sand his boots had whirled up.
Opponent a considerable distance above, circling. Only option is to wait. His gaze darted up and he raised his sword tauntingly. "Come down here and fight!" His spine tingled with something like anticipation. Enough waiting. His grip on the sword tightened. They were here to fight.
As he focused on the great, dark silhouette the boy suddenly thought something about him seemed wrong. His fur was clumped and dusty, and were those bloodstains on his talons?
He gripped his sword with both hands – most importantly, why did he wear a mask? He, Achilles, had, so far, been the only champion to ever do so. Was he a prisoner? If so, why had Dustfur not announced it? And, the boy dug his soles into the ground trying to steady his breath, if he was a prisoner, why did he not just... fly out of here?
Yet his questions remained unanswered as the flier broke his circle and put on his wings. He closed his eye and focused – approaching at considerable speed, calculating options. He glimpsed over what his echolocation spat out and slightly corrected his stance. The show had at last begun.
The flier soon turned out fast and aggressive, yet despite his weakened condition, the boy avoided or blocked all his attacks with ease. His echolocation worked not as flawlessly as it did when he had no fever, but it sufficed for putting on the type of show he knew the audience craved.
Left, swing right, duck, slice down... he ran on autopilot, fully surrendering himself to the analyzer in his head. Attack from above – he rolled off and spat out sand, angrily shaking his head as his vision blurred from the movement. He panted and cursed the wretched fever as he waited for the world to stop spinning. Only in the last moment he scrambled up to dodge the next attack. He perfectly perceived the sound of claws digging into the sand where his head had been, mere moments ago.
His sword felt heavy and he struggled to even lift it so when the flier did not immediately zoom in on him again he barely took notice of it. When he then did, he had already drawn in his wings and dove straight down.
The boy hesitated at the confusing array of possibilities his echolocation presented him with, at that moment, yet before he had the mental capacity to prepare for even a single of them, he saw nothing but a speeding black trail, whizzing around him with incredible speed.
He instantly squeezed his eye shut and groaned, his sword nearly slipped from his grip. His world spun with his opponent around him and once more he wished to have sat today out, listened to Kismet when she –
Just as he thought he would pass out a sharp jolt of pain pierced his shoulder and chased the mist in his head at once. With the last of his strength, he prevented himself from collapsing and screamed, of pain or frustration, he would not have been able to tell. His hand darted up to grip the shoulder, the right shoulder. It had been injured before. Two scars over each other, ha – that was new, even for him.
You can't do that, he wished to scream at the flier, you can't injure that shoulder. Sizzleblood did that for you, all those months ago. His eye dazedly searched for the flier. She had... injured him so that he hadn't been able to hold his sword anymore and had to resort to using his sling. Thanatos had had to distract her while he... Henry had collected stones, by... by...
The boy released a sharp breath as he stumbled forward, angrily throwing his sword from right to left. His head spun worse than ever as his eye locked onto the flier, the flier who had now ended the maneuver and retreated to a safe distance, the flier who...
He squinted as his eye met him, he saw it before his inner eye, like it had only been yesterday... Thanatos had disoriented Sizzleblood by... performing a coiler. A coiler around his opponent, to daze and disorient her...
He cried and barely dodged the outstretched claws. Only in hindsight he understood his echolocation had attempted to warn him.
The boy cursed and screamed at himself to focus. What was he doing, zoning out now? He was here, in the middle of a battle, which required his full attention. Even if he was to die today, he could not die yet. The fight had barely lasted five minutes.
He squinted up, attempting to think and use his echolocation at the same time. This... this maneuver, the coiler... had that become such a trend this flier had somehow picked up on it?
His sword sliced at his outstretched claws nearly on its own, but how could it...? Thanatos had only performed it once, and he had always thought he'd been the first to come up with this type of use for it... hadn't he?
The inevitable consequence of this conclusion swept over him like an icy tidal wave and he had to focus all his willpower not to drop his sword.
His gaze met the flier's mask, then darted over to his wing... the left one. He leaped to the side to dodge his attack and counterstruck immediately. The flier sounded a pained cry as his sword landed across his leg and reeled forward, nearly hitting the ground. It was only for the extra moment he so gained, to look closer, that the boy saw it.
A... nigh-invisible stitch, black fabric on black tissue. But as short a glimpse he had caught at it, the image still burned itself onto his inner eye like a hot iron seal. Hey, I mean you look like a patchwork rug, but if it's working...!
His hand instinctively darted to the back of his hip and a fresh thorn pierced his heart as he once more made himself aware Mys was no longer there. Mys, at the bottom of some crack where he had tossed it. Mys, with its handle wrapped in tissue from that... very same wing.
A memory cut his mind like a knife, shredding the so carefully erected walls that were supposed to keep the images out. The images of... A violent tug by the leg. A... slingshot. An execution. An arena... not unlike this one. An... alliance. A... bond?
He barely dodged the next imminent attack, then retreated to a safe distance and preemptively raised his sword. His brow furrowed and for a heartbeat he hesitated, then shook his head. He must have imagined it. Surely it was the fever, it had him see things, things he wanted to see.
A strange yet familiar voice rang in his head, a voice he had chased, blocked out. A voice he would never hear again. Not here. He would never be here, never be doing this, the boy lunged at the flier himself, landing a direct hit across his back.
He would never even condone this, especially not like this – hiding his face shamefully. Never... he is not a killer, not a killer, not... like me.
He ducked and stood straight again, focused all his effort on holding his ground. Imagined roots sprouting from his soles, as Kismet preached, yet the floor beneath him swayed and the world spun, worse with every passing second. His head clogged with questions, contradictions, and more questions. He sensed the uncomfortable heat of his own breath and heard pearls of sweat dripping from his chin.
The fever would soon take him if the flier did not, but suddenly he thought he could not afford to die yet. First, he had to see. To be... certain.
The boy forced the questions out of his mind and focused with all his will, on the strap of the mask. I must only see his face, he thought, I must only take one look. To be certain.
As soon as he allowed it back in, his echolocation measured speed and distance effortlessly and calculated the moment for him to strike. He took it in silently, banned the mist from his mind, and seized his moment.
A leap to the side and a swift strike later the flier's mask hit the floor, whirling up sand where it landed. The flier performed a sharp turn and gave a harrowing cry, then darted upward, out of reach.
Turn around... the boy silently urged and tightened the grip on his sword until his knuckles shone whiter than his skin. It hung at his side leaving the tip to brush the ground. Just... turn around.
Yet when the flier at last looped backward and charged at him, mouth distorted to a grotesque grimace, his echolocation failed the boy. It was there, banging at the gates of his mind, but he was powerless to let it in. To move. To even avert his gaze.
The imminent impact flung the sword out of his hand, catapulted him backward, and forcefully emptied his lungs of all air. His fingers dug into the ground, attempting to get a hold of something, but all he found was sand that slipped through his grasp no matter how hard he clutched it.
He barely managed to exercise so much control over himself he could roll off before the claws pierced the ground where his head had been, a few heartbeats ago. The claws of... Thanatos, the name emerged from where he had buried it, to never think it again, yet –
The boy fell to all fours and blindly reached for his sword. Everything spun and he retched, the sound the drops of his sweat produced when they hit the ground was amplified by a hundred. Where was his control, he internally screamed, where was all his tediously practiced control? Where was –
The boy reeled forward and let out a hoarse scream, then scrambled up. His vision sparked and his mouth opened yet he could not cry anymore. Black fur. White face. He knew that, from somewhere, from... He barely got his sword up in time to block the flier's wide-open mouth. His teeth produced an awful crack as they dug into the metal.
He knew that face. That face. It had a name. It is... Thanatos, he at last conceived and opened his mouth to call out to him. Maybe he could afford to lose focus, maybe...
The flier lunged forward again and the boy cried as his claws tore through the leather of his vest like a knife through silk. He stumbled back and ducked, then raised his sword to shield his face. Why was he... attacking? The boy recognized Thanatos. Did... Thanatos not recognize him?
His gaze locked on the flier and he disregarded his screaming echolocation, even allowed his sword to hang heavy and limp. He... needed to show him, the boy blinked once, twice.
Suddenly an overwhelming wave of happiness swept over him as the realization sank in properly, and in that moment he could have cried tears of joy. He needed not to die! He needed not to die, and he needed not to remain in this eternal cycle of monotony either. This was... his flier. All he needed to do was to show him who he was. Then it would all be alright. Then they could end this ridiculous battle and get out of here, together. Together, they could... could...
A few heartbeats later sand whirled up where his own mask hit the ground. "Death, it's me!"
A soft breeze hit his exposed scar and for a moment he became acutely aware everyone saw it now, saw him, in all his unconcealed repulsiveness – yet now he could not care less. Should they all see, should they laugh and taunt and be disgusted if they wanted. He would show his face to the whole world if only Thanatos would then recognize him.
"DEATH!"
The boy nearly tripped over his mask as he barely blocked the claws of the flier he had once called bond. Only in his periphery he registered the crack of bone under his foot.
The force of his parry catapulted his flier backward, he landed on all fours and sounded a livid hiss. The boy disregarded it and stepped forward, closer. Maybe he could not see yet. "Death?" He allowed his sword to hang limp once more and desperately searched for a sign of recognition in his flier's eyes, yet in vain. The so familiar amber was empty.
"Death, it's me!"
He frowned as his flier did not react once more. His head clogged with questions again, and he sensed tears well up in his eye. Why did he hold his attack position? Why did he not respond? Why could he not spot any sort of reaction whatsoever? He had meant to fly out of here, to be free of death, of pain, and yet –
The boy winced when Thanatos spread his ginormous wings and tore his mouth open for an unworldly scream. He instinctively stumbled back and nearly tripped over the remains of his mask again. He saw his flier only through a blur, like he was looking at something beneath the surface of water. The surface of...
At first, the boy thought what now dripped from his chin was sweat, only in hindsight he recognized it was not.
"Death...?"
He barely prevented himself from releasing his sword to surrender. This was not what was supposed to be happening. This was not what he wanted. His gaze was on his flier. He wanted not to fight. But he...? Had he been here all this time?
It was you who I waited for, at the lake, it was you who I waited for, he silently screamed. Were you... right here, all along? In this very arena? What was he... doing here? Why was... Longclaw... Longclaw's words... Longclaw's special battle.
It was like someone had dropped a boulder on his heart to squeeze all life out of it. For the first time he registered the cheering of the crowd, they audibly enjoyed the show. In a long time, nobody had put up such an excellent fight to the Great Achilles.
The boy jerked back as Thanatos charged at him, only to throw himself in the air again and begin circling above his head. He blinked at his shape, then at the tip of his sword. It dripped with red. He wanted not to fight... yet was it what... his flier wanted? Words cut through the mist in his head like blades. You are a parasite. A parasite that has attached itself to me, and will not let go. Why will you not let me go?
An icy wave hit him as he at last understood. Was this how it would be, then? His teeth clenched and his grip on his sword tightened until he could barely stand it. "Is this WHAT YOU WANT THEN?!" A fresh jolt of energy rekindled his determination as he cried out. Faintly he sensed the fresh scars, the white lines he had counted so many times, and now... The longer he stared at his hand, the more of his pain and confusion made way for anger. "Is this WHAT YOU WANT? Are you here to KILL THE PARASITE?"
Thanatos hovered above him, he could not make out his expression well enough to be certain, yet he thought his eyes narrowed to amber slits before he drew in his wings and darted down. The boy watched his flier in slow motion, and at once, his head cleared. His focus rushed back and he dug his heels deep into the sand.
So... this was it then. Today, one of them would die. And the boy knew, for all the times he had wanted... attempted to die in this wretched place, today it would not be him.
Had he fought mostly for show before, now everything within the boy was out to kill. Driven by searing rage he wielded his weapon with all his skill and soon it became clear he, despite the fever, was the superior fighter.
His sword mercilessly landed over and over and soon the white sand speckled with red blood. Yet Thanatos had never been one to give into pain. It only seemed to fuel him and, as well as he fought, he could not defend when his flier caught his arm and lifted him up, then launched him back to the ground with force.
He narrowly managed to drop his sword and roll off yet moments later sensed the hot sting of pain in his back. Something ran down his spine, the trail it left burned unbearably. He did not have to look to know it was blood.
Heartbeats later his hand closed around the hilt of his sword and he followed the lead of his echolocation impeccably when it painted an image of his flier behind him. Yet Thanatos dodged and the moment the boy realized he had left his right side vulnerable had already caught his arm between his teeth.
He violently screamed and struggled yet his flier relentlessly dragged him along for a whole circle around the arena. When the boy then shook him, he thought for all the injuries he had suffered here before, nothing had ever hurt as the unbearable sting of a thousand needles someone was driving into his arm. His eye. His ears. His head. His heart.
A hoarse scream escaped his mouth as he forced himself back into focus, then leaped at his sword. The wings, what remained of his common sense screamed as his hand closed around the hilt, take out the wings. Once he is on the ground he will not pose much of a threat.
The boy gritted his teeth and fiercely combatted the pain. He had told himself showtime was over, why had he not long taken out the wings? He would rip out every bit of tissue by hand if he had to, including what he had once so meticulously sowed on, and then he would –
Specks of blood flew from the bite as he swung his blade with both hands and left an eight-inch tear in Thanatos' left wing. His flier cried as he darted back, and the boy hesitated not for a second. He charged at his opponent and directed his next blow at his flier's head.
Thanatos let out a ghastly shriek as the sword left a violent red mark directly across his face and reeled backward. The boy registered red on white, it glistened in his fur, on his sword. Dripped from the tip. This was it – his flier defenselessly cowered on the ground, barely got his uninjured wing up to shield his face... but not high enough.
Like in slow motion the boy registered the opening. His instinct took over and charted out for him exactly what he had to do. He gripped the sword with both hands and lunged forward, blade pointed at Thanatos' exposed neck... and missed.
A full five seconds the boy stood still, holding his sword up like it had landed where it should have, fervently attempting to stand his ground on the swaying floor. His eye remained widened, unbelieving – on his blade. His blood. His... flier.
He had... He had missed. On purpose, of course... he had... his gaze darted up from the cold steel. How could he have not?
The fire of rage within him drowned at once in the overwhelming wave of resignation. It turned his limbs into lead, dissolved the iron of his determination. Like a valve that opened and drained all his anger, his energy, his strength.
Instinctively, he staggered back and blinked away the rising tears. His hands shook so hard he could barely hold his blade. This... no, he blinked more frantically, this was all wrong. How was this real? He did not want to fight. Not fight, not...
An eternal moment later the sword slipped from his grasp. The sound of metal on sand vibrated his every fiber but the boy held his gaze only on his flier. I told myself I would take the chance today, and if this is what you want... his fists tightened, then... kill me. If it is you, it is okay. His mouth curved into a smile. I will not resist. Not anymore. Not for you.
His vision blurred, his whole body ached so much his legs would give way any second, and he was all but done fighting it either. All he wanted was to collapse, to cry, right next to his sword. To curl up into a ball and cry. Should they all stare, they all who whistled and booed him now. Should they laugh. Should they do whatever they wanted.
The famed champion had signaled his surrender. He thought he had been prepared, yet a surge of disbelief still hit him when his senses were then numbed by a sting of scathing pain. He attempted to combat it like he always did... but this pain was not like any pain. Not... any pain? He squinted as his memory flashed back to the Tankard. The serpent. Not even that pain he found could compare.
Something wet made its way down his stomach, then his leg. Red on white sand. Red on... white. He stared at it for a seeming eternity until his misted brain had at last made sense of what he was seeing. A claw, the boy shakily rose a hand towards it. A claw... it nearly lifted him off the floor as it had been sunken deep into his flesh, below the ribs.
His gaze darted up and, had he been carrying his weight on his own, his legs would have given way at that moment. Then something struck his temple and a much number form of pain engulfed him as his vision momentarily went black. The impact with the floor left him dazed, lights sparked before him, and when he next opened his eye his flier was already over him. He stared into amber.
As the boy processed the image his hand moved to reach up, like before. Like... last time his flier had cowered over him. The boy's mouth distorted to a smile. It would be alright now. His flier was here, he would carry him out as he had before. He would take his hand and order him on his back, as he had... he had...
Moments later his hand fell back... empty. The boy blinked, something was not right, why was his hand empty? Why was... the amber so empty?
"Death..."
Empty... empty as the amber that had stared at him in his dream, from beyond the glass... the ice. The amber that had watched him die. Is it I or he? The boy's lid fluttered. Is it I or he, who...
His thoughts were disrupted by something dripping from his face to wet the sand beneath. His vision blurred again and he found it had all crumbled now, all the barriers he had so meticulously erected around himself to shield him from the pain, the truth. From what he had lost. From what he had done.
It can not be, he thought, I am... Achilles. I am he who has conquered pain. I am he... who is in pain. This pain... This pain he could not suppress, not fight. It drowned him, suffocated him, thrust a seal of hot iron into his heart. He who had dismissed. He who could not learn. He who had betrayed.
In his periphery, the boy registered Thanatos' gaping mouth over him. And suddenly he wanted nothing more than for the bite to come at last. When it would come it would absolve him from the pain.
His eye squeezed shut... he was ready. Finally ready.
A different scene flashed before him – Thanatos, claw at his throat, poised for the kill. He had been scared then. So hesitant, so scared, so... weak.
Well, he was not anymore.
"You", his eye flung open and his voice barely obeyed him yet he squeezed it out of his throat with force. "I'm sorry... but here is my word. My..."
A coughing fit overwhelmed him and he retched, palms pressed into the blood-soaked sand. But he had to...
He gathered his last energy reserves to raise his hand and reach up again. Just one last time, then you can kill me. His mouth opened to speak the words yet out came not a single sound. Just one last... He could not truly hate him so much he would deny him this, could he?
His bond.
His... life.
He was... his bond.
"I bound to... you." It was all he had the strength for, despite his rekindled determination to speak on. If he recited more of the familiar words, maybe his flier would understand. Understand what it meant, what it... Our life and death are one... are one. We... are one.
It was the last thought the boy could conceive before his hand, that Thanatos had not even acknowledged, fell back at his side and the black oblivion of unconsciousness swallowed him.