[ TONY ]
"Yeah, but what if you went back and killed your own grandfather?"
He stared at me, baffled. "Why the fuck would you do that?"
― Stephen King, 11/22/63
Myhll and the boys led Tony outside, though this time they didn't drag him, which was a nice change. They walked past the stocks, along a dirt path around the side of Lady Brae's castle. The sun hid behind thick grey clouds as they approached a grassy area where a hundred or so people had gathered. A large, fenced-off oval captured the crowd's attention. They cheered and booed alternatively as Tony came closer.
His gut coiled tight with nerves. You can totally do this, he thought frantically and knew it wasn't true the second he laid eyes on the men fighting in the ring.
They were muscular and bearded, smashing swords and shields together with angry battle cries. One wore thick leather, the other had no protection, same as Tony. They circled each other like animals, barking and roaring and bellowing. The crowd yelled in disapproval when one of the men ducked and rolled out of the way of a vicious blow.
The duel ended when one man knocked the other to the ground and drove his sword deep into his opponent's chest. The blood-thirsty masses applauded and cheered and whooped. Tony's insides churned and he thought he might pass out before it was even his turn.
"I didn't know this was to the death," he said to Myhll. He wished his voice wasn't quivering quite so much. "You—she never said it was to the death."
Myhll snorted. "What did ye take 'survive three rounds' and 'fate in God's hands' to intend?"
Okay, that was true, but still. Even while Tony had been pretty much thinking nonstop about dying in the tourney—in this place, really—somewhere in the back of his mind, he'd thought, hoped, even expected that it wasn't really to the death. Injury, maybe. It'd be like jousting—they didn't always die in those, right? He'd be personally screwed, sure, but that was because he was inept with a sword in comparison to these guys. He didn't think they would be busy dying in this thing, too. Which made his chances of making it through this whole ordeal go from about "almost zero" to "no shot in hell".
"Have cheer, ye glaikit skamelar— be over soon enough." Myhll's cold smile was anything but reassuring.
Tony clenched his fists at his sides and sweat slid down his spine. He watched several rounds of men trying to kill each other go by. Sometimes somebody died, sometimes they were injured to the point they could not continue. Some were knocked unconscious and dragged from the ring. Tony wondered what became of them after that.
Lady Brae perched on an intricately carved wooden chair across the fighting arena. The chair was on a raised platform and no one stood in front of it, assuring her the best view. With each match, she clapped politely and congratulated the victor, declaring him fit for a respite. Then she put out a call for the next pair of challengers.
Tony wasn't sure how the match-ups were determined, though it seemed like a sort of Round Robin. Providing he survived his first round, he'd have to face off against another winner.
All too soon, it was his turn.
"Sir Anthony Stark of Winterfell," Lady Brae called out in a clear, ringing voice. Most of the crowd booed as Myhll shuffled Tony forward.
"English pig!" someone bellowed.
"And Sir Braec of Kineardine!" Lady Brae finished and made a graceful sweeping gesture with her arm.
Myhll shoved a hefty old sword into Tony's sweaty hands as a middle-aged man with scraggly brown hair stumbled into the ring. He threw his arms wide and grinned at the crowd, who whooped and hollered in support. Braec took a deep swig from a leather canteen in his hand then tossed it aside. He unsteadily raised his sword and smiled at Tony with broken teeth.
Tony gripped his own weapon tightly and waited until Lady Brae clanged the bell by her chair to begin the match.
Though Tony's first instinct was to turn on his heel and vault out of the ring, he knew Myhll and the boys would be on him before he made it far at all. So he clenched his jaw and told himself to survive this, to keep breathing, as he edged closer to Braec. He'd survived the cave, he'd survived Vanko, he'd survived the black hole and the Chitauri and Loki and Killian…he could survive this. He had to survive this.
The other man swayed as he shambled forward. He took a lazy swipe at Tony and the crowd roared with approval. Tony dodged the swing and almost laughed out loud. The dude was blind drunk, and Tony couldn't remember being any luckier in his life. He took a shot at Braec, who flailed sloppily out of the way. The other man's pouchy belly jiggled as he let loose a loud laugh. Tony grinned back, afraid for a second that he was completely misreading the situation.
Braec charged. Tony jumped to the side and gave the other man swift kick to the rump when he passed. Braec yelped. He kept hurtling forward, stumbled, and fell headfirst into the rickety wood fence penning them in. The crowd bellowed, but Braec didn't stir.
Tony stared, hardly daring to believe he'd won, but Lady Brae declared him the victor. The crowd mostly booed—probably because the match had been so short and boring—but relief and hope filled Tony's chest like a fat helium balloon.
Myhll manhandled Tony off to the sidelines.
"Fortunate," Myhll commented, sounding awfully unhappy about it. "The first matches weed out the mingin' cowards and drunkards." He glared at Tony. "Don't think ye will have it so simply next round."
"Chill," Tony snapped. "I got it." He was well aware of his amazing luck just now, thanks very much.
After a couple more matches went by, Tony heard his name and looked up in surprise to see Dommal pushing through the throng. Or rather, half shoved and half dragged. A pair of burly men like Myhll had firm grips on Dommal's arms.
"Dommal!" Tony exclaimed with a smile.
The kid looked like he definitely had had better days. He was grimy and bruised, and there was an unhealthy yellow pallor to his skin. A dirty cloth wrapped his left upper arm—it looked like a makeshift bandage.
"Sir Tony, I am filled with joy to see you are well," Dommal said and exhaled. Despite the crap they'd been through, despite the situation, despite everything, he still grinned. "I knew not of your fate 'till I observed you in the ring with Sir Braec, though it took much convincing before I was allowed to speak with you." He side-eyed his captors.
"Are you okay?" Tony asked. "Are you hurt? Did they treat you okay? Did you—"
Dommal held up a hand to stem the flood of questions. "I am well enough," he said, but there was a layer of exhaustion and sadness to him that made Tony's chest tighten. Not to mention that up close, Tony could see the cloth on his arm was definitely a bandage, stained the color of dried blood. "I believe I will fight soon."
"Right, that's enough," grumbled Myhll.
"C'mon, give us a minute," Tony said irritably.
Myhll cuffed Tony up the back of the head. "Shut yer gob, skamelar. Lest ye forget, yer still facking English prisoners 'til you win yer three. Ye do what we tell ye. If we say yer done, yer done."
Tony rubbed his head and clenched his jaw.
"Ah, let 'em jab," said one of the men holding Dommal. "Won't matter none, aye?"
Myhll rolled his eyes but complied, deciding not to hit Tony for any more attempts at conversation. After a few minutes, the crowd roared, drowning their voices out anyways. Tony's stomach knotted but it helped immensely to know his friend was okay, even if they didn't have much to say when the crowd's noise tapered off.
The crowd erupted in a chorus of boos when Lady Brae called Dommal.
"Dommal," Tony started, a spike of panic shooting through him. This might be the last time they'd speak and he didn't know what to say, how to thank Dommal for watching out for him.
"Stay strong, Sir Tony," said Dommal as the men pulled him into the crowd.
"You too."
Tony stood to get a better look at the arena. Myhll grabbed Tony's shoulder, digging his fingers into Tony's skin.
"I'm not going anywhere," Tony snapped, batting Myhll's hand away. This earned him another smack from the surly Scot, but Tony didn't sit down. He didn't move closer, either, not wanting to risk further wrath.
There were so many people, Tony couldn't see much beyond random glimpses of Dommal and his opponent. The crowd's reactions to the fight were mixed. Dommal wasn't popular because he was an English prisoner, but the guy he fought didn't seem to be well-liked either. Tony's palms were slick with sweat as the match drew on.
Dommal was as quick as ever, as far as Tony could tell. He danced around the other guy, though the Scotsman made up for it in strength. For a few minutes, Tony wasn't sure what Dommal was doing; he acted purely defensively, blocking shots and dodging away. He stayed back, making his opponent come to him, then dashed out of reach. The big guy, layered up with chainmail and armour and even a helmet, moved slower and slower the longer the match wore on. The crowd booed with restlessness and boredom but Dommal didn't waver in his strategy.
Tony's lips curved up in a slow, proud smile. That's it, kid, he thought. Tire the son of a bitch out.
Soon enough, Dommal pounced out of nowhere, all fierce, fast attacks. He sliced and hopped, shot in and out of the big guy's guard. A minute or so later, Dommal's opponent collapsed in an exhausted, bleeding heap. The crowd that had been moments before moaning about the boring match burst into appreciative cheers and Tony joined in. Through the gaps between people, Tony saw his friend take a shaky bow. He worried that Dommal wouldn't be able to triumph again in his next match—after the long bout, he looked even paler and sicker than before.
His captors led him back to the bench. Dommal dropped beside Tony, panting and swaying. It was clear he'd used up most of his energy on that fight.
Tony swallowed. "You're not going to make it through the next one, are you?" he mumbled.
Fresh blood soaked through the bandages on Dommal's arm. Dark circles stood out under the kid's green eyes so starkly he looked bruised.
"Of course...of course I shall," said the kid in a vain attempt at sounding confident. "I could best...any of these Scots...one-handed." He leaned back and tried to catch his breath.
"Yeah," said Tony. "I know you could." He offered Dommal a smile, but it was hollow. They both knew Dommal was in serious trouble.
Dommal's battle wound from a few days ago was surely infected—it had to be, after a day or two in the dungeons with nothing but a piece of tunic over it. The flush in Dommal's cheeks wasn't just from the battle; he probably had a fever. Without modern medicine, Tony knew the kid would be doomed, if he wasn't already. He looked away, struck with helplessness.
More matches went by and they all blurred together as Tony waited for his next turn. His stomach grumbled with hunger; the day had passed into afternoon. People in the crowd munched on food, watched as Lady Brae chose from a tray of goods, but no one offered him, Dommal, or the other tourney participants anything.
He frowned. We're the ones doing all the work out here, he thought bitterly. Then again, maybe they just don't want to waste perfectly good food on someone about to die. The thought did nothing to help his hunger—or his nerves.
Twice, they heard names of fellow Englishmen called. Both times the knights failed, their bodies dragged out of the ring. Tony shut his eyes and felt awful for being glad it wasn't him, Alric, or Dommal. He wondered where Alric was—he hadn't shown up in the ring nor been brought over to Tony and Dommal.
By the time Lady Brae called for Tony's second turn, the sun was halfway towards the horizon, peeking out briefly from behind slate gray clouds.
"Sir Anthony Stark of Winterfell," Lady Brae announced. "And Eòsaph Dunmore, son of Uillieam."
This time it a skinny redheaded kid joined him in the ring. He couldn't have been more than about sixteen years old.
"Oh, c'mon," Tony mumbled. A kid? At least Eòsaph was as pale and nervous looking as Tony, but that wasn't much of a consolation.
At the bell, the kid tore after Tony with a feral scream. It startled him to hear the noise coming from the lanky boy, so much so that he barely got his sword up in time to defend himself. He countered with a simple attack that Eòsaph dodged. For a few minutes, they battled in the same manner—the kid tried hard but didn't really seem to know what he was doing, and neither did Tony. They got a few minor hits in on each other, but nothing serious.
The crowd yelled out everything from encouragement to advice to insults at both of them, creating an indiscernible din that pounded against Tony's ears. For a second he thought he heard a familiar voice hollering his name, but Eòsaph charged again and Tony didn't have time to look.
Tony spun on his heel and used the kid's momentum against him. Eòsaph tumbled past Tony and fell face first into the dirt. He recovered quicker than Tony expected and the kid's sword lashed out, catching Tony across the shin. Tony hopped back, his leg stinging. He didn't think it was too deep, but it hurt. Blood trickled onto his foot and he took a wild swing as Eòsaph barrelled toward him.
Tony's sword hit the kid in the chest. Eòsaph's chainmail took the bulk of the hit, but Tony's sword slid off the metal. The blade buried itself into the kid's left arm and Eòsaph screamed. Tony reared back, horrified. Eòsaph made to take another run at Tony, but instead he staggered and collapsed. The crowd roared, and bile burned the back of Tony's throat.
Had he just—?
Eòsaph moaned and clutched his arm. A few people rushed forward to haul him from the ring, and Tony really was about to fall down and puke when the kid shot a quick wink at Tony. Realization dawned: the hit hadn't actually been that bad—the kid had just wanted the match to end as much as Tony did. And now the kid would look brave, even though he'd lost, as it had been after a "grievous" injury.
Clever little turd. Tony fought off a smile. Use that scar wisely, Eòsaph, he thought. Should get you plenty of looks from the ladies.
Myhll was still reluctant to congratulate Tony when he pulled him back to the sidelines. He scowled and didn't address Tony unless absolutely necessary. Dommal told Tony he'd done well. Tony thanked him and guzzled down the canteen of ale a small young girl offered him.
By late afternoon, Tony was starving and tired. The small burst of energy he'd gained from his minor triumph and Dommal's win wore off the longer they waited. Even so, it was too soon when Myhll bumped him into the arena again. Tony glanced back in panic at Dommal—shouldn't the kid have taken his second turn first? Was this the last moment he'd ever see his friend again?
"Sir Anthony Stark of Winterfell," called Lady Brae. This time there was a violent round of cheers from the crowds.
Tony couldn't help smirking and tossing a wave at the masses. The affirmation was damn good and helped him drown his rising dread.
"And Black Peadair of Fiden!"
Tony laid eyes on his opponent and knew he was finally, completely, so very screwed. The bottom dropped out of his stomach.
Holy. Shit.
The man was a bear. Tall, hairy, bulging muscles, giant black beard. He was gleeful and predatory, like a beast eager for its next meal. Like the meal was sitting right in front of him, ready to be devoured.
Tony estimated Black Peadair would cut him down in five seconds or less. He swallowed hard and his heart rammed against his ribs.
The bell rang. The match began.
A/n: glaikit skamelar - stupid scrounger/parasite