An Angel Called Eternity

The Field Rat's Banquet - Lykourgos VII: Waking Dreams

Lykourgos VII: Waking Dreams

The Twenty-Second Day of the Tenth Moon, 872 AD.
Haestinghen, Eastern Teleytaios, Klironomea.

His muscles screamed at him as he picked himself up off the floor, crying out for a respite that he knew wouldn't come. His lungs likewise burned with the need for air, the feeling only exacerbated by his continued exertion.
Where am I? Why are we fighting?
The space around the two of them was pitch black, though he could see just fine. His brother stood before him, axe and sword in hand, seeming only slightly less injured than Lykourgos himself felt.
He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out.
Frustrated and confused, he picked his own sword back up and readied his shield.
He took a wheezing breath as he braced himself against the kiteshield in his left hand, rolling his sword arm to try and release some of the tension in his muscles.
Angels above, his brother could fight.
For certain, Rhema had always had an aptitude for personal combat, but this?
I guess he didn't stop training when I left.
He placed his left foot forwards, and readied himself yet again.
How long had they been here?
Did it matter?
A ferocious overhead sweep was parried by his own blade as he allowed his instincts to guide his actions.
Don't think, just act.
Three more strikes were parried with as much poise as he was able to muster in his exhausted state, before Rhema's axe struck his shield with so much force that the head peeked through the other side of the wood.
Rhema wrenched his arm back, and a small chunk of the bastard's shield came away with the axe.
Lykourgos was unwilling to simply react to his assailant's attacks, instead moving himself forwards with steady, even steps.
His own blade darted forwards, first stabbing at his assailant's stomach, then a rightwards downstroke looking to bisect his brother diagonally. Rhema caught the blow on his axe, his left arm darting forwards to impale Lyk with his longsword.
But for once, Lykourgos was faster.
Putting as much weight as he could behind his damaged shield, he surged forwards.
Rhema was knocked clean off his feet, but scrambled to right himself before the exhausted prince could press his advantage.
His brother wiped the blood from his mouth, and the rook on his shoulder cawed.
Wait... a rook? Was it... was it there the whole time? Why didn't I see it before now?
The young rook perched itself on his brother's shoulder. Their tiny eyes were as captured constellations, their plumage night-black tipped with a deep indigo.
They pressed themselves against Rhema's ear, and cawed once again.
Then the rook flew.
Neither of the brothers moved to continue fighting, each enjoying a moment of respite and mesmerised by the bird's flight. It was young, but it moved with such grace and skill that even the greatest of falcons and eagles would be put to shame.
He sheathed his sword blade-down in the dirt, and ran a hand through his hair.
His eyes were stinging with sweat, and the only reason his hair hadn't covered them in the fight was because it was so matted with ichor that it moved like a single block rather than thousands of hairs.
He tugged his fingers through to try and part the knotted mess and focused again on the bird's flight.
Eventually it settled once more, perching itself on the rim of Lyk's shield. The bird's head tilted, and the clusters of light in the black sclera seemed to crackle with energy. It nodded at him once, and moved to perch on his shoulder.
There was a flash of blue light, and his body surged with radiant energy.
His wounds did not close. There was no miraculous force that replenished his flagging vigour.
But his resolve? His spirit?
He found himself more determined to fight, to win, to live, than he ever had before.

Another hour had passed, and finally he seemed to have the upper hand over his brother
An hour of nothing but the monotony of endless duelling.
Strike, parry, riposte, strike, parry, riposte.
His shield was little more than an empty frame now, his armour twisted and bent. He was damn lucky his sword hadn't shattered from the ferocity of their fighting.
His brother's strength seemed to be flagging, his blows becoming less and less powerful, his parries more and more frantic.
Lykourgos threw the tattered remnants of his shield to the side as Rhema made another attempt to attack. When his brother's axe drew near it was shattered at the haft by an almighty two-handed blow.
The blade continued sailing forwards in its wide, swooping arc, drawing blood from the wide-eyed fighter's arm.
At that moment the rook let out another caw, somehow echoing through the darkness.
There was a second flash of light, and the last of the fight left his brother.
The bird swooped to his brother's broken form, and pressed its head against the prince's. Rhema closed his eyes and seemed to savour the contact while it lasted.
For a few seconds there was an expression of bliss on his brother's face, one he hadn't seen since they were children.
For a few seconds he knew his brother was happy.
And then the rook took flight again, and moved themselves back to Lykourgos' side.
As the rook made to perch on his shoulder, Lykourgos saw how the tension left his brother's body. Rhema collapsed to the floor, slumped in a heap and weapons clattering to the pitch black ground.
Rhema looked up at him and gave him a tired smile before lowering his head once more.
Lykourgos raised his own sword, and-
No, wait, what am I doing? No, I don't want to-
The blade fell, and his brother's head rolled away into the dark.