Author Games: A Knight's Valor

Task Two: Male Entries

Lemaria Male: John Tommson

The tourney had always been John's favorite part of the tournament. It was his strong point, his greatest asset. John had been trained in the art of sword fighting since he was small. It was in his blood, and as he studied the rack of tourney swords before him, he knew he would not fail.

It was a glittering assembly. Weapons of all calibers. Maces and axes, broadswords and longswords, bows, spears—and even a few deviously dangerous objects that John could not place. The sun bore down on the hot day outside of the tent, sweltering heat already making him uncomfortably warm under the light clothes that he wore. The best and the worst time for a fight.

And oh, the fight. The first fight. The only one that mattered. John was determined to win. He took a deep breath, breathing in the smell of metal and the smoky scent of a tourney. Gods, I love this.

"My lords, my ladies, for your viewing pleasure—the next fight will be between John Tommson and Zenith Nadir!" The voice of the announcer boomed through the stadium, and John smiled. It's time. He pulled a sword from the rack, a well balanced short sword that would serve him well, and headed out into the arena.

John took a deep breath as he walked out into the sunlight; the brightness shining down on his forehead and making him sweat. The small dirt circle was fenced off from the spectators, and when the cheers of the fans reached his ears, a wry smirk all but crawled across his face. Gamblers, fans of all types, spectators and women hoping for a kiss. That's what John found surrounding him. Aside from the royal family sitting in the spectators box above the common folk, the only person John could assume would be honorable was the opponent who stood at the other end.

Zenith Nadir, a tall boy with brown hair that reflected the sun who looked rather easily knocked off balance. A good weight, John decided, not too heavy for the melee. Cadosa, John remembered. They've always been a strange bunch. He could see that Zenith's sword blunted at the tip, just as John's was, yet John knew better than anyone that a man can still be hurt just as quick with a tourney sword as real one. He better not be fast, John mused. If he's fast I'm done.

This is crazy. This is absolutely insane. But that doesn't mean I won't win this fight. John made brief eye contact with the opponent. A short, brisk nod signaling his acknowledgement

From the balcony, the willowy arm of the queen could be seen with a small handkerchief in her hands. John shifted the sword in his hands, weight sliding from foot to foot. As the scrap of fabric fell, the challenge began. Even though they were safe behind a wall of wood, the crowd still shied away at the sight. His opponent was unskilled—John knew him as the alchemist. But he knew that underneath that was a mind sharp enough to hurt. He'd have to be fast. He'd have to be smart. John knew to keep eye contact, and in the brief moments before his first move, John could see his uncertainty.

Advance, John thought to himself, advance. And his opponent did. In a clumsy first move, the other boy charged at him with his sword upheld. He swung forwards with the weapon, the back. John found himself dodging and returning the attack with ease. The weight of his block sent Zenith staggering back. Not good enough, John cursed at himself as he saw the blade still firm in his opponent's hands.

John saw his chance to strike. The arch of the tourney sword coming close enough to kiss the fabric of Zenith's shirt. Any closer and I would have hurt him.

Zenith retreated again. John slashed out. He missed the boy by a breath, watching with amusement as his blade was pushed away by his opponents. Take the offensive. Make my day. Zenith was calculating, deciding, and John saw that as another chance to take him off balance. His sword collided with the other. Blades pressed flat against each other in an attempt to disarm. Zenith jumped back, only fumbling with the blade. Damn. The sun beat down on John, his skin growing hot as the fight went on.

Enough of this. Three strikes in quick succession, John's feet sliding through the dirt. Two missed badly, causing him to grit his teeth. The third found skin at last. The light sword colliding with Zenith's knee to bring him to the ground. With a well-placed curse of pain, Zenith tried to stand up again. He fell back onto his knees and John smirked. He turned away from his fallen opponent to face the crowd, sword held loose in his grip. It's done. Slowly, John's eyes turned to the Royal Family. He opened his mouth to speak at the same time the sword caught him across the back. Pain exploded from his shoulderblades, knocking the wind out of him and forcing him to the ground. My sword. John's hands were empty. Where's my sword? The fight was lost.

"Yield," Zenith commanded and with a single scowl John submitted.

"I yield."

I'm a fool. 

Valden Male: Tybolt Maddox

NO ENTRY RECIEVED

Tanad Male: Cynesige Tolbert

The clash of weapons greeted my ears as I sat in a clothed tent, awaiting my turn at the melee. I hadn't known it last night, but today was the day the future knights participated in a short battle against another - nearly the same as the peasant boys fighting each other in the streets for the chance to brag about it.

I didn't see the function of the small battles, other than to weed out who was too weak to lift a sword, but it gave me a chance to size up the competition. While Ren and Edmund practiced together, I watched out the slits of fabric and judged the two fighting at the moment - the boy was obviously stronger than his petite opponent, but she was managing to keep herself in the ring.

"Cynesige Tolbert?" I glanced at the page who'd entered the room, and the room quieted slightly. He bowed low and handed me a short wooden staff, about two feet long. On it, attached with a chain, was a small ball, the spikes that adorned it unsharpened, but still enough to hurt.- a flail.

"The queen has asked that you be given this. She sees promise in you."

I bowed as well, and accepted the gift with a smile that, to others, may have seemed wolfish. "Tell Her Majesty I thank her, and hope to make her proud."

"Yes, sire."

Two other pages entered, both holding swords. One was given to someone I couldn't see, and the other approached Renauda, handing her a wrapped sword. She and Edmund stopped practice to examine it closely before glancing up and meeting my eye.

Ren stowed the sword she'd been practicing with and sauntered over, followed by Edmund. "Looks like at least the two of us have been lucky. You could prove useful in this regard, Tolbert."

"And you could prove useful to my nights, my lady. Care to help?" I bowed to Ren, winking at her, but she shoved me away and withered my tongue with her glance.

"Let's see how good you are with this toy, eh?"

"My pleasure."

The way the weapon swung was reminiscint of the scythes I'd often seen peasants using in the field to cut wheat - they moved the curved weapons back and forth to rid the stalks of their useful grains, just as I swung the stick. The ball, however, didn't seem to want to follow, and the first time it struck my wrist, it left a stinging smack.

Edmund grinned. "I only hope my opponent has as much talent with his weapon as you do with yours. Perhaps something lighter for our pampered boy?"

"Quiet, forest elf. That bow and arrows will do you no good jammed into your-"

"Boys, please. Cyneisge, try not showing off too much. It'll work better if you swing it lightly, not clutch it as if it's the gold going through your greedy fingers."

"Me, greedy? Dear Ren, you wound me." A heavy sigh and a hand to the heart accompanied my words. "I'll let you come over here and play with my flail, if you desire, Ren."

"Tolbert, I made it quite clear that I do not appreciate your advances yesterday. Do you wish for another slap to the face? I'd be more than happy to oblige."

"I'd be more than happy to recieve another."

Ren was nearly red with anger when another page entered the room. "Cynesige Tolbert and Fennet Abernathy, the arena wishes your presence."

A slender girl stood from the other side of the tent, and the heavy sword she already held was hard to ignore. Someone else had been gifted by the royal family.

"Good luck, Cynesige," Edmund called as I left.

Ren snorted and studied her sword indifferently. "I'd hate to not get to be the one to beat you, Tolbert. Try to save me that joy, all right?"

"I'm winning you over, Ren, admit it."

She replied with a gesture none too polite, but I left smiling, the flail I held in one hand the key to my success. Before approaching the dirt-floored arena that I was to be battling the girl - Fennel? - in, I strutted towards the royal's box at one end, and bowed deeply.

"I thank thee, your majesty, for the generous gift. I hope to do you proud, my queen."

"Rise, Cynesige, and face your opponent."

The grin slipped off my face as I turned and bowed low. Fennel was already in a classic fighting stance, the sword she had held high. I readied myself as well, my grip on the flail not too tight as Ren had suggested. This was to be a fair fight, but not a bloodless one.

"You seem a decent girl. I hate to beat you, my lady," I told her.

She only tightened her grip. "You seem a decent lad. I'd hate to be beaten, sire."

"You may begin."

The girl was quick, that was for sure - when I struck with my flail, she danced out of the way and swung her broadsword so fast I nearly stumbled backing up. Her size was misleading as well - the slip of a girl hardly looked able to lift a dagger, much less the larger sword she handled with ease.

I growled and swung again, this time lower, and nearly managed to catch her ankle with the ball end. She brought the flat of her sword down on the back of my head while I was down, ringing my skull with blows. I only just managed to stand back up and swing the flail into her stomach before retreating to nurse the wounds she'd inflicted.

My head felt like a stuck pig - bleeding lightly from scratches, I winced as my fingers probed the area, coming away sticky. Still, I'd at least winded Fennel, and she took a minute to appraise me before attacking again.

"You're very good in combat, I'll give you that, my lady," I called, spinning out of the way of her next swing. "I'd hate to get you in a bad mood."

Her face was the epitome of concentration, and she ignored my banter as she attacked again. I blocked the swing with the wooden end of my weapon and swung at her ankles, grazing them, but mostly kicking up dirt from the dry ground - at least, it was dry where there wasn't blood droplets matting the dirt.

I lashed out again with my flail, but only relived the moment with Edmund, managing to sting the knuckles of my hand with the ball. Fennel let out a laugh and lunged at my chest, the inch or so left in between us not a comfortable distance for me.

Another blow came from above, and I wheezed air into my lungs as Fennel grinned, her sword having successfully scraped my side and knocked the air from me. Still, I wasn't about to let a twig beat me, even if she was obviously experienced in the art of combat - moreso than I.

I made to swing at her right side, but stopped halfway through and brought the flail down on her foot. Fennel winced and took a step back, allowing me to jab at her stomach with the stick end of the weapon and at least distract her. She wasn't going down without a fight, though, and slammed the hilt of her sword into my mouth.

The metallic taste of blood hit my mouth, and I spat crimson, wincing as my tongue probed my soft mouth. No teeth seemed to be missing, though I was sure they were all tinged red.

The injury had given Fennel an opportunity to regain her balance and swing again. She was fast-paced and not willing to let me have a moment of rest, but I avoided her swing and, again, hit her with the wooden staff of my weapon. It was easier than embarrassing myself again with the flail. Fennel, though, had full control of her weapon, and had no qualms about slicing at my legs. I stepped away from the attack and swung my own weapon towards her, catching her ankle. She stumbled and I jabbed the end of the flail into her stomach, knocking the girl flat. A quick hit from the flail to her hand, and she let out a yelp as the stinging ball hit her fingers. The clatter of her sword to the ground was music to my ears, but Fennel still scratched at my face earnestly. Stinging scratches appeared along my cheeks, and it took biting my lip not to wince.

"You'll mar my good looks, my lady. Can't you give me a chance?"

I slammed the wooden end of my flail into her nose, and it began to look like a real battle had occured. Blood still stained my mouth and head, and now Fennel's nose gushed red rivers, though I didn't think I'd fully broken it. Perhaps my one saving grace - I didn't want another enemy.

"Rise, Cynesige, Fennet." I'd been thinking her name wrong all along. "A good fight, but we must declare Cynesige Tolbert the winner."

"No grievances, eh, Fennet? Apologies for the injuries, though they're no worse than mine. You're good with a sword, my lady."

She bowed stiffly. "Thank you, Cynesige. You seemed to hold your own out there, though. I'd hate to see you against someone who doesn't know how to fight."

"Pure luck. I spent some time earlier getting to know my weapon and watched fights over scraps in the servants courtyard. I'd hardly call myself an expert such as yourself."

"I'm no expert - I was beaten by you."

I let out a short laugh and bowed low, grasping her hand to kiss it. "And it was my pleasure. Perhaps we can tussle again sometimes, with less blood and clothing."

She wrinkled her nose and narrowed her eyes in a way that made her look like a blood-stained ferret. "Perhaps not. I wish you luck with the remainder of the tournament, sire."

"And the same to you, my lady."

Ren was waiting for me when I returned to the tent. "Better than I expected from you, Tolbert. Though, do you have to proposition everyone you meet, worm?"

"Pet names? You flatter me, Ren."

"Oh, lay off. You got lucky this time, but don't get cocky."

"Advice from my favorite lady. How could I ignore it?"

Edmund grasped my arm. "Well done, Cynesige. Perhaps the queen taking favor to you has brought you luck."

"We can only hope," Ren muttered. "You'll need it."

"I may surprise you, Ren." A cool cloth was relief to the stinging scratches adorning my body, and I lay back with a sigh. I could only hope the next challenges wouldn't prove as physically exhausting.

Miras Male: Vere Lennox

Something had happened between night and day that transformed the confines of the castle from the City of the Dead into something lighter, but filled with far more tension: the ring of a tournament circle became an Arena of Arrogance. Shivering bones long decayed became the heavy thwack and whistle of wooden poles being swung through the air, the cause of an all new sort of quiver and quake - all were nervous of how they'd do in their designated tournament. And if they weren't nervous, they were oblivious. And if they were neither of those things, they were simply suffering from a long night of drinking, or they weren't human at all. In that case, they should've been sent right back to the moat of the castle, right back to the bubbling river of mud where they'd be sucked under with the rest of the dead.

Instead, Vere walked over a packed expanse of dirt, dead weeds peeking through cracks in the earth, in the path he followed. His boots were heavy enough to leave imprints in his wake - there would be proof of his fight engraved in the earth until the next rain came. That thought made some sort of pride swell in his chest, a pride, that lifted his spirits.

Unlike the night before, his mood was delightful, less panicky. Why, exactly, was that the case?

He saw no sign of Mavary.

With a spring in his step, Vere approached the stands, his eyes catching on a pair of women surrounding the stands which held the tournament weapons. They chattered to one another avidly, one chuckling at something the other said, bending down to test the weights of each wooden sword, standing up for a swing every now and then. Wash, rinse, repeat.

When one of the women turned enough for him to catch her identity, a smile widened upon his features. He picked up his pace. Trustin. From home. Not too long after did the other girl turn back, the beautiful eyes of Aloisa landing on his approaching self. He knew nothing of the second girl, but hoped he'd learn something. She seems nice enough. Let's hope my judgment isn't wrong this time.

With a huff, Vere paused before the two, rolling his shoulders. His gaze flicked between the two, a nervous chuckle bubbling up, ready to spill out. He bit it back. Now what, dinglehopper? He scratched the back of his head and cleared his throat, cheeks filling with blood when the two giggled. Okay, okay. They seem like they're already royalty. Treat them like it, Lennox.

After nearly smacking himself in the back of the head, he brought his arm forward to rest in front of his chest, leaning forward in a bow. "Lady, um, Trustin. Lady, er, Aloisa."

Not knowing what to do next, he stay there, stuck in that position, bowing down to two women who wanted nothing more than to surpass him in knighthood and reign victorious next to the King and Queen herself as a most treasured warrior.

When the women snorted, his face grew impossibly redder, teeth grinding against one another as he bit back strings of self-doubt. Great. I messed up somewhere, and I don't even know what it is to be able to fix it.

"Oh, come on, man," one woman said, reaching forward to take up his arm. Another set of dainty fingers met his other arm, and together they lifted him from his stance. "We're knights, just like you. Don't treat us any different."

I offended them? I offended them. I offended them!

Vere's words came flicking off his tongue, jumping off his taste-buds as though his tongue were a cliff, and the saliva that lay beneath were a raging ocean. "I'm so sorry, guys - I mean gals - uh...things? No, not things, you're not things, you're people, very nice people I'm sure, and I uh, I...uh..."

Trustin and Aloisa both placed a hand over his mouth, fingers weaving across his lips like a muzzle intended to keep him from barking on and on. "Shush it. Willow is waiting for you."

Quickly, without giving his regards to the knights on either side of him, he slipped between the two and reached out for one of the wooden weapons, snatching it up and stumbling his way to the fence that surrounded the Arena of Arrogance.

His feet crunched against pebbles, kicking them up as he went. Hands met his back, shoving him roughly in the midst of the circle; across from him stood Willow Alden, a girl he'd been meaning to speak to but just never got around to - code for he was too chicken. She wore furs over her shoulders, the furs of hunted animals, and her attire was tight, form-fitting, but still seemed to allow her to move freely and with flexibility.

She offered a small wave before clutching a wooden staff close to her body, prodding the ground with it and kicking up dusty specks of brown that took off with the wind and burned into Vere's eyes. He blinked erratically, rubbing his eyes with his simple sleeve as he stumbled his way over to where Willow stood.

Her stick came slamming into his nose before he'd even realized they'd begun.

As he went falling back already, he thought he caught a figure twirling about in the fields just outside the ring, and his blood ran cold - that, or it started boiling, he couldn't really tell; the burning effect was all the same. Mavary. Mavary is out spinning in the grass, doing whatever the hell he wants.

He'll be out of the competition soon enough.

And so, Vere straightened his back and stood, his tourney weapon already swinging forward for Willow's face. She saw this coming and arched her back just in time for it to merely skim her nose; she caught her balance again sooner than Vere could bring his staff back and came running forward to land a punch to his face.

Cadosa Male: Zenith Nadir

We were barbecued under the heat that was emitted from the afternoon sun. It was the first day of the Tournament, and we will be having a melee between other competitors in the tournament. All the opponents were brought into a small arena, shaped in a circle, with crowds that probably originated from all the corners of Elusia. The Royal Family was present, too, seated comfortably at the head of the coliseum as they judge each of us on what they observed about us throughout the melee. I hope I'm not the first one fighting, I want to first see some tactics that other competitors use.

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the first day of the Tournament, A Knight's Melee. The knights will be selected in pairs and battle each other until you put your opponent into the risk of death. For example, if Aloïsa has pointed the sharp side of her knife blade towards Trust's neck, Aloïsa must freeze and do not continue her move. Then, she would be counted as the round's winner and after two more rounds, the next pair comes up. Knights, are you ready? The first pair is..."

I hope it isn't me. I am not quite familiar with the use of a blade, but maybe after long periods of time practicing the swords, I may have improved. Who knows.

"John Tommson versus..." Oh no. Pauses are not a good sign. "Zenith Nadir!" No no no no no. No way. I've heard it right, right? Are you sure it's not Danish Nedoor? Please tell me it was a mistake.

"You're up!" A man said to me and he dragged me down to the field. Why am I the first? Can I at least be second? I'd like someone else to first start off and show me how it's done. But there's nothing I could do about it. I should quit whining to myself and be brave. I'm a knight after all, and I'm supposed to protect His Majesty no matter how much it takes. I'll try to show the best of myself to the audience and, hopefully, win against my rival.

Across the court I see a person, tall, narrow, and with black hair. He has an angular face that may come in handy in poking the opponent. Not good. He seemed like he came from the darkest areas in the Elusia, because his clothes are old and worn. He is my opponent, John.

I have purposely made some sword combinations for this time's combat. I named them after the elements, Air, Earth, Fire, and Water, because I believe these combinations share characteristics of their named element. I wish it could help me during the fight. I picked up a zinc colored (grayish-blue metallic) sword and kissed my shoulder to grant myself good luck.

John and I both walked towards the center of the arena. I can already feel the tension that will happen later in the fight. You see, John is a natural born swordsman, whereas me? I'm probably a natural born alchemist, or mathematician, or maybe just a poisoner. Fighting with him would be like fighting with His Majesty, so he's probably going to crush me during the melee.

"Round 1, Starting in 3... 2... 1... go!" Uh-oh. I quickly greeted the swordsman, and he saluted back. I'm going to first dodge some of his moves to analyze a pattern so I can fight back in his weak point.

John acted his first move. Vertical 90° drop and with a 120° mean anomaly. Basically a chop, but a bit wider. He then poked the sword towards me at a speed of 3 inches per second.

I dodged to the right, narrowly missing John's blow, the leapt into the air like a graceful antelope and spun around sharply on my heel as soon as my feet touched the ground. All at once the equations and mathematics were washed out of my mind as if a gigantic tidal wave. The pressure that radiated from the crowd, plus the heat that beamed down from the blazing sun equaled to insane tension and emotional strain that I was definitely feeling right now. Oh great, a math equation again. My breaths were deep and ragged as I attempted to swipe back at John, who looked annoyed that I had avoided his blow. However, I misjudged the distance and my own blow landed short of my target. John let out a short, gruff laugh that made the hairs of the back of my neck stand up in fear and terror. Uh oh, that laugh sounded menacing...

John jumped at me, and this time successfully managed to land a blow to my shoulder. Thankfully, I was wearing armor (of course) and was not physically injured. However, the blow managed to deteriorate me and caused me to stumble, and before I could regain my balance John struck once more, charging at me like an enraged bull before literally smashing into me, causing the both of ice to tumble onto the dirt ground. The crowd gasped.

Before I knew it, John had clamored over me and was pressing the blade of his sword to my neck, sweat beaded on his forehead and a confident smirk etched on his roughish features. "Do you yield?" he hissed, sounding like a striking cobra.

I didn't like surrendering so fast, but I had no choice. "Yes," I grumbled, unimpressed and annoyed.

As John stood up and the crowd began chanting his name, I sauntered off the fighting pit, determined that next time, I would emerge victorious against John Thommson of Lemaria.

Galesia Male: Finn Silverstein

The gardens of Lemaria are beautiful and much better than the ones I saw everyday back in Galesia. In truth I have only been here a few days and I already feel at home in the shadow of the castle. If I do not win then I definitely want to live here. I'd find some way even if it meant taking on an apprenticeship in some filthy blacksmith. This is where I belong. I just know it.

The path to the arena is a short but twisty one and I'm thankful from the many trees that provide some form of shelter from the hot sun. The stone buildings here are so graceful and elegant and very different from the sandstone monstrosities that I grew up around. Each one I pass seems so inviting and warm but I have a destination. A circular building on a hill just outside the castle grounds. It's amazing how they have circular buildings. There are no such things in Galesia. I can hear the crowds chanting someone's name before I reach the bottom of the hill. Whoever it is must be good to have such a following. One day I want to be that good. To have the crowd chant my name. I would be an amazing honour.

Inside the building I am greeted by a short elderly man. He greets me with a warm smile on his wrinkled face. "Welcome son. Follow me and I'll show you to wear the weapons are." He leans heavily on a stick as he leads me through many similar corridors. Occasionally there is a vase or a statue to change to brighten up the room but aside from that almost all of the other rooms seem empty. It's slow going with him hobbling along but eventually he comes to a stop beside a simple wooden door. The door itself is scratched and worn much like the man that lead me to it. "This is one of the many weapon rooms in the arena. Choose wisely son."

The weapon room is actually quiet small yet within its four walls it holds more weapons than I have ever seen in my entire lifetime. Quickly I skim past the many variety of swords, skip past the tridents and nets until I find the weapon I am after. A dagger has never failed me before and I pray to whatever God is up there that it will not fail me today. The dagger I choose is a simple bronze one with no intricate detailing. It almost makes me wish that I had my father's beautiful dagger with me today. I have no such luck though he made me give it back the moment I chose to leave him and his lifestyle behind.

With my weapon in hand I join the old man again "A dagger hmm? A fine choice for a spritely young man such as yourself. May it serve you well." I thank him as we continue back through the endless empty rooms. "Your opponent seems like the type to prefer short swords though." The man contemplates.

"You know who I'm fighting?" I ask surprised.

"Yes an older woman called Colette. If I remember correctly. From Valden she is." I try to think back to last night but I cannot recollect any woman named Colette from the feast.

"What else can you tell me about her?" I try to remain calm but hints of my curiosity show in my tone.

The man shakes his balding head "A curious young fellow aren't you? Well I cannot deny a thirst for knowledge. She seems fair this Colette but she also is quick to judge. A trained fighter with a knack for the old sword. No problem for a young lad who can run rings around her. Am I right?"

A trained fighter? I only have a little training but I am quick and nimble hopefully that counts for something. "Yes. I will win."

"Hehe." The old man laughs stopping at another door. "Well here we are. Just stand here and wait for your name to be called out." In an instant he is gone through another door leading to who knows where. The urge to follow him is great but he told me to stay here so I stand still. Through the new door is the sound of cheers, even muffled by the thick doors the noise is extremely loud. Excitement pumps through my blood, making my feet want to move. This is my chance to prove myself.

"Welcoming Colette Bennett of Valden!" A voice calls over the noise of the crowd. It'll be my turn in a minute. Several seconds pass before they finally announce my name. "Welcoming Finn Silverstein of Galesia!" I push open the doors mere moments after I hear Finn. Out into the bright sunny day I step. To hear the crowd cheering for me as I walk to face the King and Queen is the best experience of my life. My opponent stands before the King and Queen. Her piercing green eyes watch my every move distrustfully. The old man said that she was quick to judge perhaps she has heard about my past? When I stand next to her she's taller than me but not so tall as to actually tower over me. One of her calloused hands gently caresses the hilt of her silver sword. I bow to the King in front of me. As much as I love the adoration of the crowd it is him that I really want to please. The woman standing next to me snorts in amusement at my attempt to bow.

The arena like the building is circular with a golden sand floor hopefully a nice soft landing. Around us are thousands of spectators crammed onto large steps. Men, women and children cheer on their favourites. Some even have little flags with the emblems of the different places on. On the flags that I can see there are no Galesia supporters but there are several here to see Valden win.

After all the formalities are over we turn to look at each other. Each staring into each other's eyes. Her eyes betray a hatred for me even though this is our first meeting. With her head tilted upwards it is like she is looking down on me. "You have no place here thief. I want to fight a proper knight."

"I am a thief no longer. I want to be a knight." I reply but she just laughs and shakes her head. The King claps his hands three times. It does not take a scholar to realise that this means our fight has begun. No sooner than the last clap Colette draws her short sword. Slowly we begin to circle each other neither one taking their eyes off the other. One circle turns into 5 and 5 turns into 10. With each step the crowd's call for bloodshed gets louder and louder. Colette is happy to oblige leaping forward with a thrust of her sword but I swiftly dart out of the way.

"This must be a fair fight." The elfish girl warns "I want none of your thief trickery." She lunges again and I move away too late, her sword scratches my arm slightly. It's only a small cut but it draws blood staining my vibrant yellow shirt. I possess no armour and the court never gave me any so I just have to make do with what I have. My opponent however has some amount of protection in the way of a light chainmail.

"I already think that you have the advantage here" I tell her.

Again she laughs "True." While she laughs I leap forward with my dagger in hand. My metal blade just bounces of her shiny armour. "You have no hope of winning this fight Finn Silverstein. Only those who fight honorably will win."

"Who says I don't fight honorably?" We resume circling each other searching for a gap in each other's defences. Her white-blonde braid moves sways with every step that she takes. Suddenly she lunges forward again taking me off guard. I do not have time to dodge the strike and the sword cuts deep into my leg. I fall to the ground. Pain shoots up my leg as blood pours out of the open wound. There is no way I can stand after this.

Colette stands over me her sword pointing straight at my heart. "Do you give up yet?"

"No!" I say forcefully kicking out with my other leg. It hits her right in the chest and she falls backwards. Her sword flies through the air landing several feet away. Scrambling to her feet I thought she might try to retrieve it but she dives on top of me. Quickly I move my head away as she lands a punch on the sandy ground. No matter how much I wiggle I cannot get her off me. She tries to punch me again bringing her head close to mine. I lift mine up with force and we connect with a bang. She moves back as quickly as she can rubbing her forehead that I just head butted. While it did get her off me for a second it has given me a headache. Who knew foreheads were so hard? Dark patches appear in my vision but so does Colette. Her long braid swings down and rests on my face. "Do you mind moving your hair? It is rather tickly?"

Tilting her head back the woman lets out a loud laugh. With her distracted I push her with both hands. She falls backwards landing on my injured leg. "Does this hurt?" She asks evilly pushing her elbow into the wound "How bad does it hurt?"

"Now... who's fighting fairly?" I question breathlessly.

"It is fair after all the pain you caused all of your victims. Think of all the poor shopkeepers. They need to make money somehow. If they don't have money then they cannot afford to feed their families." However she does ease her elbow out of the wound.

"Has it ever occurred to you that I needed to steal to make money so I could eat?"

"You could have made money in an honest way." She states matter-of-factly. "Like becoming an apprentice merchant."

"I do not think my father would let me do that. He sees it as a family trade."

She cocks her head to one side interested. "Yet you are here." Maybe if I can change her opinion of me she'll go easy on me.

"Here and disowned by the only family I have even known."

Her green eyes widen slightly in shock. Deep down I've hit a nerve I almost feel sorry for the bruise that is developing around her eye. "Family should be everything. They should not have disowned you for coming here."

"But they did." I remind her. "There's no point talking about them now. We're here to fight." I try to wiggle out from under her but she is surprisingly heavy.

"Nuh uh thief there is no escaping." She says pushing me down into the ground. For sand flooring it is incredibly hard. With my leg and head pounding I can barely put up a fight but I cannot give up. In a attempt to push her off again she grabs both of the and holds them tightly with one hand. With the other Colette picks up my dagger testing its weight. Carefully she drags the blade down my cheek. Wet, sticky blood trickles down my face and into my ear. No matter how I move my head I cannot get it out. "All you need to say is surrender and I'll stop and get a doctor."

With every effort I wiggle again. I have no more energy left to fight. I have always known how to pick my battles. Even if it does mean losing in front of the King. I know this is a battle that I cannot win. Next time I cross paths with Colette Bennett I'll make sure to win. "I surrender."

Oceaf Male: Killian Henry

The sun was brutally hot, baking the ground that already was scuffed with footprints and the occasional drop of blood. We competitors sat in a small, roped off section, just waiting for our turn in the rink.

I glanced around, searching out familiar faces - yes, there was Fennet, and the blonde girl I'd run into, and the dark-haired boy who'd managed to get drunk off mead last night. He had to have drunk at least ten goblets full, but he didn't seem any worse for the wear, now that the real competition was beginning.

Many competitors had already fought, and they were patching their wounds in the medical tent or watching everyone else with the content knowledge that they didn't have to fight any more. I had been relieved to see that everyone was only bruised or scratched - they weren't having us fight with real weapons, only dulled tournament style swords and bows that littered the arena, waiting to be used. I wasn't sure which I would pick, or who I would be fighting against. It simply had to wait.

Two more rounds of people came and went before my turn, each pair walking out with bruises and scrapes alike. One girl had defeated her partner in what felt like seconds, but I doubted I would be the one to win. If anything, I'd be the one being beaten in seconds, if I was up against a worthy competitor.

"Killian Henry." A page called out my name in a reedy voice from the scroll of paper he'd been given. "Edmund of the Forest."

A man taller than I, but not as broad, stood and began making his was down the rows. I followed, and just before we'd reached the bottom, Edmund turned around.

"A fair fight, then, Killian?"

"Of course, sire. You seem a very worthy competitor. I only hope to not lose in a minute."

"I shall try my best not to be killed by you, good sir. Your strength must be unmatched."

"As is your wit, Sir Edmund."

He laughed and made a beeline for the bow and arrows that were laid along the side of the arena. I searched the rows of weapons then, before choosing a long, heavy sword - nothing I couldn't lift, but it felt unbalanced in my hands, and I contemplated giving up then.

Edmund and I turned to the royal court, watching from above, and bowed, then waved at the crowds that cheered. Apparently, this melee was a largely advertised event, as the stands that had been built for it were full of townspeople watching with bated breath as the would-be knights fought.

I readied my grip, hoping to only avoid as many of the dangerous looking arrows Edmund already had nocked and perhaps land a few steady blows. Winning would be a combination of pure luck, brute strength, and Edmund tripping over his own feet.

"You may begin." Queen Melinda's high voice floated down to us, and in seconds, an arrow was barreling my way. I managed to throw myself out of the way and ran at Edmund, who only backed up and sent another arrow whistling at me.

I had hoped to last for a while, but Edmund was too quick. He knew his way around a bow, that was obvious, and I wouldn't last long if I didn't fight back. I couldn't fight back, though, not with a short-range weapon against his master archery skills.

It wasn't enough to simply avoid and try to attack. I had to head him off - though he was obviously an expert archer, there were a few seconds while he aimed. That was when I had to charge.

The crowds were silent as I kept dodging and thinking, occasionally making a few steps forwards towards Edmund, only to be thrown backwards as I dodged another arrow or Edmund backed away. He was quick on his feet, but I knew I could do something.

I waited until Edmund was drawing his bow, then rushed at him, preparing my sword to slice at his side. He still managed to shoot an arrow into my side - though it was dulled, it still hurt like the bite of a whip, and I knew I would be no less bruised than anyone else.

The charging method hadn't worked. I was too large of a target for him to miss. My only chance would be if I couldn't be a target - if he missed me, or at least only grazed me. I didn't want another arrow to the side.

This time, as Edmund aimed, I ran one way, then the other, always at a diagonal towards Edmund. He didn't know where to aim, and the first arrow he shot only whistled past me as I changed direction. The zig-zag motion made me less of a target, and I could almost swipe at his legs to disarm him.

There was a gasp as another arrow shot - this time, it glanced off my arm, still feeling like a punch in the bicep. I winced and clutched the arm, my sword arm, with my hand, but kept running, and Edmund was too busy aiming again to evade me. I managed to hit to his side, jarring him, but he let his last arrow fly, and it hit me squarely in the chest.

I gasped and staggered a step backwards, feeling like I'd been hit by a piece of lumber. Edmund gently slapped my hand and my sword dropped, only kicking up dust on the ground. He smiled and held out a hand.

"You're a good fighter, Killian."

"You're better, Edmund."

He laughed. "I only have more practice. That was witty, the running trick."

"Thank you. You're a good shot."

"I've had lots of practice."

The queen's voice silenced us and the arena once again, the crowds stopping their cheering for Edmund. "The fight is over. Edmund of the Forest is declared the winner."

Another great cheer, but none so great as the one that I felt in my heart. Edmund had deserved this win, and if I lost, at least I still had all my dignity.

Raleith Male: Mavary Valls

The field was a joyful place. Mavary's smile was outstretched across his jaw, only looking for motive to widen even further. Blades of grass ached against the soles of his bare feet, the shoes he was supposed to be wearing hanging lowly in his hands. Each palm, fingers lengthy like a loose string, carefully twirled each shoe by the laces, back and forth as his arms swayed with walk. The tiny crevices between his toes were dirties, but Mavary did not care- dirt was soft, grass was soft, and the softness was fun to feel.

There was a battle to be fought, soon, and anticipation grappled at the man like a hook piercing a balloon that refused to pop, to relent. His upper lip quivered above his white teeth, while his hair had already been ruffled by nervous hands, too shaky to have stilled. So, when the nerves stole enough of his physicality, he bent down, took his shoes off, and walked without them. The field was large and mostly barren- Mavary was the only one who saw it like it was: beautiful.

He was walking in circles. The wooden barricade of a rustled, dirt area was lined with spectators and the other knights, most of which he hadn't met. Yet, he added on to the thought, but I would love to hear them soon.

However, Eleos was in the middle of losing his fight . It was a concept Mavary grimaced at, disliking the way his friend bruised at the hem of his sleeves, where skin peeked out with a perpetual fear of being hurt further. Mavary wasn't watching; he didn't hate blood, nor did he hate pain, but seeing Eleos' expression made him- in simple terms- sad.

Come on, EE, you can do something.

As he looked anywhere, but the arena, the shadow-casting seats of the royal family caught his eye. The heat of the day constructed sweaty foundations for the family, pores opening wide to let perspiration cool their bodies. Mavary was intrigued by how real it made them seem- they were more human than plastic.

The Queen turned to him, a frown down-casting her face. Mavary, a man of emasculating taste, felt more inclined to compliment the way her laced dress moved than the way her porcelain face sat still. So, his eyes moved to the left to see the others watching the fight (more or less) intently. His breath hitched when he saw Sir Thomas, but it stayed hitched when he realized it was almost his turn to fight- his turn to possibly turn black and blue, spill crimson.

Mavary turned, hands draping across his chest like thick and hefty vines, smile dissipating when he saw Eleos was being escorted away, in pain. The man was unconscious; Mavary found solace in the fact because it meant his friend wasn't experiencing the hell he looked like. Hopefully that doesn't become me.

Two of the last knights stepped into the arena, both confident and fidgety with correlating steps. Mavary did not watch them choose weapons. He did not stay in the area to see the battle begin or see bruises belittle beautiful skin- he left for a few minutes because his turn was turning the corner with speed he wished could be slowed, distance he hoped would prolong.

For, including Mavary, there was only two of them left. Him, and a woman, whose name was homonymous with that of a common bird. In sunlight, a wren's wings were painted red like the hair of the girl he was to battle; in sunlight, a wren's wings were discolored red like the blood they were about to shed. And, without sunlight, its wings matched the hues of dirt, where feet shuffled and blood fell in singular droplets.

He was swifter walking away than coming, with no destination to instill purpose. The disinterred emotions of fright and anxiety were foreign to a man like him, when usually he was all smiles and cheerful speech. No- Mavary needed to relax and accept beauty needed its rest, and bruises were just the softness to let it happen.

And let it happen, I will.

With the noises fading, Mavary let the crinkling of trees capture the grass, caressing with natural smoothness. He let breath function normally; not necessarily focusing on it, but allowing its surpassing without disdain for the rise, without disdain for the fall. A cloud in the sky moved as slow as his sulking limbs, veins and muscle both tugging rope to the weightless bones. The whiteness- a guilt in purified water- stared down at Mavary as if it was the source of heat and not the sun- Mavary had more intelligence than that; he cursed the sun more than the sky.

Laying down, Mavary's chest swelled. Anticipation dissolved like tattered precipitate in a swirling solution of typical heart-swelling things. Laying down, he let go of what the future had planned and looked up, seeing the blue sky in a three-dimensional way. Painted, colored, less than sorrowful.

A bird flew past.

Mavary chuckled at it, seeing its wings flap with no sound, for it was too far away. His back was flat against the dirt, clothes dirtying at a faster rate than his feet. Something about the earth was tickling his sides without the touch of skin, so Mavary laugh.

A bird flew past.

Mavary was suddenly prepared.

He was suddenly prepared to lose.

Because Mavary Valls was not the quickest of men. He wasn't the fittest or the most advanced in reflex, but he had an eye. He was the topic of humorous conversation in Raleith, always the one to spark interest because "a man like him was not one who could be strong."

Proving those ugly idiots wrong was going to highlight his life with such amazing feeling.

Ren Lancaster was the fiery woman waiting for his return. She appeared impatient, with a tapping foot that was simple and not malicious. Her curled hair hit shoulders with severance, a smile on her lips that displayed a headstrong excitement that worried Mavary. She was know to be fast, slithery as a nonpoisonous snake with venom to spare and dispose. Though, the woman looked nice as well, not a snake, but something more beautiful.

The rush into the arena mirrored the rush of that room- the bustle of the banquet he ultimately did not like. If only I was drunk, now, too, then maybe I would not fear so much.

The spectators were hushed and Ren collided with Mavary, before sprinting to the opposite side of the circle, weapons meeting her hands with fateful touch. Mavary knew he'd take the sword- if Ren were to do the same, would the quarrel breach dullness, a spar of finality with no final to see?

In the end, Mavary had no weapon in his hands; he stayed in his place, watching intently as Ren made her move. She was twitching at the hips, both arms reaching to the line of weapons like it was a service, body turning to Mavary. Two blades were parallel to her, a trifecta of lines displayed in a flat way like Ren was somehow paper. The swords- equal in sharpness, size, and use- stabilized in her grip, only quaking slightly as she walked closer to the man she was about to beat.

"Here," she said simply, extending her arm out to him. It was an act of sharing, childish in motion and honorable in principle- Mavary took the sword on his left, staring into Ren's blue eyes like the ocean in them was untrue. She was going out of her way to make it fair; Renauda Lancaster would prove herself without ulterior motive.

Is there a time to begin? Do we wait until word is given? First come, first fight?

I don't know.

She does seem ready...

Begin?

Ren moved with the swiftness of an air creature, nothing but the dissipation of wind acting against her limbs. She was unchallenged in a humiliating way; Mavary was slow in reflex, so his hips whirred too late. The blade- created from a dull material- poked him in the side, mere inches away from his wrist. There was no incision, no blood, but he shrieked like the jab had put him down permanently.

It showed the weakness he tried to forego, presented the royal family with a trait that was undesirable, an opposite of what they looked for. Mavary was supposed to be strong and noble; he ended up frail and dishonorable.

He ended up a fool.

His hands struck his side where Ren pulled back, eyes flitting tears because they were unasked for and unwanted. The lurch of his back curved unnaturally, Ren striking where his spine peaked. It was like a waterfall, how quickly Mavary fell to the floor. Dirt smeared the smoothness of his skin, mixing in with the white shades and flushed, pink tones. At one point, he tasted the grittiness and coughed, a desert forming from the plateau of his throat.

With every hack that cracked his lips further, a sentence was formed in his plan- the strategy he needed to survive the encounter without losing dignity. Mavary was suddenly a laughable name, slipping off the spectators' mouths rashly, like the man was supposed to ready his adherence right away. Like he was supposed to give in, surrender, and flee like a child within a game.

Ren continued with strikes of sword, never changing her focused expression to a smile or a frown. She flicked her wrists with new action every time; most rotations of the blade were to show off, never exactly needed for a direct blow to the man beneath her.

Except for one. One of the faux stabbings hit his neck- Ren had to kneel and thrust upwards for the tip to slice him. And the skin of a neck is weak, so blood came trickling out like the same waterfall. Though, that time, it blended with crimson. The woman in control was apathetic and almost gleeful, desiring the win like desired disappearance. Mavary wanted to become someone else.

One of his hands slapped the blood, superimposing the cut harshly. It was uncomplicated to feel the rawness of the thin slit, how blood passed by like ink from a quill pressed to yearning papyrus. The coughing was wetter, but the fight continued. There wasn't much to do, but fall to the dirt and concede.

"I surrender," was the mutter he mustered, indignant and sloppy, so quiet that only Ren heard. His palms laid flat on the ground, a drop of blood dripping to meet the plane every few seconds. He was feigning the exaggeration of the pain; his plan was to fake and then strike.

Ren curtsied in a way that was masculine, stepping over the surrendering man to hand up the sword. She held her head high and the crowd standing by began to applaud, signaling the match was complete. However, when she walked past him, her shadow cast by the burning sun, Mavary advanced. Grabbing her ankles and pulling, Mavary brought her down with him- her head struck the ground with overarching force, drawing blood from the crack of a nose.

"Stop!"

Silence.

And the echo of footsteps, powerful and revered.

The King displaced from his comfortable seat, stepping down from the rest of his family to come closer. The hoard of people departed like a wave, allowing him through, not questioning it when he climbed over the wooden railing. It was excruciating when Mavary realized where he was going- towards him.

Towards the fool.

"Son, stand," he ordered, the reverberation in his voice sounding oddly natural and caring. Mavary did as he was told, head tipped down with shamed eyes. "You surrendered, did you not?"

Mavary nodded, slowly.

"If you surrender, then you are defeated- a knight will learn to honor the white flag."

Mavary nodded, normally.

"Do you understand?"

"Yes."

And Mavary was not false in the reply; a mistake was a mistake and there was nothing left to ponder. When he left, however, he left humiliated.

He left a fool. 

Alian Male: Eleos Eiríni

 Eleos Eiríni stands in front of the single mirror in his temporary room. He isn't vain, but he understands that a person's appearance can change over the course of some months. Back home in Alian, there was seldom use for a mirror – therefore there weren't many. He could only see his reflection by looking into a riverbed. Even then, the ripples would contort his facial features and he never caught a glimpse of what he truly looked like.

"You are a handsome boy," his parents would mutter warmly, "You do not need to worry about your appearance."

Other people, especially those his age, would say that Eleos is "So attractive. And not ruggedly either – he's soft and warm."

In front of him is exactly that. An attractive appearance on a handsome boy. It's everything he has known to be; there is no change whatsoever.

It has been a protracted period of time since he last saw himself, and now he has a clear perception. A face decorated by tousled chocolate hair that piles up, eyes the color of the sun hitting earth, and an almost clear background, with only a few freckles. He is handsome, but he just needed to prove it to himself a final time. He knows that after today's small tournament he may have a busted lip, a bruising jaw, or a small scar.

A small knock interrupts him from analyzing himself. At the door stands Mavary, in all his manly glory. "Are you death?" he asks.

Eleos steps back and tilts his head in confusion, "What are you talking about?"

He takes this as an invitation to step inside the room. Mavary stands behind the Eleos, but looks at the mirror as well, "Ah, looking at yourself, are you? It hardly matter what you look like. I'm sure that someone has their eyes on you."

"What are you talking about?" He repeats himself.

Mavary moves around again and replies, "Nothing, just that one of the older knights has been looking at you is all. But seriously? Are you death, or did you ignore the trumpets that were ringing?"

Again, Eleos asks, "What are you talking about?"

"Never mind, Eleos. We have to go, or we'll be late. And you know how the Queen is about punctuality! Now, let's go," Mavary tells him as he puts a hand on his shoulder, and escorts Eleos out like a child.

The halls, which are almost always illuminated, have a dim glow to them. The only source of light seems to be that small torches high on the walls. When they walk by them, Eleos resists the urge to jump up and blow on one like a candle. He's sure that they won't turn off, but it would still be pretty radical to manipulate a flame, even if only momentarily.

"Do you know who you'll be up against?" he questions Mavary, who has been looking straight ahead.

"Honestly, EE, I have no idea," he begins, "As long as I don't have to go against that Vere fellow, I think I can handle myself."

Eleos tries to think of this "Vere fellow", but comes back blank. After a few moments of a scrunched face and puckered lips, he remembers. And as he remembers, he understands why Mavary can't go against him. Not because of strength, or speed, or agility – no, they would be at the same level. Just because of Vere Lennox's face. He's the ruggedly handsome type, the one you can't help but look at. He knows this because he has experienced it. One look at Vere's face and Mavary will be befuddled and dazed. He's that handsome.

"What about you? Who do you think you'll be going against? I'd have a laugh if you went against your Alian companion, or even myself," Mavary says.

"Why?" Eleos jokes, "Because you know I'd beat you?" Eleos has always been one of timid and benign smiles, but now one of tease and amusement decorates his face. He likes joking with Mavary, it's almost as if they've been lifelong friends.

"Do you want to place a bet? You know I could beat you with my eyes closed, Eiríni," Mavary kids. They're closer to the entrance of one of the tunnels, and Eleos takes this opportunity to contradict Mavary's small jab.

"Really? And that's why we're walking into direct sunlight?" And they are. Both boys have to jog to catch up to the other could-be knights. They're at the back of the pack, but snuggle their way in. In the process, they may or may not have bumped into a few of their competitors. They could have also got pushed once or twice, but they'll dismiss that.

As the could-be knights are directed to a small grassy area, Eleos takes in his surroundings. To his immediate front, the could-be knights block an entrance to wooden bleachers. Citizens, mostly from Lemaria, are crowded on them, not bothering to sit down at all. They're like animals in the way they don't look tamed, arms in the air and mouths extended in diluted chants. To his right, there is the small arena he will have to fight in. It is a circular thing, some thirty feet in diameter maybe. It's rather contained, but that just means Eleos will have to be extremely careful.

He looks to his left, well, to his higher left and sees the Royal Family. Sir Adeline sits to the King's right, a smug look on her face, and away from the Queen. It's a rather funny sight, the two most important women to the King being separated. Beside her, to her left, is King Artheur himself. Unlike his knight, he doesn't looks straight ahead. His eyes scan the crowd, and he smiles and waves whenever someone catches his attention. To his left sits Queen Melinda. Although she is exceptionally beautiful, she looks distant today. Her lips are puckered as if she's tasted something sour and vile, and he arms are folded across her chest. Eleos connects the two women to their expressions, and he suppresses a laugh. The two must be fighting.

He moves on and looks to the final person: Sir Thomas. Even when he should be serious, seeing as a competition is about to begin, there is a grin on his face. His eyes are playful and his fingers drum against his lap. When he notices Eleos and the others, he waves. Eleos returns it and goes back to the group. The could-be knights are sitting in a group, and he was the only one that was momentarily excluded.

Once his butt is on the grass, however, a trumpet calls attention to everyone. The King stands, everyone following shortly after him. He does a hand gesture that everyone recognizes, and people sit back down. "Welcome," he says as he clears his throat, "My beloved citizens, welcome! My brave, training knights, welcome! As you know, today is the first day of our long expected tournament. The stakes are high for all our young knights, so we have prepared a rather straightforward task for them. The task will be a melee: a close combat battle in that circle arena over yonder." He points to the arena, which Eleos has already looked at. He still follows everyone's eyes either way, acting awed.

It's nothing special, just a circle with bags outlining the perimeter of it. He doesn't see why everyone makes "Ooh" and "Ah" noises. It's almost as if they have never seen a circle engraved into dried dirt. It's not like this competition happens every year or anything.

The King continues addressing the people, "Now I shall list the pairs of knights. We didn't take into consideration the gender. We believe that women are equally, and sometimes even more, capable than us men," at this, the crowd goes wild, and Eleos thinks he sees Sir Adeline sit taller and Queen Melinda smile. "Here they are. First are Momo Seafare of Cadosa and Eleos Eiríni of Alian. Second to them are Willow Alden of Belmoor and Vere Lennox of Miras. The third group..."

Eleos stops listening once he hears Vere's name being called and not having Mavary's accompanying it. All he can think about is that he has to go first and against that Momo Seafare girl. He knows of her family, of their extended legacy. He remembers her stories over the dinner table: tales of family members and their courageous deeds done to all of Lemaria and its sub-kingdoms and ports. He's almost sure there were two Seafare knights in one of Alian's small shops, but he can't be certain. He'd like to say that he's overestimating her, but it is not the truth. The girl is good and everyone knows it.

Trumpets sound again and he guesses that the King has finished his speech and calling the pairs out. A double ring is heard and Momo stands up. Her partner, a boy who Eleos can't remember, smacks her leg and she playfully kicks him. She grins at him, but when she catches sight of Eleos looking at her, she turns grim. Her bright eyes turn cold and her easy smile turns hard.

She is made of metal, and she is unbreakable.

But I am made of warmth, of heat. I can mend her, he thinks. He repeats this to himself as he walks over to the small stand with weapons. I am heat. I am fire. Fire can erode all metals. His fingers trace weapons of all kinds, and he desperately wants to grab a sword like she does. But he remembers the diameter of the arena: thirty feet at most. This is close combat and all his swordsmanship skills will be for naught. Reluctantly he grabs daggers, twin blades, and tucks them into his belt.

He almost seems to glide over to the circular arena, wanting to get this over as soon as possible. Eleos is not sexist, but he can't believe he's about to lose to a girl. He knows it's going to happen. She may be smaller, and may have a sword out of all weapons, but she has a goal. She has to live up to so many legacies. The only person Eleos has to impress, other than the Royal Family, is Sir Thomas. Sir Thomas, who offered him and his partner help – both as a trainer and as a fellow citizen of Alian. He's the only one Eleos wants to prove something to, as a way of thanking him for paying any attention to him at all.

So when he bows in front of Momo, he makes a promise to himself: I will win this fight. Warmth always outlasts the cold. Fire always destroys metal. I will win. I will win.

Stupidly enough, she is the one to make the first move. Maybe it looks smart on her behalf, having the longer weapon and all. But this is close ranged, and it has to be much quicker. And while he doesn't doubt that she can handle a sword as well as, or even better than, he can, he does realize that this sword in particular is too heavy for her. She doesn't have her sword, but she does poses a flimsy one that probably hasn't been exercised in a year.

Use this against her, he reminds himself. This will be her weakness.

He tries to take a jab at her to see how fast her reaction skills are, to test how quickly he'll need to strike next time. He flips his left dagger in his hand, and distracts her with his right. He feigns an attack on his right, pretending to go straight to her chest, but strikes her with his left. His hand quickly clashes with her sword, and he gets a cut on his hand. She smiles at the faint trail of blood in his palm. Eleos doesn't worry about this wound, not when she has a look on her face – the type that signalizes that she has you surrounded. Besides, they both have armor on and their blades are plainly dulled. The worst has already happened, and Eleos doesn't feel hurt.

They take a stance again, and this time he goes first. With both daggers in hand, he goes directly for her sword. If she is left weaponless, she won't be able to fight. If she can't fight, she won't be able to win. Even if she could fight, he thinks, I would still find a way to beat her. I promised; and I never break promises.

However, his strike fails, and if anything, she manages to whack his left dagger away from him. She swings wildly, the sword dragging her down a bit. If this were her regular sword, the blade would have hit the armor over his stomach, and the thrust would have pushed him to the floor. "Would have", yet it doesn't.

To the floor, Eleos. To the floor.

She blindly swings again and she almost gets his helmet if he hadn't thrown himself down. His hand scrambles for his second dagger and his fingers tick towards it. Once his fingers find the cool metal, they snatch the weapon up. He uses them both to push himself up, and she's already there to meet him.

Good grief! I get it: you're good, you're probably going to beat me.

He looks through her helmet and expects the same metallic eyes to stare back at him, but he's pleasantly surprised. They aren't full of irascibleness or even triumph. No, her eyes hold a watery fear. She may be winning so far, but he keeps getting up. He has the agreeable blade in their situation; she still has the opposing weapon to the arena, and if the arena doesn't agree with someone, they usually end up losing.

He pleads, please lose and save us some time.

Even if the fear is present in her eyes and face, it doesn't make an appearance in her attacks.

She grabs her sword, holding it up the hilt, as close as she can to the blade without actually touching it. She strikes once more and he blocks the hit with both daggers. She pulls back and Eleos steps forward. He needs to take all the space from her, as much as she can. She has to extend her body in order to move and position her sword, and the least space she has, the more likely she is to step out of the border line.

He gets even closer now, and takes less than a second to look up at the stand. Everyone is seated but Sir Thomas. He is standing and leaning over the railing, not wanting to miss any second of the action. Not for me, Eleos repeats, this is to thank him. To show that his training has not gone to waster. Instead of going towards her blade this time, he strikes at her hands. The only moment he showed weakness was when she split his palm open. If he can manage to get her there, she will begin bleeding. The loss of blood will cause her hand to numb and weaken even more than it already is.

Eleos clashes his left blade with her sword, right at the hilt. He raises his right arm and swings it down on to her palm. He is met with a drop of a sword and a hand in a clutch. Like he had, she drops to her feet to pick her sword up. He lets her get as far as standing. Even if people "Boo!" at him for letting her retrieve her sword, he knows he has a better plan. And it doesn't involve kicking her back.

It revolves around kicking at, under, her feet.

He jumps to her and she fumbles backwards. Her submissive hand – her left – now holds the sword and he notices the way it droops downwards in a lull. Good, this is good. Her grip may be usually strong, but not now. All her upper body strength fails her as he feigns with his right hand, pretending to go to her side. However, instead of doing that, he knocks her helmet off with his left dagger and sweeps her feet from right beneath her.

Had the helmet fallen off, Momo would have been left with more than a black eye. She would have resulted in having a split skull and being dead in general.

And when she falls, she stays down. He stares down at her, not sure of what to do. People yell at him to "Strike! Strike! Strike!" but his conscience is telling him to leave her there. He'll wait. If she gets up, he'll be ready to do it again, to fight her, even if he has to get more bruises along the way. She doesn't stand up, however. Momo almost manages to get up, her body in a curl up position.

This is where Eleos forget everything he knows and has been taught.

"Don't ever kick an opponent once they're down," Sir Thomas instructed while training. Eleos does the opposite to Momo now. He kicks her shoulder and forces her to fall a second time.

"Never override a person, Eleos. Never," Papa would say. But he does this. Once she is on the floor again, he stands in front of her. He looks down at her metallic eyes, flooding and ready to spill. She has a legacy to live up to, but he has tarnished her chance.

His mother would always tell him, "But most of all: always extend a hand to those in need. That is how you know you are truly merciful, son." He has never disobeyed his mother, never. He forgets his reputation with her and he doesn't give Momo, flailing Momo, his hand. He considers helping her back up, but takes it back. What would happen then? Would he wait for her to clear her mind a bit, get her sword, and fight him? No. That's the answer: no, he wouldn't.

No, he won't.

He doesn't listen to all this old advice and follows his own accord. He gets the sword from the ground and places the tip to her chest. He's obviously not going to kill her, he's not mad. Even if were, she still has her armor. He just wants to send a clear message to her and the others: You stand, I fight. You stand, I will win.

The secret is that he wants her to surrender.

It will be easier if she does – she will no longer have to get maimed, and he won't have to get his armor tarnished. This doesn't happen however. She doesn't stand up at all, she is motionless if anything. He bends down beside her and flips her helmet open with his dagger. Not out of mercy, but because he saw her lips quivering in speak. "I...I..."

"'I...I' what?" Eleos probes, "You what, Momo?" He doesn't recognize the malice in his voice.

She takes a rattily breath and says, "I...surrender."

A smug grin envelops his face. Fire has melted, is melting, the metal. Like always. This is what he has wanted and continues to crave.

"Are you happy?" she mutters to him in a shaky whisper. "With victory?"

He doesn't understand why her simple words snap him back to reality. This entire time, throughout the whole fight, he craved nothing but victory. He wanted to see her on the floor and he needed to be the cause of it. But her simple wording takes him by surprise.

Is he happy with this victory? Yes – he isn't; no – he is.

He doesn't ponder it any longer and extends a hand to her. He tries to pull her up, but she's dead weight. He bends down to her level and manages her to lift her up completely. Her arm slumps over his shoulder and she limps on her left foot, where he swiped. Eleos doesn't comprehend why he doesn't feel any sensation of guilt as he helps her sit down.

He doesn't understand; but he wants to.

Once he reaches the grass, he doesn't bother sitting down. No, he takes a detour around the arena, where the new fight between Vere Lennox and Willow Alden is commencing, and back into the tunnel. Maybe he was a little hopeful before, wanting the lights to be more than bright. He wanted a shine like that caused by the sun. But now their dimness plays in tune with him; not ablaze nor drenched. He reaches his room, pulls the door open, and runs straight to the mirror. He stands in front of him, closes his eyes for a minute or so, and opens them to take in his entire form.

He physically looks different. His once piling, chocolate hair now has flecks of dust and dirt in it from the arena's floor. He has a small, un-bleeding scratch right above his left eye, although he doesn't remember Momo scratching him. And he has a bright gash on his right cheek, parallel to that on his palm.

These are things that can be washed away or even healed with the right salve.

Yet on the inside, he emotionally feels and radiates a difference within him. He is from Alian; he is supposed to show mercy at all costs, even if it makes him look like the coward. He did everything but that. He didn't pick her up at first, he didn't wait for her to get on her feet before he struck her down. He made her surrender; and that is one thing he has never been taught to do. Not here, and not in Alian. Nowhere.

What, who, am I? That wasn't me out there. I am not violent. I am just a warm fire, a hearth. He has never questioned his actions, himself, either.

Eleos Eiríni keeps staring at his reflection in the glass and realizes that it takes months for a person to change in appearance. Only one incident to interrupt their way of being. But it only takes seconds for fire to transform from comforting to destructive.

Migolith Male: Rhaegar

"These young hopefuls who wish to serve our great King and his lady...." Rhaegar zoned out as the herald droned on about the Knight's valour, and instead looked around the crowd and then down on himself. He realized that he looked like a vagabond rascal next to the other Knight's in the fine armour and the spectators in their silks.

Rhaegar was not dressed in any battle, shiny armour. He instead was dressed in a dark blue, almost black cloth. It had been made for this tournament especially and he was proud of it. It would deflect some blows but the Knight would have to rely on his agility to defend off the more heaver blows. And he was confident that he could do so.

"We present to you, the young knights who wish to prove their Valour!" Cheering rose and the Knight's including Rhaegar bowed to the King and then to the crowd, steeling himself for what was about to happen.

The clash of dulled steal cut through the sound of yelling children and the cheering of the older folk. In the grand pavilion, decked with red hangings and gold trimmings sat the King and his Queen, each looking with regard interest at the contestants who were to fight in the day's mêlée. Many combats had already been fought and won and the day was already considered a success.

"Rhaegar of Migolith to face Taran Gassett of Fallholt." The man's voice carried over the buzz of the crowd and the soft breeze which rustled the grass and the ladies dresses. The two men named both looked up and over at each other.

Rhaegar blinked the sweat out from his eyes as he stood up and started to walk slowly toward the fenced off arena of the arena. Something seemed to stir within him and the knight wondered if it were nerves which made his stomach twist and lurch. He scowled and ran a hair through his hair in frustration. I have never felt like this before? So why do I feel it now?

He looked along the rows of tents and the packed masses of people. Silver and gold glittering in the sun and brightly colour clothes doing both the male and female. He saw the girl he spoke with the day before running around with her friends and he saw the drunk. This time, she was sober and practising, ready for her first fight. He chuckled softly but wiped the smile from his face the moment he realized what he was doing.

The knight sighed and reached down to slid his own sword out of its sheath, it gleamed dully in the sun's rays for its edges where indeed dulled. In case anyone gets "hurt" The knight had refrain from rolling his eyes at the thought. It's a tournament. People are going to get hurt.

Looking up, he met the eyes of someone in the crowd, the knight frowned. Green eyes stared back at him in wide surprise, Green eyes matched with dark brown hair and a tanned complexion. The knight tilted his head in wonderment. Why do I feel like I know this person?He asked himself, his mind spinning with bewilderment.

"Come on Rhaegar! Follow me"

"Be careful Taelon, watch the rocks."

With a gasp Rhaegar tore himself from the brief snatch of memory; it was with great difficulty that he refrained from swearing out loud. My God!

He glanced over once more to the stands, but Taelon was gone. The knight didn't question how he knew the lad's name, he just did.Please, don't let my past haunt me here. He pleaded silently to whatever god was listening at the moment.

"Sir Rheagar, your opponent is waiting." The page looked nervous and Rhaegar raised an eyebrow before silently nodding and walking closer to the man he was to face.

They had both chosen swords to start to fight, however, the man knew that the sword alone would not win the bout. He looked at Taran and knew he would have to use all of his skill to win.

Curly hair and a beard framed a dark face, Rhaegar had to admit that the man was handsome but looks never won battles. He twirled his sword in his hands and watched the knight with keen eyes. Ignoring the exited chatter of the crowd and the herald announcing the start of the command he took in his rival.

He's determined, but then, we all are. The Knight took a step forward, as did Taran. Watch him Rhaegar, never be too bold, he thought to himself. Remember Rhaegar, remember.

With a flash of sunlight and the clashing sound of iron, the two swords met. Taran lunged forward, following up his attack with feint which Rhaegar successively blocked.

The two men fenced for a moment, testing the level of skill the other possessed. Each, in turn, attacking and defending, without forcing any confrontation.

Thoughts spun around in Rhaegar's head, a melee in its own right. Information flooding in even as the two one again circled. Watch his left side, that's his weakness, and his confidence will be his downfall.

They met in the middle of the ring, dust already flying up and clouding their vision. The clash of the first true blow echoed around the arena and caused the ladies to gasp. Both men were strong and they were going to use that strength today. Rhaegar was the first to hit home, his sword glance of the left arm of Taran. He revelled in the wince Taran gave him. Be careful Rhaegar, he told himself.

He did not try to categorise all the emotions he was feeling, but he felt joy. Joy to feel his blade crossing against another of equal strength. He felt like laughing but stopped himself when Taran pushed forward with almighty lunge, trying to disarm him. Rhaegar felt a cutting pain on wrist and looking down saw a tiny line of blood, his hand starting to throb and grow numb. Rhaegar frowned and didn't stop the snarl which rose up in his throat.

He stood at his full height for a moment and then leapt forward, swinging his sword. Taran blocked the Knight's many attempts with ease. Rhaegar gritted his teeth. Anger was rising within him and he had to take care not to hurtle forward and clutch at the man's throat with his bare hands.

Taran's sword came hurtling down on his right arm and the knight only just fended it off at the cost of his side. He could hear the soft crunch as one of his ribs cracked at the force and the pain flared up, causing him to grunt out. My god! He bit his lip and soon tasted the coppery tang of blood.

The knight fell to one knee but rolled away to the side just as the sword hit the ground where he would have been landing. Rhaegar looked up, his hair fell in his face and his eyes glittered. I will kill him.

He slowly got to his feet, wincing at the pain in his side and started to circle the man again, this times with the likeness and steps of a panther about to strike. He resisted the urge to throw away his sword and grapple Taran with his hands and teeth. I will kill him

Rhaegar stepped forward and with a mighty roar, raised his sword high and brought it down upon the man. The two swords met with a ringing, shattering sound. A sound so loud, it echoed and was heard throughout the compound. Deathly silence, broken only by the sound of breathing.

Taren's sword had shattered.

"My God," Taran breathed out, it sounded loud in the stillness, Rhaegar was no less shocked, he looked at the broken sword and then down at his own, a startled breath escaping him.

The Knight looked up to where the King was sitting. His Majesty was leaning forward with a tense body and even more intense eyes, watching. The Queen also looked interested but she was still reclining in her seat, Rhaegar then looked back at Taran who was looking at him with wide eyes.

A slight smile tugged at the corner of his mouth and he allowed it to remain there, he tossed the sword to the ground and faced the knight weaponless, as Taran was. Rhaegar lifted his arms slightly and bowed even more slightly. The smile growing into a smirk as he looked at the now murmuring crowd.

Time to finished this. Rhaegar thought to himself, satisfaction running through him. He hadn't made a favourable impression at the banquet, but people were sitting up and noticing him now. He raised his sword to the throat of Taran and raised a questioning eyebrow. Rhaegar knew he had won, as did Taran. But the mêlée only ended once one had surrendered.

'I yield" Taran said softly, yet his voice carried to the edges of the arena and was heard by all. Rhaegar grunted with satisfaction and bowed to him before turning and walked out of the arena, not looking to his right or left.

Rhaegar! He looked up, thinking someone called his name. Instead, he only saw the King watching him as the herald announced the victor of that match. He turned back and entered his tent. Quickly stripping out of his garments he looked down at his side, a bruise was already beginning to form and the knight let out a groan of both pain and anger. Damn it! The injury would lower his chances, he had broken a rib before and he knew how much they hurt

.

"Rhaegar." A soft voice and the knight whirled around, ready to defend or attack. Instead, he saw someone. A someone who made his heart stop for a moment and his face turn white. His mouth formed the words but no sound escaped. My bother?

Memories flooded back, some hazed and blurry but other clear and sharp. Memories of when he had been little. Six memories in total, five happy and one which made his stagger back in horror.

Oh my God, have mercy on me, I killed...My God, No!

Belmoor Male: Edmund

I woke up in a daze, my head aflame from my last night's intoxication. My betrayal of everything I had worked so hard to hide sits in a heavy heap, weighing down my heart. Stumbling out of bed, my hair a complete mess and my clothing horribly wrinkled, I pull on another clean tunic and suit of armour, and make my way to the dining hall. Other competitors wave cheery 'hello's', but I can barely hear them. All I can hear is the sounds of my own voice giving away everything I dreamed, found, and studied. All to a woman with a low neckline on her dress and pretty face.

Breakfast is a blur, lights flashing in my eyes and every noise too loud. My head is burning with pain, and I have to use everything in me not to cry out in hatred of myself. On the first night in the castle, I have already let my morals and knowledge seep out of my like water retreating from high tide. I've already slipped and fallen, and I need to do something to redeem myself.

Announcements of the day's activities are made, but I'm not paying any attention. My mind floats elsewhere, only coming to terms with what's going on around me when my own name is called.

"Sir Edmund of Belmoor, you will be put against Sir Killian Henry of Oceaf."

I swirl my cup around, staring into the remaining drops of water lying there, wishing I could disappear into them. A duel is the last thing I need at the moment. I'm underfed, the food on my plate has gone cold a long time ago. It sits there now, forgotten, before I finally let a servant take it away and back to the kitchen.

Finally, I drink the rest of my water and head outside to the dueling grounds. The rising sun shines too bright in my tired eyes, and the cool breeze chills me to my very core. The fields are full of action, men and women from the knight before dueling each other in hopes of earning the royal courts favour once again, and the gold that comes with winning.

I walk over to where I see Sir Henry, and sign my name on the roster they have hanging on a post.

"Good day, Sir Edmund. It will be a pleasure to fight against an honourable man like yourself, and I wish you the best of luck," Killian holds out a metal laden hand, of which I shake.

"Likewise, Sir Henry." We both back to our respective sides, studying the weapons that will help or hurt us in our upcoming duel.

The wall in front of me is covered with various dulled swords, blades, and axes, but holds no bows or anything of the sort. Nothing in my luck. Thankfully, the wood doesn't sparkle in the slowly rising sun like it does of my armour. I stare at the assortment of training weapons, looking for something that I could even hope to use with my level of experience, but nothing strikes my eye. I have never worked with any weapon other than a bow, not even my own fists. There is no chance I could even come close to beating Killian.

I glance behind me, watching in awe mixed with jealousy as Killian tries out every weapon, obviously knowing which is best for him. He finally grabs a blunted longsword, spinning it into the air and catching it with ease.

I look back to my own stockpile and randomly decide on a simple wooden broadsword with an intricate engraved on the back. It's hilt is wrapped in worn out leather, cool and comfortable to grip. It's unbalanced, but I'm not entirely sure that I would be able to tell if it was balanced, given my lack of experience with weaponry.

We walk to the center, shake hands once more, and wait for the judging panel to signal our start.

He moves first, his sword arcing through the air, slicing right by my face. Adrenaline fills my blood, replacing the anger and pain, until I have nothing in me but a will to fight and a will to win.

Now, it's my turn to attack. Clumsily, my sword swings through the air, hitting him in the ribcage, and he backs up, his sandy hair flying. He looks back up at me and grins before coming back at me with all his might, the sword battering my chest and arms. I hold my sword up, but I can barely block any of his swings.

We parry back and forth, his sword landing multiple contacts on my body, and while the blade isn't lethal, I can feel my lungs bruising with every shuddering breath I take in. I blindly flail my sword about, awkward with the grip, and stumble backwards in self-defence.

He follows my every movement, his sword mirroring my own, if not one step farther.

Finally, I turn and sprint to the other side of the field, attempting to regroup my thoughts and strategies. I place my hands on my knees, panting from the work, and focus my thoughts to the matter at hand.

I have no idea how to use a sword, and I'm dueling someone who has a lot more experience that I do. I look back down at the battered sword in my hand, then back at Killian who is rushing over to me, sword held high above his head.

I lower my sword, and brace myself for the oncoming blow. When he comes within reach, I strike out for his open side, and the sword strikes ture, knocking him off balance. Killian falls to the floor, his sword skittering just out of reach. Scrambling to retrieve his sword, Killian backs away from me.

Once one of his hands is wrapped around the sword, he hops up to his feet and swings the sword at my face, missing only by an inch. The tip whizzes by once again, hitting the front of my nose and flinging my face to the side.

Blood begins to pour in streaks from my nose, crimson droplets landing on my armour and glinting in the sunlight.

His sword flies at my face again, this time striking my cheek and causing more blood to rise up my throat instead of my nose. I stumble back, tripping over the blade I discarded long ago. My feet fly out in front of me, and my body falls to the dirt, metal from my armour pressing into my skin. Killian chuckles, and puts his sword up to the side of my neck. The tip of the wooden blade presses into the chainmail, and Killian raises an eyebrow.

"Do you surrender, Sir Edmund?" He nudges the sword a bit further.

I smirk, my hand reaching for my own sword. Swinging the sword up, I attempt to knock his sword to the side and stand up, but he easily deflects my poor technique, and my sword skitters off to the side, harmless.

He chuckles again, "Now do you surrender?"

I nod, "You can't say it wasn't worth the try, Sir Henry. And, I almost got you there." He laughs and reaches out a hand to help me up.

"Had you been professionally trained in swordsmanship, it most likely would have worked. But since you are not, you didn't come anywhere close. But, you're right, I must applaud you for trying with no training. It was a good duel, Sir Edmund."

After I am back on my feet, Killian hands me my wooden sword and smiles. He puts out his hand once more.

"Until next duel, Edmund."

"Until next time, Killian."

Fallholt Male: Taran Gassett

"Taran Gassett, from Fallholt, and Rhaegar, from Migolith," the King declared. Dressed in deep golds and sharp blacks, the King stood out among the crowd. Not only did he stand in the King's box and sit in the King's chair, but he also watched over them all as though it was only he that decided their fates. Beside him sat his lovely wife in a dress of fine silk that melted against the rich colors of her skin.

He read with a voice deeper than all and the type of command that could stop nations. "Today, we begin our tournament with the melee! Yes, now is the time to start the trials, to start the journey of knighthood and to become all that you have ever wanted to become. Now is the time to separate the week from the bold." A cheer coursed through them, building and growing until it reached the heavens with a cry that could demolish whole cities.

Taran wasn't ready.

"Are we ready? Are we ready to begin, Lemaria?" he asked. It was a stupid question and they ate it up with vigor. The tournament brought all corners of Lemaria together, the entire kingdom getting together to watch as men and women competed to become the next Knights on the Royal Guard.

The tournament had just begun and his fight was to be the first. Nothing could be worse, but then again, nothing could be better. He didn't know what to expect. Nothing could be expected of them because the first was just that--the precession to a fight far greater than any could predict.

I am mystery. I am shock. I will take them by storm and yet, what am I doing here? How can I be a knight when I'm keeping secrets?

Taran stood before a handsome man with pain in his heart and the sun glaring into his forehead. Blue, not the color of the cerulean sky but rather the color of Rhaegar's eyes, stared into his. The deepest seas had nothing on that man. Taran hated him, for that guy was alive, which was more than he would ever be. He was tall, dark haired, and more beautiful than anything else.

Maybe I'm not the only person?

A mysterious man was his rival.

Maybe we all hold mysteries.

Around them, the world continued. The crowd talked within itself and the royals were growing anxious as the time grew closer for them to begin. A man in white was busy scribing down the event still, which gave Taran the time he needed to compose himself for the perilous task ahead.

We're about to begin. Oh god. I'm...I'm not ready. How can I begin this?

"Knights, ready?"

A blink, and Taran's gaze drew to the man in white. Ready? He had a deep voice, almost an octave lower than Taran's, and his eyes were darker than night. He looks as though I have met him before. At the party?

"Begin!"

Fuck.

Again, he wasn't ready. Taran jumped as Rhaegar leaped forward, his sword clanking and sparking. Though the metal was dulled it was still metal and hot from the heat of the day. They parted and once more struck, both boys falling into broken stances as they attempted to gain the upper hand.

Taran managed a total of two hits for every three delivered to him. Sweat fell in beads from his forehead and he couldn't gain a good footing. Another hit and he fell to the ground, a bruise upon his left leg and one forming on his ribs. Despite the light armor he wore there was little to protect him. I can't do this, he thought. A cry escaped his lips as he rose to his feet.

"Rhaegar-" Taran tried to begin, only for the boy to run forward again.

In haste he pulled back up his sword just in time to block. "You're not bad," Taran's opponent said, "but you're weak. You're not trying. Fight me, show them what you're made of!"

Taran gasped, feeling as though someone had ripped his heart out. I am fighting! He dared not speak aloud and ruin himself before the man who was only trying to help him. It was as though they both understood one another. Both knew they wanted to become a knight and that it was only the beginning. One fight wouldn't determine if they stayed but it would determine their courage. Taran knew he held courage only because his heart beat fast in his chest and his entire body ached. I cannot give up! He is by far better than I, but to be beaten by him... Courage came only from the pain and the hurt that didn't end and from the strength it took to pull through it and charge past the dying ways of old.

Taran rose to attack, only to fall once more. Why does he continue so hard? Why does he strive to win with such passion? They fought one another in striking ways, unable to stop the pulling of sword on sword and unable to best the other. No. No, it is not for me to win. It isn't. Taran's grip began to slip but still he held fierce, his pride keeping him from giving in too soon. Looking weak was the worst he could do--but, then again, allowing himself to be made a fool of by not being able to overcome his pride was something equally bad. Is this pride? Am I controlled?

"No," he grunted, parring off another sweep of Rhaegar's sword. "You fight well, Rhaegar, but there's one thing you seem to be lacking."

"And what is that?" he asked, a sigh in his voice as one of Taran's trusts hit him in the gut. "Fair shot."

"Endurance, I could say," Taran said, jumping back just in time to escape a hit. "But you have that. Talent, I could say...but talent grows on you like flowers upon a tree. I must say, you're only lacking the win."

He laughed, a deep and hearty laugh. "And you intend to keep it from me! I shall not give up yet, Taran Gassett," he said. Then, as it to only prove his words further, the man jutted out his sword and swatted Taran across the head. "Let us duel until we cannot fight no more."

"Lets."

With that they continued. Strikes after strikes, all surrounded by the cries of their audience and the unrelenting sun that waxed their bodies. Only after nearly two hours passed and his hands grew numb and his body frail did Taran stop, raising his sword into the air and shouting, "I surrender!"

The crowd cheered for Rhaegar. Taran did as well, giving the boy a grin as he stood beside him with stooped shoulders.