Happy to have his familiar weapon back in his grip, Tristan blesses first the soil upon which they will fight, his blade, and his enemy. It is an ancient practice, dating back to time immemorable, summoning forth deities innumberable to protect and save the blessed. He mutters a small prayer as he touches the ground and then his blade, and finally as he watches Carter shift uneasilly under his gaze.
A smallish breeze plays and dances with Carter's straight black hair, and his squinty green eyes are pressed together harder as he stares at Tristan's figure, outlined in the setting sun. He does not make the prayers, for they are not traditional Weldoxian practice during a duel to the death.
Instead, Tristan had learned them from his mother, for she had taught them to his father before he went out to duel with Tristan's uncle. They were fighting over something, and Tristan's uncle had called a duel, but Tristan's father had not wanted to kill him, nor did he want to be dead himself.
The gods had not been reawakened when their twin blades had clashed, at least, not to Tristan's knowledge, however, both had been severely injured during the bout. Tristan's uncle had died, but evidently he had done so with words of peace and love on his lips. Tristan's father had been gravely injured and he had died by falling beneath a half-rotten portion of the Southern Dock a year-and-a-half after killing his own brother.
Somehow, Tristan had learned the prayers, and now, he had uttered them, blessing each integral part of the duel: the ground, his blade, and his enemy. When he finishes, he pulls his sword from where he had embedded it - in the ground. "Come get me," he whispers, letting the light breeze carry his words to Carter.
The man nods and growls lightly, bringing his commandeered broadsword up in a slow, gentle arc. He is armored, but the armor and the sword are both alien to him. So not only does he have an advantage, he also has a disadvantage - or two, rather. His arc completed, Carter rushes at Tristan, and the wire-thin edges of their swords collide.
Tristan feels his arms begining to give as he presses his whole weight into his father's sword, now his. He scrapes his sword into an arc, pulling it away from Carter's without giving any ground. Carter backs off, and they begin to circle each other.
It is Tristan's turn to attack next, and he does, suddenly running from the circle, across and at Carter, his sword at the ready. Again, the blades meet, but Tristan does not back off so easily this time. Instead, in the dimming light of dusk, he forces both hands to the grip of his sword, and they begin to dance, parrying and rispoting. Their footwork leaves lines and dots and prints in the sandy ground, and they continue to assault each other time after time, hardly pausing between each stroke.
Tristan sees Carter tiring, and though his body screams to stop the insane expending of energy, he feels, deep within his spirit, renewed vigor with each stroke. He begins to gain ground on Carter, for until now, it had been simply a detailed stalemate. Now, though, as Carter seems to reach his limits, the bout begins to radiate something more. Tristan recognizes it almost immediately, for he has known it since the death of his father; it is hope. Hope for a better life, a better tomorrow, a happier, safer existance. The loss of Carter will not be a large one to the world, and so, Tristan begins to move for the kill.
However hard he tries, though, Tristan can not get passed Carter's amazingly thorough defence. Finally, Carter stumbles, and his blade slips from his hand, the pommel of his sword indenting the ground as it hits the sandy dirt, the blade clattering on some small stones. Tristan, however, can not find it in himself to kill this man. He has never desired the death of any, no matter how evil, how deserving the person. So, he can not find it in himself to kill Carter, even in a fully sanctioned duel.
"Have you had enough, boy?" Carter asks, noting Tristan's sudden lapse of intent. "If you won't kill me, I have no qualms about finishing off you!" He rolls, grabs his sword, and dashes to his feet. In a seemingly sudden burst of energy, he begins the dance anew, repeating the rhythm of the clashing swords faster and faster each time he strikes.
Tristan has no choice but to work to deflect each new strike, and he finds his wrists twisting in ways he never thought possible. He repeats in his mind everything that Carter wishes to do to the world, destroying each sanctuary of natural beauty, each home of good people, each heart full of happiness, and he becomes encompassed by a deep, thorough, blackening rage.
"You wretch!" Tristan finds himself screaming, cutting loose all strings to whatever side of him was human. "I'll not let you succeed! You've had your way too long! It's time for the noble, the true, the heard-working to step up and claim their rewards." Two more strokes of their blades, and Carter is again disarmed. "Pray to whatever gods you hold besides your lust for wealth," he commands through gritted teeth, holding the point of his sword's blade at Carter's throat.
"I have... no ... need for ... gods," Carter remarks, his breath unsteady, his skin sweating, his hand going to his boot.
Tristan almost jerks his hand to cause the blade to remove Carter's arm, but the point of the bout is to kill, not to maim. "Then make your peace with your fellows, and I shall kill you."
"My... fellows," Carter chuckles. "I make my peace with you, Tristan Delacoré. I've wronged your family ... many times over. Accept this as my last token of apology." He throws a small dart with clean accuracy at Tristan, and the tip seems to be aimed for his neck.
Tristan jerks his head to the side, keeping his blade true to Carter's neck, and lets the dart whiz passed him. "Is that all?"
"T-Tristan..." Anaton's voice whispers from behind him.
Tristan turns to glance over his shoulder, and he sees Anaton with the dart implanted in his shoulder. Turning back to Carter, his blue-green eyes blazing, Tristan kicks the elder Weldoxian in the chest. Carter falls onto his back, and Tristan kneels so he can see into his face. "What the blazes was that!" he demands, pressing his sword's tip against Carter's jugular.
Carter laughs. "You're dead, your Highness!" he cackles. "You're dead, and the remedy for the poison on that dart is to be found only in our sweet city! Pray to your gods, little boy!" He then returns to laughter. It is high-pitched and maniacal, and Tristan can bear it no longer.
"May you find forever torment for your pitiful soul!" he cries, rocking back onto his feet and flicking his sword away from Carter's neck and into a backwards grip. He plunges it into his opponant's stomach, forching it down, even through the sandy soil. Only when Carter begins to cough and sputter blood through his incessant, irrepressable laughter does Tristan draw the blade from his body. "Serpentine wretch," he whispers, tears forming in his eyes for reasons he does not know. "You could have been something valuable, could have helped the world instead of scarring her. Now, I pray you burn, your greed and lust fuel for your eternal fires." Then, he wipes his sword's blade on a silken handkerchief one of the spectators suddenly hands him and sheaths his blade. He turns and looks at Anaton, pity welling deep from within him. He falls to his knees and bows his head. "The threat has passed, my liege, but I fear still I have failed you."
A torch gutters and Tristan paces the length of the hallway and back, waiting for the doctors and surgeons to return with their diagnoses. When he reaches the other end of the hall, he beats the wall with his fists. How could he have been so stupid!? Why hand he not taken the poison instead of Anaton? He could have caught the dart with his hand! He could have sacrificed his hand, possibly his whole arm, for the life of the young ruler. Now, though, he fears that nothing will save the boy he has come to view as a surrogate brother. Not a thing can help young Anaton, and Carter, may he burn eternally, has indeed emerged the victor.
A sudden, stupid thought emerges in Tristan's mind: if he tries hard enough, he can beat his brain out of his head on the castle's stone walls. He offers himself one crack on the wall before deciding that that hurts far too much, and Anaton will not be saved by his death. A door creaks open behind him, and Tristan spins to see a doctor peeking out into the hall.
Tristan races to the door, catching it before it closes. He pushes himself in, passed the doctor, and throws himself down onto the floor beside Anaton's bed. He stares up at the Godly Emperor, looking far too mortal for his title, as he sits, propped up by pillows, in the bed. He smiles down at Tristan, and he motions for him to rise.
Tears well in Tristan's eyes, and he does as he was instructed. Then, he sees why such an order was made; Anaton's shoulder, and all the rest of his left arm, has been amputated. "Will.. Will you live?" Tristan manages, trying to keep the tears in his eyes and not down his cheeks.
Anaton offers a one-armed shrug. "If you can call having only one arm living. Luckily, our merchants had purchased some ahlseed from your people a little while ago and nurtured them into plants to cultivate their own cure-all medicines. It just so happens that a little ahlseed, well, a lot, really, was all that was needed to stop the poison. Nonetheless, I really would prefer to have my arm back. Not to be, though, I suppose."
One of the surgeons looks up from where he was cleaning up the bloodied mess of the amputation. "Yes, Tak'norg was certainly smiling on his Godliness today." He then returns to scrubbing the blood from some of the tabletops they had used for a makeshift operating table.
"Tak'norg?" Tristan asks, blinking. "I thought Glar'oth was the only deity you people worshiped."
"Glar'oth may be the all-power, but there are still minor deities. Tak'norg is the god of chance and fortune. He is often prayed to by compulsive gamblers, and is often found in operating rooms, represented by the raven, as seen on that surgeon's bag," Anaton explains slowly, letting each statement sink in before continuing to the next.
"Ah," Tristan replies. That makes sense, considering it usually takes a good deal of luck to survive some surgeories. "Tak'norg favored me today, too."
Anaton nods before cocking his head to the side suddenly. "Tristan, what by all the realms of Bu'natsch did you do to your head?"
Tristan's hand creeps up to where he had smacked his head into the wall and chuckles a little. "Oh, you like that one? I, umm, got the brilliant idea that pounding my head into the wall will greaty alleviate your pain." He feels his cheeks burning rose and lowers himself onto Anaton's bed. "That, and suicide sounded pretty good until I discovered how much stone walls hurt."
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