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You need to break a couple eggs to make an omelette, right?
Feju 5, 1125 Dom.
I wandered into the camp, my head looking down. My hand stuck underneath the band of my waist, with my thumb pressed against the handle as I walked campfire to campfire. I didn’t mind the stares or the glares, I didn’t mind my shabby rags or the mismatched boots I wore or the droopy face I had. Didn’t mind at all what anyone thought, not now.
I saw his face meters away, I saw his glowing laugh huddled in between five different soldiers. On their shoulder pads, the three was written with what looked to be decorative lily flowers and vines draped along. Their heavy armor or chain mail or leather chest pieces glistening against the fire.
I gulped. My throat was so dry. Just breathing I could feel every crack open up, it felt like I was suffocating myself. It got worse as I got closer. I couldn’t even sweat or breath. But each time I thumbed the knife it got easier or maybe gave me more power or something. So’s I went at him until we stood face to face in front of the campfire. Some of ‘em stood. The place was dead quiet.
Coins dropped into a little cup and in the corner of my eyes, I could see the faces of the tossing hands. Smiles all across, whispers. Laughter.
Gabralto spat into fireplace.
“You.” I pointed at him. “Me.” I pointed at myself.
“What’s the problem?” He smiled.
“Did you name me.” I closed my eyes, swallowed my throat. “Did you name me black cheeks?”
“And what if I did?” He asked.
“Is that why people laugh? Is that why they stare?” I looked around. People looked up from their huddled seats along the fallen tree trunks. Some turn backed, their bodies laying long on the grass. Others stopped midway their passing of food or water or wine.
“Is that a problem?” He asked.
“Yeah. It’s my problem.”
I knew my eyes were watering, but I didn’t care. Not now. I’d be fucked if I let this prick handle me like this. Not again. Never. It was like dad said; never to be a victim, never let things just slide further and further away from you.
You can call it being vengeful, I call it fighting back.
I know it’s not right, I know it’s not good to be mean or to fight people or make enemies. But sometimes you just can’t. There’s always that one guy, one guy who just can’t let you live a nice, peaceful life. As if the thought someone else might be just a bit happier makes them want to ruin it. It’s the type of man who was the type of child to tear down sand castles. To ruin hand drawn portraits. To pluck my book and toss it in recess.
You always have one, you always get one and you always have one chance to deal with them. And it sets the precedent, it decides whether we live under their heel or if we don’t.
So’s let bygones be bygones… only after you get the last word. Live and let live… up until they threaten you Then you go hard on the fuckers. You prove yourself. And here I was, in front of this campfire with the sparks falling and the ash surrounding us, here I was to prove to this man that I was going to fight. That I had no other thing left in me but the fight.
“You. Coward.” I said. “Fight. Me.”
He understood those words. He understood ‘cause he kept laughing, slapping other peoples arms and drawing them closer with friendly headlocks. And he’d say into their ears, “Well shit, he grew some big balls, huh.”
I bent down just a bit at my knees. Felt a little thin and small, but that’d just make me quicker.
“Coward.” I said.
“I’m not one the who pissed my pants that night.” He tipped his chin forward. “…But that’s only what I heard, of course.”
My right eye twitched.
“Is it true then? Did you piss yourself?” He smiled.
I’d be damned if I let it happen again. I don’t know why but I thought of that cage, of that mother, of that son and that monster. Rage and shame all washed over me like a wave of hot water, a giant surf that pushed out of me and towards him.
I flung my fist. He dodged, kneed me right in my bruised ribs. I spat then closed my mouth and grabbed onto his legs as he was trying to return. I grabbed him and threw him a little past the campfire, he went over it and crashed into the wooden benches. Hitting one end of the benches had the other rise like a teeter-swing. A shield at the opposite end flew out, into the fire and the ash spat everywhere like a miniature volcano. The men around us split.
Fuck fairness. I grabbed the shield a few meters off the fireplace now. Burned my hands.
“Fuck!”
I blew on them, then gripped it hard this time with my teeth clenched. Spun. In one move, the shield flew at his head. He covered his face and struck his forearm.
I ran at him. Lunged at him and I saw his elbow rise, like that one night. As if I didn’t expect it or anything.
So’s I hooked his feet with my own and pressed against him as he raised his elbow to strike me down and we both fell, my weight on his. My pelvis mounted and controlling his midsection.
“You motherfucker!”
I punched down on his face.
He was laughing the whole time, grabbing my arm, parrying, blocking. I must have been a child to him. And the growing thought and my growing misses just pushed me more and more. Until. Well, until my breath collapsed and my arms made weak thuds as they struck the grass behind his dodging head.
“You fight like a kid. Too much, too fast.” He said.
My eyes narrowed. That so? Did a child have the will to do this then?
I reached into my pocket and grabbed the knife. I raised it high above me.
His eyes went wide. That’s the look I wanted to see, you fucker. Just the scared look and his arms desperate to get mine.
That was when the other men stepped in. Loads of them. They grabbed my arm, ripped my fingers off the grip and pinned me down. It took six men. Not that I’m proud or anything. It wasn’t like I was actually going to stab him, I just needed to let him know I had it in me to.
“It was a warning. Just a warning!” I said. My voice muffled as my face was shoved into the grass.
There was a knee against my neck. My arms were held behind me. My feet were pinned down by feet. I shook, I struggled. Not to brag, but just to remind you. It took six men to pin me. Six.
And it didn’t take long for me to hear the familiar voice, only I understood it now. Partially, but it was loud and booming and dominant enough that I’d remember it, and transcribe it later.
It was Vicentius. He looked at me and at Gabralto, both of us scuffed and hotheaded and tight with the scowls on our faces (I saw his, I felt mine own).
Vicentius walked up to us both, pushed the men off me and raised my arm abruptly, with a grip that hurt my wrist.
“Both of you.” He said. “Back to your quarters. Now.”
His voice petered off into quiet, but the anger wasn’t lost in it. It might have been scarier now that it was so low. It was the type of anger where you’re not quite sure when it could break into rage, that kind.
Gabralto and I looked at each other.
“Now.” Vicentius said. And we didn’t challenge him. Gabralto spat. I raised my shoulders and kept my chin low. The other men looked at me with the shame in their faces, no sneering or laughter now, just saddened faces all around. At the edge of the campsites, approaching the road I turned. Vicentius was knelt and spinning my knife in his hand. He looked back at me, only briefly because I couldn’t look long, and all I read on his face was…disappointment.
It made my stomach drop.
