[William]
Times passed. The matches stopped being a trial to survive and became a court to rule. With each one, William chipped away at his father’s debt, until he woke up one day with half of it cleared.
He learned a few lessons, too.
He learned how to hone his swordsmanship to entice, to make it into a show, a story to be told. He learned how to prolong his matches, enough to cast doubts over his chances, to sway the scales of the wagers resting upon his victory. He learned when to push back his injuries and when to fold under their thrall.
But there were lessons he couldn’t seem to grasp.
Like reveling in the spectators’ attention at the parades. Like indulging in his victories. Like striking the killing blow first.
It earned William the title he became known for: Mourning Blade.
“It’s too melancholic for my liking,” Julian shared after a match, and it disturbed William to somewhat agree.
Because even after he grew skilled enough to incapacitate his opponents instead of killing them, the title still stuck, a heavy reminder of those he took their lives before.
William didn’t take note of the eyes set upon him at the parades, but on this particular day, the weight of a gaze had a different feel than all the others. Turning to it, William’s eyes locked with a young man’s, his features striking a chord in memory—childish laughter and cool breezes carrying the scent of apples.
It was that boy, the one whose father was a Champion and took pride in it, oblivious about what it meant. Sergei, was it?
As if to confirm it, William saw Sergei mouthing his name in a silent call, eyes wide with a disbelief that melted into pity.
Oh, so he learned.
Guards arriving to escort William was a routine scene, but he didn’t expect it now. Julian had long since fell into the habit of telling him about upcoming matches. Add to that the time, dead in the night, the complete opposite of the scorching day the Games were usually held in.
Dread seized his heart. “What happened?”
The guards didn’t answer, only urged him silently to follow.
Wherever they led him to, the journey to it seemed endless. But the end did arrive, and standing at the steps of another cottage, William wished it never did.
He crossed the steps and entered, following a spot of light interrupting the darkness engulfing the cottage. It led him to a room lit by a single lantern, its light falling the brightest on his father’s still form.
His father’s face was free from bandages, marred by few healed scars, stark against unnatural pallor.
Even as he denied the mere thought, William knew.
“Father…” he called, a lump in his throat, his voice muffled against his father’s chest.
His call went unanswered, not by word, movement, or heartbeat.
Perhaps he was stuck in a moment in time. Perhaps when it resumed, it would begin with a heartbeat.
It was a foolish hope, an impossibility.
Time passed. It always did.
“It wasn’t my doing, if you’re asking,” someone said a long while later, and it took William longer than it should’ve to realize it was Julian.
Lifting his head, William winced as the sunlight momentarily stole his sights with a white that slowly faded, bringing out an image he’d rather not see—a confirmation he’d rather not realize.
“I did my best to keep him comfortable, but your father was too stubborn to appreciate my kindness,” Julian continued once William turned to him. “Even when he fell sick, he was a nuisance to the Healers.”
“Quiet…”
Julian smiled. “It did make me wonder, did he even want to live?”
“Quiet!” This time, William managed to grab Julian by the collar of his overcoat before the guards entered the scene.
He felt a pinprick on his neck and then his grip started to loosen, body frozen in movement as Julian stepped back and reordered himself.
“Bring him back,” was the last thing William heard as spots sparked in his vision, widening until they plunged him into nothingness.
Four days had passed since William woke up to the dim light of the dwelling. Each day, the number of guards increased. A few stationed outside the dwelling, the majority inside it—scattered along its walls, their sights never straying from William.
Goran whistled at the sight of the new batch. “Sateal’s anxious alright.”
William caught a new guard looking his way, not even trying to hide it.
“Why don’t you try again?” The suggestion had William turning to Goran, surprised. The man scolded him after his last and only attempt.
Goran shrugged. “The stakes have changed. You don’t have to tolerate this anymore.”
Of course, that was the truth. That was what had Julian unsettled, readying for another escape—one that wouldn’t be foiled due to predictable attachments.
William could be free, because his father was dead.
“Told you they’ll refuse,” Goran said when he returned to his side, voice cracked and gaze hazy.
William reached for the cloth on Goran’s forehead, soaking it before applying it anew. “They’ll send for a Healer in the morning.”
“By the time he arrives, it’ll be too late.”
William frowned. Too late for what? Indeed, Goran was sick, but it was the sort to rise from after days of rest. “Didn’t think you’d be one for theatrics.”
“I have a match tomorrow.”
“And you won’t go.” Surely, Goran was reasonable enough to know that fighting in his current condition wouldn’t have a favorable outcome.
“I have to.”
“Are you out of your damn mind?” And perhaps his voice rose louder than what he’d allow at this particular time, because Goran winced and the Champion on the neighboring mat groaned, but William didn’t care.
“You can say that,” Goran answered, the smile he struggled to show half-hearted. “Only two matches separate me from the end of this.”
“Then wait.”
“I can’t.” His eyes were far away as he elaborated, “I’m not like you, Will. I don’t have Sateal lining up matches for me to pick from. I’m an old steed. The last match I fought was three months ago, and the one before? Five. If I declined tomorrow’s match, who knows when I’ll get the next one. I can’t take that risk.”
“You’re the one who told me not to be tempted, even close to the target,” William reminded him, because the fool needed it, needed to be brought back from whatever madness overtaking his thoughts. “You’re the one who told me it’ll end in grief.”
Goran laughed, and the sound rang hollow. “I did, didn’t I? I’m sorry… I guess it differs when it’s your own freedom that’s shining at the end of tunnel.” Slowly reaching under his mat, he brought out an envelope. “If I didn’t come back tomorrow, can you give this to my mother when you get out? I’ve written the details in the back.”
“Goran…”
“She’s old, ancient. She had been waiting for years, and it might be selfish of me, but I hope she’s still waiting…”
His father’s image took his thoughts then. He died waiting, and it hurt to think of the possibility that, had he not declined matches due to injuries, his pace would’ve been quicker. Perhaps he would’ve been out, would’ve been by his father’s side—would’ve accompanied him in his passing.
“Be careful,” William said, taking the envelope, hoping he wouldn’t have to deliver it.
The evening of the next day, the guards that escorted Goran to the Coliseum returned.
Goran didn’t.
Julian got up from his seat at William’s entry to the guards’ barracks, gesturing for the guards escorting him to leave them alone. Once they did, he started, “You truly baffle me, Will. You decline every match I arrange for you, yet you don’t try escaping. Don’t you think you deserve better than rotting in that dirty hole?”
“And dying for you is a better fate?”
Julian snorted. “Don’t sell yourself short. You're too skilled to fall so easily.”
From anyone else, that belief would’ve been heart-whelming. From Julian? It only had William sickened. “There was nothing for me to fight for,” he said, and Julian raised an eyebrow, catching on.
“But now there is.” Julian smiled. “What is it?”
The envelope he kept on his person at all times was enough of a reason, but Goran’s death gave him another.
“If I cleared my debts, you’ll clear everyone’s with me.”
Julian’s eyes narrowed, his smile sharpening. “You’re driving a mad wager.”
“I thought you liked the risk.” After all, Julian was the one who saw the potential of a scrawny boy to become what he was at this moment. And William wagered on it.
Perhaps Julian realized this, perhaps not. Still, he laughed, something proud shining in his eyes. “I do, and I accept your terms. On one condition.”
“Say it.”
“You are not to decline matches anymore.”
Of course, Julian wouldn’t make it easy.
“I accept.”
The guards’ numbers decreased. Those that remained still had their eyes fixed on William, but it wasn’t with the diligence he came to be familiar with, instead a growing concern.
William first noticed it after the tenth consecutive match he took. Under the weight of the gaze on him, William looked up from his bloody leg, and his sights met a guard’s. He looked like he wanted to say something, and William waited for him to say it. He didn’t.
The dawn of the following day, William woke up to a Healer by his side.
It wasn’t the guards alone that his new pace unsettled, and the Champions had no issue expressing their opinions in full. They scolded William, hounded him for answers, some of them even pleaded him to stop and give his injuries time to heal.
William appreciated their concern—was a little caught off guard by it, even—but he couldn’t heed it.
A group of noblemen approached William after a match, and one of them spoke in a mockery of concern, his eyes burning with curiosity, “You ought to slow down a little, my boy. This match was almost your undoing!”
“I can’t do that,” William returned, answering the unasked question, telling the noblemen all about the wager.
Julian was close enough to hear him, yet he didn’t interrupt.
Another nobleman turned to the man in question. “To agree on a wager that steep… it’s quite foolish of you, Julian.”
“Is it?” Julian drawled, hardly concerned.
He must be confident that William would lose, to hand him this boon so freely.
“It’s near the cottage you’ve last been to,” a guard said, just as William was about to enter the dwelling.
William stopped and turned to him, and the guard continued on, “Your father’s grave.”
His heart stilled then resumed beating, bringing with it a familiar pain. “Why are you telling me this?”
“I’ll put all my coin on you tomorrow’s match,” the guard answered. “I’ll be a rich man, and you’ll be free.”
With his opponent unconscious, the bell rang declaring William the winner.
It was William’s habit to leave at this point, but today he remained standing. He had an announcement to make.
Facing the lowest tier from which the nobility spectated, he began, loud enough for his voice to carry to them, “A long while go, my Organizer Julian indulged me in a wager.”
Along the years, William heard tales and learned new perspectives from the Champions. One of them was that the Organizers were like vultures, hard as they tried to pass themselves off as civil.
“The terms were simple: so long as I manage to clear my debts, he’ll dismiss the debts of everyone under his wing.”
They were a jealous, scheming bunch, waiting for the smallest slip to clutch onto and use to their advantage.
“It just so happens that this marks my last match.”
This wager between him and Julian would be a gift, a chance to ruin Julian, end his reign of victories that put everyone else’s under their shadow.
“I have cleared my debts.”
Predictably, the noblemen jumped from their seats, their voices mixing up to form a loud, gleeful buzz. The ones that learned about the wager beforehand were at the helm.
William didn’t care for their reaction. His sights were on the sitting Julian. Even from a distance, William could feel the disbelief that rooted the man to his seat, staring in William’s way in a dawning loss.
To see that well-composed façade of his crack?
It had William smiling.
The journey back to the dwelling was a spectacle that surpassed the matches of the Coliseum. Organizers and those under their ranks accompanied Julian’s entourage, robbing Julian of any chance to refute or retreat.
News of what happened at the Coliseum must’ve reached the dwelling, because William found a crowd made of Champions waiting out of its gates. They lunged at William the moment they caught sight of him, the hold of their cheers and gratitude suffocating. They were happy to gain back their freedom. Of course they did.
He should feel it, too—that excitement, that joy to see the light after eight years of darkness.
But he didn’t. Couldn’t.
His first steps as a free man took him to his father’s grave.
William found it in the middle of a meadow behind the cottage, marked with a flat stone.
It took him a long while to carve into the stone with the tip of his sword, a challenge in and of itself without counting his trembling hold. It was something he could do, something he could gift. This one luxury his father couldn’t afford in his life.
He dusted off the fine debris out of jagged letters forming his father’s name…
Dylen Bernard.
