by Kasia Bacon
Gods almighty.
"Nifty fighters, too. I've never seen a match like that in my twenty years of working the pits." Rhēn shook his head, setting his mouth in a thin line. "Yüuzuki only killed the knifer. The stupid fuck had it coming. Just wouldn't give it up. Ended up with his own blade sticking out of his eye."
I couldn't think for the fog that veiled my brain. "What-what's with the weapons all of a sudden? Since when is this a done thing?"
Rhēn's cloudy expression confirmed what I'd already suspected. "It ain't. Not unless the Fighting House has decided to, hmm, shake things up a little. Change the dynamic, if you will."
"'The dynamic'? What does that mean?" I demanded, trying to rein in the feeling of hopelessness that threatened to overwhelm me.
"The word in the compound is Takano has finally managed to convince his grandfather that Yüuzuki's being invincible isn't great for business."
The guard's careful and studied reply stunned me into shock. "How come? Don't the crowds pay a fortune to see him fight? Isn't he their hero? Don't they adore him?"
"That they do. But he's become...predictable in his victories. And predictability kills the entertainment. People want to be kept at the edge of their seats, they bore easily otherwise. Besides, no one dares to wager large sums against Yüuzuki anymore. It does the bookmakers' heads in, you follow?" Rhēn shrugged. "Now, if he were to go bare-knuckled against, let's say, a dozen and weaponed up to their eyeballs---"
"Gods! That would be carnage, for fuck's sake! Not a fight!" My hands shook.
"Yes. Which is exactly the point. The big match on the Night of Lights? I bet my arse it's bound to be something along those lines. Or even worse, judging by the sick clientele Takano keeps company with and the fact that he intends to make it a closed event for them. The rumour goes, the fee at the gates will go up to three hundred silvers on the day. Think about the load of coin such a move would bring the House in just one evening?"
The sympathy, evident in the guard's kind eyes, hit me harder than the implication of his words. All air rushed out from my lungs on a whoosh.
After a pause, Rhēn added, "No one is irreplaceable, Ĥaiatto. The audience loves Yüuzuki and cheers him on when he wins. But they will also cheer, perhaps even louder, when his blood seeps into the sand. It's how it goes in the pits."
"I can't believe Old Lyliňg has agreed to this. Yüu's skills are unparalleled. Why throw all this expertise away? He could simply retire him as a fighter and relegate him to Master Trainer. Perhaps I could convince---"
"By all means. It hurts nothing to try." Rhēn's intonation and body language told me he believed it would yield no results. "But it's likely a done deal. Old Lyliňg gives his consideration to the House first, that's true, but his grandson comes a close second. He's had a hard time refusing Takano's whims as it is, and the little bastard's been at it for months, rabbiting on in his ear and digging holes under Yüuzuki. The trouble is, Takano's accumulated a lot of support for his plan amongst certain fighters. Most admire and respect Yüuzuki, but some are envious. They want their go at the status of top fighter. Not to mention that many resent his success even more, knowing how uncompromising he can be about honour, while they stop at nothing and still get nowhere. He makes people conscious of their shortfalls and nobody likes to be reminded of those." A sad, tired smile creased his face. "Takano's a relentless enemy. Yüuzuki will pay dearly for rejecting his advances all those years ago."
My mouth fell open. Was that what had caused the rift between them?
"Rhēn, what are you saying?" It took effort to get the sounds through my tight, dry throat and speak.
He traced his grizzled chin with his fingers a few times over. "What I'm saying is this: if you can do something, anything, to buy him out or trade him into another Fighting House---don't wait. Do it now. Tomorrow. If you can't, then, well..." He squeezed my elbow in an awkward and regretful way, his other hand already reaching for the door handle. "Don't waste those three days, son. And for the gods' sake, say your goodbyes."
FIGHTER
With Rhēn gone, all energy escaped me in a rush. Despite the ripe heat of the Něssyrian evening, I broke out in shivers. The back of my shirt clung to my spine, dampened by cold sweat.
I stared at the door that had closed behind the guard in a bout of sudden disorientation, unseeingly contemplating the imperfections of the wood grain.
Shouldn't I have been prepared for such a turn of events? Hadn't it always been a matter of time? After all, the worry of something dreadful about to happen had been festering at the back of my mind for the last three years, flaring up every time one of Yüu's matches had gone on for longer than expected. Funny how living in constant fear had become such a big part of my daily routine I had stopped noticing the unease. Right then, when the feared event had finally come to pass, the scope of my panic astonished me. As did my passive reaction. The walls of my world had crumbled around me and what was I doing?
Gawping at a knot that oddly resembled the outline map of the Empire.
Get a fucking grip. Now isn't the time to fall to pieces.
Since sinking into apathy resolved nothing, I forced myself to snap out of it. Before rushing back to Yüu's side, I wiped the moisture off my cheeks. Be it sweat or tears, I chose not to analyse.
One glance confirmed that Yüu's complexion had lost its waxy, ashen quality. I took instant relief in the deep, regular sound of his breathing.
I had no reason to deny myself the comfort of a simple touch anymore. Wanting---craving---to feel the warm reassurance of him alive and safe, if only for the moment, I bent down to kiss his temple and run a tender hand through his hair.
Even in the fading light of the candles, its rich gloss resembled well-roasted malt. Unlike most ih'mohrôs, who had a habit of shearing their mops down to nothing in a bid to prevent their opponents from gaining even the smallest edge in a fight, Yüu kept his shoulder-length. Only a shit fighter blames his haircut he sometimes mocked, while pulling his dark waves into a top knot. The austere style enhanced his striking looks all the more.
I grabbed a spare chair from under the window and dragged it over. It creaked in protest when I folded my long form into it gracelessly.
Squeezing Yüu's hand in mine, I savoured the familiar roughness of his palm. The fact that he hadn't yet regained consciousness didn't alarm me. Large doses of Magic often worked as a sedative on people accustomed to its effects. The longer he rested at this stage, the better the result of my healing spells. So I sat there, watching him in silence, waiting for my fighter to come round.
When I regarded Yüu, I saw strength and endurance. He'd forged his body into a deadly weapon and stunning piece of art in a way that inspired awe. While he was of average height and not large by any means, his compact, crisply delineated physique could have served as an anatomical learning aid to a healer's apprentice. And how rewarding it would be to study the position of joints, bones and muscles on such a model?
My pale forearm stood in marked contrast to the golden-beige of his colouring. His smooth skin---devoid of hair and glistening with the oil he'd applied prior to the match---loved soaking in the hot rays of the sun. Whereas mine detested any such exposure, turning pink and blistery. Compared with his exotic air, my hazel eyes, ash-brown hair and the posture of a bookworm encompassed the definition of unremarkable in every way, save for my height.
The sharp, fine-drawn lines of Yüu's features announced his southern origin. His beauty, reminiscent of the wild grasslands and plains of his motherland, held a stark quality. Because of it, he seemed unapproachable. Off limits. Until he smiled and a warm glint came into his unusual, lightly-coloured eyes. Not that many witnessed it. Neither did they know what I'd experienced first-hand: how gentle and loving he could be.
When I'd tended his wounds the very first time, he'd stayed still throughout, observing me with an intense attentiveness, as if stunned. I'd wondered whether I'd been the first person in a long time to show him kindn
ess. Flustered by his appearance and aware of his reputation, I'd rambled on in an effort to mask my discomposure. Seeing him hanging on to my nonsense as if it were the gods' words---and even laughing at something I said---almost made me drop a jar of antiseptic worth two hundred silvers.
His second visit had lasted but a few minutes; it hadn't taken long to fix the thumb he'd badly sprained during practice. Before leaving, he'd reached into his breast pocket and with a shy smile that invited the butterflies in my stomach to have a riot, handed me a tiny bunch of forget-me-nots.
And indeed, I hadn't been able to stop thinking about him ever since, recalling the way his amber gaze had lingered on me. I longed to have it trained on me again. I ached to touch him, not in my role as a medic, but to bring him pleasure as a lover. At nights, I'd lain awake, wishing him back. A terrible thing to hope for a healer, since the only circumstances that warranted his return would mean more harm coming to him and new injuries for me to dress. Guilt had eaten away at me but I'd waited, the harsh reality of our circumstances guaranteeing such an encounter sooner rather than later.
Curious of his past, I'd caught up with the arena gossip, something that had never held my interest before. The next time I'd had him in my treatment room, I'd declared his condition as requiring a three-day-long inpatient investigation.
And investigate I had.
By that third morning, I had already come to know the taste of his kisses and the sweetness of his embraces. By that time, I'd already fallen in love with him. Beyond measure and reason.
But who knew how Yüu felt? Had it been an infatuation for him? Boredom? Loneliness, maybe? I'd never had the guts to ask. Discussing the future hadn't seemed appropriate. As by an unwritten agreement, we snatched short-lived moments when we could, escaping into each other's arms without declarations or assurances. Did I think it enough? No. Yet, it was plenty. More than I'd ever had or expected to come my way, at any rate.
They called him Ōren the Barbarian. The first part made sense. In the language of Yüu's native tribe, Ōren meant golden-winged eagle. And he indeed resembled the wild and speedy bird of prey, to the extent that I wouldn't have hesitated to deem it his spirit guardian.
The Barbarian, however, jarred me to no end. The epithet wasn't meant to declare Yüu's ethnic background as much as stress the foreign element to it and imply uncultured savagery and brutishness as somehow inherent to him, despite such qualities being at complete odds with his nature. Ironic, given that if anyone's actions seemed barbaric, it would be the Imperial nationals who'd forced Yüu into his current position.
Yüu's accent put mine to shame. He arrived at the capital at the age of six---the youngest son of a Barbarian chieftain, who at one time had united a number of tribes under his rule, seizing significant political power over the territory. Giving up young Yüu to one of the noble Ysêmyrian families as a ward served as a gesture of goodwill, and a guarantee of the truce between the Empire and its southern neighbours. Luckily, the childless Lord Mokkina chosen for the task took a shine to the bright, brave boy. He brought him up as his own blood, lavishing love and attention upon him and even educating him in all seven arts.
Yüu had never returned to the land of his kin. His father's reign had turned out to be as brief as it had been grand. And after the chieftain had died alongside his clansmen in a daring raid launched by a rival faction, the union of the Barbarian tribes and the future of their alliance with the Empire had been buried with him. Nobody had remained to claim the little hostage. Unaware of his circumstances, he'd grown up in a luxurious mansion outside the capital, enjoying gardens, books, music and calligraphy while excelling at fencing and hand-to-hand practice in particular. Life had been good. Until Lord Mokkina's heart had given out on one summer's eve, a mere three days before Yüu's seventeenth birthday.
Whispers had gone round that the Lord had obtained naturalisation for Yüu. That having formally adopted the boy, he had intended to make him his sole successor. Legal scrolls and records had existed, they said. Witnesses, too. Mysteriously, both disappeared into thin air the instant the deceased's relatives had started circling the large inheritance like a kettle of vultures.
With no one willing to keep him and nowhere to return to, Yüu's standing had become unclear if not problematic. In theory, he belonged to the state. The Emperor, however, seeing no further use for the ward and occupied with planning yet another campaign, had instructed the Mokkinas to quit whinging and resolve the matter, for the gods' sake.
And they had. By selling the youth---who was grieving the loss of the only father he'd known---to the most prominent fighting house in the Empire.
They said young Yüu had not once protested the change in his fortune. Neither had he cried, pleaded or shown any signs of emotion. One time aside: when the members of the Mokkina family---in a farewell before sending Yüu under escort on his Něssyr-bound journey---had thought it a grand idea to try and rob the lad of the sword the old lord had gifted him. A dozen grown men had failed to retrieve the valuable weapon, however, gaining nothing for their trouble but injuries.
And so Yüu had left Ysêmyr with only the clothes on his back and the ancient yaʼneshi swinging at his hip.
Soon after, Ōren the Barbarian had been born. Not quite a slave, yet not a free man either. Two years into his training, Yüu had made his name around the arena as the finest ih'mohrô of his generation.
Thrice I'd tried to buy him out using various people to pitch the sell, sparing no silver. Healers didn't work for chestnuts and ones who incorporated Magic into their craft even more so. I could hardly close the lid of my treasure chest for the amount of coin I'd collected over the years. But going into debt would've been fine too, as long as I could've ensured Yüu's freedom. Yet the Lyliňgs had rejected every offer, no matter who I'd asked to present it or how outrageous the sum. Such persistent refusal had baffled me. Now I realised Takano's grudge must've been all over that pie.
The slight quiver of Yüu's long lashes accompanied by his soft groan stirred me out of my thoughts.
I placed my palm on his cheek. Tinted with a blush, it felt warm to the touch. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead---the evidence of Magic hard at work inside him.
"Ĥaiatto," Yüu rasped, with his eyelids still closed tight.
Either he instinctively recognised my touch or muttered my name while still muddled. My heart stuttered at both possibilities. I moved closer. "I'm here, love."
"So hot." His tongue darted out to moisten his chapped lips. "Water." He opened his eyes at last, offering me a somewhat bleary and vacant look.
Nonetheless, the golden gleam of his irises made me shiver in appreciation as always.
Droplets splashed everywhere as I poured a glassful from the ceramic jug. To save him the unpleasantness of downing the fluid that'd stewed in the sizzling interior of my room for hours, I touched my source stone and expelled a cooling spell into the rotund crystal. When its bowl frosted above the stem, I handed it to Yüu.
He lifted himself up, gingerly supporting his torso on his elbow. His throat muscles corded, working the water down as he guzzled it all, his enthusiasm making me thirsty. Having wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, he extended his glass for a refill without a word, rolling his neck as he waited.
I repeated the whole operation once more. This time only to watch an increasingly alert Yüu knit his eyebrows at me in disapproval.
"I thought we agreed," he said in a hoarse but otherwise firm voice, "that you wouldn't waste Magic on nonsense---"
"Ssshh, fine. Drink now," I murmured, trying to pacify him before we got into our long-standing argument about my being reckless and not respecting my limits. It'd continued since the day he'd seen me collapse in a seizure after performing too many conjurations in short succession. Gods, I'd never heard the end of it. "Haven't you perked up, then? Scolding me the moment you wake, eh? Feel dizzy?"
Yüu sat up to assess that and shook his head, guiding the glass to his mouth with
a stable hand. He downed the drink in two gulps before passing it back to me. "I won the match," he said and swung his legs down.
"I know you did. You always do."
And thank the gods for that because the moment you stop, I'll lose you forever.
With caution at first and then more freely, Yüu stretched. Then, after having checked himself over, he immediately proceeded to move around---way too sprightly for my liking---and mess with my dressings and red yarn bracelet.
I swatted at his hands lightly. "No. Leave them be," I said, on the verge of tearing my hair out. "You're my worst patient, you know that?"
"But I'm fine," he reported bemused, squinting at me as if I had been unreasonable, subjecting him to harassment for no reason "Right as rain."
I rolled my eyes. "Fine? Stabbed, concussed and fractured isn't fine. As a matter of fact, it's nowhere near the definition of fine as I under---"
"No pain, though." He pointed to himself the way a toddler would, defusing me in an instant with the ridiculous and endearing gesture. His tone had taken on a partly-impressed, partly-delighted inflexion, in no uncertain terms designed to compliment my healing endeavours.
I gave up on continuing my tirade and substituted it for a low grunt. Honourable as Yüu might've been, the damn ih'mohrô didn't shy away from resorting to dirty tricks when it suited him. So instead, I wiggled my digits at him. "Magic fingers."
The corners of his mouth turned up at my pathetic attempt at humour. He nodded. "I'm very familiar with how long and nimble they are."
Warmth suffused my face. How he could assign such filthy meaning to a couple of innocent adjectives, I had no idea.
His eyes met mine and he took me by the wrist. Lifting my palm to his lips, he placed a few slow, lingering kisses on the inside of it. "Thank you, Ĥaiatto," he said softly. "For everything."
I swallowed, momentarily rendered speechless. And damn it if his words didn't carry a foreboding finality that grabbed me by the throat like a mugger in a dark alley. The air turned sombre between us.