“Oh, wow!” I grin, taking the high-tech shoelaces.
“Now, this, right here,” he tells me, pulling out a small round tag with a recessed button, from inside a hidden pocket. “This is your Contender token. It’s orichalcum, inactive now, but once you’re in each of the Game Zones, they will key you to it, and it will go live, acting like an ID and location tracker.”
“Similar to the Qualification ID token?” I say.
He nods. “Yes, except you don’t wear it on the outside of your uniform, you keep it hidden, someplace such as an inner pocket, and you try not to lose it.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s the only way to self-disqualify.” Aeson looks at me seriously. “If for any reason, things get desperate, you get seriously hurt, and you need to get out, please use it. Nothing else matters, all right? Promise me, Gwen. . . .”
I bite my lip. “If I self-disqualify, it’s going to be an awful, permanent stamp of shame on me, you by association, everyone connected to me. . . .”
“Shame is nothing. I’d rather you survive.” The gaze of his blue eyes bores into me with overpowering intensity.
In reply I only squeeze his arm, and remain silent.
We spend the afternoon and the rest of this last day together, just the two of us, mostly silent, strolling through the green gardens outside, looking out over the white blazing city from the many balconies, touching hands, fingers. . . . I find that I’m in a strange state of lethargy caused by an overload of nerves and chronic exhaustion from all these weeks of physical exertion, while Aeson seems to be on high alert. He frequently recalls other items in the equipment bag, or mentions specific fighting techniques we’ve practiced, or quizzes me on the use of the gadgets. And then just as suddenly he tells himself, “Enough, I know. I need to let you rest today.”
“I’m as ready as I can be,” I mumble, pressing his fingers reassuringly, looking at him to see his desperation breaking through the semblance of composure, and all the while remembering to smile. . . .
Evening comes much too quickly, and then we are standing at the doors between our bedrooms.
For the last time. . . .
The thought comes to me with a sudden jolt of terror through my heart. After tomorrow I might never see him again in person, I will not live to see—
Enough, stop, I tell myself. But my body is rebelling against me, filling me with a sudden numbing chill. . . .
And then I look at my beloved, and for one moment I am bold and fearless. “Aeson . . .” I whisper, even as I start to actually shiver from the inexplicable overpowering sensation of cold. “Maybe you and I—maybe we should be together tonight?”
The look in his eyes in that moment—oh, it’s impossible to describe! The flash of comprehension, the flaring of an inner fire held contained for so long now roars to life, the intensity as he looks down at me, his face only inches away.
“Gwen . . .” he whispers, his breath warming my lips. “Do you mean—”
“I mean, would you please be with me, since this is our last night together? I don’t care that we’re not married yet, I just want to be with you at last, just once, just this night! I want to feel and know everything . . . I want to love you before I die—”
“No! Gwen!” Suddenly he is shaking me, his strong hands biting into my upper arms, while tears are starting to run down my face in a wild torrent, and I’m faint and breathless and gasping with terror, with agony . . . love, desire, despair, all mixing into one insane moment. . . .
He pulls me close against his chest, holding me so tight that I’m stifled in his hard embrace. Oddly enough, it serves to compose me to some degree, quiets the torrent of tears.
“Please, Aeson,” I say again faintly against his chest. “Don’t leave me alone tonight, please, I’m so cold. . . .”
“No!” he says fiercely, “you are not going to die! Do you understand? You will live and you will fight and you will come back to me, and then we will love properly . . . love to celebrate, not to mourn! So, no, we’re not going to do this as an act of desperation! Do . . . you . . . hear me? You’re with me, you are never alone! With me!”
He continues shaking me, and then suddenly picks me up off my feet, and carries me over to my own bedroom. He pulls back the soft covers and, puts me down on my bed—while I still shudder with weakness, limp and powerless and abysmally cold—and he gets in bed with me. I feel the overwhelming warmth and strength of him all around me, as he lies holding me. . . .
“I’m going to be with you all night, Gwen,” he whispers in my ear, and his warm breath sends electric honey sweetness coursing down me, dissipating the cold, reaching me at long last. “I’m not going anywhere, I am here, with you, im amrevu. . . .”
He strokes my hair softly, kisses the nape of my neck, adjusts the pillow under me. “Yes, I will be with you, but no, we won’t make love tonight. Think of it as an incentive, yet another reason for you to come back to me. Now, you will simply rest and you will sleep. Think about nothing else. . . . Relax and just let go. . . . Breathe. . . .”
“Okay . . .” I whisper, while my eyelids flutter with the mixture of unexpected warmth and comfort, while the constant fear and despair have been pushed back by the soft lethargy and his calming strength and presence.
And then I say with bittersweet humor, “Thank you, Aeson—for not taking advantage of my moment of weakness—or should I say, weirdness—”
“Hush. . . .” He makes a small sound of amusement, and smoothes away stray wisps of hair from my forehead. I notice a sweet smile comes to play at his lips.
“No, really, I mean it,” I continue mumbling sleepily. “You’re amazing. Most guys would be only too happy to—well, you know—”
“No, I don’t know,” he says playfully, narrowing his eyes at me, as I lie watching him, surrounded by the glory of loving power that is all him.
“Well,” I say, “I’m very well aware that you want to do it—”
“Yes,” he says seriously. “I want to have you . . . very much. But now is not the time.”
He pauses, and his fingers run along the surface of my cheek, so that my nerve endings feel a sweet echo. “If we made love, it would be your first time . . . and it could be too much for your body. . . . For a woman, the first time can be difficult and painful, even a kind of physical shock. Afterwards—being intimately changed, having to deal with possible disturbing consequences in the morning—that’s not something you can risk at a time when you must be in your best shape, and at your strongest.”
“I know,” I say, nodding slowly, without taking my eyes off him, his lean beautiful jaw line, his straight chiseled nose and high cheekbones, the mane of his golden hair falling on the pillow next to me, mingling with my own darker hair. “You’re right.”
“So now you must sleep,” he says firmly. “Because the sooner we get this Games nonsense over with, the sooner we can—”
He doesn’t finish because I move my head in and kiss him on the lips, while holding his jaw, and we both sigh and get lost in the moment.
All I remember from there on is him holding me, and whispering, “Sleep . . . sleep now, im amrevu . . . I am with you.”
Somehow I get lost in the peace of his presence, and drift off into a dreamless sleep.
When I wake, it’s Green Mar-Yan 9, the Games of the Atlantis Grail Commencement Day.
Aeson is no longer lying next to me. Instead I feel his gentle touch on my shoulder, then his fingers stroking my cheek. . . . I open my eyes to see him standing fully dressed, leaning over me, while the pale light of dawn is seeping through a slit between the curtains.
“Gwen,” he says. “It’s time.”
Immediately I feel a jolt of nerves, like a punch to my gut. Sleep races away, and now my pulse is racing instead. . . .
“Aeson! Oh, God!” I exclaim, and spring out of bed, forgetting to worry that my hair is a tousled mess and how dorky I might look to him, still wearing the clothes from the night b
efore—because, yes, I fell asleep in his arms and never even changed into my usual nightshirt. . . .
I turn to see my uniform laid out on the chair, while my bag sits ready on the floor next to my new sports shoes with their fancy shoelaces custom-made just for me.
“How long have you been up?” I say to Aeson as he watches me move around the room.
“Don’t worry about it,” he says, giving me a smile. “I’m going to let you get ready now, no rush, we’re right on schedule. I’ll see you in the living room with the eos bread waiting. Remember . . . breathe.”
I nod, and he leaves me to shower and dress. I check the time, and it’s almost sixth hour, which means we have two hours before I have to be downtown at the Atlantis Grail Stadium for the official Contender check-in that’s held at eighth hour. Although the Commencement Ceremony begins at noon, all of the participants have to be there early in order to be formally registered and placed in the Games Ceremony lineup.
Oh my God . . . it’s really happening . . . this is it, today is the day.
No, stop.
Breathe. . . .
With my heart pounding loud enough to jump out of my chest, I get ready—shower and put on the uniform pants and shirt, all of which fits surprisingly well. Actually, why am I surprised? It was created based on a template using my exact body measurements, which I’d submitted weeks in advance, as did all the other participants.
I lace up my new shoes which are not part of the uniform—we’re allowed to use our own choice of sports footgear for maximum advantage—and the magnetized shoelaces snap in place with ease. The shoes feel good on my feet, as well they should—Aeson made me try on dozens of the best pairs, choose my favorite, and then had me “wear them in” by working out for a whole day while wearing them, so that they would be comfortable during the Games.
Finally, I pull my hair into a tight neat ponytail, held together by a special expandable band that can double as a wrist-tie or other compression tool in case of injury.
My face is clean of cosmetics, although this is not a requirement. In fact, many of the Contenders will be wearing all kinds of aggressive “war paint,” but I feel more comfortable with the plain look. It’s more “me.”
I pause briefly at the mirror, to look at myself. The serious girl with the bloodless pale face looking back at me looks momentarily tough and well-toned, with the clean lines of a martial artist, even a soldier. And the next moment she looks very young and scared. . . .
Breathe, Gwen Lark, breathe. . . .
Finally, I pick up the bag. It’s ingeniously light, considering how much gear it has. I try it over the shoulder, then switch to the backpack, and finally swing it with one hand as a possible weapon.
As I head out the door, I remember something else with a painful lurch in my chest. Aeson’s love gift. I’d promised to give it to him before we part, so I grab the tiny crystal Pegasus figurine—so familiar, so well beloved—and place it in my pocket.
I just need to find the right moment. . . .
I cram down my eos bread, since Aeson insists I eat or he won’t let me leave the house. The bites go down tasteless, settling like rocks in my stomach, and I wash it down with equally tasteless liquid. But I force myself, knowing I must fuel up, because this might very well be the last decent meal I’ll get.
“Where is everyone?” I ask in-between gulps.
“Your sister and brother are going to meet us at the stadium, and your friends will be there too—and so will the astra daimon,” Aeson says, watching me with an unblinking intense gaze. “My Father and Mother will be at the Ceremony. Manala sends her love and says she is unable to watch. I’m sorry Gwen, you know how my sister is. Even the Commencement Ceremony is a bit too much for her.”
“Oh, please tell Manala I love her back, and not to worry,” I say quickly, finishing up whatever’s on my plate.
And then it’s time to go.
Chapter 34
We arrive at the Atlantis Grail Stadium in a familiar cavalcade of hover cars, surrounded by the usual Imperial guards. Aeson drives the two of us in his two-seater, letting me sit quietly and watch the urban scenery below. The atmosphere feels like a funeral.
“What time is it?” I mutter nervously every few minutes, and glance at the clock in the dashboard.
“We’re good,” Aeson tells me calmly, never taking his eyes off the air lane before him.
Moments later it seems, the great downtown structures of the sprawling complex appear below, and the golden Grail monument gleams like a colossus, set on fire in the white morning sunlight.
We land in the designated parking structure, somewhat apart from the crowds of Games fans, fenced off and guarded by stadium security. Here, for the first time, I see others wearing the official uniforms of all colors, red, blue, green, yellow, white—other Contenders such as myself, getting out of cars. Almost every one of them has an entourage accompanying them—family, friends, trainers, personal bodyguards, even members of the media.
Many of the Contenders are brash, loud, aggressive. They frequently stop to wave to the crowds of fans who are pressing against the guard rails that separate us from them. They flash feral grins, pump fists, and in some cases stop to hand-scrawl or digitally sign autographs on random objects and gear that fans thrust at them over and through the security fence. I don’t recognize many of the Contenders up-close, at least not any of the really high-profile ones—not yet. But I know they’re out there with the rest of us, all these hundreds of participants . . . or they will be soon, judging by the rising noise and screaming fan reactions to certain new arrivals.
Surrounded by Imperial guards, with Aeson walking at my side, I do my best to carefully observe the others, my competition and the fans.
“You should wave, Gwen,” Aeson whispers in my ear, amid the growing noise of the crowds and the sound of upbeat music being piped in from invisible outdoor speakers, the closer we get to the stadium entrance which looms colossal before us.
“Yeah, I know, I have to do what they do,” I retort. And then I straighten my back and make eye contact with the fans, and raise my hand to wave at them.
I hear whistles and hoots, mixed in with the general roar. As soon as they see me, I can tell I’m getting their attention. Whether it’s good or bad, is hard to know.
“It’s the Bride!” the fans yell. “Look, the Imperial Bride! There she is, next to the Prince!”
The noise rises, like an ocean. The everyday people, the ordinary Atlanteans who are here, are not that much different from the typical sports fans on Earth. These people are indeed the general population, and I get to see them up-close for the first time. I can judge by their basic styles of clothing and various fan shirts, cheap jewelry and trinkets, and the usual golden-dyed hair and kohl eyeliner mimicking the Imperial Family, that these are primarily working class, with no pretensions. . . .
They just want to see the action, close and personal. Likely, they can only afford tickets to a single event (such as the Commencement Ceremony), or just a few individual Games days, as opposed to a complete four-day Game Stage Pass for the Red, Blue, Green and Yellow stages, or even the super-expensive All-Games Gold Pass for the entire seventeen days of the Games. And so they take advantage of any opportunity, such as this one, just to watch us as we arrive.
As for the upper classes—although most of them tend to bypass the crowds and use exclusive entrances to go inside private viewing boxes and stadium balconies instead of the mass seating areas, there are definitely some affluent fans here who are not immune to the frenzy of needing to capture every moment. They’re mingling with the poor and middle-class non-citizens in order to get closer to their celebrity idols. It occurs to me—Grail Games Rage is a true equalizer.
I continue to wave periodically at the screaming strangers lined up on both sides of our walkway, while a fixed painful smile remains on my face. We’re all walking much too slowly within the general flow of Contender arrivals, which has to be intentional,
so that the people can get a closer glimpse of us.
Meanwhile, a few of my fellow participants give me appraising stares. Our gazes lock. . . . I see men and women, mostly young and extraordinarily fit, with imposing musculature and height, looking at me with condescending eyes.
So, this is Gwen Lark, they’re probably thinking. The Imperial Bride, the pathetic fake who doesn’t belong in the Games.
I try not to blink as I meet their eyes. I have to keep up a brave front of my own.
At last, we’re at the Stadium entrance. Just a few more steps and the glass double doors loom. Inside is a relatively private area leading to the large hall where the Contenders register in person and then say their goodbyes to their entourages and supporters.
We walk past stadium security, who acknowledge the Imperial arrivals—Aeson and myself—with short bows, and allow us in without any other delay.
“My sister! Gracie, and Gordie—where are they? Are they inside?” I say urgently. “I want to make sure I see them before—”
Aeson takes my hand and squeezes it warmly. “Everyone is inside waiting for you,” he says with a comforting look. “They have special passes as part of your support and training group. Don’t worry, you’ll see them soon.”
I nod and continue walking. Colorful uniforms and entourage members mingle in a wide stream of humanity flowing around us.
The corridor widens into a grand modern hall with a tall ceiling. There are five long registration tables along the back wall, populated with Games officials. Color-coded square logos on the walls designate each table, with two Categories per table. Red is for Warrior and Athlete, Blue for Scientist and Technician, Green for Entertainer and Animal Handler, Yellow for Inventor and Artist, White for Entrepreneur and Vocalist.
Contenders and their supporters form loose lines at the tables. The noise level is deafening.
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