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Matthias Nonius - that glorious swordsman of the ninth, that unparalleled sword given human form! - was, frankly put, completely fucking done with this bullshit.

He stood square to a Lyctor, blood crusted on his lip and beneath his shirtsleeves where that unrelenting Saint had cut not with his rapier, but with a spear. Of course, Nonius could handle the spear - it was just that he didn’t want to, and had quite honestly handled it enough within the past ten minutes. The spear was ruining his singular chance of emerging defeated with some dignity intact.

“Please,” he said, without much hope, “can we handle this diplomatically?”

“No,” said the Saint of Duty. Short and to the point - admirable, yet unbearable. “Raise your weapon. We fight.”

Nonius spat blood into the frozen dust of the Ninth. Then he fell back into his perfect stance, and he filled his heart with his perfect Black Vestal rage, and he hissed, “Fine.”

It had been hopeless from the beginning, and it was hopeless now. Whatever holy training this Lyctor had received had been buried deep in each sinew and bone, in each movement of rapier and spear-foot, and the speed - dear fucking God, pardon the invocation. The Saint of Duty moved as no human could move. His parries were as a steel blockade, his thrusts like needlepoint; and he used no necromancy, which seemed unfair, though perhaps Nonius should have been glad not to have his guts ripped out at the twitch of a fingertip, or his guard assaulted by skeletons on all sides. No, the Lyctor fought a straightforward game: here were two swordsmen, here was the battlefield, and here was Nonius’s utter destruction.

He gave it his all. It was not enough. With one final parry, the Lyctor had Nonius on the ground with his knees in the dust, the rapier-point pressed against his throat. Matthias the Ninth looked up into the green eyes of death and waited for blackness to swallow him. At least it would have been honorable - surely a death at the hands of a Saint would send the whole House into a riot, a fanatic jubilee. Nonius closed his eyes.

The Saint of Duty removed the sword from Nonius’s neck.

Nonius opened his eyes. “Wait,” he said; the Lyctor was turning away - “This isn’t how it goes. What are you doing?”

“You fight well,” said the Lyctor. “Too good to die.”

“Oh, come on, you had me, why not just go through with it-”

“It was unfair.”

“I could be blessed in the Anastasian,” said Nonius. “I could die with valor. Or you could leave me here in the goddamn dirt, humiliated. Come on.”

The Saint of Duty turned back towards Nonius with a curious expression, almost like surprise. It was funny - someone that old surely shouldn’t have felt surprise anymore. “You want to die that bad?”

Nonius lifted his chin. “You’re a Lyctor. You’re a venerated Saint. You’re a Hand of God. To die at your sword would be the best birthday present ever.”

The Lyctor stared, face stone cold. Then, slowly, he smiled. It was a tiny and almost nonexistent thing. The Saint of Duty walked back to where Nonius knelt, and he extended a hand.

“Take it,” he ordered. Nonius took it, and stood.

“One day you’ll thank me for sparing your life,” said the Lyctor. “Call this a debt. Go free.”

Nonius stared into that incomprehensibly old face. In staring, he made the decision to live, and to accept the debt. He bowed to the Saint, and where their hands were joined, he pressed a kiss to the old and wiry knuckles. “Then I thank you, Holy One,” he said.

The Saint of Duty shook his hand once, then broke grip. And with a solemn nod, the third Saint - the Saint of the Spear - the Saint of the Sword - walked calmly off into the darkness from whence he had come.

“Holy fuck,” said Nonius. “I just fought a Lyctor and lived.”

“You are absolutely insufferable,” said Nonius. “My fucking God, I fear what our Houses have come to. If it takes this long to find one singular fucking manuscript, I can only imagine how you plan parties.”

“Oh, do they have those on the Ninth?”

“Yes, with the dry and calcified skeleton of your mother.”

“You’re really showing up for your House here,” said the Librarian of the Sixth, a generally grey man with an even greyer and drabber voice. “Displaying all the honorable values of the Reverend Mother, etcetera.”

“Who, might I remind you, needs these documents immediately. As in right now. I won’t be polite to you outside of her presence. I’m the fucking cavalier primary, and if she doesn’t get what she wants, I will make you a shish kebab. - You will be the shish kebab, to clarify.”

“I do love clarification,” said the Librarian flatly. “Really works well when paired with a good threat. It inspires me to work so much faster.”

“My dear friend. My good pal. How much work is there in typing in a fucking title and getting the decimal codes?”

“I’m going to deeply enjoy it when you die.”

“God, I love having cousins! I just love family visits! The rapport, the dynamics, the murderous banter-”

“I like to pretend we're not related. Here,” said the Librarian, who had at last pulled up a code. To Nonius, it looked like a hunk of nonsense, a jumble of numbers and claptrap symbols. He turned to the Librarian (whose name was unmentionable), and he took a very, very deep breath, and he said: “Take me there.”

“As you wish,” said the Librarian, adding a not-quite-inaudible “shithead” under his breath. Nonius sighed as deeply as he could before following that perennially snappish bookworm into the dark to find that godforsaken manuscript.

One day, Nonius thought, I’m going to actually fucking skewer him.

Upon learning about the existence of a Houses-wide dueling competition, Nonius had thought: This is supremely stupid. There were, in his opinion, a scant few ways to fight with any purpose: in defense of one’s own House, in upholding of the House’s honor, or on the lines of the Emperor’s Cohort. This was none of those things. This was an art show for the eyes of the greedy; this was a test of manners and politesse.

Which was why, before he had left for the Fifth, he had begged the Reverend Mother for lenience. Oh, please, he had pleaded, do not make me claw my fucking eyes out at that horror show. Oh, for the love of God, he had prayed, do not make me commit the sin of small talk with a showy rapier at my belt. The Revered Mother had said - basically - “Fuck off and give them a good show.” And the Ninth did need a good show, or any show at all, and so Nonius went and gave it to them, extremely fucking reluctantly.

When he arrived at the docking bay before the dueling grounds, he was greeted directly by the Ladies of the Fifth, who were surprised, shocked, and delighted, no less, at his presence.

“A cavalier of the Ninth, and the cavalier primary! My pleasure, Matthias the Ninth - please, make yourself at home, or at least make yourself comfortable before the fun begins.”

The first Lady of the Fifth, whose formal title was Knight, guided him to the cavalier living quarters. In his own room, Nonius had plenty of time to ruminate, and also to steep in bitterness, which were his new favorite activities. First, he would fight Arya the Fifth. Then he would proceed down the bracket, and when he inevitably made it to the final round - he gave himself that much credit - he’d fight it through and see where it went, and then he’d finally go back home for some peace and cold and quiet. If he was lucky, he’d get some gold in the process. If not, he’d still get some credit among the other fighters, seeing as he fucking ruled, his words exactly.

Boredom, it turned out, amplified vanity. That wouldn’t do. Nonius donned his cuirass and sighed: another day, another rapier. With his padding secure and his dagger set in his belt, Nonius left for his first over-glorified fight of the day.

For good measure, he hissed a prayer under his breath, and it was this: “Here we fucking go.”

It was just Nonius’s luck to die so far from home. Perhaps it was meant to be this way, which was cruel - but then, his life had been one long series of cruelties; such was the fate of a sword-hand. Still, he longed to die on the Ninth; it was all he’d ever fucking wanted, and now he didn’t even get the opportunity.

His death came at the hands of a stranger. This was another cruelty. The metal point of a sword protruded through his gut from behind, and Nonius shook from the effort of remaining conscious for one last minute - he just had to hand out some what-for. It was the only honorable way to die. Prostrate, he turned around, then hoisted himself up to face his murderer on one knee, bent over in pain and sheer exhaustion.

Nonius looked up into the face of his death. He would not monologue. He had never been a poet. Instead, he spat in the dust, so like the colorless stuff of his homeland, and he said:

“Go to hell, fuckface.”

And Matthias Nonius was no more.