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“You’re done.”
It wasn’t a subject of debate. When the two opposing swordsmen took to the field, drawing their blades with lethal intent, it was the brilliant, the silvered, the White Knight Sova who stood victorious at the end of it all. Anyone could’ve predicted it, what with his nigh flawless record and impeccable skill; truly, his opponent hadn’t stood a chance.
It wasn’t a subject of debate. It was a fact.
The other man doesn’t say anything, laying on the bloodied dirt and staring up at nothing with Sova’s blade pointed at his throat; or maybe he was looking to the side, but with his face pointed upwards—Sova couldn’t tell through the way his helmet obscured the whole of his face. (That was the worst part, if knight were to be truthful—that he had finally bested this man and couldn’t see the look on his face that resulted.) Sova grits his teeth.
“Have you no final words?”
“Perhaps,” the man replies, rolling the word in his accent, “but I’m still deciding.” For some odd reason, he giggles, continuing: “And that assumes they’re ‘final’ at all.”
Sova furrows his brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Take a guess.”
Knight drives his blade further such that it pushes against the scarf around the other man’s neck. (He thinks, for a moment, that that might’ve garnered a twitch, but it’s impossible to tell—what a nuisance.)
A response does, however, come in the form of the fallen soldier lifting a hand and carefully placing it on the flat of the blade. Sova doesn’t move, doesn’t relent—just watches in silence, waiting to see what happens next. The other man carefully pushes the blade to the side; Sova holds it still, eyes narrowing further.
“Hm,” the man laughs. “Perhaps that was a bit too bold to try against Filin–”
“Sova.” (The other pauses before he replies, incredulous:)
“‘Sova’ ? Since when?”
“Since always.”
“You’re a terrible liar by the way–” (His voice falls to a mumble.) “It must’ve been…”
And then he erupts into laughter, ear-grating and harmonious, heartless and warm; it crawls under Sova’s skin in a way that makes him want to just end this interaction already, but he hadn’t gotten what he wanted. (He still needed to make him pay.)
“Is something funny?”
“Hm? No, no, of course not.” (He’s smiling and Sova can hear it. ) “What I will say is that if you really aren’t Filin, this has been a great waste of my time.”
Sova blinks, before leaning forward—over—his opponent. “A waste of your time?”
“Well, yes,” the other man beams, and Sova feels like he’s being played with. “I came here looking for Filin—if you really aren’t him, I ought to get back to that.”
“What do you need Filin for?”
“That’s between him and I, I’m afraid.”
Sova huffs, mind already racing through possibilities—it could only be one, couldn’t it? (Lethal intent, he reminds himself, and he thinks over their battle to prove it: that every slash and thrust, dodge and parry, clever trick and reposition—it was all to gain the upper hand in combat. Sova had simply been the superior fighter, and that was why he managed to emerge unscathed.)
…Against a style of combat I’d never before seen.
“Something on your mind?” the defeated asks, and Sova rolls his eyes.
“Do you ever stop talking?”
“Again,” he replies with a laugh, “I’m still deciding my final words.”
“And what’s stopping me from slitting your throat right here and now?”
“You tell me, Sova. You’ve said you’re going to kill me and you certainly have the means, but you haven’t yet.” (Subtly his head tilts, the light reflecting off distorting just slightly.) “I don’t know why—that’s your secret. Not mine.”
I could. (He would– He will kill this man, no matter how clever he thinks himself to be.) Whatever game he was playing had to be operating at a level he didn’t understand; if he let this man go free, he would ultimately regret it. (He had to end him.)
(But first, he would get an answer.)
In one swift motion, the sword is sheathed, white knight instead grabbing a fistful of the fallen’s scarf and dragging him up to his feet, barking—
“Why?”
“‘Why’?” the other echoes, voice dull.
“You kill my lord, you kill my comrades, and yet, you have the audacity to show up here and not even try to finish the job?”
The other man chuckles. “There’s the man I was looking for.”
Sova growls, and with his free hand, he takes hold of the other’s helmet and drags it straight off. What is revealed underneath is the face of a man he’s never seen before and who looks like no one else he’s ever since or heard of—and whose surprise swiftly calms into dull amusement.
He seems so casual, so non-threatening, so—disinterested. (If Sova were to be honest, he looked like a bit of a mess.) A handsome mess, sure, but– Off-topic, actually. For a man standing so close to death, he was far too unbothered for Sova’s tastes.
The hand previously holding the helmet moves instead to the top of the man’s head, grabbing a fistful of hair and pulling upwards. (When his captive winces, he feels strong; powerful.)
The sword is redrawn.
Nothing in his eyes, but Sova likes that he can at least see them now—his eyes and how they fall into contemplation; how they flicker between their surroundings and his discarded equipment and the sword and Sova; how they try to read into the White Knight’s intentions, and how they widen when the sword is raised.
Yes, Sova liked this. He liked this a lot.
Removing his helmet also served the original intention—which was not to rid him of his anonymity, but rather to make it easier for Sova to slice his head off. The defeated recognizes this, and he panics accordingly. Good.
Frantically, he tries to free himself (though to no avail), and when Sova swings, he tenses before suddenly saying:
“Can you at least spare my hair?”
Sova pauses with the blade just shy of his neck. What?
“If I’m going to die,” he continues, clearly reading the knight’s hesitation, “I’d rather do so without the split ends.”
Sova narrows his eyes. “Those are terrible last words.”
“No no, wait– see?” Gloved hands pick up the loose strands—shoulder-length and rolling down in waves, removed from where they’d been tucked into the scarf—and lift them upwards, towards the fistful that Sova still clung to. The knight raises a brow. “You don’t even have to collect the hair yourself— I’ve done it for you!”
Sova stares; and he stares; and he continues to in disbelief, but the slated to die remains smiling, bright and enthusiastic, and so, Sova lets out a long sigh.
“Fine.”
Now, did Sova expect this to be part of some sort of escape attempt? Absolutely. (It wasn’t even a question—he was definitely trying to escape.) But did Sova expect him to be so quick about it? (He hadn’t been so fast during their battle earlier—had he really been holding back that much?)
He must’ve been, given that he completely dodges Sova’s next attempt to restrain him. Quickly, he ducks out of the range of Sova’s hand, dashing—
—and clattering forehead-first against his breastplate.
It is instinct that powers Sova next, his newly freed hand wrapping around the other’s waist and locking him in place. The other, in turn, immediately ragdolls, falling perfectly still in complete and utter silence:
“…”
“…”
“…”
“…”
“…I really didn’t think this through,” he says at last.
“I noticed,” Sova replies. “There isn’t really a context in which it’s best to run right into an enemy’s arms.”
The man scoffs. “We’re not enemies.”
Sova tenses. “Yes, we are.”
“You think so, and that’s enough I suppose, but– I mean…” He sighs, deep and heavy, tilting his head to more comfortably rest against Sova’s chest. “Assassinating your lord; killing your friends; I– I didn’t do all that, Sasha.”
Sasha? (Sova blinks.)
“—Sova, is what I meant,” the man quickly corrects, head and lifting and drawing back; one hand moves to Sova’s chest to try and separate the two of them proper, but Sova doesn’t let him go, only clinging tighter. “You know how it is with new names and some such– Don’t worry about it!”
Sova catches his flickering eyes, narrowing his own and leveling him with his gaze. “And what is your name?”
The other blanks, face riddled with nothing—not nothing in the sense that he could not be read, but rather a nothing that demonstrated a complete absence of thought; an awkward smile settles in next, a sort of faux confidence taking the place of anything suave or sensible:
“Uh– hah!” (Sova isn’t certain if the hesitation is contemplation or shyness.) Then: “…Amir.”
Sova hums, low and even. “Well, you’ve gotten yourself into quite a deal of trouble, haven’t you, Amir?”
“Again, didn’t think this through– You can let go of me now!”
“And what if I don’t want to?”
“Well, then I’d tell you that I’m free later tonight.”
(Sova lets go.)
“You’re so– so– so ridiculous!” Sova shouts, blood and whatever else boiling beneath his skin.
“And you’re blushing, so I’m clearly doing something right.”
“I am not blushing.” (The man only smiles wider, and Sova huffs in response.) “What is wrong with you?”
“What?” Amir beams. “Are you not utterly charmed?”
“You know I can kill you at any moment, yes?”
“You can! But at this point,”—(a clever glint in his eye)—“I don’t think you want to.”
“You’re awfully full of yourself.”
“Full of confidence, actually. But good guess!”
Sova growls, but ultimately, he sheathes his sword, rolling his eyes and turning away—“Just get out of here before I change my mind.”
“Already? But we’ve only just started to get to know each other!”
“Don’t test my patience.”
Amir laughs, but he listens well enough, going to gather the rest of his equipment; he truly never does stop talking though, as his departure cannot happen without him first purring:
“I look forward to our next meeting, Sova.”
“For your sake,” he mumbles in reply, “I hope we never meet again.”