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When Flux makes his grand entrance, Saps nearly double takes at the sight of him.
Those striking indigo pupils of his have been blown wide from a harrowingly close brush with death. And despite his best efforts to pretend otherwise, that was his chest heaving with effort, too, as he stalks past the gates into Westhelm’s infamous colosseum.
Brandishing from his right hand was an axe blade lined with molten lava, clawed out from the depths. A weapon forged within the volcanic pit — befitting of its wielder, indeed.
(No doubt claimed from the corpse of one foolish enough to make the leap after Flux, but was by no means as well-prepared.)
His grip isn’t quite firm enough, Saps notes with quiet amusement. Flux has always been far more accustomed to the deadly grace of a sword. Such was a prince used to resting on his laurels; a conspirator with armies at his behest.
Once, Saps would’ve offered to switch weapons for a fairer fight. Once, Flux would’ve demanded it like it was his birthright.
And yet, now, nothing but ragged silence and unreadable stares mark their last stand. Wariness and exhaustion lines their very bones as they pace, sizing each other up like the very first time they met.
Saps is the first to break. “So, you actually showed up.”
“Can’t say no to a friend, can I?” Flux replies smoothly, pride supporting his posture as any regal king should.
Except this is Fluixon standing before him; wanted war criminal with his shredded cloak, matted hair and feral ambition beckoning within his gaze. The crown he schemed so carefully for had been lost somewhere along his final escape, yet he stubbornly held his chin high regardless.
Saps wouldn’t have had it any other way, even as he retorts, “Don’t call me that.” If only because it’s so much easier to say than — was I ever more than just a pawn in your games?
Flux’s answering grin is a knife in the dark. “Shall we?” He makes a show of bowing at his waist. Low-hanging fruit, but Saps lunges for it anyway.
The initial screech of metal against metal makes them both wince, even if Flux does a better job at hiding it. Saps doesn’t let himself think; can’t let himself think as the two naturally fall into rhythm, so evenly matched that it was like fighting a mirrored counterpart.
Flux may feign left, but Saps is already twisting in anticipation. Saps may turn to slash, but Flux is already in prime position to deflect. Two sides of the same coin — just as frustrating as it is mesmerising to watch.
When Sapa drops into a light crouch to strike lower, Flux parries his swing just as easily with a flick of his wrist. They’re circling again, inching closer and closer in a tango with death, yet both still so painfully hesitant to put a definitive end.
Saps forces him back towards the center, one step at a time. A single mistake is all it takes — Saps brings his sword down in a perfect arc, and Flux meets him just slightly off-balance. The sheer force of the impact sends his axe slipping and knees buckling, all while cursing under his breath.
Something compels Sapa to shift his swing just slightly short of Flux’s heart; the movement so jerky it irrevocably cuts shallower than originally intended. Not nearly enough for him to bleed out, but certainly enough to sting like hell as he struggles to support himself upright.
“For a peacekeeper, you’re a little too well-versed in combat, Saps,” Flux bites out, still trying to mask his dwindling strength from where he half-knelt.
Saps shakes his head, wishing that he relished from the sight before him instead. “Must you always force my hand?”
For a tantalising moment, Flux freezes, as if finally caught off-guard. When he raises his head to meet his eyes, however, Saps knew that this was the only ending Flux would accept. He’d walked into this colosseum calculating his diminished chances of survival, but came anyway. For once, with no back-up plan — not when Thomas watched on with such anguish.
Because Flux, despite it all, was nothing more than a crazed heretic who’d rather die standing for his beliefs than live on in hiding.
(Perhaps in some twisted fashion, dying by his hand was Flux’s atonement, too.)
Saps can’t bring himself to ask, not when he couldn’t possibly live with that knowledge. He settles for tearing his gaze away from a once-familiar face.
‘Whoever kills me gets a kiss on the cheek.’ Flux’s cocky message in global chat flashes in taunting, just as self-assured as its owner always is. Was.
“Did you mean it?” Saps whispers despite knowing better than anyone else, voice breaking around the edges of his own words. It’s a little too pathetic to follow up with any of it? but Flux seems to understand regardless.
His former best friend musters a small smile through his jagged breathing, looking up through hooded eyes. “Perhaps in the next life, Saparata…” Blood spatters the colosseum floor as he wheezes in pain, choking out his final say, “Perhaps I won’t ever lie to you again.”
Let this be my last, lies the unspoken implication. And so Saps can only be seen gritting his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut as he drives his blade home — into an expectant, withering heart.
But when Flux slumps into his arms — so uncharacteristically fragile for a vastly feared warmonger — Saps’ traitorous heart twists as if the death blow was dealt unto him instead.
For a long moment, all he can do is stare. He had flinched involuntarily at the contact. Not from the axe poised to split his skull in two, nor from the sneer pulling at Flux’s mouth. Because no matter what Flux threatened, Saps had never been truly afraid of him.
And yet now, as Flux lies motionless, the dread coiling within Saps’ stomach shakes him to the core.
For in death, Flux embodies peace. Blazing eyes put to rest, lips no longer pressed into that thin line of dissatisfaction, obnoxious purple hair never to ride against the wind again. Those lapis trims he paraded about now gleam quietly, as if they too would fade into oblivion alongside their owner’s bitter legacy.
Would he despise the irony, or recognise some form of poetic justice? Saps’ money is on the latter; he doesn’t let himself dwell on the why.
As roars erupt from the spectator stands, the roaring within his own mind is instantly drowned out. It’s a cause for celebration, Saps tells himself. No tears to be shed for the political terrorist who used others as stepping stones to further his own gains.
It’s true that no one mourns the wicked.
But for Flux, his best friend who lost his way, blinded by ambition…
…No, one mourns the wicked.
(There shall always be a flower resting upon his unmarked grave.)