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An redstone lamp casts deepening shadows throughout the cellar and over the fighting ring drawn in the flattened earth. Shadows hollow out his opponent’s face like a withering skull. The man’s face, bloodied and bruised, already starts to swell along the browline. The boisterous, confident warrior who had strode over that line leaves a blubbering and beaten mess. Unrecognizable— if not from the wounds themselves, then from his shattered pride. Such things scar far deeper, far more permanently than any bruise or broken bone ever does.
Etho, the victor, stands without a scratch upon him. Save for his split knuckles. Though those had been entirely his own doing. His own lack of restraint. Blood seeps through the thin bandages wrapping his palms and fingers. The joints ache bone-deep, throbbing with each hammering stutter of his heart as he steps over his fallen opponent. A sorry excuse of one, anyway. Bastard hadn’t even landed a single hit, with swords or fists.
How boring.
The referee steps into the Ring and then raises Etho’s shaking hand in the air. The triumphant gesture of a victor. The excitement long lost its sweetness; even the tastiest bread grows stale when it’s all a man eats. Etho’s mouth has gone numb to the taste, but the gold’s worth it in the end, he supposes. That’s why he’s doing this, isn’t it?
Gold and other prizes. Etho pulls his hand from the referee’s grasp and returns his attention to the crumpled warrior between his feet. Funny how a man could fold up so small, so pathetically. At his side lies a pair of swords, long forgotten in the dust of their match. First, Etho picks up his own: an older blade pressed from coarse iron, curved in odd places and scratched to hell. He returns it to its rightful place in the holster against his back.
Then, he claims his prize. His opponent’s sword is made of hold with a ruby-embellished hilt. The blade itself is clean. Pristine. A true mark of a man built from his father’s gold than the dirt beneath his fingernails. Etho’s lip curls.
A trophy is a trophy, no matter how disingenuous. Etho can’t afford to get picky now. At least it’ll look nice displayed with the others.
He carries the new blade with him out of the ring, allowing the next pair of fights to take his place. A group of medics pull the body of his defeated opponent out of the ring; Etho doesn’t turn to check on him. A broken nose is the least of this man’s problems once he’s well enough to face the rest of the betting ring. He surely lost a few wealthy men a fair amount of pocket change tonight.
The crowd parts around Etho, half of the lot occupied with trading coins from their betting (“You bet against him?! You fool, he hasn’t lost once!”) and the other half staring at Etho with a strange cross of horror, disdain, and adoration in their eyes. Perhaps it was a trick of the light. But it doesn’t matter much. Let them stare if they must; whatever keeps the gold trickling in.
He wants to say he doesn’t understand it— the bettors’ fascination. Etho may be many things, but a liar is not one of them. The satisfaction that comes with a brilliant fight is a sickly one, a diseased thing with no cure other than baring your teeth and giving into it. Something to surrender yourself completely to. The only difference is Etho’s the one with the sword, in the ring. All these rich bastards have to do is watch. Etho pities them.
Etho finds a place at the back of the cellar, a bench tucked against the cobblestone wall with a single sconce above his head. He sits back, nursing his headache against the cool stone behind his head. Greedy men fill the dampened cellar like trapped smoke. Etho can hardly breathe through it all, once the fights are done, when he’s tired and sore and winded. It’s the best feeling in the world. When he ghosts his fingertips over the sharpened edge of a stranger’s blade, threatening to cut.
Perhaps the greediest thing in this room is himself.
The rest of the fights pass easily. The songs of swords clashing fall on Etho’s deaf ears as he re-bandages his hands, coiling the white fabric through his fingers and across bruising knuckles. He busies himself with it, ignoring heavy stares and whispers and golden coins passing underneath tables. It doesn’t bother him like it used to. Not when he sees his pay-out at the end of the day and Etho leaves the Ring feeling a bit lighter in the chest.
By the time the night is winding down to an end, several of the highest-paying bettors start to stream out the doors to return to their sleeping wives and children. A shadow casts over Etho. He raises his head to it, expecting a familiar silhouette. A drunken opponent looking for a second chance. Instead, he’s surprised to find a new face. Over a year in the Ring means he’s fought nearly every man dumb enough to enter; he can’t recall the last time he’s seen someone fresh.
The man before him is unassuming— eyes so wide that they’re childlike, but with a darkly-stubbled chin. His hair is dark and curled tightly around his face. A disturbing mix between a soldier and a cherub. Etho thinks he’s seen painting like him in the Frost Castle, hanging above the late king’s throne room.
“I hear you’re the best there is around here,” the cherub says with crossed arms and chin poised high with natural confidence.
Etho rises to his full height in front of the stranger, now tilting his gaze down at the newcomer. He’s torn halfway between irritation and intrigue.
“Gotta say you don’t look like much,” the stranger taunts. He pulls at his shoulders and arms, cracking the joints there and stretching his muscles. Limbering for a fight. “Bet I could knock you on your ass in two seconds flat.”
Tension rolls over the cellar and the remaining occupants like an approaching thunderstorm. Etho raises an eyebrow at such confidence. It’d be refreshing if it wasn’t so damn stupid.
“I don’t think you want to make that bet,” Etho says. “People lose lots of money here every day, you know.”
The man scoffs. “Good thing I ain’t bettin’ money then. You in or not?” He cracks his knuckles in front of him and it isn’t until he does so that Etho realizes he has no sword on him. No hilt on his hip or against his back. What sort of fool enters a fighting ring completely unarmed?
“Fights are over for today.” Etho doesn’t know who he’s trying to kid. There are no rules to the ring, only strategy and hunger. You want money, you fight at the right time of day, when the rich families’ bellies are full of alcohol and their pockets are overflowing with cash. You want an honest fight, well… The city never sleeps. Neither does the ring.
“Don’t tell me you’re scared!” The stranger tilts his head to the side, his eyes endlessly dark in the lowlight of the drab cellar. He steps closer to Etho; close enough for Etho to smell the campfire clinging to him, as if he had bathed in ash. “I came all this way to fight this fearsome champion I’ve heard so much about and he’s too chicken to even face me. How pathetic is that!”
Etho’s fists twitch at his sides. It’s a ploy— he knows this. He isn’t blind. But it’s working nonetheless, and he hates that it is. There’s hunger in his blanched knuckles, beneath the bandages and bruises. He hates that too. It never goes away. But who would Etho be to ignore it?
This fight won’t be about the prize.
“Just fists then?” He makes the first move, crossing the distance between the cellar floor and the ring in the center. He feels the stranger right at his back. Etho grabs his right wrist, working at the tight muscles as he curls his fingers into a ball.
“Duh! That’s the only way to do it,” the stranger agrees. He follows Etho into the ring, stepping over the rudimentary lines and finding his place on the opposite corner. He shifts his weight back and forth, face somehow impossibly bright and excited.
All of Etho’s opponents leapt at the opportunity, ready to bet their worth on the edge of their blade. All equally eager to be the one to parade the medal of the man who defeated the Champion.
But this stranger is different. He fidgets as if he was starving for this— like he needs it to survive.
Whatever crowd is left falls into a hushed silence. Etho spots a few bundles of cash passing between bettors over the stranger’s shoulder. This certainly will be the most fascinating fight of the day, if not the shortest. At least it’ll be some sort of show either way.
Etho analyzes his opponent: the way he keeps his stance and center of gravity low, his bare fists with bony knuckles that’ll hurt badly if they hit Etho the wrong way. There is nothing refined about him, really. In its place is something unruly in the same way a mustang’s foal is: gangly and untethered, tripping over its own limbs but ready to charge in. A temperamental creature that doesn't know what’s good for it before it has already barreled itself into trouble.
“Any other stupid rules I need to know about?” The stranger asks, his tone impatient and unkind. “Or are you finished stalling?”
Etho narrows his eyes. “Only one: victory goes to the last man standing. You can’t get up, you lose. That’s all.”
“What if I kill you? Does that mean I’m disqualified?” He’s taunting Etho now, his posture far too relaxed for a man entering a death ring, a place where men have curled in the dirt and bled till their faces turned ashen. This is more a game to him than anything, it seems.
“If I don’t get back up, you win,” Etho says decisively this time. “Who’s stalling now?”
The stranger grins wickedly at him and flexes his fingers. Etho can’t help the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth in return, a man possessed by the thrill of the promise of a fight. He’s tired, but he’s excited all over again. For something new, for something odd. How he hates and savors it.
Etho tightens his fists and raises them by his face. He supposes the fight begins here, without a proper referee, without the usual crowd’s jeering. Two men slowly circling the dirt ring beneath their feet. Etho counts how many steps he takes, as he always does. Waits for his opponent to make the first move, as they always do.
This violent cherub is no exception. In fact, he strikes three steps earlier than normal. Etho isn’t ready for it. Or maybe he’s simply tired and worn; caught with his guard down. A fluke.
A stone fist cracks against his nose. Etho’s ears ring and his vision grays around the edges. Blood fills his mouth. The taste of it is brilliant and metallic— like kissing the cold, sharp edge of an opponent's blade. It’s been so long since someone’s landed a hit. He grabs his excitement by the hand and steadies himself upright again.
The man shakes his fist out. A hit like that has to hurt; Etho’s own knuckles are a testament to the fact. Etho spits his blood into the dirt, swipes his tongue over his upper lip to clear some of the mess. Etho clears the spots from his vision and steps to the side, dodging another hit, then another.
A first hit is a feat, Etho will admit. He’s not too proud to grant the stranger that much. But he will not grant him another. Etho is sure of it. So he doesn’t let him. He fights with every last grain of grit he’s got left between his teeth, and he’s excited to admit that it’s difficult. This opponent is unpredictable and deranged, but also incredibly sloppy and untrained. This is his first ring fight— that much is clear— but he makes up for inexperience with the raw power behind his punches and the wild look in his eye.
A fist in Etho’s gut. A hit across the stranger’s face, blood leaking from a split lip. They trade in these eager, messy blows until they’re both red in the face and shaking at the knees.
They fight and they fight until both of them hit the ground, Etho’s knuckles in the stranger’s ribs and the man’s hand pushing Etho’s head away. Dust kicks up on either side of them as Etho pins the man to the ground with an arm across his neck. His opponent grimaces, pulling weakly at Etho’s arm.
They’re both breathing hard, sweat clinging to their brow. The adrenaline thrums between them, more dangerous than any threat of thunder. No, this is like a lightning strike, a heat that ricochets through Etho’s nerves.
It leaves both of them breathless. Etho keeps the stranger pinned, the man’s erratic pulse vibrating through Etho’s arm. He’s enjoyed this as much as Etho has. Even though he’s pinned. Even though it has to have been more than three seconds and he’s lost the fight.
“Do you yield?” Etho’s voice comes out hoarse.
The stranger grins at him, blood streaking his bright teeth. His left eye is starting to swell shut, but he looks like he’s having fun, like this is nothing but a game to him. “In your dreams, sweetheart.”
Etho grits his teeth. His arms shake when he pushes off his opponent and climbs to his feet. He stands over the man, waiting for him to crawl to his feet, waiting for him to return to the fight like a sinner to the pews. But he doesn’t move. He only stares at Etho with his bloody teeth and his heaving chest.
Victory goes to the last man standing. This doesn’t feel like his other victories. Not even close.
There are no spoils to collect this time; no coin exchanged between the straggling bettors who remained to watch the odd fight. They stare at Etho in mute shock as he steps from the ring, his nose still dripping blood.
He doesn’t look behind him to see if the cherub gets up.
***
Etho hears the commotion before he sees it: the yelling and hollering and pleading to any eavesdropping God for his or her mercy. A cat crying for help from a tree, and he supposes the strange man hoisted in the tree branches is just that. A trio of direwolves circle the base of the great oak tree, the fur around their maws bloodied yet still hungry. Their massive paws strike the dried leaves beneath them like a mallet ringing against a dinner bell.
The man tries to climb higher in the branches, barely high enough to keep his boots out of snapping distance of the wolves’ sharp jaws. From his place in the underbrush across the clearing, Etho thinks about leaving him there. After all, what sort of fool gets himself cornered like this? It isn’t really Etho’s problem.
But the man’s cries are incessant; his wails for help grate against Etho’s ears and only irritate the hungry beasts at his feet. The direwolves sink their claws into the bark of the tree, trying to get closer to their prey. Etho can’t fault them. They’re probably just hungry; and this stranger probably got a bit too close for their liking. Most didn’t respect the forest in this way, and it more often than not ended up with them dead. No one’s fault but their own.
He will die if Etho leaves him. If not at the claws of the desperate direwolves, then by the hand of his own stupidity. Fortunately for him, another one of Etho’s problems is his inability to turn away. Even when he wants to, even when he should. He turns back towards the wolves before he can talk himself out of it again, retrieving the bow at his back.
He doesn’t want to hurt them.
An arrow lodges in the tree just above the beasts’ heads. The stone arrow head is wrapped in cloth that’s been soaked in the stench of dried durian shell. The stench rolls over the animals immediately. They let out a pained wail as they recoil from the tree and circle it once more. Debating whether this meal is worth the rotting smell sweeping over the grassy clearing.
They eventually decide against it. The direwolves whimper one last time before fleeing the opposite direction in favor of less rotten meat. The man’s cries cease as they pad into the opposite side of the underbrush. Etho waits in the treeline until the cracking of twigs and leaves fades into white noise. Silence returns to the forest. It’s peaceful again.
Then Etho steps out into the light. His hood covers most of his face, but he approaches the tree anyway to retrieve his arrow. The stench makes his eyes water, even through the mask covering his nose and mouth. He pries the fabric off the arrowhead and pushes it into the dirt with the heel of his boot. It’ll take a while for the stench to fully fade.
“Oh, hello!” A jolly voice calls from above him. Etho tilts his head back to see the cat stuck in the tree. “Did you chase those terrible beasts away? Oh, I really ought to thank you. Hang on, let me get down from here—”
The man drops from the branches and he lands in a heap in the grass. His face immediately screws up at the stench. “What is that? That’s awful!”
“Durian,” Etho says blankly. “Smelly fruit. Most animals can’t stand it. Makes them think their prey is rotten.”
The man’s face alights in understanding. “Durian, you say? How clever!” He thrusts a hand in Etho’s direction. “Thank you for saving me, good man. My name is Scar!”
The first thing Etho notices about Scar is his top hat. It’s bordering extravagant and encroaching upon obnoxious, but he supposes the entire purpose of the thing is just that: to draw attention. The odd thing about this man is that once Etho looks at him, there’s yet another peculiar thing that makes him stare longer. And then another, then another.
The thick layers of his clothing, expensive and refined, but the signature smirk of a conman. His handsome face carved out by jagged, cross-hatching scars, like the sculptor who had crafted him worked with a shaky hand. His namesake, perhaps.
Nothing about him makes sense. Especially his smile. Easy, carefree, confident— as if he hadn’t been pleading for mercy mere seconds before.
He doesn’t accept Scar’s hand, but he says, “Etho. I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you how stupid it is to get cornered by direwolves.”
Scar sighs, flattening the ruffles at the front of his shirt and straightening his bowtie. It’s then that Etho realizes what he reminds him of: those cartoonish characters from the stories he used to read as a kid, under the library table with nothing but an redstone lamp and the young prince to keep him company.
“It certainly wasn’t my intention. I’m simply traveling… uh, everything-man. Tradesman, businessman, salesman—”
“Conman?”
“You could say that!" Scar’s smile doesn’t falter, and it’s then that Etho knows what kind of man he is. He’s seen plenty of them, slinking in the dark alleys of the Frost Kingdom. None of them are nearly as charismatic as this one, but they’re all made up of the same stuff: greed.
Scar appraises Etho with a hand on his chin, fingers tracing along the jagged scar lines that frame his jawline. He’s staring at Etho like a starving man stares through the window of a butcher shop. Etho takes a step back.
“You seem to know your way around quite well. Smart too, with that arrow thing. Not a bad shot either.” Scar counts on his fingers as he speaks. Then, he gestures to the cut over Etho’s eye. “You’ve got the scary look down too. Can you fight?”
Can you fight is a very different question from will you. Etho’s not sure which of the two Scar is truly asking him. Nor does he know if his answer would change either way.
“Occasionally,” Etho says.
“Perfect!” Scar claps with a beaming grin. “You might be interested in a little arrangement I’ve got back in the city!”
“I’m not, sorry,” Etho says. He steps away, but Scar steps closer, eager to close the gap. As if that will convince Etho any easier of whatever con he’s about to propose. Etho knows these types well: the traveling traders with wares hidden in the many pockets lining the inside of their coats. The greedy and the cunning, the type of men who will rob you blind while you smile and nod.
Instead of an antique, Scar holds out a single roll of parchment. “Hear me out,” he says, like it’s a command rather than a request. The type of command Etho can’t help but listen to. It’s odd, like the man’s words are magic. Compelling. “If you join, you’ll be well taken care of--”
He looks pointedly to Etho’s worn and grass-stained garb. Etho scowls.
“You’ll be fed, housed, and paid.” Scar’s smile widens. “Oh, the pay, think about all the money you’ll make from the bets! Fighters get half of their bet earnings. The other half goes to the house, of course.”
“Bets?” Etho frowns and unravels the parchment in his hands. A fighting ring. Underground and illegal, by the looks of it. The type that grubby rich men with a need for blood but not the gall to obtain it attended to when their wives and children slept.
“You’re not so naive as to not know the betting rings, surely,” Scar says with a raised eyebrow, as if he’s waiting for Etho to drop an act.
“Seems shady,” Etho commented, not entirely displeased. The law doesn’t necessarily concern him, especially when it comes to upholding it.
“Then it’s a perfect fit.” Scar’s smirk is as sharp as a fishing hook. Etho feels it digging into his cheek.
He curls his fists at his side. He’d be foolish to accept an offer blind— especially from a croupier stranded in the middle of the forest no less. Etho’s survived this long because he’s cautious. Belief is to be filled out sparingly, trust even more so. A man of scars and expensively-patterned facades is hardly a candidate for Etho’s trust.
His curiosity, however, is another beast entirely.
“Show me the fight,” Etho says with something familiar and starving. “Then I’ll consider it.”
***
The next night, little has changed. The ring is how it always is: bustling. New faces mixed with old, all just as eager to double the measly contents of their satchels. The redstone lamps set the room a dark, dingy color— the same kind as blood. All seems to be in order.
But there’s something new in the air. Fresh and electric. Whether it starts with the stirs of excited whispers among bettors filing in by the dozens or somewhere deep within himself, Etho isn’t sure. One thing, however, is certain: the ring is hungry and it demands satiating.
He feels it crawl over him as he carves a path through the crowd. Enamored faces slip away to shock as they catch sight of the bruising along Etho’s face. A blossom of ugly purple and blue across his noseand right eye. The skin around it is tender; likely a hairline fracture somewhere in the area. Though Etho doesn’t bother tending to the wounds.
Each injury makes a permanent mark, whether or not it’s one that can be seen on the surface. It’s a lesson he’s learned not only in his time in the ring. Each bruise, scar, and fracture are all pieces of a puzzle, and over the years, he’s developed a penchant for collecting. All that’s left is to hope the picture makes some lick of sense in the end. To hope that he’ll come out on the other side of it as someone worthwhile.
For now, he’s still waiting for all the pieces to fit together.
Like wildfire, the rumors are already starting to spread. Their words catch on the kindling of bills and coins being passed between them, in shady deals written in ink on napkins. Etho manages glimpses of private conversation between bettors and spectators, all burning and curious eyes upon him as they part to allow him passage. “Some guy showed up last night and landed a hit on the champion!”
It’s easier to turn his gaze downward. This way he can’t see their lips or their crooked smiles. But still he can hear their whispers.
“Maybe he’s washed up. How long is he going to be champion anyway? It’s about time someone came to challenge him.”
He wishes he’d stuffed wool in his ears. Anything to barricade the nonsense. Usually the hunger of the ring does little to bother him. Not much can get under his skin these days. But today is different in more ways than one, much to Etho’s chagrin. Sinking on the bench, he hangs his head and focuses on breathing, deep and to the very bottom of his chest.
A method an old friend had taught him. For when you’re afraid.
In. And out. Etho breathes. In—
A figure slides in beside him like a snake appearing from the gaps of tall grass. If it isn’t the movement that gives the croupier away, it’s the ridiculous jewel-studded cane that thumps right in Etho’s eyeline. Etho doesn’t bother lifting his head.
“Scar,” he greets slowly.
“Well hello there.” Scar’s grin is audible. “You look miserable.” He leans back on the bench and stretches his bad leg out in front of him. Etho notes the thin gray pinstripes of his pants. Expensive fabric. Bought from Etho’s latest victory pool, if he had to guess.
Etho scoffs. He doesn’t need to lift his head to show off his new shiner. No doubt Scar has heard of Etho’s escapades the previous night. Nothing happens inside the ring without Scar finding out about it; he deals in information just as much as he deals in bets and dirty cash.
“Let me see the damage.” Scar doesn’t ask permission. He grabs Etho’s chin and tilts his head up towards the faint glow of the redstone lamp hanging overhead. Etho stares at it: the thin-framed wiring around the faintly pulsing glow encased within it. As Scar assesses his bruises, Etho stares at it, unblinking, until his eyes start to burn.
“Oh my precious Champion has fallen. Your reputation’s getting rusty, huh?” Scar taunts when it’s clear Etho won’t take the bait. “Your little fight is all anyone’s been able to talk about since last night. I’ve got customers talking my ear off, wondering when the next one’s gonna be. So, when do I get to meet this mystery challenger?”
This, of all things, prompts Etho to turn his gaze to Scar, blinking away the light blotches from his vision. “You mean he’s not one of your’s?”
All the warriors Etho fought in the Ring were men and women hand-picked by Scar himself. As if an eccentric coupier had any business deciding who was capable of a fight. Etho had figured the violent cherub from last night had been nothing but another one of Scar’s odd little collectables. He always seems to be turning up with new folks from all different walks. Etho can only imagine what he had looked like when he first stepped into the Ring.
Scar laughs, loud as a clap of thunder. Somehow he always manages to stand out in the most abrasive ways in a room full of abrasive people.
“Why would I hire someone to harm my merchandise?” He pats the underside of Etho’s chin with the back of his hand, wincing at the sight of him. “That’s just bad business.”
Etho wouldn’t put it past Scar. He leans away from his touch, as if burned. It might as well have. “It wouldn’t be the first time you made a misstep,” he says. “I don’t know him either. He just showed up wanting a fight.”
“And a fight you got. Jeez, he got you good there.” Scar frowns at him, but not the genuine kind. Rather the pouty, pitying kind— a familiar face a king makes to a scraggly little boy with sticks for arms and nothing to his name except for the anger too heavy for him to carry.
“All it takes is one hit for these hounds to lose their faith?” Etho asks no one in particular, narrowed eyes on the thickening crowd, all bustling and whispering among themselves. He’s not sure he’s ever seen it this crowded— not since he first started climbing the ranks. The fire continues to catch and spread right before his eyes. Have they not anything better to do?
“Think of it less as a loss in faith and more a rise in excitement.” Greed drips from Scar’s voice like venom. “And excited men empty their pockets faster. Why don’t you give them something to be excited about?”
“You want me to fight him again.” Scar wants an audience, he realizes. This mysterious fighter is good for business and by proxy, Scar’s wallet.
“Like I said, customers are eager.” Scar withdraws a velvet pouch, heavy and loud with golden coin. He shakes it with a sharp-toothed grin. “Don’t let me down, yeah?”
The commotion in the Ring grows, a sudden swell as the crowd clouds the entrance. Hushed whisperings erupt into shouting and cheers. Etho sits upright. The crowd parts and reveals the odd cherub from last night, his own face bruised but shining all the while. Like he’s drowning in his own pride and happy to die there, choking on it.
Before he can think better of it, Etho crosses the room. The crowd silences all at once. Eager ears wait. The fire stills, if only to see where to spread to next, waiting for the next douse of kerosene.
Let them stare. Let them wait. It’s not theior money Etho wants this time. This is more personal. Something inherent, visceral, and unexplainable. But something he cannot do another second without.
They spot each other at the same moment. Etho and the cherub cross the room in even strides and meet in the middle, the same words on their lips. But Etho beats him to it.
“Rematch,” he demands quietly, the word meant only for his opponent.
The man raises an eyebrow at him. “Haah? You want a rematch? After you won the last one?” He laughs. “Are you that greedy to get your ass kicked or what?”
“Call it curiosity.”
The violent cherub grins, crooked and wicked. Seems he’s more than happy to oblige Etho’s wish. Without much else of exchange, the step into the empty ring. The crowd erupts with joy once again, men shoving each other for a spot in the front row. This time, Etho doesn’t turn to watch them pass coins between one another.
All that matters is his opponent in front of him. Bandaged knuckles. Redstone lamps flickering overhead. An arena of dust and his clenched fists. A ringing of a bell.
Another fight, one he’s eager to chip his teeth on.
The cherub makes the first lunge. Etho meets him halfway and they collide.
***
Even behind the shut door, the crowd roars. Etho slumps against the opposite wall, breathless and tongue heavy with the taste of his own blood. His knuckles ache to the bone, the type that tells a story of more than a few meager blows exchanged and a hard-earned victory. He can’t remember the last time it hurt this bad, so he savors it— he curls his fingers over and over again, so tight the knuckles blanch and the pain laces up the length of his arm.
The pain is good. It reminds him of something he fears forgetting.
Etho digs in the cabinets of the stock room for a first-aid kid. He stashed it here when he first started attending fights, long before the name Champion was born and when none of the fighters feared the scrawny newcomer. It’d served him well then, but it’s grown dusty without use. He blows the layer of dust off and kneels on a bench.
He peels his shirt off, wincing as the bruises pull at his ribs. He uses a washcloth to clean around the area, his fingers trembling.
It’s then that he’s interrupted. The door clatters open, briefly allowing the boisterous sounds of the betting men to pour in like a tidal wave. His opponent’s nose is crooked and bloody (Etho can’t help but admire his own handiwork). He stands in the doorway with a smile equally as crooked and red.
Etho tilts his head. Seems his opponent doesn’t know when to stand down. Good. He tightens his fists in his lap. “There’s a thing called knocking—”
“You really enjoy this, don’t you?” the intruder asks, shutting the door behind him. He gestures to Etho’s bleeding knuckles.
“It’s definitely one of my more interesting gigs,” Etho relents, starting to unravel the bandages tied around his hands. The stained material sticks to the drying blood; he winces when he tugs it free. “It’s not like I’ve got anything better to do.”
What he means is: it’s not like I can do anything else.
The cherub scoffs. One of his eyes is swelling shut with a gnarly bruise, but his eyes are the biggest Etho’s ever seen. He finds them difficult to look away from.
“You fight in an illegal betting ring because you’re bored?”
“It’s a good way to blow off steam,” Etho says, half-convinced. “And the pay’s good.”
Is it because he’s bored? Because he’s hungry and needs enough coin to keep a roof over his head? Etho supposes that’s part of it. He ponders it as he examines his busted knuckles. He should change the bandages, but he finds himself paralyzed.
Will he destroy himself for gold? For trophy swords? For boredom?
He thinks of the young boy he once was, armed with bows and swords, waiting for someone to knock them out of his hand. Not because he wanted to hang them up, but because no one had managed to see it done. Because no one could (nor dared) to touch him. And maybe a small part of Etho wished someone could.
But this fight— this opponent— doesn’t care where Etho came from. Nor does he seem to care that Etho was some sort of champion beyond wanting to tear the title away from him. It hadn’t intimidated him; it only encouraged him. He wouldn’t rest until he saw Etho knocked down a peg. Etho can tell as much from the wickedness of his smile.
It’s the closest he’s come to putting a name to that hunger itching beneath his skin; his need for a fight to mean something else. For a challenge.
The man crosses the distance and snatches the first-aid kit from Etho’s lap. “Move over,” he says.
Etho, too stunned to argue, frowns and shifts to the side. He half-expects the man to open the kit and use the goods on his own injuries. But instead, he throws it to the side, its contents rolling out across the floor. Then, he extends a hand. “Gimme. Watching you try to do this yourself is actually torture.”
Part of Etho suspects the man will just break his fingers the second he offers his hand, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t horribly curious. He hesitates too long, because the man grabs his hand anyway and tugs it into his lab.
With pursed lips, he examines the split skin and re-opened scabs of Etho’s knuckles. His hands are rough and calloused; a clear mark of a man who has worked plenty with his hands. Then, he sighs as if he’s disappointed.
“You better keep your pretty mouth shut about this,” he whispers, folding his own hands over Etho’s.
Etho opens his mouth to ask what he means, but a sudden warmth cascades through him. The cherub’s hands are hot— too hot— as a warm, yellow light seeps from between their fingers like the sun streaming through sheer curtains. Etho stares in dumbfounded wonder as the rays encompass his hand, the warmth numbing his hand until the pain completely fades.
There’s a word for this. It taunts Etho, stinging the tip of his tongue. He refuses to say it.
As slowly as the light has grown, it recedes. Returns to the tanned skin of the strange palm. Etho pulls his hand free, his thundering heart wedged in his throat.
His skin’s been stitched back together, nothing but a faint pink flush beneath paper pale skin to indicate he’d been injured at all. He curls his fingers experimentally, waiting for the familiar burst of pain through fractured bones— but nothing comes.
He’s not sure which is stronger— his wonder at this stranger’s display or his grief over having lost the marks of a victory well-earned.
“What are you?” he says, even though he's pretty sure he already knows.
“Never met a druid before?” The man laughs, cracking his knuckles and folding his hands behind his head. “It’s pretty cool, isn’t it? Go ahead, tell me how impressed and grateful you are. I can wait.”
Words are entirely too weak a thing to capture Etho’s wonder and confusion. There are simply too many questions to ask. What was a druid of all things doing in a fighting ring when they had more… holy concerns? Why come to such a godless place? Why had he thought it wise to reveal his own abilities, let alone utilize them on an enemy. Far too many questions and too little care to really find the answers.
“What’s your name?” he asks instead.
“Oh, so you beat me twice, let me heal your wounds for free, and then ask for my name? What a gentleman you are.” He scoffs, but extends a hand anyway. The same warm palm he had used to use sun rays to stitch Etho’s skin back together. “You can call me Bdubs.”
Wearily, Etho accepts it. “Etho.”
He half expects that warmth to return, the impossibility of it. He wants to see it again, just to know he hasn’t lost his mind after a few too many hits in the ring. But when he shakes Bdubs’ hand, it’s just a hand. Warm and calloused in no way other than a normal man’s is.
“I know who you are,” Bdubs teases. “The Champion, isn’t that right? Seems a little egotistical.”
“Haven’t been beat yet.” Etho smirks, more an instinct than anything. It takes over his face quickly, before he can think any better of it.
Bdubs shifts his weight on the bench, his hunger clear. He leans closer to Etho, the blood crusting on his upper lip in a dark clot. Etho fights the urge to wipe it away, his fists balled in his lap.
“But I came the closest,” Bdubs says as if it’s fact. As if he can read Etho’s mind. As if he needs this as badly as Etho does. “Didn’t I?”
Etho’s not so prideful to deny it. Not in any truthful way. But he’s not so genuine as to deny himself the chase— the excitement— the knowledge that he broke Bdubs’ nose and that Bdubs cracked a few ribs in return. Give and take. As all fights worth fighting should be.
“Maybe,” Etho relents. Then, a far more curious question: “Why did you heal me?”
Bdubs huffs, finally leaning away from Etho. It isn’t until he does that Etho feels like he can breathe again. Bdubs moves the same way he fights— clumsy yet effective. Unpredictable. Etho doesn’t dare look away, lest he miss an important detail in the low lamplight.
“If I’m going to beat you, I’m going to do it properly. It ain’t much of a rematch if your fingers are too broken to give me a proper punch.”
Etho raises an eyebrow at him. “And what if I don’t want a rematch?”
“I’d call you a dirty liar.” Bdubs smiles at him, bright as the sun rays he had conjured with nothing more than a whisper. It’s like looking into a mirror.
Etho smiles beneath the protection of his mask. A far more genuine one— something that stretches painfully at unused muscles. “You got me there,” he says, thoughtfully considering the healed skin of his hands. The strength coursing through them.
“A rematch, then,” Bdubs announces, rising to his feet. He somehow looks like a victor, battered, bruised, and bloodied.
How exciting.