Vanquished

There is a quiet chill in the air, quite unlikely for summer. The dry leaves rustle with an eerie whistle as they throw caution to the wind. The darkness is silent, expectant, unknowing. As the moon glitters above, the night is bright as day, bathing the arena with its milky light.

Surely, the gods must be watching anxiously, not knowing what happens next.

The crowds have gathered in the thousands. The lights are dim, the atmosphere subdued and gloomy. The seats are filling fast; with people standing at the gates, trying to squeeze into every inch there is available. She is here; the cursed woman seated on her velvet throne right at the center of the gigantic pavilion, overlooking the earthy field. The velvet pricks at her soft body today. She is fair skinned, now almost white as the icy breeze hit her paling skin, and looks ghastlier than ever, dressed in black silk. She wears no ornaments today, for today is not about beauty or grace. Her eyes reflect the sorrow and death that are to follow; sallow, and completely wet with tears. It looks as though she has been crying for days on end now.

It didn’t matter who would win today. She was the only loser leaving the arena tonight.

She was the reason why they were all here. A living embodiment of infidelity; she had betrayed her king for another man, his general. She was the most beautiful woman in the world; many warriors had died and killed, only trying to arrest her attention. Yet all she ever wanted love. Her heart craved for that someone who could love her for her, unconditionally, without holding back. And she had found love in a man; a man who loved her back the same way. A man who loved her as much as he loved his country.

She was queen, but she was also human.

The magnificent sound of cheers snapped her out of her cloudy daze. The two men walked into the arena to a loud ovation. They both had exceptional physiques with well-placed scars displaying years spent in gruesome battle. The men were evenly matched; well built, extremely muscular and agile, and in the prime of their lives. The duo had watched each other in battle; each one had known the other’s strengths and weaknesses. They could see the hunger in the other’s eyes, knowing one of them wasn’t making it out of this duel alive. For it was personal; they weren’t here for glory; they were here to rip each other apart. One was fighting for pride, the other for love.

She stared blankly at the spectacle unfolding in front of her eyes. That was all she could do. She knew the people had loved their king, for he was wise, just, and kind. And she did too; she loved and respected him for his benevolence and dedication towards the growth and sustenance of the nation. Alas, she fell prey to her bodily desires. A heavy price; the nation was sure to lose a son of the soil today. But fate had been etched in stone, for betrayal could never go unpunished.

They were like brothers, having fought valiantly on an array of battlefields together and emerging victorious in the past. They would train together. Fight together. Bleed together. Maybe today they’d die together.

The horn rang through the silence like cold steel through butter. The crowds went silent, watching the two closely with expectant gazes. So silent, you could hear a pin drop. The people were watching every move, every nuance, every flick, every twitch, and their eyeballs following the men unfailingly. Pearls of sweat glistened on their firm, toned bodies, as they bent down to pick up some earth to strengthen their grip, eyes locked together. The two men circled each other, swords at the ready, expecting the other to make the first move.

The king lunged forward, attempting to break the stalemate. Their swords met, and sparks began to fly as metal collided with metal. No helmets, no shields, no protection today. This was to be an old-fashioned fight, a fight to the death. Both men ducked blows, displaying their dexterity and superior fighting skills. Each one had their share of close shaves, swords missing the body by mere millimeters. It felt like watching an artist go about his skill, so much precision, so much technique. No one budged for about twenty minutes. Then it happened.

Finally, a splash of color. The king had managed to land a blow to the general’s thigh, succeeding in drawing first blood.

Blood. The crimson red liquid shines on the massive blade; the color bejeweled by the moonlight. The king is pleased. The first blow has landed right where he wants it. He’s seen war so closely that he knows his opponent would lose blood, making him weaker as the fight continued. He savors the moment. He licks his lips. He has the edge. He looks at his general, trying to stand up gingerly on the injured leg. He keeps his gaze focused on the wound; it appears as an invisible target placed on the wounded leg.

The general knows it too. He can see it in his king’s eyes, the unrelenting focus on his bloodied leg. He knows he would have done the same. It is now time for self-preservation; too much too fast and he would bleed to death. He could only wait, and hope the king made a mistake. He is relentless, shielding his injury from further damage. Swords clang, the metallic clink resonating in the cold night air as the heat of the sparks is felt in the arena.

The gruesome battle continues for hours; both warriors able to land blow after blow on their opponents bodies. Both men look tired, they are losing blood fast. But they won’t stop. Not now, not when they are so close to victory. Triumph is what seems to be driving them to go on. You can see it in the way they move, the passion to brawl, to go for the kill, to chase the ultimate ecstasy.

The crowd is quiet now. Their eyes oscillate between the two fighters, savoring every moment of the contest. Their breathing grows slower as the night matures, the chill evident in the exhaust emanating from their nostrils. Their heart wants this to stop; but their mind eggs the warriors on to keep going.

Something has to give.

The general loses footing, trying to duck a blow from his king. The king grabs this opportunity, driving the cold, cruel steel right through his general’s torso. Blood splatters all over the king’s body, making for a bloody, gruesome picture. The crowd gasps; it’s all over. A sudden anguish grips the heart. The general drops his sword, for he knows the sweet release of death is only a matter of time. The king ambles over to the general’s side, his brutal sword at the ready. He has his man right where he wants him. The king tries to fight mixed emotions; for all his life, he loved this man like a brother. But betrayal could not be forgiven. He looks in the direction of his queen; she looks like a walking corpse. He can see her burst into tears; she knew all was lost when her husband delivered the killer blow. He decides to deal with her later, for he had to finish what she’d started.

The king sits at his brother’s side, propping his limp body in his arms. He closes the dying man’s eyes as he holds his general’s hand. He closes his own, praying to the gods that they be brothers again in the next life. He must ease his brother’s pain. He drives the unforgiving blade right into the dying man’s heart in one swift stroke. The bloodstained body stops writhing as his last breath leaves its home. The general now lies vanquished, lifeless, covered in dust, sweat and blood.

The king tries to control his tears. He knows he can’t fight it for long, but he cannot display weakness. He walks away silently, clutching the sword that took his brother’s life. It feels like a massive weight placed over his heart, making his breathing difficult. The air feels like acid, eating away at his lungs. Emptiness crawls all over him like a black widow stalking its kill. His arms feel heavy, the passion of victory now over, replaced with a murky mix of grief, guilt and repentance. The pain is unbearable, unimaginable.

The crowd is hushed; stunned and saddened by their great loss. Some are weeping inconsolably, still trying to come to terms with what has unfolded. Some pay homage to the undying spirit of man, a man revered amongst the masses as one of their own. Some pray for the dead man’s safe passage into heaven. For someone, his or her world had just ended.

All that’s left on this cold night is the truth. There is no glory for the victor, no mercy for the vanquished.