Riften

The ashwood desks, the half-ovoid window looking to the eastern dawn, small strokes of wood adoring its outline, the very stone walls, were withdrawn. It was then, not light that pervaded his sight, rather emptiness that prompted the immaculate white. A presence announced itself, “Despite all you believe,” it began, a fair voice insinuated with omniscience. “There is no beginning.”
Silence reigned. The situation, dumbfounding. Engulfed in a sudden theism from this exalted being, minutes passed. The words registered at last.
“What of the theories?” came the shaky reply.
The ethereal being seemed to move, though it was always out of the peripheral, something in the corner of the eye. “They were put in place for a reason, but that veil has been lifted to you.”


Part 1

Chapter 1

His nation is instilled with the credo of bravery in the face of adversity, as emblazoned on banners atop countless parapets that light the castles throughout Evren. His teachers often shower him with acclamation, referring to his innate ability with the blade. He minds every word. Why is it then, that he feels such despair? He dresses in his formal duel wear tentatively as he ponders Arlen. Always second to Arlen. Friendliness is fostered between the two, but Blaise knows this only as an emaciated veneer. He cannot outplay him, perhaps it is the natural arrogance that flusters him. Arlen strides with confidence, his good looks and athleticism often draws the cheers of the crowd. Blaise timidly admits that in spite of this, Arlen may still be the superior.
He knows that when he passes into the hexagon-shaped arena, a congregation will be gathered on one side of the section, the side that is cut out to allow observation. As he finishes strapping his sword to his side, he reminds himself that these are familiar grounds, and that he will put forth a good exhibition of himself, even if in defeat. His heart pumps quickly, his hands, glacial from anxiety. He is concluding his third leg of swordsmanship, still a student of the arts, but each year’s contest seems imperative to him. He believes this is how people will come to judge him.
It is different every time, being on a stage, hundreds of candles lining the walls and an equal number of men, attentive to his every movement, mocking a mistake, admiring a feint. They are muffled clams now, but a single strike can lead the fickle mass to undermine one’s conviction. The other opponents are waiting for his arrival, lined in a disciplined row, each uniformed in full plate. Arlen is smiling. They are the select few from different schools with the same experience. Blaise takes his stand at the end. The judge enters from a different preparatory room, small in stature, but it is apparent that he commands this room with certainty. In taciturnity he eyes them all sternly for a moment.
The judge raises one arm. A black sleeve dangles insecurely, “I will not waste more breath than needed, three blows or one vital position and you are vanquished.” His words hold the electric air and feel cold, hanging as gossamer threads, insecure of their position, “Swords now.”
As the judge collects the weapons, Blaise does his best to focus on the situation. He measures the space he has in the room; it is large, and has seats on the same side that the crowd is on. The competitors will await there. As the judge leaves with the jumble of swords, Blaise considers how he has seen this room so many times in his sleep; he has seen himself capable of the most daring maneuvers to roaring applause, and at last with his sword against Arlen’s throat. Now that he is here, his vision seems out of place, and so artificial. He looks down to his hands to find himself trembling.
The adjudicator returns at last, holding a blade in each hand. Two competitors go to retrieve them, while the others head towards the seats. The two competitors begin at opposite ends of the hexagon, blades held with both hands, at the ready.
“Begin.” Both students, charged with adrenaline, rush one another, exchanging quick blows. Blaise had not been paying attention to where he was sitting.
Arlen, sensing his sidelong glance, asks “Feeling ready Blaise?”
Blaise replies slowly, “Well… yes I think, haven’t ever drilled so much.”
“Let those sweat and tears turn to gold.” The reply comes with a grin, echoing one of their schoolmaster’s favorite lines.
Blaise can’t suppress a smile. Maybe Arlen isn’t the arrogant man he believes him to be, only an extension of his own overactive mind. They never talked much, as most of their encounters were met in a clash of force.
He is aroused from his thoughts by the groan of dolor from one of the competitors. The fight is over. Dejected, one of the men walks slowly off to the side room, while the victor hands his sword back to the judge and walks coolly to a seat. When the judge returns, his right hand holds Blaise’s sword, a plain long sword design with a shield engraved on the crosspiece. On standing to accept it, it is for the first time that he notices how cold the azure marble floor is.
Quickly he grasps the familiarity of his sword, and it calms him immensely. He feels more assured now, and realizes that perhaps there is some substance to his dreams. He is ranked second in his school, and shouldn’t be taking that position lightly. Unconsciously he walks to the end of the room, turning with a hard face to see his opponent. He sees an average fighter that he has fought in practice before. Warily they both approach at a steady pace, but Blaise quickens his pace at midway, giving him, for the moment, an offensive edge.
While he assails with a giant overhead swing, his adversary makes an overhead block, his armor shaking as if in infirmity. His opponent then steps back beyond Blaise’s reach and moves to the right to cut a low attack, but Blaise has already reversed his downward drive. He quickly jumps high to avoid the blow and upon landing makes a thrust towards the shoulder. His enemy attempts to back out, but takes a glancing blow on the shoulder in doing so.
Murmurs of appreciation are heard from the crowd, and Blaise, feeling a surge of elation, presses onwards. His strong slashes keep his opponent on his heels, who is forced to circle to avoid from getting knocked out of the arena. Despite having the advantage, Blaise is tiring out faster than his opponent. His plan though, is soon played out to decisive execution. Upon guiding one of his slashes clearly astray, he makes his opponent believe him to be off balance by stumbling slightly forwards. Blaise watches his adversary play into his ruse by attacking with a thrust. Blaise continues his semblance of stumbling forwards until the tip is a hand’s length away, then directs his body’s momentum to the right of his opponent. Smoothly, he transitions to a forwards roll, while his sword deals a harmless blow to his opponent’s leg.
Things were played perfectly, and his adversary looks increasingly distraught, his eyes from under the round plate helm, furious. Blaise smiles from ear to ear, goading him. The flurries of attacks were unmethodically rude, and Blaise has no trouble deflecting them to the side while shifting his position sideways. After he blocks an overhead stroke, Blaise follows through with a rapid turn. Seeing him in this nakled position, his opponent attempts a sidelong slash opposite the direction Blaise’s blade is approaching from. Blaise is, however, the quicker, his hit coming in first. To applause from the crowd, the judge takes Blaise’s sword, a glint of respect in his eyes.
He dispatched without flaw, and takes his seat, knowing he had put fear in the others. But his heart flutters as the judge returns with two swords, one of them his again, the other, Arlen’s, so recognizable to him by now, his bane. It has a handle wrapped in golden silk, a small jewel encrusted on the bottom of the hilt. Arlen stands without hesitation and seizes his sword with the utmost calm.
Stillness settles through the crowd, every person knowing that these are worthy fighters. Blaise grips his sword tightly, and as he runs forwards, Arlen mimicks his move with a frightening exactitude, meeting in a clamorous discordance of resonances. Every detail seems to become so lucid to Blaise in a short juncture. He loses focus of the fight at hand, and he becomes caught up in the excited crowd, the way the peals of metallic noise recoil off each wall, and how very cold he is. He has seen this tapestry before. Perhaps if he loses he can use the excuse of having to fight twice in a row.
Unable to control his mind, his body seems to be on its own course, employing techniques that have become trained reactions. Suddenly, he realizes he has an opening, with Arlen looking to strike him up high. Ducking that, he attempts a lower strike, but his muscles are tense, and he does not attack with his customary swiftness. Arlen, having time to see his own shortcoming, makes a precarious motion by kicking both his feet out backwards, his face hitting the floor, his face crashing down late, after the sweeping blade. He then rolls sideways out of the reach of Blaise’s overhead strike.
As the fight wears on with Blaise being hit once, he begins to feel very tired and resigned; this man will overpower him eventually. Arlen is the faster, with more cunning strikes. Already the crowd is captivated by his handiwork. The ovations of encouragement seem to make him stronger. Beads of sweat become fluvial, and in desperation Blaise makes a wide powerful swing, which leaves him open on one side. Arlen, predictably, takes advantage, moves in close and has his blade against Blaise’s throat in an instant. Reluctantly, Blaise ceases his attack.
Amidst the uproar of applause, the truth of being crushed explicit, thorns of disenchantment bleed him. As Arlen raises his blade, without noticing, he glances the end of Blaise’s nose. A drip of blood comes down to form an unsightly blemish on the floor. Blaise is outraged; he makes a slight motion to protest, but realizes that complaints are strictly forbidden, and will only shame him further. Arlen is already heading back to his seat and the judge does not so much as glimpse the injustice done.
From a different lens, one would’ve seen that the battle that just occurred was one between twins, a graceful symmetrical merging of dances. That the mishap at the end was simply a happening of little importance, that it would not come close to marring the scene that had just graced the crowd.
Blaise feels absolute humiliation as someone within the crowd points at him as he walks out of the arena. He knows the rumors will circulate about his loss and his shame, and the regret he will feel for so long afterwards about not having made a worthier performance. Perhaps Arlen had meant for all of this to happen, had planned everything, and knew how he would play out. His conversation with him had to have been a tactic to weaken his offensive spirit, and this shame afterwards was a stratagem to forever shun him from entering against him again. Despondency is written in lackluster eyes.