JackSGreyson Says

original here. dated 2011-11-04.

~

She hated the stops, the breaks in the various filthy towns and cities that were scattered across the desert. They screamed at her; shrieking the difference between her kingdom and this empire (the environment, the culture, the people). During the fights, dangerous and tiring they may be, she could at least forget her situation. She could concentrate solely on survival, letting the stresses of her life (her kingdom, her familiars, her family, her duty) fuel every movement in the arena. But during stops, none of that was possible. There was only the unrelenting sense of failure, of imprisonment. There was no fooling her senses.

“Oi, Blizzard, get your head out of the clouds, boy, they’re bringing out the new treats.”

She especially hated this part of the stops. She didn’t know if her morals or her gender were more offended, but whenever the slavers traded the girls of their caravan for different girls (it could never be new girls, girls in the slave trade were always used in some way; she knew that, even in the caravan she was with, she knew what the other brawlers did to the girls even though they were only supposed to serve, only supposed to heal and clean and help) the part of her that still remembered how to use her powers, the part of her that still missed them, would push at her mind with righteous fury and helpless frustration. (why had her familiars abandoned her?)

“Leave the Alzeidan alone, Medahd, you know he doesn’t play around. He is still too young to appreciate a woman’s flesh, eh?”

The irony never made up for the stops.

But the other brawler did not obey, wrapping one scarred arm companionably around her smaller shoulders, “One day, boy-Blizzard, you will look back on these opportunities you passed up and ask yourself why you didn’t listen to the good and wise Medahd.” He said with a smirk and she tried very hard not to think about Warrior Hayne, with his teasing smirks and easy camaraderie (he’s dead, they’re all dead, but she was too for a while, she thinks, but look where she was now, enslaved, and how was that any better; she should have died on the battlefield rather than fight in an arena for the entertainment of her enemies; they killed her and him and everyone) but could only roll her eyes at the statement.

“First choice to our best brawler as always,” one of the slavers (they have no names, she will never call them by their names and they will always be monsters and she hates them so much) glared at her, probably thinking the same thing as the others (little Alzeidan boy-Blizzard always wastes getting first choice, always picking the girls who wouldn’t be fun to play with, never knowing that she chose the girls who looked like they needed a break from always being used and were always confused at night when she sent them away after the evening meal).

She hated this, too. This gift from the slavers for being the best brawler. As if she won her fights in order to please them or to get first choice, not to survive (survive, survive, survive, everything she did was to survive, and when was the last time she lived? Long ago, long before she was enslaved, long before she was barely breathing under Gordo’s protection, long before she was sent to the front lines, long before she was being trained as the future king’s protector and advisor, long before she was being groomed as the king’s female heir to the throne). As if the girls she didn’t pick weren’t as deserving or as in need of a break from being used by brawlers and slavers and other men with more power (not more power than her, never). But she could only pick one of them and she hated that she couldn’t do more (to help, to hurt, to fight, to escape).

“You could not move slower, boy-Blizzard!”

Tell that to her defeated opponents (the brawlers who thought they were facing a real storm, the brawlers who thought they were facing death—some brawls ended in death—after hearing her new name, the brawlers who were surprised to be alive and some were grateful and others angry with dishonor, the brawlers who would never defeat her).

And there—in the back of the line of girls, behind the ones posing, thinking that maybe being the first chosen would mean being the top girl in the caravan—a hint of blue. A deep blue. The kind of blue she missed because the endless sky wasn’t the same when the only thing around was the reds and golds and browns of the sand and dust. She reached out, and the girls parted for her—for the brawler they thought they saw—and made her choice.

“Name,” She hadn’t used her voice in weeks, months even. Grittier and drier and rougher even though she had never talked much before (before before before everything).

And the girl, older and taller and maybe even colder than boy-Blizzard the brawler, stared back at her with one eye as yellow as her dusty, pale hair, “Janoah”

~

The sorrow was a sour taste in the back of her mouth. She couldn’t swallow it down, couldn’t cry—it was a waste of liquid, it was too dry (she was dried out and there was nothing left of her, empty withered husk of a princess). Even Medahd’s wounds were already drying, the blood a crackled brown than the shimmering red (he’s dead dead dead, why?). His eyes were closed and maybe she could have convinced herself he was only sleeping. He wasn’t. He was dead.

“Blizzard,”

Her throat hurt and her eyes hurt and she hated this desert. She hated having to fight. She hated Medahd for being too weak to win (liar, liar, Medahd was your friend you could never hate him). She hated whoever killed Medahd.

“Who-” her voice ground out before dying (like Medahd died, like everyone died)

“I don’t know,” Janoah was the one who gave her the news, “I could find out for you?” She was a good girl… they weren’t friends.

She nodded, eyes never leaving Medahd’s dead body (Medahd’s corpse) even as she heard Janoah leave the tent.

Medahd was dead. They had been friends. Maybe. She hadn’t let herself be friends with him—keeping her secrets, keeping her anger and hatred of her situation—but he had always tried. And now he was dead. Because he was weaker than his opponent. Which logically would have happened eventually—if he wasn’t the strongest in their caravan, or second, or third, there were stronger brawlers out there—but he had always been good enough. He had always been good. Except when he died. And brawlers don’t always kill each other, only the strong, valuable brawlers can get away with that, but Medahd had been good enough to stay alive, and now he was dead. Medahd was dead and she had no friends and she was hurt and angry and hateful and she had forgotten what that felt like. The anger and hatred she had been trying to hold onto had slipped through her hands like the water they never had enough of and now it was back and she was angry and hated everything, anything, anyone—the one who killed Medahd.

Janoah was back. Janoah didn’t need her to say anything. Janoah led her to Medahd’s killer. Janoah was a good girl… they weren’t friends. Yet.

“An Alzeidan? They have an Alzeidan in their caravan. And not even a man, yet!” Medahd’s killer laughed. He was still alive when Medahd was dead and that was not acceptable.

Enjoy your laughs now. I will kill you tomorrow. And I will enjoy the sound of your final breath as your blood drips off my sword.

Silence. She had said all of that aloud. In her voice which was too unused and dry to sound human.

The other caravan, perhaps from nerves, probably from ignorance, resumed their laughter. Her caravan did not. Someone had their girl fetch a slaver. Good. She needed to arrange a match against Medahd’s killer.

“Big talk for such a small boy. What is your name, small Alzeidan? I will spread your tale after I win, you have amused me much,”

She smiled at that, just a little bit. The smile that Medahd said made boy-Blizzard look even crazier than an Alzeidan in full armor in the desert already did. But Medahd was dead. And she smiled at his killer. When she killed him, he would stay dead. He didn’t deserve to stay alive through stories.

“Blizzard,” Good, the slaver arrived, “What’s this I hear about you challenging someone to a fight?” And she would not have to waste any more words on Medahd’s killer. She looked back at the brawler, her new name had meaning, had power, his caravan had heard of Blizzard.

And her caravan was helping, “It’s the most I’ve ever heard boy-Blizzard say!” and “Blizzard’s going to kill someone?” and “Crazy boy-Alzeidan, Medahd would call him a stupid child. I say, good!”

“Blizzard never kills!” The other caravan were looking less sure of themselves. Less likely to follow Medahd’s killer’s laughter. He was alone.

And he was wrong. She had killed. She had killed many times. Just always for the war, always for duty, always for honor, never for this sick, twisted game. But he had killed Medahd. She had lost a friend. She had lost too many friends already.

“Blizzard never lies,” Janoah, behind her, arranging the match.

She wouldn’t lose anyone else.