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Birds of a Feather

“Didn’t you used to cover those?” Rhaegon Targerei stood half a head taller than Detraeus, his hair long and alabaster, skin as dark as the night sky and eyes bright and pale. He had a tail now, too — an addition from the last, brief time they had ‘met’ — and a full set of pastel, feathered wings that he currently kept hidden away in the magical tattoos on his back.

Detraeus focussed on the growing rumble of the crowd and the beat of his pulse in his chest as he channeled each new breath. Tier two matches in the pit, while a slot above beast-only matches, were still beginner’s fodder for the most part. Desperate teens hungering to fight anything they could for a payout, and they were rarely pitted up to be long fights or terribly exciting ones. In tier two, they had yet to put him up against anyone of visible ord blood, keeping the sessions relatively simple and clean.

This was his first match on the third tier.

His blood sang in his veins, loud as the crowds around them as the booming voice of the fight announcer echoed through the space between them, instructing the fighters to approach each other and bow. Rhaegon’s eyes followed him as they stepped in, edging over the runes that marked his skin until bile tapped at the back of Detraeus’ throat. When he finished, Rhaegon clicked his tongue.

“I can see why you covered them.” He tilted his head. “Who would have guessed, that for all your talk…this whole time, you were nothing but a used up whore. Were you so bad that they threw you out? I suppose that explains your moods…”

Detraeus’ fingers flicked, itching for his blades. His bow. Anything. He placated himself by imagining Rhaegon’s eyes plucked out by arrows instead, his body bent and broken and pale hair black with blood.

“I’m sorry…are you angry? But then, you’re always angry, aren’t you…” Rhaegon tapped the tip of his boot to the stadium floor. “Everyone’s going to be cheering for you, you know. ‘Kill the hybrid! Kill the hybrid!’ I want you angry…so I can take you out screaming. I love listening to purebloods scream. So overconfident, so surprised, like they thought nothing could ever take them down until you get them there…” Rhaegon frowned, watching him. “Can you even talk anymore?”

A horn sounded through the stadium, signaling them to each take ten paces back. Detraeus complied immediately.

He flicked his fingers, stretching and bunching them, shutting his eyes and focussing on his breath as he listened to the growing roar of the crowd as the go timer approached.

Three…

Two…

One…

The final horn sounded, and Detraeus’ first arrow was in his hand, drawn, and fired, within the span of a second and a half.

Rhaegon’s magic rippled up, bright and glimmering in the form of a shield as he raised a hand. When it deflected the first arrow, Detraeus’ fingers moved sidelong, immediately drawing a second from the left corner of his quiver and flicking his thumb over the shaft — activating spell runes — before nocking and firing. A yelp satisfied him. Under the pressure of the piercing spell, Rhaegon’s magic sputtered and died, like a candle flickering out under too much wind. But not before the hybrid was well out of the way, blade drawn and glowing.

“Going to play with your bow and arrow tricks all day? Come now. You’ll have to move in closer eventually. The people want a show…and it’s my job to give it to them.” Rhaegon’s wings burst from his back. With a single beat he was up and then driving forward, directly for Detraeus. But Detraeus flit out of the way and back, a pulse of his own wings putting him behind Rhaegon in a moment’s notice. His next arrow buried itself in Rhaegon’s calf. “Coward.”

Light magic burned, white hot and blaring as it flared out. So bright that for an instant, Detraeus was completely blind. He heard Rhaegon’s approach only just soon enough to avoid losing his bowels to the hybrid’s blade. Instead, it sliced along his side — a grazing blow, but plenty deep enough to draw blood. The next time Rhaegon swung, Detraeus’ own blades were drawn, and the sharp shhlllnk, clank of metal on metal filled the air.

Rhaegon’s magic stung, permeating the air like a noxious fume, and as often as he could afford it, he made it pulse and flare. Each time, it temporarily blinded Detraeus, giving his opponent the full advantage for those few moments. It became obvious, gradually, that Rhaegon was toying with him. Nicking at him in his blinded moments. Driving him back, but never taking a killing blow. And he talked, constantly.

“What these people want, you see, is two things. First…” He sliced towards Detraeus, bringing his blade down in hard, quick strokes and forcing him to continue edging back. “They want to watch a hybrid die. Second…” His light pulsed again and Detraeus darted back, but Rhaegon’s blade still nicked him, slicing just beneath his shoulder and earning a hiss. “They want to be entertained. Unfortunately, no one can ever get everything they want all the time. That’s not how the world works. So…sacrifices must be made.”

Rhaegon swung, blade gouging into Detraeus’ leg, and he stumbled, fell, and rolled before his opponent’s blade came down again, sinking into the stadium earth. No matter how he practiced, he was never going to meet a warrior toe to toe with a blade, and Detraeus knew it. Particularly not now. He needed another strategy.

“What,” Rhaegon asked, “…tired already? Look at you…bleeding out and on the ground not but five minutes in. Though I suppose you’re used to that angle, aren’t you? Are you ready to forfeit? End my fun?”

The next time Rhaegon’s light pulsed out, Detraeus whipped his tail around, burying the spikes deep as they would go into the man’s side and then raking them downwards, yanking himself up as he went. By the time Rhaegon recovered from the attack and his surprise, Detraeus was in the air, firing down. He sank an arrow into Rhaegon’s side and shoulder — just missing his head when took to the air himself — and the man was on him again in moments.

“There’s some energy,” Rhaegon snarled, “though I pity the fool who thinks anyone with anything but Seren’s wings can dominate in the sky.”

His feathers caught the torch light — four wings glimmering like lightning flies in the night as he swung for Detraeus again — and Detraeus’ pulse was a battering ram between his temples, but his body moved on instinct. Soon, though, despite his best wishes, Detraeus was forced back to his blades. Rhaegon did have the advantage in the sky, his wings larger, more maneuverable, and stronger. The crowds roared about them as they clashed, out, and back again, like two armed birds, but one with a crippled set of wings. Rhaegon laughed as he fought, his grin seeming to broaden proportionally as Detraeus’ strength waned.

Then, in a blink of an eye and a moment of misdirection, Rhaegon was in on him, a dagger in his gut, hand holding him yanked in and breath so close Detraeus could taste it. His eyes glinted like morning stars as he held Detraeus still.

“That’s it,” Rhaegon whispered. “That’s the look. The shock. The humiliation. The absolute disbelief that someone like me could take down someone like you. But I could, you know…one yank of this blade, a twitch upwards and I could have your lungs bursting, your ribcage splitting open and your innards all over the stadium floor…”

Detraeus choked, feeling his muscles spasm, wings failing him, senses spinning like a top out of control. It was Rhaegon holding him aloft. Then, the hybrid snorted, withdrew his blade, and shoved.

Detraeus crumpled. Like a broken doll, tossed aside, his body fell to a heap on the stadium floor, wings curling over himself and hand clutching to his gut, instantly soaked in blood. He heard Rhaegon land, listened to his footsteps and the flit of his wings as he loomed over him, the crowds booming around them. Boos. Cheers. Demands for blood.

“Kill him!”

“Kill him!”

“Kill him!” could be heard amidst the hisses of those displeased with the way the match had gone.

Above him, Rhaegon spoke. “Fortunate for you that I’m merciful.”

Detraeus made himself look, watching as Rhaegon pivoted, opening his arms wide to the crowd and grinning. Victorious. Then, in a single, swift shove of motion, Detraeus lunged upwards. He buried his dagger low in Rhaegon’s gut and dragged it upwards, watching the half-orderite’s expression shatter from beaming pride, to shock, to horror as Detraeus split open his belly, punctured his lungs, and slit up through his innards. Blood pooled and spilled out of his mouth, his body spasming as he choked and sputtered, eyes wide and glassy.

“Unfortunate for you that I’m not,” Detraeus said.

Staggering under the weight of Rhaegon’s body as he began to go limp, Detraeus withdrew his dagger and took a step back, letting the other fall to his knees. Then, wanting to take no chances, Detraeus drew one of his short swords again. One hand on his gut, he swung. Once, twice, three times he hacked at the man’s neck before the head severed properly, and he kicked, knocking the corpse backwards to a broken pile of blood and feathers.

The crowds screamed around him. Deafening. But all Detraeus could hear was his pulse. And all he could feel was a sickening, empty lurch of his gut. He spat at what remained of his opponent, and stumbled, vision bleeding in and out, towards the edge of the arena.

He’d won.

That was what mattered.

Wasn’t it?

Detraeus nominally hated letting healers see to him, even — or especially — the free of charge healers that worked at the pit. In this case, however, he knew he had no choice. His body had lost too much blood, and his internal organs were damaged, his legs barely capable of holding him upright and balance unreliable. He lost track of how long he spent in the healer’s wing, his consciousness slipping in and out. He felt their magic seeping into him, rippling through his veins and clotting off blood flow at the broken edges, repairing crucial areas of damage and dulling the pain in others. Though they did a decent job, he knew, when he managed to stagger his way out, that touch up work would be ideal in the aftermath.

“Detraeus!”

Detraeus grimaced at Igvad’s voice and continued walking up, towards the main exit.

“That was quite a win there. Brutal. Last second. The crowd loved it—”

“I’ll pick up my winnings tomorrow,” Detraeus grunted, moving on despite the man’s clear efforts to slow his pace and draw him into a conversation.

“Look, you see the thing is, while that was an impressive comeback…we’ve never seen you kill like that before. Didn’t know you were on the plate for that. All sorts come through here, you know, you get your tough guys and your want to be famous kids, your desperate renegades, gutter trash, worn out gypsie fighters…lots of people ready to draw a blade, but not so many willing to—Detraeus…” The man quickened his pace. “Detraeus—”

Detraeus reached for the door out.

“We can talk about this later — your payout could be over tripled if you’re willing to set yourself up for the right fights — think about it—!”

Detraeus stepped through and clacked the door shut hard in the other man’s face. Immediately after, he spotted Araceli, and his shoulders bunched. Of all the persons he might have hoped could have witnessed that battle, she was not on the list. She would want him out of her house, as far from her as possible. She’d seen what he did to people. Would continue to do to people. How brutal, vicious, and bitter he was at his worst. Surely—

Immediately upon spotting him, Araceli moved for him.

Detraeus blinked. Of all the things he might have expected out of her mouth, that wasn’t among them. All the words he’d tried to gather together: promises that he would move his things out by morning of the next day, that he only needed the bed one more night, that he would never touch her again. They faded away, crumpling like a letter of unspoken sentiments burnt to ash in a fire. In the aftermath, he found himself with nothing, his attention flitting down in spite of himself to the place where her lip disappeared between her teeth.

‘I hurt, but I’m well,’ lingered at the corner of his mind, but even that never made it to his lips. Instead, he simply nodded. “And you,” he said after a long silence, his voice hoarser than he anticipated and pinched with a variety of emotions he could not quite pin down. “You’re alright?”

Detraeus tensed as Araceli moved in. Not entirely sure what he expected, the gentle — almost hesitant — hug surprised him, but his tension did not seep fully back out until she let go again. His blush remained. After opening and then shutting his mouth several times, indecisive and at a loss for words, eventually, he only nodded again and lead the way out in peaceable silence.

Better, he supposed, than any number of alternative scenarios that he’d imagined. Here, he truly did seem to have a ‘home’ to go to. However temporary that balance might prove to be, in that moment, he was grateful for it.