The Prædium Sorokys, Luxium
2nd of Glade, 124 Annus Ferro
when the wrestler’s sinews
grew long like metal strings,
he felt them under his fingers
like chords of deep music.
grew long like metal strings,
he felt them under his fingers
like chords of deep music.
The wrestlers grunted, straining against one another for advantage. Sweat-slick and gleaming in the noontide sunlight, man and winged elf strove to master the other without weapon, without magic, without any tricks but those of muscle and bone, momentum and leverage. Neither was frightened of injury, nor of injuring the other. They were both strong, hardy, and had some of the best healers on call should anything go awry.
Finn was the larger of the two, but Raithen had the strength granted him by his wings. That was, perhaps, a magical advantage, but not one to quibble over.
Several artists sat in the shade, watching, sketching furiously with keen and critical gazes. A dux and the consort of a prince were, he supposed, the sort of subjects sculptors and painters might seek, the better to flatter their betters. Finn himself had dedicated music to the highest of Kalzasi while attempting to make his way by song and string.
Ciarán too had paused, mostly to gape for a moment at the barely clad men going at it, but he had quickly closed his mouth and walked on. Solunarium was strange to him still, and his brother had risen so high that sometimes he wasn't sure he knew him at all for all the things Finn remembered from their unlucky hamlet on the shores of Lake Udori.
"Fucker," Finn spat as he twisted out of a grapple, though the escape hurt.
His shoulder took Raithen in the gut, knocking the wind out of him but, more importantly, wiping the smirk off of his face.
They continued like this, both reveling in the competition. Finn had never really been competitive. This had been a detriment to his career in some ways, though he had eventually found his path, and now he had a new one at Arvælyn's side and under Aværys' gaze.
Finn miscalculated, and Raithen took advantage of the over-extension, hooking his hand behind Finn's knee and pulling him off balance, then down, and then he was pinned under the winged menace. His own breath whooshed out of his lungs when his back hit the marble flagstones. There was a flare of anger, but it passed. He calmed himself, relaxing so his body could recover his breath sooner rather than later. Once he had breath, he managed to laugh shakily along with the victor, who offered him a hand up.
Once up, they stretched, causing a new flurry of activity from the watching artists. But Finn paid them no mind. Servi ran up, offering cool water and hand towels to blot their brows.
It was only a day after New Year, so they were recovering from all the pageantry with something grounded in blood and dirt. They had intimated earlier that they would discuss their blood feuds—his with Thalya, Raithen's with Æros. Given the time to investigate the matter and observe the dead dancer make a mockery of Luxian politics, he was inclined to give his full support and help to Raithen in his endeavors. He felt a flicker of Khyan's hunger across their soul-bond; he sent soothing thoughts. Soon. It were best they didn't discuss in front of their audience. The servi could be trusted, and none but they would be present if...
"Bath?" he inquired.
Whoever was beaten by this Angel
(who often simply declined the fight)
went away proud and strengthened
and great from that harsh hand,
that kneaded him as if to change his shape.
Winning does not tempt that man.
This is how he grows: by being defeated, decisively,
by constantly greater beings.—rilke
(who often simply declined the fight)
went away proud and strengthened
and great from that harsh hand,
that kneaded him as if to change his shape.
Winning does not tempt that man.
This is how he grows: by being defeated, decisively,
by constantly greater beings.—rilke