In the center of the arena there crouched alone a man. He had very fair skin—white as marble—and once-white locks had acquired some faint scarlet tint, having been stained by the blood and sweat dripping down the gash along his head.
A cold, peculiarly soothing breeze swept across the battlefield, stroking his wounded visage. Sweat- and blood-encrusted hair hung heavy and limp on his body.
His face hardly belonged to him under the thick smudges of blood—they obscured every feature, every sign of the man he once was.
He could hardly open his eyes and slowly woke up. Numbing pain coursed through his body, but confusion and exhaustion eclipsed the pain. He heard voices all around him—angry, furious, merciless.
"Murder the damned slut and the bitch!"
"Llíures es una vergüenza para nuestro país!"
He blinked once, then twice, to look at where he was. The sky above was a dismal gray, smoke and ash swirling in the sky. He lay in the very center of what once had been an arena. It looked now like some ghastly stage. He was stained with blood, his right hand missing altogether, and his shoulder torn and contorted.
He had men around him. Not soldiers, nor enemies—watchers. Watching him from the stands. Hatred twisted their faces, and fanaticism burned in their eyes. It was like they were there to see some sort of execution, not arena fighting.
And in front of him, on the ground, nearly not even two feet away, lay the girl. Blood discolored her silvery hair; her otherwise-white dress had smudges of red. She had her eyes closed, her chest rising in weak breaths.
'Who is she?'
'And why were they here?'
He attempted to raise himself to a sitting position, but the pain ripped through him like lightning. Then there came the abrupt cry through the air:
"Ahh."
It was she.
She could hardly speak and could hardly get up in the presence of her overt anguish.
He moved his head slowly, every movement torture, and looked at her shaking lips. She kept saying something, her speech barely audible over the sound of the crowd.
"Please, don't go."
He frowned, confused. Why would she tell him that? Where would she think he would be going? He didn't even know her—that's what his thoughts told him. But something in him moved. An instinct. A feeling. A voice that whispered, Do not make her sorrowful.
So, he nodded his head once again with great effort and whispered, "Okay."
A momentary smile grazed her lips despite her injury. And in the moment, the turbulence stopped. For the duration of the heartbeat, the screams, the hate, the blood—all of it disappeared. He could feel the warmth in her smile, in the mutual glance. Something true.
But the world was unyielding.
The voices returned, louder. Angrier.
"Kill them both! Let no traitor live!"
He didn't understand. Who were they calling a traitor? A bastard? A shame?
And then there came to him the thought—a perception.
They mean me.
He barely even realized who he was. He barely even realized who she was. How could he possibly be hated so much, so intensely, so hatefully?
And then—
A burning sensation.
A blade had torn through his chest, cold iron slashing between his ribs, through his heart, and out the other side. Time stalled. He inhaled deeply, the blood spurting from his lips, and the injury in his shoulder could not compare to this deadly wound. But even as death loomed near, there could be no hurt. Only numbness. Vacuousness.
He moved his head slowly, his body resisting the action. There, holding the hilt of the sword in both hands, was a man. An aging man, his hair snow-white, his face weathered by age and sorrow. Tears were running down his black eyes, even though he kept his grip tight around the sword.
Something else moved within the boy's mind. Recognition. But not through recollection, but through instinct.
Father
The man was his father.
Why? Why did he have to carry the knife? Why would he ever have to do something like that?
Before he could ask, before he could scream, there echoed across the battlefield a voice.
"No!"
He came out of the throne—a large seat well away from the battlefield. In front of him walked a man in garb of gold, his long red locks glittering like flames in the sunless sky. He had the look of confusion on his visage—fear, sorrow, and confusion. He had the expression of the man who had just seen the price of his decisions.
The boy's thoughts were in disarray. Why now did the king behave thus? Did he not have anything to do with the present trial, the present killing? Why did he now concern him?
And the girl?
Who was she, this bleeding angel whom everyone hated but who had done him only good in this final moment?
The sword emerged in a violent jerking movement. The father's arms trembled, but he kept pushing the boy forward. It was movement enough to put him off balance, and he fell across the form of the girl.
Her eyes were fixed in terror when she looked to see the blood dripping out of his chest. She tried to talk, but she could not.
Just like an immobile man, all she could do was cry or cry—long, raw wails of anguish that echoed across the clearing like a funeral.
He couldn't move. Couldn't lift his head. But he could see her face.
And in her tears, he saw the truth. Not answers, nor explanations—but the truth. The truth of common sorrow, of lost love, of untold stories.
The thunder boomed across the sky.
Lightning streaked overhead.
And then, a voice from on high. A voice that sounded as if it came from the heavens themselves:
"Matebaar manaa baar t"
It was not a threat. It was a promise.
And he accepted it.
He looked once again at her and tried to smile.
But the smile would never happen. The light had left his eyes, even though they were still open.
He met his end. The battlefield became quiet, and there was only the sound of the girl's tears. And in the silence, the world wept. And then the earth shook. It began quietly—like the heartbeat of the very earth. But within the span of seconds, the grumbling roared fiercely, rending the stillness like a bellow of primeval wrath. Stones cracked, banners fell, and panic gasps rippled through the crowd. Horses reared, soldiers staggered, and the sky darkened further, as if sorrow needed something more than silence. A gigantic release of force burst out of the very heart of the battlefield, out of the boy's body where he lay dead. Wind screamed like a released beast. And all ends.