The Last Duel

Transcript

Half the castle is on fire. You are running. It's almost impossible to think because the crowd behind you, of women and children and starving men, are all screaming for your attention.

There are so many footfalls in the long stone corridor that it is deafening, and audible chaos that tastes of ash and scorches your skin. And yet, it's not enough to drown out the pounding of your heart, because though you have freed the prisoners, their families, and torn a hole in this palace that can be seen from the very stars, you haven't encountered me yet. True, I might be dead.

Enough magic has been unleashed in this area to fillet half the garrison. But you know the Dark Lord still lives. And you know me.

I'm a survivor. Your comrades are trying to corral the refugees, issuing commands that are lost amidst their cries. Rafters are burning to kindling and falling from the ceiling.

You yank a child by the collar, just as a pillar comes tumbling down. And over his panicked panting, you can't the familiar jingle of my spurs. The hot blood in your neck turns to ice as I saunter out of the smoke, leading a patrol of emerald guards.

The refugees start screaming, and my white teeth beam at you from a soot-stained grin. Well, well, well. There you are, you little killer.

You let out a sound that cows the refugees behind you. Even the guards at my sides hesitate. They've never seen a woman so angry.

Of course, when you get angry, the air around you glitters with blue sparks. I remember what they taste like. I smile and draw my saber from its sheath.

I confess, I was afraid your tender heart might bark at crossing blades, that seeing me again might stir some nostalgia for the way we were. But it looks like you've burned all that tenderness away. I watch your knuckles flex on the hilt of your sword.

Or maybe I did that, when I killed all our friends. You tell your comrades to run the other way, to find another exit. The bravest one, a tall and handsome boy, tells you he won't leave you.

Then by all means, stay, I tell it. You order him to lead the others to safety and shove the child into his arms. The fire reflected in your eyes must singe his bravery.

He doesn't argue. He just looks back at me with fear and frustration and runs away. I sick the guards on him, but they give you a wide berth.

That leaves the two of us alone in the fiery corridor. You remember everything I taught you, I ask, as you pull your sword free. We begin to circle in the smoke and the flame.

You tell me to shut up. Honey, I didn't like what I had to do, I say. Well, that's not entirely true.

I did enjoy killing Brad again. I never liked him. You don't think that's funny.

It was a job, and I was paid well to do it. If they weren't strong enough to beat me, that's fate. You scream that they trusted me, that they never would have let their guards down if they thought I'd really hurt them.

Honey, what have I told you since the day we met? There's no mercy in mercenary. I give you credit.

You don't run at me shrieking like a novice would. Though your eyes are blue as lightning bolts, you wait for our circle to contract before you raise your blade. The blue magic dies when it hits my saber, but you prepared for that.

The hidden dagger in your offhand goes through my throat, and I just barely dodge aside, laughing like a jester. Good girl! You must have had a good teacher, or at the very least a sneaky one.

Four years ago, that would have set your temper alight. Four years ago, I knew just which buttons to push to turn you end over end. The look you shoot me now is no less irate than in those halcyon days, but it is controlled and cold.

My heart flutters with pride. I arc my blade down in a savage slash, and you twist it away with a spark scattering parry. The metal sound echoes down the hellish corridor.

I smile. You are better than you were. This wild realm we inhabit is so chock-full of deadly monsters and eldritch psychotics that work is always available for those who want it.

Brave warriors looking to prove themselves. Tomb raiders hunting for the next big score. Paladins on quests.

Clerics sniffing for converts. It's a dangerous world, so the mortality rate is high for adventurers. For that reason, I myself am no adventurer.

I'm just a man who lacks money and lacks the patience for honest work. That's how I fell in with your lot. There were five of you in the beginning.

Moira, Pelops, Garion-5, Brannigan, and you, the angry little minstrel. Each of you had a vendetta against Kaluna the Knight of Heather. They were a wicked one, guilty of a multitude of sins against your families, monasteries, neighborhoods, body parts.

I was late to the party, sorting through my own affairs, and I told you all many times I wasn't in it for the good versus evil business. I've always considered myself rather neutral on morality. But even in those early days, you had a passion for finding the most alluring treasure on your long road to vanquishing the big bad.

So I stayed. Of course, it didn't hurt that you were easy on the eyes. And I admit, teasing you became something of a pastime.

You were so good, so righteous, and so utterly in love with another man. Pelops could do no wrong in your eyes, and even I concede he merited some worship. One of those rare men who took his vows seriously, but never himself.

He liked to drink as much as the next man, to share a laugh, and spend a little coin on frivolous pleasures. But I never saw him hesitate to help someone in need, or forgive an enemy who'd repented. I met plenty of knights who were hypocrites, cowards, bullies.

Pelops was true blue. He died saving all our lives, but you took it the hardest. And you wanted to punish yourself.

That's why you fell into bed with me. Didn't bother me none. I'd always been sweet on you, and I'd always made that clear.

And you'd always made it clear that my flirtations were anathema, to be spit back up like water from a poison well. But the pain of Alita's death was so horrible and so deep, you would have happily drank poison to be at peace. I don't think I ever gave you peace, but a bit of pleasure.

I have many skills, and making your toes curl was among them. At first that's all it was, a distraction, a secret. To our friends, to all outward appearances, nothing changed.

If anything, you snapped back at my jest with even greater disgust. After Pelops, you became even more righteous, always striving to honor his memory. That's a heavy burden, and it was never long before you cracked beneath it, asking me in the dead of night to shut up and just make it stop hurting.

I fully expected you to come back to your senses once you'd found your way to the other side of grief. But you discovered something about yourself in our midnight tussles. You liked arguing with me in the daylight, and then finishing the conversation with our bodies when the sun went down.

That's when the lesson started. You didn't just want to rely on your magic. You wanted to know how to face an enemy, how to size them up, how to use a blade.

I like to think you asked me because I'm the best. I know it was because I never went easy on you. Moira treated you like a daughter.

Gorion was always so protective. Brannigan had his crush. How many times did he interrupt our sparring and tell me to let you breathe? Is the Minotaur gonna call a timeout when he finds you rooting around his maze? I asked him.

If your enemy isn't confident they can kill you outright, exhausting you and confusing you are the next best ways to win. So either get stronger or get out of the game. You lunged at me while I was shouting at him, and you almost got me.

But I disarmed you and took you to the ground with an elbow to the temple. You woke up with the aid of Brannigan's magic, and while he fussed over you, you got back on your feet, found me at the bar, and demanded I try that again. You know, a lot of people don't know how or when they fall in love.

Just happens, they say. But I remember sitting back, looking at you in that crooked doorway, lights streaming into the tavern, your sword shaking in your hand, men, women, and creatures grabbing their drinks and getting clear. You had blood running down into your ear.

And I thought, oh, I love you. I'm so proud of you. Because I don't believe in anything in this world.

I think we live, I think we die, and I think the gods laugh at us. But you believe in things. You weren't mad at me for winning.

You were mad at yourself for losing. You hate to lose. And so do I.

And when I led you behind the tavern and we fought again, you let the anger go. You focused. You fought as pilafs would have, eyes on the target, anticipating my movements to predict where I would strike and how you might strike back.

I won, of course. I always win. But three times, three times you struck true.

Three times you reminded me of my mortality. We were both bleeding at the end of it. I remember the taste of it in your mouth when I pressed you up against the wall.

Was the fight over? I wasn't rightly sure. Your arm trembled and I knew the muscles inside were burning down to the bones just to hold your sword aloft.

But still you pounded on my back as I forced a kiss from those panting lips. Say you give up, I demanded. You never did.

You just kept repeating, we're not done. I shook your wrist until the sword fell out of it. I bit your lips, top and bottom, licked the corners like a cat cleaning its kitten, and your ragged nails dragged through my stubble.

It wasn't always easy getting to you under all those belts and buckles. You had charms, charms. You had padding, you had burlap here and there.

But it was always worth the fuss. We're not done. You spit at me as I licked at your naked slit.

No, honey, I agreed. We're just getting started. I've always loved the smell of your sweat, the way it mixed with the worn leather and the unique tang of your magic.

Yours is not the only magic pussy I've tasted, but no pussy ever tasted like yours. I know you in the dark, know you in a crowded room. Do you always get so wet when we fight? I asked.

You never were an exhibitionist, but that afternoon, the risk of being caught heightened your excitement. Blue crystals formed and burst in the air. Your pussy drooled down my shaft, hungry to be filled and maybe just once tamed.

Those ragged nails dug into the back of my neck, shivering arms wrapped around me to hold on as I pounded you against the wall like a tavern whore. Any one of our body could have found us. But would they recognize you? I wondered, moaning like that, teeth biting into my ear.

You got splinters. You got splinters I had to pick out afterwards. But wasn't I a good boy, rubbing you down with lotion after every jagged fiber was removed? Oh, your bottom was always so sensitive.

I learned that early, how you like it to be squeezed amidst the act. You liked knowing I was holding you, that I wasn't letting go till I'd had my way with you. In the dark, I always imagined you closed your eyes, maybe going away to some fabulous paradise, maybe imagining another man.

But that day, your eyes were open and on me, piercing into me like the point of a slow dagger. Sometimes you liked to hear me tell you how hard you made me, as if you couldn't feel it. Sometimes you liked me to wrap my fingers around your throat, to just short of danger.

Sometimes you liked to give me a slap. I admit, I was quite partial to it. That afternoon, you seemed content to scream in my face, to let me lift you up and just bang you into that wall until the bruises and the splinters mixed into the pleasure like exotic paint.

You said my name over and over again. The anger of the duel burned away, replaced by a passion I felt deep in my balls. What we had was never pure.

It was born out of desperation, loneliness, and convenience. But that afternoon, against the tavern wall, I knew what it was to share one heart. My pride, normally reserved for myself, bled into you, and you felt it.

I wasn't humoring you, trying to coddle you. I needed to kiss you, to hold you, because I saw what you were, and demanded to be a part of it. And you were excited by that.

It wasn't every day you impressed your teacher. He's not easy to impress. What you'd felt before, in my embrace, was my lust, my desire for you, the good minstrel.

This was different. And it was the same on your side. Before, you had sought my arms to forget, to go away.

Now it was, I think it was an invitation. We were on more equal footing that afternoon. We could endanger one another.

That made every squeeze and scratch a new and curious probing. Who are you? Who am I? How are either of us still standing? Your wetness turned to rain, falling on my thighs and knees, and dribbling over my swinging scrotum.

I call it bloodlust, feeling how close you came to ending my life. You laughed, and then you said something I wasn't prepared for. I'd be so proud of myself if I killed you, you said, but then I couldn't live without you.

I looked into your eyes.