~ 34 ~

Death in the Family

Sparks exploded from the clashing metals, the swords clinking against each other, held by strained arms and wielded by panting men. The brothers twirled on their feet as they slashed at each other, each attack, basic, with the trajectory telegraphed.

It wasn't a matter of making an opening. Not a call to enact a special move. Rather it was a test of endurance, the whittling away of what remained of one's endurance. Both men had a reason to fight, but neither wanted to win.

Their ears were deafened, hearing only the sounds of the battle, and nothing of the chanting and stomping of those beyond them. They fought and fought, their lungs burning from the exertion, their sweat washing away the blood on their skin.

Zinnine slashed horizontally at Gero, who tilted his blade downward, blocking and blunting the attack back. Both retreated a step, chancing a few seconds to breathe—before resuming their duel.

With neither letting up.

If he kills me too easily, the audience will murder Gero out of outrage. Zinnine thought to himself as Gero thrust his blade toward him, which Zinnine swatted aside with his sword, cutting across his brother's chest. But if he's too weak from the fight, he might not make it out of here alive.

Gero stumbled back several steps while Zinnine entered into a roar, an outpour of everything that'd welled inside of him. He charged forward, wildly slashing with brute strength, attacks easy to deflect. Gero swatted each advance but did so weaker after each strike.

What was the point of coming here? Taking men from their families to a distant land, promising a better life—only to take theirs away. What good will victory do us here? How can we ever explain what happened here today? Or what it all was for?

Zinnine knew it was time for his legs to buckle, for his arms to falter, to miss that next attack, to be too tired to defend against a fatal blow. But, try as he might, something else powered him. Something simple. Far too simple to ever be a justifiable thing.

Though nothing made sense, and it never would, Zinnine continued to fight, despite it all, to the empowering of the spite he felt within. It burned away his fatigue. Cleared his mind of doubts and questions. Cleansed his spirit of whatever feelings or thoughts, family or foes, would ever have of him.

He persisted out of spite against everything that had ever happened to him in life. In being weaker to his brother, who in goodness and greatness, earned the respect and love of all in their kingdom. Never had he been jealous in his inferiority to Gero, as his brother's earnest love quelled everything that ever haunted him.

Win this fight, Gero. Zinnine continued his assault, draining the last of his brother's strength. He put himself as a wild beast that soon would leave himself wide open for the final kill. I could never be you. You'll be a better king, and to my own children, you're already a better father. I am second to you in everything—and it makes sense that I should die the same.

Zinnine smiled upon readying for his final attack. So put this spiteful beast to rest.

The brothers stepped into the spotlight, caught at the center of the pit, surrounded by piles of bodies, watched like animals from monsters above. Zinnine swatted Gero's sword downward, who stumbled. Zinnine then raised his sword over his shoulder, slowly, exposing himself for the final strike that would end his life.

Gero pointed his blade upward, directed at Zinnine's chest, right at his heart, and, upon inching it upward... decided to release his sword. Zinnine had closed his eyes in preparation to do so for the rest of eternity. However, it was only in following through in his downward swing that he heard the clatter of fallen metal.

Zinnine slashed downward, at an angle, across Gero's throat, who shook from the attack before falling forward. Zinnine's eyes widened as he dropped everything to catch him, cradling his brother by the neck and guiding him to his lap.

He looked down at the dying man with intense confusion.

"Wha... n-no.." Zinnine blinked and breathed and several other things, attempting to comprehend the impossible. His hand sealed over Gero's cut, where blood leaked freely, still seeping beneath his palm. "N-No. Not you. It was... no."

Gero looked up at him with red blotches on the corners of his lips. There wasn't fear in him. He weakly lifted a hand, clasping it over the one on his throat. He held his brother's hand, squeezing it. Then his eyes looked away, up and to the light showering from above, the lone hole that teased to the surface.

Zinnine saw Gero smile. Still, he was shaking his head, unable to make sense from the nonsense, unsure of why in this surprise—a hint of relief washed over him. It hurt him. The goodness turned into terribleness. The horribleness of being allowed to go on, to go home, to see his daughters—

"Why?" Zinnine rocked his lap and the man, attempting to draw something from it. "Please."

Gero's eyes flicked over to him, and the man smiled even more before looking back to the light... and closing his eyes. The hand holding Zinnine's relaxed, slipping from his knuckles. The man went limp in his hold until nothing remained of him anymore.

Zinnine remained still. There was nothing. No sounds. No vision. No feeling or reason or sensation for anything. Dishonoured bodies lay around him. Enemies mocked and laughed from above. Despite being better skilled, the brother who had more reason to live was now dead.

Nothing made sense anymore.

And no amount of thinking or feeling could create meaning to anything.

There was the clattering of feet around him, and no longer did Zinnine care about life, the relief of breathing for another second—now gone dull. Reaching his hand over the corpse of Gero, he gripped the handle of the fallen sword. Then, in grabbing his own sword, he waited for the footsteps to come closer while looking at his brother.

And the smile that lingered.

It was when the footsteps were behind him that Zinnine rose without a break in flow, slashing upward across the throats of the two men, knocking the back of their heads with the hilts of his blades. Two numankos charged at him, but he twirled his blades, thrusting them downward, impaling the heads of the beats, slamming them to the ground.

Zinnine stepped forward, drawing the blades from the limp heads and staring down the approaching detaining party. One more prominent man charged at him with a series of hops, preparing to swing his club.

Zinnine dashed forward with a roar of his own, chucking a sword onwards, watching it slip halfway into the giant's abdomen, who stumbled and froze. Raising his second sword, he brought its hilt into the hilt sticking out from the giant. The downward force sent the blade upward, tearing through the middle of the giant.

The giant, in reflex, hunched forward, allowing Zinnine to pluck the club out from his hand and, with another cry, Zinnine bashed the club into the giant's skull, once, twice, and, with greater force, twisted the giant's head.

He kept going even before the giant had time to fall to the side, seeing a series of ordinary size men charging after them. One man charged with his sword pumped over his shoulder, but Zinnine swung the club into the blade with enough force to trip the man backward.

Before the man had even hit the ground, Zinnine pumped his blade into one of the man's eyes while still recovering from his first swing. He kept moving forward, pulling the sword buried into the wood of the club, breaking it off, wielding it.

The charging men slowed at the show, the weakest sent first, as they waited for more to drop. Numankos dashed between and beneath them, sprinting on their three legs toward Zinnine. However, the bloodied man whipped the sword, which cut through the legs of the first beast.

Zinnine glanced to the ground in catching the glint of daggers, dropping to pluck a trio from the chest of a body. Not having enough time to rise, he gripped the knives between his fingers, whipping one with a hand and, after the swing, twirling a blade to his other hand, so there wasn't any wasted momentum.

One struck a numanko's leg, while another buried itself into its chest, and a third struck into one's forehead. Two dropped while four more charged. One lunged, and one was swatted to the left with the club. Zinnine's abdomen tore from quickly swinging the oversized weapon, but he twisted with the club again, smacking the second in the air down to the right.

However, the third and fourth jumped onto him, stumbling Zinnine backward as they scratched away at his skin. Zinnine unleashed another cry that vibrated through the stone walls. Seeing the numanko strapped and tearing away at his chest, he smashed his face into the beast's neck and, from there, chewed on the beast, diving into the blood and flesh onto finding its special cord.

The numanko thrashed against him, whimpering in a frenzy, fighting to disengage. But Zinnine's hand clamped the back of its neck, forcing its sharp paws to continue clawing savagely at his chest. With the numanko held, he dug into the beast's neck, feeling a sizable artery throb on his tongue.

Diving deeper into the bloodbath, Zinnine took the fleshy tube in his mouth and, without remorse, chewed and tore until it was no more. The numanko's whimper quickened and became frenzied in sound until the final snap was done. Then it croaked, released from the man, laid on the ground, holding a paw over its open gash.

The second numanko was strung over Zinnine's shoulder, but he did not care, raising both his foot and the club in his hand, roaring again. Simultaneously, he stomped his foot into the side of the fallen numanko's throat while, with the bat, he swung it hard onto his shoulder, the blow breaking the clinging numanko's back as the lingering force rattled through his bone.

The beast slipped from his shoulder a second later, and Zinnine rose his foot, blood and flesh smeared across his sole. Ahead, more humans and numankos had dropped, now collected and amassed. Though he was only one man and near death's door, they all looked to each other, waiting, first, for someone to charge forward.

Bending forward, Zinnine picked up another club on the ground, and on rising, he beat the two weapons together. Though he wouldn't win. Though no strength remained in his muscles. Though only a pinprick of life kept his body standing. Zinnine chanted. Growing grunts of sounds that had always been trapped within.

When nothing matters.

One is left with either despair.

Or spite.