I jump aside, turning around, raising my sword, and, sure enough, there's a man flying straight at me. I almost slash at him before I realize that he's falling, not jumping.

Only barely missing the tip of my sword, Hugo crushes to the ground and remains there, motionless. On the back of his head, blood begins to filter through his messy hay-colored hair.

I look up from him in time to see Messenio come at me.

There's a moment of utter incomprehension, my brain scrambling for explanations. Perhaps he thinks that Hugo has attacked me? Or that Hugo has kidnapped Emilio? I'm on the verge of addressing him when he swings his sword. Instincts throw my hand up, steel clashes on steel, and it becomes clear his intentions are anything but friendly.

We separate, and he charges again, determination in his eyes. My mind is still in turmoil, but my body moves on its own accord. It's well familiar with the dance, both from the real fights and the training sessions, where Messenio has too often been my partner. He knows my style. I can tell by how he repeatedly feigns swings before coming at me for real that he's putting his knowledge of my swordsmanship's weaker spots to good use.

Still, I'm able to block his swings, and a window or two present themselves when I can slice at his neck or stab him in the chest. Yet I hold my hand. My mind is still grasping at the hope that this must be a mistake. Why would Messenio, my general, my friend, my blood –

"Because of him?" I growl as our swords clash again, bringing his face close to mine. "You did this to get him?"

It makes a semblance of sense, given his interest in Emilio that manifested in his constant sleazy jokes and comments. Perhaps he's decided to act on it at last, intending to get rid of Emilio to conceal his crime. It could explain him attacking me now, for he knows the punishment for compromising the honor of my wives.

He doesn't answer, and our blades clash again. We circle each other, our feet occasionally slipping on the treacherous mossy surface.

"Talk to me!"

He only slashes at me again. I avoid him easily. He's panting, trails of sweat running down his face and neck, disappearing under the collar of his shirt. His attacks are getting clumsier as he's getting tired—but he wears me out as well. We must wrap it up, and yet I can't find it in me to stab him.

It's Emilio who finally pushes me into the right mindset. As we move about, my eyes fall on him, registering once again the bruised face and the torn clothes. Messenio did this, knowing full well that he was mine, unarmed, unable to protect himself. Rage rises in me again, lending strength to my hand.

I press Messenio toward the trees with my blows. He backs away at first, parrying them, then stops.

"Die already," he growls, swinging at me.

In a swift motion, I step into the ark of his swing, and bury my sword under his ribs.

A momentary rush of triumph quickly dissipates in the realization of what I have done. This is Messenio, my childhood friend, one of the dearest people in my life. I stand there, numb, as he collapses at my feet. His sword sticks upright in the moss and remains there, forgotten.

"Why?" I say, getting on one knee next to him. "Messenio, why?"

He doesn't answer, turning his face away, pushing it into the moss. Shivers run through his body. His breaths become shorter and farther in between. His body tenses one more time, and then it becomes limp, tilting slowly to one side.

I sit there, numb, staring, fighting the ridiculous impulse to touch him, to pat him on the shoulder, like I did so many times. Yet I shouldn't feel that way. He tried to kill me. He's betrayed me. He doesn't deserve my grief.

Small choking noises reach my ears and I look up to find Emilio curled on the ground, his shoulders shaking. I watch him numbly for a while, then wipe sweat out of my eyes and get up, using my sword for support.

The birds that went briefly quiet during our fight are beginning to chirp again. I bend down briefly over Hugo's prostrate body to check his pulse. It's beating steadily, but the gush on the back of his head looks nasty. He will need help. He's not the only one, though.

I kneel next to Emilio and try to turn him to his back, but he remains curled on his side, his muscles locked, his face hidden, his body shuddering with sobs. I reach for the ropes binding his wrists behind his back. My sword is too long for this job, so I put it away, retrieve my dagger and begin to cut. The steel is sharp, and soon the rope falls to the ground in pieces, exposing the chaffed, bloodied skin underneath. I let go of his hands and he brings them to his chest, completing the ball shape.

"Hey," I say, patting him on the back. "Calm down."

Yet he's too far gone to obey. My fingers encounter one of the many tears on his clothes, and feel the damp, shuddering flesh underneath. The way his clothes are partly torn and partly missing—was there a fight?

Was there a rape?

"What has he done to you?"

The way he tenses even further under my hand gives an approximation of an answer. I sit there, torn between the pity for his suffering and the anger at the man who has caused it. Yet the man can't be killed again, while the suffering is real and begs for relief. I don't know how to provide it, though. I'm more apt in causing suffering than relieving it.

I lean over, put my hands around him, and move him a bit so that his head and his upper body rest on my knees. He's not struggling, but his body is rigid, unbending. I can't see much of his face, and when I try to brush his hair out of the way, the strands keep sticking to his dirty wet cheeks.

I look down, unsure of how to fix this broken thing. I wish I could simply order him to pull himself together, but he's way past obeying orders.

"Hush," I say, and run my hand down his shoulder, then brush it through his hair in an awkward motion, the way I saw nurses sooth wounded soldiers.

Yet his wounds aren't just physical, and I don't know how to reach them.