Sun Shrine
"And bring our father's swords."
The letter had been over 10 pages long, written in a small precise elegant hand, one that Heut is mein Tag knew well. There were three words on his body from that hand, all but one in Mo'i'ro. The one in Common said "honorable." None of them were visible though, instead he wore a very traditional suit, his clothes packed up and on the Jathe's Own already, along with all his things, his pay from Ella, all his gifts, everything but the big iron bed. His rooms had been emptied last night. Either way, he'd never be going back there. His hair was tied back in a very short bob, the ball of hair resting against the back of his neck, a few errant curls framing his face, falling against his chin, as he looked down at the cracks between the cobblestones. Dressed head to toe in black, the clothes of Court Night, embroidered and lacy and silk, cut to him and glittering in the meager light, where the thread picking out the design of a sword down his back and around his cuffs differed from the matte black of the suit. His collar was tied at his throat, a spill of lace falling down over a black vest, a pair of black thigh high boots shining over black pants. He was dressed as the darkness to Harrick's light, as he always had been.
Two swords hung at his right hip, two grinning white faces smiling out at the air, the blade of the one above slightly longer than the one below, diamonds absent from them today. His hand rested on the guard of the bottom one, to show that his fight was already decided today,
Heut looked up at the heavy foot steps that came from the other end of the street he waited on, his blue eyes almost silver with the tears that were rolling down his cheeks. He was darkness, and Harrick was light, his suit matching down to the swords on his cuffs, white though, resplendent in the patterns of the rain. Just how large a man he was came to the forefront in this outfit, his broad shoulders tapering in to a thick trunk of a chest and a trim waist, straight down to thighs bigger around than Tag's slim hips. He was a mountain of a man, a giant, with hands that could palm his brother's chest if he put them both together. Harrick was not fat - he was simply huge.
His sword did not hang at his hip. Instead, a long strap ran around him from his left shoulder to his right hip, secured at his waist and chest with matching belts, holding a sword as tall as he was and the span of his palm to his back. He brought his hands over his head, and slid it up, then pulled it forward, the blade brushing over his shoulder as he brought it free of its straps. He rested the point against the ground, silent as a whisper, and put his hands on the pommel, looking past them to his brother. Heut set his hands on both the pommels of his sword leaning forward slightly, one foot behind him, closing his eyes.
"I challenge you, Heut ist mein Tag. You have killed more men, women, and children than I can count. You have killed your father, when you had no right. You have killed my father and refuse his lands, refuse his name, and refuse the honor of claiming his death. You carry swords that you did not bleed for. You pledge your love too freely. All of these things I could forgive, your murdering, your dishonor against my family, your bleeding poet's heart."
Heut closed his mouth, no longer breathing. He knew that it would hurt. He'd read the words, new the truth behind it, had the letter from Harrick sealed away in the JO. But hearing it...that would be different.
"But you are not the man I made my brother. You are a coward, you have refused me the comfort of a clean death, denied me peace, for your own selfish want of keeping me with you, always. For that, I challenge you. Kill me and become him again, the man who is a shard of my soul. Kill me and prove all that I say wrong. Fail and die friendless, with no family, without even the comfort of knowing that I will bury you I will leave your corpse for the flies to clean."
Tag let out his breath. He heard the sword scrape up, knew that it was pointed at him. He could hear the crowd that was gathering around murmuring, no idea what they were saying. Only one person that he knew of for sure could listen to them, know what they said.
"I am witness," her voice rang out, and Tag let out a sob. Bidgete was standing somewhere off to his left. He dared not open his eyes to make certain her position. "I witness the change in you, Heut, and I witness this challenge. Do I witness the rebuttal?"
Arranged duels were different from spur of the moment ones. There was accusation on both sides, careful consideration. Heut had thought long and hard on this. "You do."
"Then speak it," she said, and then he did open his eyes, fingers tightening on the twin pommels. "You seek the comfort of my blades because you know you will lose. I have sat with you, held you nights when you could not even keep your head from your chest. I have slept by you, and played by you, and fought by you. I have grown with you, and killed who you wished me too. I have lived my life by the tenets you taught me. You are my brother, and I wish that I did not have to kill you to prove it. I love you, brother. I will bury you."
"Harrick du son Jaines does challenge Heut ist mein Tag. Challenge over brotherhood. It is to the death. There is no call for objections. May the Fates give this battle their sight, and wipe the weave of these men clean."
"Fates be with you," Heut said, closing his eyes again.
"Fates be wit' ye," Harrick answered.
And Heut drew his swords.
The letter had been over 10 pages long, written in a small precise elegant hand, one that Heut is mein Tag knew well. There were three words on his body from that hand, all but one in Mo'i'ro. The one in Common said "honorable." None of them were visible though, instead he wore a very traditional suit, his clothes packed up and on the Jathe's Own already, along with all his things, his pay from Ella, all his gifts, everything but the big iron bed. His rooms had been emptied last night. Either way, he'd never be going back there. His hair was tied back in a very short bob, the ball of hair resting against the back of his neck, a few errant curls framing his face, falling against his chin, as he looked down at the cracks between the cobblestones. Dressed head to toe in black, the clothes of Court Night, embroidered and lacy and silk, cut to him and glittering in the meager light, where the thread picking out the design of a sword down his back and around his cuffs differed from the matte black of the suit. His collar was tied at his throat, a spill of lace falling down over a black vest, a pair of black thigh high boots shining over black pants. He was dressed as the darkness to Harrick's light, as he always had been.
Two swords hung at his right hip, two grinning white faces smiling out at the air, the blade of the one above slightly longer than the one below, diamonds absent from them today. His hand rested on the guard of the bottom one, to show that his fight was already decided today,
Heut looked up at the heavy foot steps that came from the other end of the street he waited on, his blue eyes almost silver with the tears that were rolling down his cheeks. He was darkness, and Harrick was light, his suit matching down to the swords on his cuffs, white though, resplendent in the patterns of the rain. Just how large a man he was came to the forefront in this outfit, his broad shoulders tapering in to a thick trunk of a chest and a trim waist, straight down to thighs bigger around than Tag's slim hips. He was a mountain of a man, a giant, with hands that could palm his brother's chest if he put them both together. Harrick was not fat - he was simply huge.
His sword did not hang at his hip. Instead, a long strap ran around him from his left shoulder to his right hip, secured at his waist and chest with matching belts, holding a sword as tall as he was and the span of his palm to his back. He brought his hands over his head, and slid it up, then pulled it forward, the blade brushing over his shoulder as he brought it free of its straps. He rested the point against the ground, silent as a whisper, and put his hands on the pommel, looking past them to his brother. Heut set his hands on both the pommels of his sword leaning forward slightly, one foot behind him, closing his eyes.
"I challenge you, Heut ist mein Tag. You have killed more men, women, and children than I can count. You have killed your father, when you had no right. You have killed my father and refuse his lands, refuse his name, and refuse the honor of claiming his death. You carry swords that you did not bleed for. You pledge your love too freely. All of these things I could forgive, your murdering, your dishonor against my family, your bleeding poet's heart."
Heut closed his mouth, no longer breathing. He knew that it would hurt. He'd read the words, new the truth behind it, had the letter from Harrick sealed away in the JO. But hearing it...that would be different.
"But you are not the man I made my brother. You are a coward, you have refused me the comfort of a clean death, denied me peace, for your own selfish want of keeping me with you, always. For that, I challenge you. Kill me and become him again, the man who is a shard of my soul. Kill me and prove all that I say wrong. Fail and die friendless, with no family, without even the comfort of knowing that I will bury you I will leave your corpse for the flies to clean."
Tag let out his breath. He heard the sword scrape up, knew that it was pointed at him. He could hear the crowd that was gathering around murmuring, no idea what they were saying. Only one person that he knew of for sure could listen to them, know what they said.
"I am witness," her voice rang out, and Tag let out a sob. Bidgete was standing somewhere off to his left. He dared not open his eyes to make certain her position. "I witness the change in you, Heut, and I witness this challenge. Do I witness the rebuttal?"
Arranged duels were different from spur of the moment ones. There was accusation on both sides, careful consideration. Heut had thought long and hard on this. "You do."
"Then speak it," she said, and then he did open his eyes, fingers tightening on the twin pommels. "You seek the comfort of my blades because you know you will lose. I have sat with you, held you nights when you could not even keep your head from your chest. I have slept by you, and played by you, and fought by you. I have grown with you, and killed who you wished me too. I have lived my life by the tenets you taught me. You are my brother, and I wish that I did not have to kill you to prove it. I love you, brother. I will bury you."
"Harrick du son Jaines does challenge Heut ist mein Tag. Challenge over brotherhood. It is to the death. There is no call for objections. May the Fates give this battle their sight, and wipe the weave of these men clean."
"Fates be with you," Heut said, closing his eyes again.
"Fates be wit' ye," Harrick answered.
And Heut drew his swords.