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Radiant light dances across the length of a flash of metal, careening around a fool's parry and into soft flesh with an unsatisfying squelch. Crimson viscera splatters across the dust ridden arena, the compact soil being met with a solid thud. Wet sputtering accompanies half formed words.
“P-please, I cry thee, mercy! Mercy good sire!”
Blood slick shoes push the fool's body away from the falchion lodged in his neck, the wielder spinning to face two others who hold weapons that thirst for the blood of peasantry. Transitioning to a readied stance with his small pavise shield acting as a barrier, he shouts to the two killers.
“Come at me, cuckholds!”
One of the men charges forwards, the second close behind. With a simple overhead movement, the first man's billhook comes down with unexpected force, only to be met with wood and splinter. Fear paints his face as blade meets bone, the falchion wielder using the opened gap to slam his blade into the man's side.
Shoving the screaming body to the ground, he steps toward the second killer, maintaining his adaptable defensive stance. Flicking his wrists in a forward strike, the killer stabs above his shield and at his face.
Forcing the blade up and to the side, he goes to plant his falchion in the killer's face, yet feels a hard force push him back over a body and into the arena banister. He clutches his chest, gasping for air, reeling from the kick and watching as the man surges toward him with his longsword level to his face.
In a feeble attempt to muster some form of counter, he raises his falchion with a shaking hand, throwing bright reflections across the arena. His soon to be slayer doesn’t falter from his warpath.
Then, within the time of a heartbeat, the man comes crashing downward onto the blade, his foot splayed open by the resting billhook, which had gone overlooked. Blood drips along the length of the falchion, staining the wielder's hand in a sickly red.
He had been victorious, at the cost of human life, something he had grown all too familiar with.
“William! Hurry it up, would ya?”
The sun had set on the town, the darkening sky beckoning its denizens back to whatever four walls they call home. Things were quiet now, with the stalls and crowds not set to return until next year’s tourney, a festival that brings together nobles and peasants alike to partake in the excitement of watching people gut each other.
Despite a lack of travellers to serve, the bathhouse was still open to any who had the coin, even at this late hour. It was not uncommon for people fond of the warm waters to spend most of their night basking in the heated baths, relaxing with a nice soaked towel over their neck. William was one of those people.
“Will, you fucking varlet, did you hear me?”
Will opens his heavy eyes, his back and ribs still aching.
“Aye, I heard you. What did you want?” His voice came deep and hushed, as if he had just woken from a deep slumber.
“I want, and have been wanting for the past hour, for you to meet a man who has been asking around for you! He wants to give you a proposition.”
William raises his head and turns it towards his manager, a hint of suspicion hidden behind winces of pain.
“A proposition, aye? And you think he doesn’t just want to slit my throat?”
The manager scoffs, half turning back through the door, not wanting to handle such a cynical man.
“Are you to meet him or not?”
“If he wishes to meet me, tell him where to find me.”
He storms off, leaving William to his relaxation. Exhaling loudly, he lowers himself back into the water. Who could be out calling for him? He had earned his calm, as well as his peace and quiet. Who would want to disrupt him from this, other than his fuckass manager, if it wasn’t some sort of ploy from one’s family who had died while fighting in the tourney? Though, perhaps it is just another fan? Yes, perhaps.
Three rhythmic wraps in the doorway recapture William's attention, along with a sultry voice that certainly does not belong to any of the maids.
Did that dumbass actually get the man?
“Hello there, Mr. Willie! May I speak to you outside, good Ser?”
William jumps to his feet and out of the tub, turning and facing the man who speaks to him with such a derogatory mocking of his name.
“It is William to you, cun-.”
He trails off as he realises who stands before him. A man clad in purple dress, clearly displaying a style that is demanding of renown and respect, especially when that respect is being demanded from a man whose only claim to fame is the ability to kill with precision.
The brightness of the clothing was something only heard of in gossip spread between the lower nobility, an outfit donned to spark conversation and envy.
“My God, I am so sorry, my Lord. I thought you a killer.”
The noble looks at him, studying his physique and clear readiness to fight in an instant.
The perfect man.
“No need to apologise, Ser William! All is forgiven. Now I can see you're clearly busy.” He gestures to his fully exposed body, toned flesh bulging with his half tired and combat ready tenseness. “So I shall see you tomorrow in the training field. We shall talk then!”
The noble marches off with every bit of charge as he had arrived, leaving William stunned and shocked at how fast the encounter had begun and ended.
William relaxes, suddenly realising how close he could have been to major punishment. If word got out about that noble seeing him naked, or that he was caught in such an embarrassing situation, it would be unsurprising for William to be beaten or executed.
“I’m so fucked.”
—----------
Cool air softens the harshness of the summer’s sun, creating gentle vortexes that keep the surrounding environs from getting too hot. Crisp morning air was something William always looked forward to, a stark comfort that almost matched the comfort of the bath house. Almost.
William performs movements that had become almost second nature to him. The slipping on and tightening of a gambeson, the strapping of gauntlets and light pieces of accent armour, all of which were performed with a level of natural understanding of the item’s purpose and importance.
How long has it been now, since he had begun his reign as champion of this form of legalized slaughter?
Shall I be ordained by god to kill for sport forever? Is this my sentence? My penance? To be forced to remember the faces of those doomed to the same fate, the faces killed by my own hand?
He snaps himself from these thoughts, taking his attention to his gear and reorienting his dress until its shifting remains negligible.
“Good Ser! How wonderful it is to see you here! I was almost convinced you wouldn’t show, considering last night's debacle.”
Will looked up, the noble standing before him, dressed in a dark tunic with pink and red floral accents. Seeing him now in the morning light truly betrayed the man's physical stature. He was tall, towering well over William, yet had the body of a high ranking noble; clearly well fed, yet with a level of toned muscle that hinted at years of use and sculpting. His hair was short and wavy, a dusty blonde that borders along shades of brown. His eyes were a darkish blue that melds and surrounds a penetrating hazel, a harshness within a strange mix of soft and chiselled facial features. What an oddly captivating man.
“And I was unconvinced that our meeting was even real, what with your sudden entry and exit.”
They both share a light chuckle.
“So… I never caught your name, Lord ?”
The man leans against the training arena’s banister, adjacent to William, looking at him with a small grin.
“I am called Ser Pozorovatel, but you can just call me Pozo.”
William stared in half shock, hints of suspicion seeping into his observations. Why would a complete stranger of such high standing be allowing him to use a nickname that would normally be reserved to close friends. Something about this stunk, but he couldn’t put his finger on what it was.
“Well, out with it, Pozo. Why are you so adamant with seeking me out?”
Pozo’s small grin turned into a large smirk, his eyes becoming wide with some form of twisted excitement.
“I am here to offer you a chance to defeat me in battle, come next tourney.”
William’s eyes almost matched Pozo’s in wideness. This person had sought him out for battle, of all things? Will had heard of such instances, but an offer like this delivered from a noble was bordering on treason for all parties involved.
“You wish to kill me?”
“Nay, not kill you Willie! I wish to give you a fair challenge in an arena.”
William goes to interject at the sound of his unofficial nickname, yet Pozo raises his hand and shushes him.
“A thousand gold pieces if you win, and a promise of comfort from ever fighting or killing again.”
“...And if I lose?”
“I receive your undying servitude, a servitude you can not legally deny.”
Potential for reward and consequence and all their inherent factors had flooded William’s mind, a surge of loose evaluation of each option, and the way they may lead. Was an attempt to reassert personal freedom worth the risk of falling deeper into the spiral of legal indenture?
“Are there any other conditions, my lord?”
“The only two conditions are that you must accept now, and if you accept, we must exclusively train together. I wish for us to even the playing field by next year.”
A pervasive feeling of tension had filled the space between the two.
“I accept your proposal Ser, on one further condition.”
“And that is?”
“We use the same weapon during the tourney.”
Pozorovatel’s smirk shifted into an insidious laughter.
“It’s a deal, Mr. Willie!”
“You know that's not my name, Pozo.”
Pozorovatel grabs Will’s hand, shaking it in his odd excitement.
“Ah, it’ll grow on you. Now come! Let us commit to our first of many training sessions.”
Every second day, for 11 months, the two trained in any weapon form they could access, measuring each other's speed and versatility with each style. Each new datum ingested would come with a newly acquired skill, slowing the race of seeking weaknesses to a stalemate of competency.
Pozorovatel held a reach advantage, something Will had taken into account. Reach is easily countered with patience and whiff punishment. Yet Pozo had learned to counter this with speed and cutting down movements to their bare essentials. Will would counter with even faster movements made at a distance, which in turn would be countered by closing said distance. A consistent test of martial knowledge and practical application, they both came to know each other’s style of movement and mannerisms as much as their own.
It had been a long day of training, and one that had been particularly intense, as the eve of the tourney was but a day or so away. They both moved in sync, exiting the training ring and making their way to the benches, sitting beside each other and catching their breath. William turns his head, studying Pozorovatel’s face, noticing small craters and lines that he hadn’t seen before.
Funny, he’s become such a constant, yet there are still so many small things I’ve never noticed.
Pozo had turned to face Will, half covered in sweat and still panting.
“You did good today Willie. Feeling confident?”
“Considering I gave you such a run for your money? Aye, I’m feeling confident.”
With a light chortle, Pozo moved to his belt bag that had been placed beside the bench, retrieving a waterskin and taking a large sip from its contents. Wiping his mouth with his sleeve, he raises it towards William.
“Want some?”
Will grabs the waterskin, tipping the contents into his mouth, expecting the refreshing flow of clean water, but is met with an odd slimy sensation that slowly slides down his throat. Coughing and spitting out the unknown liquid, he passes the container back to Pozorovatel.
“Agh, what the fuck is that shit?”
Pozo bursts into uproarious laughter, almost clutching his chest at Will’s reaction to the liquid.
“It’s aloe vera gel Willie. I got it somewhere in the east. Have some more! It’s good for you. Promise.”
William raises his hand in rejection, still wiping spit from his lips. While the sensation was certainly odd, he couldn’t help but enjoy the pleasant aroma of the fluid.
“Such an odd drink to choose Pozo. God, you are a weird man.”
“And you think I don’t know that already?”
They share a small laugh, quieting as a cool evening breeze brushes past the trees in the nearby copse, generating a soft summer note that seems to mimic the late spring songs that ride the easterly winds.
“...Pozo, you never did say, why was I chosen for this odd bet of yours?”
He straightens, moving to sit beside William, his tired legs shaking as he lowers himself to the bench.
“I had watched you fight before, and you had an undeniable air about you.”
William scoffs, recounting recent history in his mind to see if Pozo was present in any memory.
“You sure that just wasn’t the stink of blood? And why not just go buy a servant? Why risk being maimed in a duel?”
Pozorovatel’s voice moved from his usual sultry style of utterance into something more serious, his green-within-blue eyes looking deeply into Will’s, examining, searching.
“I like a challenge, Willie. Plus, I seek to show my worth to my father. A duel is the best way to do that.”
He moves closer to Will, placing a comforting hand on his back, gently messaging the taut and tense muscle.
“And my plans for you go far beyond just menial labour. Trust me, you will know comfort no matter the outcome of the duel.”
William’s mind bounced between confusion and anger. What was the point of this training? Why did Pozo not express this earlier? What is his motive? There was something more to this duel. Something that William was missing, just under his nose.
“Pozo, what if you’re hurt during the duel? Will it seem worth it then?”
“Aye, a wound is a wound. The experience of the challenge you have given me repays that tenfold. I do not wish to back out, and you do not have a choice.”
Anger and sadness, frustration and confusion, it flashed within William’s psyche. This man wishes to control him, yet why can’t he find the energy to direct his rage towards him.
He seeks to own me, to give me comfort for the price of my blood drawn, but offers comfort if I draw his. What game does he play? What catch am I not seeing?
In his deep thought stupor, William found himself staring at Pozorovatel, Pozo sharing his gaze. His face held its usual hardness, yet its softer features took on an inviting presence; the face of a friend, someone who is to be trusted.
Another breeze whistled through the copse, announcing the retreating sun that bathed the two men in gentle fingers of orange and purple. It was quiet, peaceful. Something shifted in the air they shared. Subtle, yet unconsciously evident.
A surge of heat slowly grew between both men's legs, their skin becoming slightly flushed as they moved their faces closer together, heat radiating and moving with convection and conduction, spreading and circulating between both their bodies.
The heat grows as stray arms search for holds indiscriminately, pulling the two into a close embrace, their lips locking as primal urge supercedes concise thought. Their tongues poke and prod amongst the new yet familiar environment, sharing spit that drips from their half closed mouths.
Moving a gentle hand to Will’s beltline, Pozorovatel pulls his mouth away slightly, panting through a sopping mouth.
“William, can I?”
He tugs at the beltline, directing William’s attention along the gaze of his lust. With a guiding hand, Will assists in undressing himself, slowly revealing the source of his heat.
His sex pulsed gently, glands half revealed by a thick foreskin punctuated by a loose crown of precum. Moving his hand in slow strokes, Pozo finds himself unable to tear his eyes from the hypnotic member, smearing the precum across its length with soft slicking sounds.
Grabbing Pozorovatel’s face, Will directs it back to his gaze, staring into his eyes with carnal desire. Pulling him close, their tongues return to their exploration, Pozo’s hand still moving at an unbroken pace.
Soft moans fill the cool air, a symphony that grows louder with the increasing speed of Pozorovatel’s strokes. Soft lines lead to hardened masses of muscle as William’s hand explores, lowering progressively until it reaches soft mounds of flesh. Groping firmly, William pulls Pozorovatel closer by lifting him by his rear, his hips disobeying any reason and bucking forward towards Pozo’s groin.
A gasp manages to escape Pozorovatel’s throat, his body mimicking William’s as he releases his grip and focuses on matching pace, rubbing his bulge against William’s cock in a clumsy rhythm.
“Pozo. I want to taste…”
Slowing his pace, he reaches into Pozorovatel’s pants and grabs ahold of his shaft. Pulling his body back slightly, he wraps his lips around Pozo’s member, the warmth sending shivers down his back.
Spit teases its way down Pozorovatel’s length, mixing with precum as it creates a layer of slick lubricant. Tightening his lips, William keeps his jaw wide as he allows his tongue to traverse vein and flesh, savouring the new flavours.
Working excitedly, William begins to move his head up and down, being sure to massage Pozo’s exposed glands with his lips. Gripping onto the bench, Pozo struggles to maintain composure, watching as William’s eyes meet his, unwavering in his goal of giving pleasure.
“F-fuck, Willie. You’re amazing”
His face slowly twists as an expectant heat slowly rises, reducing Pozo’s attempt of holding back to mere twitching as William realises what was coming.
Pozorovatel cries out in preorgasmic ecstasy, his mind going blank as William withdraws with a satisfying ‘pop’ over Pozo’s glands, gripping onto the base of his cock as a small rope of cum dribbles up and over his tip.
William chuckles, releasing his grip and grabbing the canteen of aloe vera gel.
“You didn’t think I’d let you go that easily, ay Pozo?”
He pours a small amount of the gel onto his hand, gesturing at Pozorovatel.
“Turn around if you would, my lord.”
Pozorovatel obeys, panting as the feeling of electricity pulsing signals of pleasure through his groin does nothing to subside, dribbles of cum coating parts of the bench as he readies himself to his knees. His cock dangles half confused, unsure of whether to count the ejaculation as a real orgasm.
God, what a fucking tease~.
Using one hand, William spreads the gel across Pozo’s puckered entrance, the cold liquid being noted with a soft gasp. William moves closer, rubbing the remaining gel onto his cock with a stroking motion. He lowers himself on top of Pozorovatel’s back, whispering into his ear.
“Are you ready Pozo?”
William begins moving before Pozorovatel could answer, his hips betraying him as he rubs his member across Pozo’s entrance.
Pozorovatel turns his head slightly, catching a glimpse of William’s excited and expectant face.
“Show me what you can do, Willie.”
With that, William lets out an animalistic grunt as he steadily slides his cock into Pozorovatel’s ass. Using the bench for leverage, Will sways his hips back and forth, his shaft sliding in and out with an ever increasing ease.
A wet ‘schlopping’ sound meets light pops as Pozorovatel’s entrance slowly stretches to accept the entirety of William’s girth, being molded and shaped by his cock, an imprint that will be remembered by Pozo's soft internal flesh for days to come.
Desperate grunting and moaning drift on the breeze, melding with the chirps of insects and vocalizations of small mammals as the sun cedes its position to the moon, night taking its post as overseer of this half of the earth, gazing down on the too desperate lovers, an eye placed among the heavens.
Both the men's bodies relinquish conscious movement to their passion, overriding any and all remnants of restraint. Voices become louder and movements larger, a tangled knot of pleasure growing larger as they both move towards climax.
Their voices escape in unison as William thrusts forward, spurting rope after rope of cum within the depths of Pozorovatel’s hole, crying out in orgasmic relief. Pozorovatel’s cock, still half limp, shoots a generous helping of cum onto the bench in small puddles, his prostate aching from William’s movements and the squeezing of the last remaining semen left over from Will’s teasing.
William almost collapses backwards as he pulls his softening cock from Pozo’s innards, staring at the hole winking back at him along to Pozorovatel’s gasps.
Nearly collapsing himself, Pozo rolls onto his back and looks over at Will, his cock sitting gently in the small tangle of dark pubic hair that now lays soaked in his juices.
“So, did that convince you to lose the duel?”
William stares idly, looking into Pozorovatel’s eyes as he stands to redress himself and recuperate his senses. Walking over to him, he kneels and plants a soft kiss on Pozo’s lips, both their mouths still wet from their sexual exploration.
Smiling at Pozorovatel, who’s now trying to clean himself up the best he can, William goes to walk away.
“Thanks for that my Lord. See you at the tourney.”
Sensing the tenseness in the line, Pozo reaches out a hand and goes to interject, but stops as he watches William’s back retreat into town. Had he done something wrong? It had all gone to plan, yet why had William so quickly returned to his suspicions?
Aye, see you at the tourney.
—----------
Ominous clouds hang low in a grey tinted looming, silver light teasing the ground with small pockets of reprieve from the cold. Brightly coloured cloth seems to be drained of their inherent brilliance of lustre, painting a scene that is ultimately accented with an unspoken mourning, a sensation of sadness on a day reserved for celebration.
William and Pozorovatel sit adjacent to each other, sharing a bench in an air wholly different to the air they shared only a few nights ago. Silently, they fit their gambesons and gauntlets yet forgo major armour, something they had discussed and agreed upon the morning of the tourney, in a conversation stunted by awkwardness.
A small man comes to William, a squire or some other form of assistant, accompanied by Will’s manager.
“Ser, your selection?”
He gestures to a wall of weapons, blade and polearm staring at him with a radiating air of despair.
His manager places a hand on his shoulder.
“William, pick wisely. This fight could be great for both of us. Don’t fuck it up.”
It struck like a match, another flood of internal deliberation on potential futures. Both William’s and Pozorovatel’s skills were effectively equal, so all that needed thought was how to counter reach.
But what of a longterm strategy? Is it better to just lose, risk being maimed in an attempt to live with a man who seems to hold some form of desire for him; to relinquish personal freedoms for a chance to stay with a man who holds unknown plans for him. Or is it better to strike first, live with total freedom and comfort, yet holding the knowledge of disappointing a potential lover, ruining his chances with Pozo.
A bitter taste had filled his throat.
“I’ll take the longsword, the one with the large guard.”
“Right away Ser.”
He moves to the wall, collecting two of the blades and passes one to both men. Murmurs fill the arena, the movement dying down as the burgermeister moves to his stand, taking in a deep breath and addressing the crowd.
“Today, you shall witness a great battle; a fight between two legends! William of Atkins, a warrior who has known much success within the arena, and Lord Pozorovatel of the Eastern Principalities, a fierce noble who is rumoured to have sought William out personally.”
He raises his arms in a grand gesture.
“Let us cheer for them in their battle! Move to your positions, and may you each find success. To first blood!”
Clapping and cheering fills the cold air as William and Pozorovatel take their places within the arena, standing en garde and awaiting the call to fight.
Their eyes meet with piercing intensity, neither man betraying any feeling they may hold under their mask of concentration and preparedness.
“May the bout begin!”
It begins not as a surge or cascade of movement, but careful and calculated footwork that circles within the centre of the arena, both parties holding their blades forward, pummel set in their hip in a plow position. They wait and search for openings, gaps in footwork and lapses in concentration.
Placing a foot forward, Pozorovatel flicks his blade towards William’s head, which is easily parried up and to the right. Stepping with his right foot, William moves to riposte with a downward strike, yet merely slashes air as Pozo steps back, bringing his sword back from the right and into Will’s side.
Gasping and stumbling back, William checks his gambeson.
No cuts or blood. He hit with the flat of the blade. It’s still on.
Before William could fully comprehend his current circumstances in the duel, he hears the crunch of loose soil underfoot. Pozorovatel slashes at Will, being guarded with improvised movements.
Metal clashes and rings out along with the gasps and cheers of the crowd, both the men falling into a pattern of parry, riposte, recenter, repeat, parry, riposte, recenter, repeat.
Previously impromptu movements turn into carefully executed plans, a game of chess where both must think many moves ahead. Flicking his blade diagonally, Pozorovatel misses with a fraction of a second; a wrong move. William steps out to the left and twists right, bringing his sword down with extreme force, smashing only gauntlet.
The bout was not over, not yet
Parrying Williams blade downward, Pozo attempts to cut at Williams face, yet fails to cut flesh as he steps away, creating sizable distance and a chance to breathe and reevaluate. He recenters and fixes his eyes back on Pozorovatel, watching as he rushes towards him with the blade held parallel to the ground, hilt held next to Pozo’s ear.
It was now or never.
Pozo pushes his blade forward, plunging the tip towards William’s shoulder. Will steps into the attack, parrying the blade to the left and bringing his hilt up and forward, slamming it into Pozorovatel’s face, before bringing the blade up and around, lodging it into his neck.
Bloodied gurgling forms dying words.
“Willie…you..you are…ki-killing me.. I thought..”
William withdraws the blade, watching as Pozorovatel’s body slumps onto the floor with a wet thud.
“No man shall control my freedoms, my comfort. Not even you”
Wind whispers a song through the arena banister. It began to rain.
William thought it beautiful. The heavens had already begun mourning this man.
A fitting end to this torture.
Thunder struck somewhere in the distant hills, a cannon-like rumble, announcing another soul returned to wherever it had come from.
Finally, I have captured my freedom.