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There is blood in your mouth. The copper tang is a foreign taste. You can’t recall the last time someone made you taste your own blood. Maybe that fight you got into with your older brother right before you ran away. In all the decades since, you’ve never once lost a fight. Not even close.
It’s not boasting if it’s true. No battle has ever held any threat to you. You flirt with danger, dancing here and there, letting your opponents believe they have a chance. Death is a joke to you, you laugh when you hear warriors speak of their grapples with it. You mock people who avoid fighting for fear of death, they seem inferior to your eyes. You still believe death cannot touch you, and nothing in your experience has ever hinted otherwise.
Whatever approach you choose, you always win. Always.
But there is blood in your mouth now. You feel like every muscle in your body hovers a breath away from cramping up. The burns ache like nothing you've ever felt. You can’t see anything out of your left eye. And with every other deep inhale, your lungs seize up again. There’s a hole in your side.
There is a hole.
In your side.
What is this?
You’ve been fighting for hours now and you are exhausted in a way you’ve never felt before. You raise your arm to block another blow and shove back. Across from you, your opponent stumbles.
For the span of a heartbeat, you just watch each other, chests heaving with exertion. You take some small pleasure in the evidence that you are pushing him just as hard as he is pushing you, but all too soon you loop back into shock.
Perhaps you shouldn’t be so surprised. Nothing before has truly challenged you, but you are like nothing else in this world. Yet here…here is your equal. Here is another soul like yours. You, who have been alone your whole life.
You hear him draw breath to Shout once more and you roll out of the way at the last second. You have lost your sword, but you do not pause to miss it. He still has his, but it hangs at his waist and you don't recall ever seeing him draw it. This is not a battle of clashing steel. Here you battle with Word and Voice and in this, against this, you find yourself feeling inadequate. It is an odd feeling, one you have never fully experienced before.
The outcome of this battle is up in the air and you are afraid to see it land. Another new feeling. Today is full of firsts.
Lightning crackles on your tongue and you exhale fire after him. It doesn’t even singe his robe and somewhere deep inside, you feel true fury building. His mocking voice echoes in your ears and you want nothing more than to pin him to the ground and shut him up. Is this how others feel when they fight you? Like every effort they could possibly make is meaningless in the face of your mastery? Is his mockery an echo of your insults every time a companion fails to keep up with you? You make a mental note to apologize later…maybe.
You almost certainly will not.
It occurs to you that for the first time in your life, you cannot guarantee that you will be around later to not apologize. The fear spikes again.
You have spent your whole life fighting. Your soul is hardwired for it. You exalt in battle and bloodshed and the death rattle of your enemies. Great and terrible things lie at your feet. You are an unstoppable force of destruction. You have always known this. This is your destiny. But your destiny has also led you here; to face an uncertain end.
You taste Oblivion’s foul breath on your tongue. You’ve fought for your life a thousand times before, but never like this. Never have you been so evenly matched. Never before has fighting for your life actually meant fighting for your life. This is destiny, in this moment.
He needs to kill you; his whole being is filled with a desperation that you can only begin to understand. He is doomed if he loses and so he will not stop and listen. He cannot afford to. But he is doomed either way and you think you both know this.
For every step he gains, you force him back another. And for every step you gain, he forces you back again. And in this, you exalt like nothing before. Despite every ache and doubt you find newly pressing at your lungs, you could dance with the gnawing uncertainty of this battle for eternity and be content. But with every breath that passes, every pause as you regroup, you know right down to your core that you are doomed to replace him if you win.
This thought gives you pause. You are not sure where it came from, only that you are now certain of its truth, and in it you are distracted. You do not want to take his place, trapped in this dank realm with only your own fears to keep you company. For the first time in your life, you cannot win a fight. If you want to survive, you must not win.
Another Shout slams into you in your distraction and you fall to the ground. For a split second, your heart just about stops. So this is it then. This is how you go. On your knees, in this accursed corner of Oblivion, far from the open skies and the comfortably biting chill that are the only things you’ve ever loved.
You stare up at the expressionless mask above you, a snarl burning in your throat. You expect him to strike without hesitation, he’s shown none so far, but instead the world seems to freeze around the two of you.
One heartbeat, two, three.
The only sound you hear is the roaring of blood in your ears. All the world around you is silent and still. Your eyes dart around, taking in possibilities and discarding them almost as quickly. What is he waiting for? If you know anything about him – and you are rather certain you do – this baited breath is out of line. Out of place.
You know you should get up; take advantage of his distraction and surge to attack, but you find yourself unwilling to move. Not unable, never unable. Fighting is ingrained in the patchwork fabric of your soul. You couldn’t give up even if you wanted to. But for once you are finding yourself content to wait. You can wait for him to decide; to make the first move.
The seconds tick out in agony as he stands motionless above you, staring down. At some point, you begin to even breathe in sync. In and out; lined up perfectly.
Something restless begins to stir in your core the longer he stands unmoving. Your newly discovered well of patience doesn’t run very deep and before long you find you are no longer willing to wait. The burning snarl builds in your throat and escapes your lips before you even consider it; you flip back onto your feet. There is lightning in your palm, you didn’t even divert your attention to it. He shifts his stance to match yours, but still does not move to attack again. Your one good eye narrows. What is he waiting for? And for that matter, what the hell are you waiting for? What is it about him that tilts your world so far off its axis? How dare he settle so deep into your bones? How dare he!
Mentally incoherently with rage, the lightning in your hand coalesces into a blade and with another muted snarl, you swipe at him. But even this is half-hearted at best and you find yourself becoming angrier still. He counters your blows, dancing out of reach. You drive forward at him, furious beyond belief and out of nowhere. He’s taken several steps back before he seems to realize himself and abruptly stops giving ground.
A feral grin tugs at your lips, wide and sharp. All you need is to distract him.
Swept up in the adrenaline of finally, finally forcing him off his game, you forget both that you had fallen off yours first and the realization that had knocked you off it at all.
But something has shifted in the air. Something is pressing down harder and he slips up again, takes another step back. You see an opening and you pounce on it, abandoning spells and Shouts for your fists. He’s infuriatingly taller than you and absurdly quick, but if you can just time it right… His mask goes flying off to the side somewhere and you crow with delight.
The facade of unaffected calm is shattered with its absence, a matching snarl crossing his lips and when your eyes meet, you see the same desperate, frightened fury reflected there. You almost stop when you see it, but no one ever accused you of stopping to think about others, so you carry on as intended and slam into him. Hard.
Whatever he had been expecting you to do after relieving him of his mask, it was not that, and he goes down with only a grunt.
You’ve got him pinned to the floor and are about to slit his throat before he can flip you over when you remember. You stare down at him, breathing heavily. You don’t want to give up this victory. You’ve won, you’ve got him beaten. But he had you beaten to rights first and hesitated. More the fool him, you think, trying to convince yourself you don’t care if you take his place. You won’t be stupid enough to make his same mistakes. You could beat the game if you played it in his place. You could.
But for the first time in your life, you cannot convince yourself of your own superiority. Uncomfortable first after uncomfortable first he forces on you. You want to kill him more than you have ever wanted anything in your life. But no; you cannot convince yourself of that either.
He snarls up at you, seemingly unaware of your internal debate. He’s probably kicking himself for not killing you when he had the chance. The possibility amuses you more than perhaps it should and you start to snicker.
Just as quickly as the fury had taken you, it fades away, leaving only a fierce desire to spite the fuck out of the puppet master of this little pissing match. You linger on top of him a second longer, enjoying the way he’s just ever so slightly trembling beneath you (from exactly what you do not know and you’re not sure what thought pleases you the most). And then…then you stand and offer him your hand.