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Vermillion, gold, and bronze leaves tumbled, dancing through the mischievous autumn gale. Warmth pervaded the clearing in defiance of the falling leaves, summer’s last ambition struggling to persevere, similar to a newborn fawn fighting to stand.
Two figures - one of blue, one of green - stood face-to-face, eye-to-eye, with enough space for each to reach forwards and barely brush fingertips. While the one in forest green’s light choppy hair stuck out in every direction, the one in blue’s was a long and silky black, polished and composed, save for a wild strand of cowlick; red held a thick, fancy sword forward as blue gripped a thin blade behind their back, each as tense as the other.
A rich pause reigned as the fighters sized each other up. They had bowed a moment before, blade tips pointed downward, as still as a lake’s serene surface and as reverential as a priest, but were now akin to fiery lions circling one another, judging each movement, each breath.
Only the sound of life around them broke the silence. Had either of them been less fixated on the other, they might have found it comforting or peaceful, the idea that their problems were infinitesimal in the eyes of, say, a squirrel.
For all that, anything that was not their opponent drifted away like a leaf on a river, worries and joy alike. One wrong prediction, one wrong move, would lose the duel.
For Augustine Knox, however, this was expected.
Augustine was far from feeble and helpless, - he belonged to the one and only Invulnerable Knox Strunguli, a budding seed yet a seed nonetheless - but his opponent was practically indomitable. Stories of virtue and strength overran the Kingdom, stories of the unyielding and insurmountable Guardian Mathis.
For the aforementioned Guardian Mathis, this might as well have been another day, another victory. The Guardian of Alendo Kingdom had defeated humans and monsters alike, including Augustine’s sisters, the main core of the Knox Strunguli, the children of the Untouchable General. Compared to them, his sisters and Remi Mathis, Augustine found it preposterous that he could win, or more specifically, that the Guardian could lose.
Despite his doubts, he readied his sword, a thin rapier named Felix.
The Guardian moved their weapon simply, aiming for Augustine’s throat and catching him off-guard. He had not expected such a brutal move.
He parried messily, managing to nudge the blade to the right, and stepped back, avoiding the thick blade that quickly recovered to slash at him once again.
Remi Mathis was relentless, a barrage of assaults coming from every angle and possible direction. Augustine barely had a second to think. He found it mind-boggling, how easily Mx. Mathis achieved intricate after intricate maneuver. It was as if their body was jam, contorting to their every need like a loyal servant.
Their weapon - a Zweihander - was likely excessively heavy and elaborate, but they paid it no mind as they twisted and turned. Despite the simplicity and directness of their actions, it was far beyond what Augustine had ever seen. Every move was as precise as an archer pinning a fly by its wings from a mile away.
They sliced and carved the air, mutilating the space where Augustine had been a moment before. It was only by the skin of his teeth that he managed to dodge so many blows, the wind around him marking another jab, slice, or hack at him.
Disregarding his discernable awe, he desperately searched for possible solutions, turning it over in his mind like a child with a playing hoop. They had an advantage in height, skill, speed, and most likely, raw strength, meaning he was hopelessly outclassed. Since the duel had begun, every step he’d taken had been in retreat, the Guardian pressing forward more tenaciously than an electric eel on the prowl (Augustine was quite the fan of aquatics - he had forced most of his tutors to inform him about them as a reward).
All in all, what had been indicated from the start had proven true: Remi Mathis would not lose.
He must either concede or force a draw.
At the end of the day, Augustine would rather be in bed, listening to stories of the deep sea, of all the eccentric creatures living there, and of a diverse variety of other topics. To end this farce was tempting, to rest and recuperate from this humiliation, but he found his body unwilling to comply with his demands.
Each step back should have been a step towards the end, to the safety of no longer upsetting himself by reaching for the impossible, yet he found himself hardening like clay in a kiln or sludge turning to packed sediment. Every strike Mx. Mathis hit, drawing blood against his light skin, it was like the waves on the beach, chipping away at him yet cooling his will into iron.
He redirected an overhead blow, turning into Mx. Mathis’s grip as if a dance partner about to be dipped, and, completely undignified and unfitting for a person of his station, stomped on the Guardian Princess’s foot.
He had hoped to get in a spare elbow jab, but Mx. Mathis promptly wrapped their arms around his waist and dragged him over their knee, squashing him onto the ground face first. They pulled his right arm backward, harshly pressing a knee to his back to add to the tension.
As they reached for his left hand, sword seemingly abandoned, he thrashed wildly before turning on his back while simultaneously freeing his right hand from their firm grasp, slapping the Great Guardian of the Alendo Kingdom across the face like a commoner.
......
As silence regained its reign, and Augustine’s face heated, something dangerous gleamed in Mx. Mathis’s eyes. Any second now, and Augustine was sure they would lose all formality and decorum and rip out his throat with their teeth.
Instead, they gripped one hand on the offender’s throat and another calmly wrapped its fingers around the hilt of a sword. As they brought it down with a calculating yet savage gaze, Augustine was sure he was dead.
It wasn’t until the blood hit his cheek did he realize he had caught the blade. He wrenched his eyes, closed from fear, open and gawked. Mx. Mathis bore down on him, with both their sight and their body weight, seemingly vehement and undoubtedly violent.
He swiftly let go of and avoided the blade, letting it drive into the earth. With Mx. Mathis unbalanced from this movement, if only for a moment, Augustine knocked into them, managing to free himself out from under them.
He scrambled to his feet, fishing up his rapier and pointing it at Mx. Mathis’s neck.
Too focused to be elated at his apparent victory, he glanced at their hands, where they held their Zweihander to his chest.
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The kingdom had always known who would inherit the throne.
The Grand Prince Ro, Emissary of the Stars, had been blessed with courage and valor, beloved by all long before the Queen anointed him the Crown Prince. His tales imbued the land with intrepidity and audaciousness, for all knew there was someone in their corner.
Exuberantly, the people praised him like a descended immortal, like a god - the God, like the golden stars in the sky. Every night, people would pray to the heavenly bodies above the Earth and preen, professing his triumphs as their own, for He was their own: their kin, their brethren, their King.
The kingdom had always known who would inherit the throne.
Until Grand Prince Ro died.
“It was a gruesome affair,” they insist.
“He didn’t deserve it,” they claim.
“Why-” they cry, “why him?”
The world of Alendo Kingdom fell on its head, and no one was there to right it again. Having no one to hold them up, the stars fell from the skies, mourning their Emissary and creating an angelic appearance no one bothered to behold.
Prince Jeopod thought it unfair, that such a divine scene dropped the curtain close upon his brother’s life. How enticing each broken heart flashed as it broke away from the nebulous galaxy it inhabited.
Lesser Prince Jeopod was not his brother.
When viewing such a show, such alluring lights, how could he do anything but marvel? The fireplace holding the flames of destruction and devastation belonged to both of them but only he found warmth within it.
He had once overheard an argument between his father and brother. His Majesty found it unwise to send supplies to an unaligned group of fighters that had rebelled against their enemy kingdom, but Prince Ro had contacts within and pledged it was worth it, that by doing the just action far outweighed the rational action.
He had argued that trust was meant to be earned, which Prince Jeopod agreed with. They should earn their trust and utilize that force, but it was just as well that they starve themselves and steal food from the enemy. Desperation was crucial, as a hungry man fought for as long as there was food while an honorable man fought for dignity.
Besides, if they couldn’t manage to survive on their own, would their fighting force matter? Prince Jeopod had never been war-minded, but he found it revolting how obviously some would beg for resources they couldn’t acquire for themselves and would leech off the government the second they got the chance. If they were that determined to bum a free ride, to solicit aid from the Greater Alendo Kingdom, then it was only a matter of time before they became their citizens, wasn’t it?
While Grand Prince Ro was revered by the heavens themself, Lesser Prince Jeopod had found himself the fall guy of the kingdom’s tough decisions and ill-fortune. A butterfly could perish a world away, yet the people could find a way to link the monarchy’s failures in environmental preservation (which Jeopod happened to lead).
It wasn’t unordinary for one prince to represent righteousness and for the other to take the faults of the kingdom to their guise, and as far as Prince Jeopod was concerned, the foolish fiends never had even the slightest at what was happening, akin to a tone-deaf singer berating an opera singer for talents that would make even the moon envious.
Quite simply, he didn’t care what his subjects thought of him. He found them distasteful and crude, more akin to baggage for him to carry rather than confidants. They were rancid, unkempt, and had no distinguishable integrity.
This isn’t to say he dismissed the notion of becoming king.
On the contrary, he found it entrancing, the idea of people at his beck and call, him being the one to make the decisions. There would be no more waiting on people with barely disguised contempt, no more accumulated slights and snubs from those with no right, no more begging for things he would never receive.
