A Song of Silence

Chapter 99: Belief in the Dark

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This time, my broadsword descended in what seemed to be a killing blow. Unfortunately, my father was still coherent enough that he was able to dodge out of the way and my broadsword met nothing but sand. Quickly rolling back to his feet despite his injuries, my father eyes me wearily. No longer was it a predator watching prey, but perhaps two prey watching each other, both deciding what to do next. Similarly to the animal kingdom, the hierarchy of the world assassins was this, kill or be killed. Both my father and I, not prey in the least but prey to each other, knew this. We knew this was it. This was the end. One of us would walk out of here or neither of us would. It was a delicate balance and neither of us wanted to be the one to die.

As if in sync, we charged at each other. Swords drawn, wounds finally clotted, sweat streaming down our faces. Expressions of rage mirrored each other as well. Yet, no war cry came from either of us. No cursing. No mocking. No yelling. Just the roar of the crowd. It was a silence if resignation between a father and daughter. A realization that one of us was going to die. A realization that so much could have been done to avoid this moment and yet, here we were. A silence of mourning too. It was a deafening silence despite no noise being made by their either of us.

Our swords clashed as usual. Our forearms braced behind the hands holding the broadsword to support them and provide stability and strength. On foot went backwards to lever our forces towards the opponents. Concentration and hatred colored our faces as dirt and sweat covered our bodies. We were mirrors of each other, yet neither of us saw it. A punch was thrown my my father as he tried to gain the upper hand. I blocked it with the forearm I had been using to brace my sword hand. I had no hand on one of my arms anymore, so I couldn't punch back without hurting myself.

Quickly dropping to my knees, I sliced at my fathers abdomen. He practically jumped back trying to get away. No doubt he thought I was going to chop off his balls. The thought almost makes me laugh. My amusement must show on my face because my fathers face quickly colors with rage as he charges at me once more. Despite the built in bracers in my suit, the force of the fight is starting to wear bruises into my already tender skin. My teeth hurt from clenching them and my wrist is starting to throb as a result of fading shock and the fact that I no longer have a hand. The pain is starting to bite away at my energy little by little and I know I will fall unconscious if the fight is not ended soon.

What comes next, though, I don't anticipate. Despite our constant blocking, a punch from my father goes unnoticed by me until it is too late. My fathers fist hits me squarely in the side of the head and sends me sprawling before I can register what happened. My vision goes fuzzy and my head pounds and a struggle to regain my sense of direction and try to get back on my feet. I struggle to long and my father is approaching me before I can regain my bearings. A kick to the stomach is my first clue that I am utterly fucked. I can practically feel my organs bruise as kick after kick is laid into my sore and beaten body. One of my ribs cracks first. Then another. My face takes the next few kicks too. I roll over onto my back to try to fight my rising nausea and agony. The heavy kicks are only laid harder into my spine and back.

Once it seems that I can do nothing, but wait here in agony, my father stops kicking me to roar at the crowd in triumph. It seems he has won. I can fight him no longer. My head throbs and my vision blinks in and out of clarity. I barely have the energy to breathe, let alone fight. This is it. This is when I die. I had always envisioned my death in the middle of a bloody battlefield or at the defense of the weak, not in the middle of a colosseum. Just my luck, I guess. As I lay there, each breath becoming shallower and shallower due to my broken ribs, I didn't notice the slithering sensation that appeared from my lower body and moved toward the remaining forearm of my chopped off hand. Shadows condensed and a dark, familiar scrawl appeared on my arm.

Get up, firefly. Get up.

"I can't," I whispered. "I am too weak. I cannot stop him." Again, the same dark letters appeared on my arm

Get up, firefly. You are not too weak because you are not alone. Get up and fight because nobody else will fight for the innocent but you.

I shake my head, "I can't. It hurts."

Get up, firefly. Or I will come down there and save you myself. Damn the consequences.

I shake my head, lift it up once in a pitiful attempt and then let it fall back onto the hard sand. Only one word remains this time.

Believe

Believe. Believe. Believe. Believe. Believe. The word repeats over and over in my head, a rhythm of its own. It beats alongside my waning heart. My heart that still beats. Believe. Believe. Believe. Believe. Believe. It is the rhythm that I live for now. My heart beats it's rhythm and my breath exhales with its cadence. The single word remains on my forearm as I lift my head up, strength restored to my tired limbs. Despite the bruising and other fragmented parts of me, I manage to rise. Unsteadily, my feet are below me and I look up to my father, now noticing the silence that surrounded me.

My father looked back at me, his bravado now forgotten. He stares at me in astonishment and disbelief no doubt wondering how I am managing to stand. To be perfectly honest, I have no idea. Absolutely no clue, but still I stand. The crowd had been silent for a while and I could feel their stares on me. Waiting. Watching for my next move. Would I fall? Would I yell? Would I burst into tears? Nobody knew but me and I was not inclined to give away my next move.

It seemed that I had no weapon on me, but the broadsword I had grabbed on my rise. The rope was broken and the rest of my weapons were discarded in the sand around me. I hadn't the energy to pick them up, or more likely I wouldn't rise if I did try to fetch them. Many of my father weapons lay in the sand as well. Unused or discarded because he thought he had won. My bloodied hand gripped the broadsword tightly. Seeing that this fight was not over, my father grabbed his broadsword as well.

Glancing one last time at the single word remaining on my arm, I conserve the last of my strength and charge at my father. Our broadsword meet once more. The force of the opposing blow almost makes me fall to my knees. Almost. But I manage I push back against his considerable strength and brace his sword against mine. My teeth clench in concentration as my strength wanes and my muscles protest. Still, we spar roughly and with all the strength we can muster. The crowd roars around us each time our swords clash. My mind clears and all I can think about is winning this damn competition. Win this and many will be saved. I have to win. A rough shove from my fathers sword sends me skidding back, but I do everything I can yo hold my ground. A slash is parried. Any attempt yo gain the upper hand is stopped. I only have one option now.

Hooking my ankle around my fathers leg, I throw us both to the ground. A splitting pain pierces my stomach as my dagger sinks into my fathers chest and then, his heart.