Blackblade 0.02 - Born of Shame and Hate

It looked as though the match was about to end. Though it was just a training match, the pair fought with real weapons, true magic; no one but the greenest of recruits, children, fought with fake blades. Both combatants were bloodied, with the telltale signs of burns that often came from caster battles. The captain looked on, judging both; the other soldiers in the unit, corporals and sergeants all, watched in silence, though the looks in their eyes revealed their intent on the contest. Money was riding on it after all, though every man would die before letting their superior officers find out; quiet bets were placed on most evaluation matches, but those involving the two human men were particularly hot topics in the betting circle. When they first arrived, everyone assumed they would fail and either go crying back to their fathers and fancy castles within the first month, or they would just outright die from exhaustion or lack of skill. No one expected them to not only last, but thrive in the army. Now, years later, they were still something of an oddity: excellent soldiers born of weak stock. Whenever they were scheduled to fight, the bets ran rampant: their odds were usually good, but there were always those who could not imagine them winning yet another bout, or advancing another rank. Some wanted nothing more than to see the two humans fight each other, but to their dismay, the pale, silent one was part of a different unit than the other (some were quite pleased with this: the swordsman was fun, not bad for a human, while the pale one was withdrawn and a bit creepy, and no one was upset that he belonged with the studious caster unit).
Osamu stood breathing heavily. He held his borrowed shortsword firmly; he was never permitted to use Yashin, the advantage being too great, so though he hung at his side as always, he was fixed into his sheath. His opponent, a wizard, was equally tired, but was not yet beaten. He whispered something in the arcane tongue; immediately, Osamu could feel the temperature of his sword shoot up. Dropping the sword before it could burn him, he countered immediately, leaping forward and closing the gap between them. He ducked behind his opponent swiftly, then grabbed him from behind, choking him and preventing him from casting any further. He focused intently on his grip: if he could just hold him long enough, he would choke, pass out, and the match would be his. What he didn’t notice was the dagger that the wizard had hidden up his sleeve. With several sharp jabs, the dagger dug into Osamu’s stomach, causing blood to spill everywhere. Osamu gave a choked cry, but did not release his target. He had fixed on his goal, and if there was one thing that he could be counted on, it would be seeing his desires through. The wizard began to flail, his air running out. With one last desperate swing, he lashed the dagger over his shoulder, attempting to strike his opponent’s face. The blade missed Osamu’s eyes by an inch but dug into his cheekbone, leaving a deep jagged cut along his nose and face. It was only the poor angle and the wizard’s dwindling strength that prevented the dagger from piercing straight through his upper jaw. Gritting himself against the pain and the blood loss, Osamu tightened his grip, twisting his opponent’s neck about. He struggled for a few more seconds, then fell limp. As soon as the struggling stopped, Osamu dropped him: the penalty for killing a training partner was steep. He could feel his own mind getting hazy from his lack of blood. He could hear Yashin’s voice in his head, clear through his increasingly vague senses. You wanted him dead; you should have twisted just a bit more. Not that it matters to me: I’m just sitting here. His tone was dry and bitter; he did not appreciate being left out of battle. The last thing Osamu heard before passing out was, You’d better not die, in a voice that was almost bored.
-----------
Mako walked into the infirmary. He knew he wasn’t authorized to be there, but authorization was never one of his priorities. While he did consider the army’s rules worth respecting, unlike any in Yeto, he’d make an exception in this case. There were injured soldiers on several of the beds, but the room was nowhere near capacity. The army felt it was integral to keep up the facilities and skills to treat the whole of the army, despite the times of peace; the concept of peace was actually somewhat foreign: there was only preparing for battle and being in battle, nothing else. Further, they believed that any and all non-life threatening injuries sustained by the practicing soldiers should be allowed to heal naturally, without magic. It ensured that their doctors had constant practice in treating battle wounds, that soldiers knew the gravity of battle, and that, should war break out, everyone would know what to expect when their healing casters were stretched thin. Mako stopped beside a bed, where his friend lay unconscious, quite apart from the hobgoblin patients.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” a voice said behind him. It wasn’t a question; being one of the only two humans, there was no particular mystery regarding his rank or assignment.
“I’m not messing with anything,” Mako said in his defense, holding up his hands wide. The medic walked around in front of Mako. He was a middle-aged hobgoblin, with the stern, stout features of his race, tinged with the first hints of the greying of age. With a begrudging look, the medic saluted, revealing himself to be a fifth-tier cleric; he was likely in charge of the infirmary. Mako saluted back, and already could tell that this guy didn’t like him on principle. Wasn’t the first, wouldn’t be the last, and Mako had a hard time caring. Usually.
“I don’t know what you do in your fancy castles in the south, but here people have a place. And yours isn’t here.” The medic’s jab was not lost on Mako, but like many things, he opted not to bother. “How is he?” he gestured towards Osamu’s resting form.
“Are you deficient in hearing?”
“Not as much as you, apparently,” Mako muttered. He was becoming aggravated. “I just want to know how he is.”
“He is fine,” the doctor stressed the words pointedly.
“He doesn’t look fine,” Mako stressed back.
“Oh, you fancy yourself a doctor now too? Not enough that you need to play soldier?”
“The faster you answer, the faster I leave.”
“I could have you marshalled.”
“Then do it,” Mako called his threat. “I’m sure you’ll love having home security stomp up and down your building. Disturb every patient. Check all your records. Move every object. Sounds really convenient, really.” The army was, if nothing else, thorough. If there was a problem, it would be investigated, along with everything else in its path.
The medic glared. “He sustained some minor burns, contusions and strains, along with four severe stab wounds to the abdomen and one major laceration to the face.”
“I was afraid of that…” Mako muttered, looking at the bandaging on Osamu’s face.
The doctor carried on without stopping, “The abdominal wounding required magical attention to prevent death from massive blood loss. All other injuries were non-threatening, have been cleaned and sutured, and he should be back to fighting capacity in three days. Now get out.”
“The face wound, did you fix that magically?”
“Did I say it was life-threatening? No.”
“If you already had to break out the magic to fix the gut wounds, why wouldn’t you just fix it all?”
“If you are unaware of procedures here, I’m not going to explain them to you, and if you don’t like the procedures here, then you should go back to your country where you belong.”
Mako made an aggravated growling noise, “Rrrg, just…” he caught himself and took a breath. “Can you make an exception?” he tried to keep himself level, “His father...his father is particular, and if he gets a scar on his face, he’s…” he trailed off. This wasn’t a particularly good conversational topic, especially with the company at hand.
“This isn’t my problem, human. Take him back to your land if vanity is that important to you.”
“You know for a fact that if that even was an option, it would be almost entirely healed by the time we got back and it would be too late.” Mako was having an increasingly hard time keeping his voice reasonable. “Look, I know you don’t give a damn, but healing him would take 6 seconds and save him a lot of problems, ok? It wouldn’t even take a big spell, its no problem to you.”
“I owe you no favours, human,” the medic spat.
Mako ran a hand over his face. “Fine. What can I pay you then?”
“What?”
“What can I give you or do for you or whatever, so that you will heal the cut on his face before it scars?”
“The army does not…”
“You seem pretty adamant that I’m not part of the army,” Mako cut him off, “so I can’t see how it’s rules really apply here.”
The doctor puffed himself up and looked like he was about to give an angry retort, but stopped himself. He paused and looked thoughtful for a moment before saying, “I would tell you to take your filthy human partner and leave our land, but honestly, I think I’d rather you were humiliated first.” His eyes narrowed, “I will arrange an official duel between you and I. And you will lose.”
Mako narrowed his eyes in return. Duels weren’t uncommon; they were used as both conflict resolution and friendly contest, and since everyone received military training and could appreciate a good fight, duels were a favoured sport. “...What are the duel’s terms?”
“I will declare them to the arena. You will arrive and purposely lose to me, in front of an audience.”
“Shaming me is that big of a deal?”
“Your very presence shames this whole nation!” the doctor spit.
Mako looked unfazed. He looked at the doctor flatly. “If I agree, you’ll heal Osamu’s face?”
“I can do that, yes.”
Mako blinked slowly a few times, considering the doctor. Finally, he held out his hand, “Fine. Deal.”
The cleric looked at it disdainfully, “I have to treat patients. I’d rather not contaminate my hands.” Without breaking eye contact, Mako dropped his hand back down. “Be at the arena tomorrow at noon. I’ll have made the arrangements by then.”
“Fix his face.”
“I will do nothing while being scrutinized.”
“...Fine.” Mako gave one more look at Osamu, a somewhat vague pity in his eyes, then left with no further argument.
The cleric turned and looked at the sleeping Yetoman. His eyes were tinted with hate. “It’s never enough that your kind force us to live in poverty and frost. You always demand more, more, more.” He pulled back the bandages on his face, not particularly gently. He examined the wound quickly, then mumbled a very short prayer. His hand gave off a slight glow, and he swiftly traced his finger ever-so-lightly across the sutured gash. The magic of the minor spell was barely transferred, enough to have sped the healing process, but not so much that the damage was properly healed. It would scar assuredly now; possibly not as harshly as it might have if it was left entirely, but now, by the time he woke up, it would have healed too far to be fixed. “I hope you suffer. That your people shun you and make you suffer a degree of what they have made us suffer, and that every time you look at your face you regret that you came here to humiliate us further.” Putting the bandages back, the cleric gave a final look of disgust, then walked away.
---------------
Mako walked into the arena with no particular care or fanfare. When he went to the organizer, he was given an odd look. “You...agree to the terms that have been laid out by your opponent?” the hobgoblin asked warily. It was no surprise that he already knew who Mako was and what he was doing there; it’s not like there were any other humans who could be showing up to fight.
“Yeah, sure, why not?” he replied flippantly. He couldn’t change them, so what did it matter?
“You’re certain?”
“Yes…” Mako drew out the final sound.
The organizer put up his hands, “Alright, sign here,” as he passed a document. Without bothering to read it, he jotted down his name and rank. “Go over there, you’ll be called when it’s your time.” 
“Sure,” Mako gestured his hand in farewell, and went to where he was assigned to wait.
-----------
As Mako entered the arena, a guard stopped him at the exit. Without explanation, he gestured at the sword Mako had at his hip. “Surrender your weapon,” he said plainly.
With a look of confusion, he unhooked it from his belt and passed it over. “Do I get another one in there?” His previous look was mirrored back at him; the guard gestured for Mako to enter without further words. Shrugging, Mako walked in. The arena was hard, packed dirt, flat and featureless: a wrestling ring at its barest. Elevated stands were set up all around, and a reasonable crowd of people had gathered to watch. Mako wondered idly what his odds were. Standing in the arena was the cleric, wearing thick hide armour, hands empty. A referee was positioned beside him, waiting, a somewhat concerned look on his face. Mako approached; the two opponents saluted per custom. The referee took a few steps back and held up his hand: “Aemilius versus Mako Murakami. The terms are as follows: All combat styles are legal. No weapons allowed. Armour is legal. No shields allowed. Cast magic is legal in all forms. No pre-cast magic or magical equipment allowed.”
Well, he stacked the odds, didn’t he? Mako thought as the stipulations were read out.
“The fight ends,” his voice caught, but he recovered quickly, “ends with the confirmed death of one opponent.” Mako’s eyes widened involuntarily. “Fight!” the referee shouted as he jumped back.
“How did you get this arranged?!” Mako asked of his opponent, who was not wasting any time. A beam of painfully bright light shot forth from his outstretched hand, which barely missed Mako as he twisted quickly out of its way.
“I’m not the only one who despises your presence here,” he replied.
“So you want me to just let you kill me?” Mako hissed, unable to be heard by the spectators.
“If you have any honour, then you will keep up your part of the deal,” the clerics voice was equally low.
“That’s such a…”
“You back out now, you can be sure that your partner won’t leave my infirmary alive.” Mako’s eyes narrowed dangerously at the threat. “Not like you have much of an option in the matter.” He shot another beam of light; this one Mako did not dodge so easily, and it left a searing burn along his side. There was a cheer from the crowd, but it had a wary quality. Deathmatches weren’t common, and the prospect of a death was a bit unsettling.
Mako kept his glare level. “And when I lose?”
Aemilius snorted, “I’d rather not risk my position over this. But I will be damned if I had an opportunity to get the Yetomen scum out of my homeland and I let it pass by. If you run like a coward, then I will have to remove the other one, and be comforted that, in addition to your shame, will have his death on you as well.” Mako set his jaw. A third blast of the spell hit him in the chest, and he fell to his knees. “Now die like the dog you are,” he added. The next light blast seared into him, and Mako pitched forward into the dust.
“Confirm!” the referee commanded.
Aemilius walked forward confidently. As he bent forward, he muttered, “And that’s one. Hopefully the damaged one will leave in his vain shame when he wakes up.”
“Unlike you.” Mako’s eyes flicked open. With uncanny speed, he whipped his legs around violently, tripping his opponent. Taken by surprise, Aemilius pitched forward, barely missing Mako, who rolled to one side and lunged back to land on top of the cleric. With an act of savagery, he grabbed at Aemilius’ head and, with a brutal yank, tore off his ear. He screamed out and, flailing, knocked Mako off of him and away. The Yetoman rolled with it, pulling himself into a crouched and readied position. The cleric, clutching his head, staggered to his feet as Mako lithely drew himself up as well. Mako’s expression was almost hungered; the cleric looked back with hatred and disbelief.
“You...how dare…” his hand glowed as he pressed it to his bloody wound, trying to heal the damage. Mako took the opportunity and jumped forward.
“Dare!? My life’s nothing but dares!” He was grinning now, and his voice had a manic quality. Again, he swept his foot out, catching his opponent behind the knees and knocking him to the ground. “Now, see, you dared to try and kill me. That’s pretty ballsy.” Aemilius tried to push himself away, and Mako brutally brought his foot down on the hand he supported himself with, grinding his heel into the cleric’s now-broken fingers. “But then, ohh, then you dare to threaten my friend in front of me? Now, how dare you do that? Because that was a dare, and your last mistake.” The cleric pulled himself away, scrambling backwards. With a yell, he fired another blast of light. This time, Mako dodged it easily. “I guess your first dare was lying. And you are a really shitty liar, you know that? But I figured, hey, I’d let you knock me around a bit, let you get it out of your system, and then maybe you’d help him out, being in a better mood. But no, no, you pull this shit. Which was a big mistake.” With sudden speed, he cartwheeled forward, landing smoothly in front of the cleric who received another kick, this time to the side of his head. “You know why it's your last mistake now, right?” Aemilius staggered back, his arms held up in defense as Mako kept advancing, kept talking. He started to cast another spell, but Mako’s hands shot out in a whirl, just distracting enough for the caster to miss a syllable in his chant, foiling the magic. “Because now? You’re not leaving. I get to pick you apart like a roast duck.” He sidled into the clerics space; his elbow slammed into the back of his neck, sending him staggering forward. “Cathartic, really. No one’s going to stop me! No one’s going to save you! You’re going to die as I get to literally rip you to pieces!” He jumped to the hobgoblin’s back, wrapping his arms around his neck and shoulders. “And is that enough?” Aemilius did not answer as he struggled against the hold, but Mako was like a clinging weed, every inch of him shaken off merely shifting elsewhere, impossible to escape. “Is this going to be punishment enough for letting him suffer? No, no, no. Do you need this?” he asked the last question in mock sarcasm. He grasped Aemilius’ right arm and side, and ducking low, he pulled viciously. With a sickening pop, the arm dislocated; Aemilius’ yelled again, but Mako kept talking like nothing particular was happening. “No, not good enough at all. But there’s only one of you to kill, so I’ll have to make it count.”
“I forfeit!” the cleric yelled out, imploring to the referee. The other hobgoblin’s eyes dropped awkwardly, unable to make contact.
Mako glanced between the two and started to laugh. “You made forfeiting illegal!? You dumb fuck! Well! Let me tell you, it’s as hilarious as you hoped!” He leapt forward and kicked Aemilius’ ankle out; he tripped and fell, but Mako continued targeting the joint, until it was certainly broken. He tried to stand, but stumbled back to the ground. He tried pulling himself slowly away, but Mako circled him like a wild dog, lunging periodically to crush a stray appendage, kick an exposed weak spot. This carried on with the audience watching; some yelled encouragement, most sat in awkward silence. Mako ignored them, his eyes filled with malevolent glee as he assaulted the downed opponent again and again.
“...M...mer...cy,” Aemilius gasped out between spurts of blood, his teeth broken.
“What’s that?” Mako said mockingly. He kicked him again, “Speak up!”
“Ha...have...mer...cy…”
The first sounds that came out of Mako’s throat were sharp, broken laughs, slowly escalating in speed and pitch and volume until he was gripped in paroxysms of manic laughter. “Mercy?! You...you want...mercy?!” he couldn’t stop laughing. His voice carried over the arena. “Mercy,” he kicked him again for emphasis. “Is for hobgoblins. Mercy,” another blow, “is for humans. I,” the bones of the cleric were shattering under the assault, “am a mistake! I am nothing but peoples’ regret, and hate, and shame, and you thought you could dishonour me? You don't know how to start!” His assault increased in violence and speed as his voice pitched higher and faster. “And now you want mercy? You expect me to know what that is?! You're...just...another...fucking...obstacle! And I’ll cut you down like all the rest! Like everything!!” He stopped suddenly and crouched down. He lifted up the cleric’s limp head and whispered, “I've only ever seen one mercy. And you decided that you’d hurt him. So enjoy the mercy you’ve just been given, because when I catch up to you in Hell, you won’t get another.” Mako dropped him roughly; his opponent had died a few hits ago, before he had bent down. He stood up, and with a final sickening crunch, he drove his heel through the soft temple of the corpse’s head. With a frightening calm, he turned and walked towards the exit. His voice was cold as he said, “Confirmed.”
------------------
“Uuuuuugh.”
“Oh hey! You finally decided to wake up! Lazy ass.”
Osamu blinked a few times, his eyes still unfocused. “Your’s was not the first voice I wanted to hear waking up.”
“Aww, here I am visiting you, and this is the thanks I get?” Mako was still smiling anyways. Osamu pulled himself upright slowly, wincing. “Do you remember what the fuck you did to get here?”
“I...vaguely recall forgetting that wizards can hold knives.”
Mako snorted, “That’s a pretty stupid thing to forget, dumbass.”
“Yeah,” Osamu managed a half-grin. He winced again, and brought his hand up to face. There was a glance of momentary confusion as he felt the bandage there, then his face fell as he recalled the events that transpired before he passed out.
Mako was quiet for a moment. “...It’s probably not as bad as you think,” he offered.
Osamu was silent at first. “Maybe they’ll heal it…” he said very quietly. 
Mako’s expression was odd as he said, “You know they won’t. You’ve been out for a while too; ‘s probably healed too much anyway.”
“...Yeah..."
Mako fiddled with his arm for a moment, then blurted quickly under his breath, “ ‘M sorry.” Osamu glanced over at him; he stood up and added quickly, “I’d best probably be going. Shouldn’t be here and all. Glad you’re awake.” He made to leave the room.
“What happened to you?” Osamu asked before Mako could reach the exit. He paused and looked down. Several large, black burns marked his torso, and his legs and feet in particular were soaked in clotted blood.
“Nothing.” He didn’t look back, but he could feel Osamu’s gaze. “Nothing important.” He walked out, and left his friend to rest.
Category:Banishment of the Blackblades