Penance
09-25-12, 01:36 AM
Why do we fight?
It was a question he often asked himself when staring into the eyes of his enemy.
His reasons were simple: for glory, honor, and most importantly immortality. It was his birthright. He was bred for battle, trained to kill, and he excelled at both. It was the only thing he knew.
But what was theirs? What was worth their lives? Were they the same reasons as his? Or were they fighting for wealth, or out of some self-righteous notion of right and wrong? Were they fighting for those they loved?
He didn't know. Some men might be haunted by such an answer, but Barathios hadn't so much as batted an eyelash. It wasn't that he lacked a conscience: it was that death was a normal part of life and he had seen more than his share of it. Even at a young age he had witnessed things in the cold north that would make grown men empty the contents of their stomach onto the floor at the thought of. The first time he saw a man die he found it so exciting, so captivating, he was unable to look away. It was human nature to enjoy the suffering of others as long as one wasn't suffering themselves. He lacked the compassion to relate to their suffering because he had never been hurt before, the idea was so alien to him it was comical.
____
The stage was simple: a circular dirt pit ringed with sharpened wooden spikes. There was only one brief juncture in the spikes and two heavily armored knights stood vigil there, hands at the ready by their sword belts.
The Highland Lord leered around him at the gallery of foreign faces that watched him through the gaps of wood, a kaleidoscope of varying eye colors meeting his gaze, and then he looked up coldly at those who could afford seats on the second-floor balconies jutting from wooden buildings, and atop wooden bleachers hastily erected in anticipation of the coming battle. None would cheer for him, they weren't his people, but by the end they would shout his name: "Barathios! Barathios!" He would give them a show they would never forget.
Barathios swaggered around the farside of the ring opposite the entrance. "Are none of you brave enough to fight me?!" he challenged with a roar. His towering figure was made even more imposing by the bulk his armor bestowed him. He stood just short of seven feet, with an incredible physique, every inch of his body carvd with lean muscle, but the bizarre combination of iron chainmail, steel-plate, rawhide and wolfskin furs that covered him head-to-toe seemed to add much more to that: especially with the wolfskin cape draped down his back all the way to his powerful calves. "I can tell by the way you tremble that you have heard of the Andvalli before," he erupted in laughter, a deep and bellowing boom that rose from his gut. "I promise we don't bite, at least not with our teeth," he opened his mouth and gave them a glimpse of his perfect white smile.
The Andvalli Nobleman continued to pace around, motioning at the crowd with his painted wooden round-shield bearing the three interposed leaves of his family crest and his longsword as they began to hurl insults at him, beckoning them into the ring with a threatening gesture of his blade.
He would be remembered. His deeds immortalized in song and story. He would live forever, eternal glory was in his sight and he'd carve his way to it no matter how long it took him, and no matter how many dared stand in his way.
It was a question he often asked himself when staring into the eyes of his enemy.
His reasons were simple: for glory, honor, and most importantly immortality. It was his birthright. He was bred for battle, trained to kill, and he excelled at both. It was the only thing he knew.
But what was theirs? What was worth their lives? Were they the same reasons as his? Or were they fighting for wealth, or out of some self-righteous notion of right and wrong? Were they fighting for those they loved?
He didn't know. Some men might be haunted by such an answer, but Barathios hadn't so much as batted an eyelash. It wasn't that he lacked a conscience: it was that death was a normal part of life and he had seen more than his share of it. Even at a young age he had witnessed things in the cold north that would make grown men empty the contents of their stomach onto the floor at the thought of. The first time he saw a man die he found it so exciting, so captivating, he was unable to look away. It was human nature to enjoy the suffering of others as long as one wasn't suffering themselves. He lacked the compassion to relate to their suffering because he had never been hurt before, the idea was so alien to him it was comical.
____
The stage was simple: a circular dirt pit ringed with sharpened wooden spikes. There was only one brief juncture in the spikes and two heavily armored knights stood vigil there, hands at the ready by their sword belts.
The Highland Lord leered around him at the gallery of foreign faces that watched him through the gaps of wood, a kaleidoscope of varying eye colors meeting his gaze, and then he looked up coldly at those who could afford seats on the second-floor balconies jutting from wooden buildings, and atop wooden bleachers hastily erected in anticipation of the coming battle. None would cheer for him, they weren't his people, but by the end they would shout his name: "Barathios! Barathios!" He would give them a show they would never forget.
Barathios swaggered around the farside of the ring opposite the entrance. "Are none of you brave enough to fight me?!" he challenged with a roar. His towering figure was made even more imposing by the bulk his armor bestowed him. He stood just short of seven feet, with an incredible physique, every inch of his body carvd with lean muscle, but the bizarre combination of iron chainmail, steel-plate, rawhide and wolfskin furs that covered him head-to-toe seemed to add much more to that: especially with the wolfskin cape draped down his back all the way to his powerful calves. "I can tell by the way you tremble that you have heard of the Andvalli before," he erupted in laughter, a deep and bellowing boom that rose from his gut. "I promise we don't bite, at least not with our teeth," he opened his mouth and gave them a glimpse of his perfect white smile.
The Andvalli Nobleman continued to pace around, motioning at the crowd with his painted wooden round-shield bearing the three interposed leaves of his family crest and his longsword as they began to hurl insults at him, beckoning them into the ring with a threatening gesture of his blade.
He would be remembered. His deeds immortalized in song and story. He would live forever, eternal glory was in his sight and he'd carve his way to it no matter how long it took him, and no matter how many dared stand in his way.