The Ring, Part 2

As the undefeated competitor, Thorunn enters the ring first, with Moretti following close behind him. Face to face, their differences are placed in starker contrast. Moretti, though still tall in his own right, barely reaches Thorunn’s chin. By appearance alone, the outcome should be obvious.

“But don’t let appearances fool ya,” my commentator warns. “The little guy can run circles around him. Anything could happen here. Anything at all.”

Thorunn’s eyes are dead-set on Moretti. He is still and silent, feet shoulder width apart. From beyond the cage, someone hands Thorunn a flask. It appears to only be half-full, as he drains the rest in a single gulp, not taking his gaze off of Moretti for even a second. Moretti, meanwhile, is scanning. He paces slowly back and forth, observing the sandy ground, the cage walls, and Thorunn from head to toe. Although I can’t make it out from this distance, I think Moretti is speaking. In response, Thorunn spits into the sand.

The bell rings. For a while, neither man makes the first move. They are slowly circling the ring, gazes locked with each other’s, keeping their backs to the cage walls. The longer this goes on, the rowdier the spectators get.

“Get on with it!” a woman yells.

“Is this a fucking ballet?” a young man taunts.

“Just move already!” another man bellows. “Fat, stupid savage!”

Thorunn’s head swivels towards the crowd. That got his attention. But the second he loses focus, Moretti lunges forward. In a single, elegant whirl of motion, he hooks one leg behind both of Thorunn’s knees, grabs him by the hair, and sweeps him off his feet. Thorunn’s back hits the sand.

The crowd gasps. On impulse, I stand up. The bell rings twice, one match for Moretti. Now I can understand how he was able to win against Thorunn before. He’s fast—almost unnaturally fast. And what he lacks in power, he makes up for in strategy and simple physics.

As Thorunn pushes himself up, I find myself wandering further from my seat. But it would be easier to wade through chest-high molasses than to pass through the wall of spectators. I am a little taller than the average woman, but smaller than most men, so I am at a disadvantage in shoving past. And drunks are notoriously difficult to reason with. As the bell rings to start the match, I have barely made it a few steps into the crowd, and like all the rest of them, I struggle to tear my eyes away from the cage.

Thorunn doesn’t wait. He charges at once. Although Moretti attempts to sidestep, Thorunn’s hand snaps around his wrist and drags him back. Between the heads of other people, I can’t see what happens next. Blurs of movement, at best. I try to listen close for the bell, but it doesn’t toll. I only hear the rattling of the cage, meaty impacts of skin on skin, whoops and cheers from the spectators. The stench of sweat around me is nauseating.

“Fuck this!” I growl.

Abandoning all courtesy, I elbow my way through a clot of people and march forward. I break through to a clearing at possibly the worst moment—the moment that Moretti launches into a spin and smashes his heel into Thorunn’s jaw. The crowd collectively winces. Blood sprays across the front row.

The fancy acrobatic kick, however, only succeeds in delaying Thorunn’s advance by a couple seconds. As Moretti stands straight, Thorunn takes another step forward. He spits a wad of blood into the sand. Then he grabs Moretti’s head like a softball and slams him into an iron support pole. The pole rings out with a sound not unlike the bell, and shortly after, the bell echoes.

I race to the front. Even if I know nothing about fighting, I know that no human should be able to survive a blow like that. Did…did I just watch Thorunn kill a man? The worried mumbling of the onlookers is starting to worry me, too. When I get to the front of the crowd, a railing separates us from the cage by about three feet. It is close enough to see the attendants rushing around Moretti’s body. And—by the grace of the gods—it is close enough to see that Moretti is sitting up and moving.

I exhale. I utter a prayer of thanks, then look across the ring. Thorunn is rubbing his jaw. Blood trickles down his forearm. Massive bruises are beginning to darken on his torso, and his knees and elbows are skinned and raw.

As he stands, I can see that Moretti is no better off. While he doesn’t seem off balance or disoriented, and lacks the hallmarks of the concussion that he should undoubtedly have, his impact with the support pole seems to have opened up some kind of wound on the back of his skull. It streams freely down the back of his neck and between his shoulderblades. Even the once-raucous crowd is quieted.

“He wants that Rhotascan dead, I reckon,” the commentator’s words echo in my mind. “Needs deniability.”

Oh, gods. They’re really going to kill each other.

Before I can hold it back, I scream.

“STOP!”

Both men whirl around. It’s only for a second—a single breath, a single blink, before the starting bell rings a third time—but it’s enough. They’ve seen me. And then they lunge towards each other and, like bulls locking their horns, grapple each other’s shoulders.

“She’s here,” Moretti grunts.

“You saw her too?” Thorunn hisses through gritted teeth.

“Of course I fucking saw her. Front row. Straw hat. Did you bring her?”

“No! Do you think I’m an idiot?!”

“Did—she— follow you?!”

“Fuck,” Thorunn snarls. “ FFFFUCK!”

With a great yell, Thorunn throws Moretti off of him like he is tossing a bag of grain. It would be the end of the match for most, but Moretti twists in the air to land on one hand and both feet. The crowd is back to its delighted roar.

I am nothing short of confused. I know they saw me, but they’ve seemingly forgotten me again, rabid pit-fighting dogs that they are, trained only to bark and claw and bite. At least their injuries do not seem too severe to hold them back. Moretti lunges forward into a series of elaborate kicks and jabs, some of which Thorunn blocks with his bloodied forearms, but others of which he simply tanks right to the torso, hardly flinching as the blows deepen his bruises.

Briefly, his head flicks to the left. Towards me. Moretti tries his first trick again, dodging behind Thorunn in an attempt to sweep his feet out from under him. But this time, Thorunn is ready. He grabs Moretti and locks his arm around his neck, squeezing tight.

“Let me win,” Moretti rasps.

“Go fuck yourself,” Thorunn spits. “You don’t touch her.”

“I won’t! I won’t! I—I’ll call off the bet—my payout is bigger, we can split it, I promise—”

“Your promises are worthless .”

Losing air quickly, Moretti slaps feebly at Thorunn’s forearm. “Don’t—make me do this—in front of Ellie—”

Thorunn leans down to Moretti’s ear. “Call her Ellie one last time,” Thorunn whispers, “and I snap your neck like a twig.”

Moretti goes limp. Thorunn releases him.

It’s a feint.

At once, Moretti dashes across the ring, with the same frantic scramble as in his very first match. He’s unnerved, that’s for sure, but he is still in the match. Thorunn is just as surprised as me and the rest of the audience. He doesn’t seem to know whether to charge forward into what is surely a trap of some kind, or wait for Moretti to strike first. They begin to circle again, much slower. The distance closes only an inch at a time.

“Let me win,” Moretti says again. “This is your last warning.”

“Words are cheap, rassragr,” Thorunn growls. “Win on your own.”

“Is this some form of idealism?” asks Moretti.

“The fuck are you talking about?”

“Ideals. Honor. Glory in battle or whatever.”

“No,” says Thorunn. “It’s about protecting Eloise.”

“I already called off the bet. We’ll settle the Eloise problem some other way. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“She is not a problem,” Thorunn retorts, “and I will take great pleasure in hurting you!”

Moretti sighs. “All’s fair, I suppose.”

They’re speaking to each other, but I can’t hear it over the noise. As they circle, sometimes Thorunn is facing me, other times away. I’ve never seen him so angry before—not even in the bloodied throne room, axe in hand. That was cold, detached business as usual, likely the “blacking out” that Thorunn once described as occurring during a kill. This, in contrast, is personal. Even with a whole flask of booze in him, Thorunn is very much present and conscious in his rage.

Another circle. Thorunn’s back is to me. Moretti holds out one hand, as if pacifying an animal. Then he sighs. Briefly, he glances over Thorunn’s shoulder and meets my eyes.

“ Get out of the way.”

The words appear in my mind unbidden. It’s so clear and loud that I startle, briefly fearing that someone was speaking directly in my ear, but no one is that close to me. A second later, Thorunn charges straight forward. Away from me, towards Moretti. Moretti pivots to the side and drives his heel into Thorunn’s stomach.

He flies.

As if a cannonball has hit him center mass, Thorunn rockets straight backwards, through the cage, across the walkway, and into the railing.

Then he slumps down, motionless at my feet. Blood pools around him.

“Thorunn!” I cry.

Frantic, I clamber over the railing, warped and bent by the impact of his body. I reach his side at the same time as Moretti does.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” I scream. “ YOU FUCKING KILLED HIM!”

Moretti glares at me. Without a word, he pushes me backwards. I stumble into the sand, but just as I am about to get up and tear apart Moretti with my bare hands, he kneels over Thorunn…

…and kisses him.

Golden light spills from them. Magic. Magic, but without incantations or sigils drawn in the air. Just pure, concentrated healing, radiating around them with such potency that my shoulders relax, my muscles loosen, and even the pain in my feet subsides. The onlookers just stare. There has been no bell. Moretti maintains the kiss, even placing his hands in the center of Thorunn’s chest, pouring more golden light into him until it seems as if Thorunn is glowing from the inside. Gradually, his bruises begin to fade. The scrapes close up to smooth, healthy skin. The blood stops pooling beneath him.

And his hand twitches.