So, this is what it means to lean into a warrior’s death, on the same soil you took your first steps, as a child and then a young battle-ready fiend with the taste of your blood welling to be spat out.
Your eyes stay fixed on the enemy before you, even if today, the enemy is your own brother.
“Fight!”
“Fight!!”
“Fight!!!”
The crowd swells. You are not the only one with the taste of blood.
They know only one of you gets to leave, but this part, they did not expect.
That you did not come here to fight, you came here to lose a fight.
Another blow cracks across your jaw, like many others before. This one is strong enough to shake loose a tooth or two.
You spit and grin.
"Is that the best you can do?"
"Did you learn nothing from me, small boy?"
You egg him on. Calling him ‘small boy’ is calling his rage. Nothing he hates more.
He knocks you into a tree, closes his fist around your neck and squeezes
You laugh — maniacally.
His hands tighten around your throat. Your eyes start to roll back. The canopy blurs above. This is you, passing under the branches.
It hits him that you might really die and his eyes well up as yours did.
You sense his hesitation
Only one of you is leaving this place alive.
And it will be your baby brother.
“small… boy…”
You didn’t protect him all his life just to stop now.
From the crowd: “Enough with the games! Finish him!”
It starts to go dark as you go deaf under his roar.
You taught him that roar.
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