Penitent-Chapter 43: Pain

Michael and Lance stood on opposite sides of the arena. After Michael's fight with Cohle they had taken the time to replace several boards in the arena. The extra time had added to the crowd's excitement, but it also increased their intensity and he could feel their eyes boring holes in him from all angles. Michael tightened his grip on his sword handle as he got into a low stance. In spite of what he’d told the general, he had no intention of throwing the fight. He’d just figured, if he was going to lose anyway, he may as well make sure he and his friends all benefited from it.

Lance was wielding a sword and shield as well, and seemed very comfortable with both. He saluted the crowd by slamming the sword against the shield once, before taking his own stance and focusing in on Michael. Cohle’s working of the crowd had been over the top, and Lance was clearly just as focused on it too, just in his own way.

Michael felt his bones shake as the announcer blew the horn.

Michael didn’t run toward his opponent this time, instead closing the distance slowly with his shield up. Charging was exactly what Lance would expect given the previous fights.

Lance approached slowly as well, his shield raised as he closed in.

When they were within striking distance of one another, Michael acted first. He swung his sword at Lance’s midline.

Lance batted it away with his shield, and answered with a strike of his own.

Michael parried it, checking the weight of the blow. It didn’t feel like the strike of an exhausted fighter, but then he’d had a bit more time to recover than the rest of the team had. He threw out a few more testing strikes, and Lance answered them in kind. Neither of them had been tremendously cautious fighters up to this point. Lance had his strength to rely on, and Michael had his ability to recover and heal if he needed them. The crowd was silent, trying to catch every exchanged blow and counter.

They started to speed up. A sword would hit a shield, a shield would attempt to strike a face, a knee would take aim at a groin, a hilt would attempt to jam a chin, it was a constant back and forth and probing of one another. Finally, Michael risked a headbutt, and surprising himself, he managed to catch Lance on the chin causing him to stumble.

He followed up with a shield slam into Lance’s chest to throw him off balance, then he swung his sword at his face. He caught him a bit on his faceplate, but Lance spun with the blow to reduce the force and then swung his own blade out to keep Michael from closing the distance.

Lance was breathing heavily, and a look of frustration briefly crossed his face. A small cut sat just under the right side of his nose, and he briefly brought a hand to it and pulled it away seeing blood. His gaze went cold.

Michael swung his sword, hoping to retake the initiative, but Lance bashed it away using his shield with enough force that it almost made Michael spin and he barely managed to hold on to his sword. Lance followed that up with a slash and Michael was forced to take it square in the center of his shield. He felt it actually give way and dent toward his arm cracking bone.

He let out a pained cry, but tried to force another swing of his sword.

Lance moved around it with such speed that it seemed like Michael was standing still and slammed the thin part of his shield down on Michael’s forearm, breaking it. Michael fell from the force of the blow, his vision going white for a moment. Lance was faster and stronger than he’d seemed to be in any of his other fights. Had he actually been holding back?

Lance kicked him onto his back and held his sword, which had actually chipped at some point during their exchange, to Michael’s throat.

“The victor of the final bout, and the champion of this Festival of Blades, is Senior Squire Lance Kreg!”

A massive cheer went out across the crowd, but Michael could barely hear it, focusing instead on getting a hand on the end of a broken arm onto his chest and healing himself. He groaned as he pulled at his dented shield and it deeply cut his forearm forcing him to heal himself again. It was as he’d thought. He didn’t have a chance against someone with so many titles. At least not until he earned more of them himself. He shook his head, wondering what had gone through the general's head to be as worried about his son's victory as he was.

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Lance saluted the crowd, and when he was done he turned and offered Michael a hand.

Michael took it, appreciating the help.

Lance spoke without expression. “Did you let me win?”

Michael shook his head. “No. You beat me fair and square.”

“Don’t lie to me. I know you met with my father. I know he didn’t believe I could win fairly.”

Michael sighed. “He did ask. And I did tell him that I would lose for a concession, but I chose to fight my hardest anyway. I knew you’d beat me fair and square. I just wanted to hedge my bets” He opted for the truth.

Lance looked down, his jaw clenched.

“I would’ve stopped fighting after the first broken arm if I was throwing the fight. I’m not that much of a glutton for punishment.”

Lance nodded, but there was still a look of concern on his face as they walked out of the arena. Michael glanced at the general who gave a subtle nod to him, before he turned out of his box and left, several soldiers in tow.

Michael made his way to the participant exit and closed his eyes taking a deep breath. Trying to take just a moment to himself. He was grateful it was done. He didn’t want any more screaming crowds.

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He heard rapid footsteps toward him, and his eyes snapped open. He’d lost, did the regulars really want to give him a beating anyway? He dropped his guard when he realized it was Marcus and Davi.

“Michael,” said Marcus, exhausted from running. “Ollie’s in the infirmary. He needs help.”

Michael took off at a run.

…

Michael arrived in the infirmary in less than two minutes, sprinting the entire way, with a guard yelling at him to slow down as he tried to keep up with them as an escort. He could hear Ollie’s screams even before he pushed open the doors. He saw a number of medics, Pyotr, and even a soldier surrounding a bed. He moved over to them quickly, and pushed them aside.

Ollie was writhing on the bed, being held down by everyone. There was blood coming from his legs, arms, and chest, and when he looked at the wounds, Michael could see they were long narrow tears across his skin, as if stretch marks had been torn open.

Michael placed a golden hand on Ollie’s chest and healed him, sealing the wounds. The bleeding stopped, but Ollie kept writhing and screaming.

“What happened?” asked Michael.

Crim stepped close behind him, close enough that he could feel her breath on his neck. “He’s having a reaction to his final injection. Sometimes bodies have a severe problem dealing with it, often out of nowhere.”

Michael looked back at her to see a smile on her face that no one else was looking at, though her tone had been one of concern.

He turned around. They'd known this was a risk, and had been keeping a close eye on her, but there was only so much they could do. Ollie was his focus not, he wouldn't want him to be in additional pain because he lost himself to anger. “What can we do?”

“We’ve already given all of the pain relief we can, we don’t have a lot of it here as the majority goes to the front. All of his bones are stretching out and the rest of his body is trying to do the same, but all at different rates. It could take hours for this to end. You can keep healing him, but the pain may make his heart give out,” said Marta as she forced his leg to keep still.

Michael brought a golden hand back to his friend's chest and healed him again, feeling a few tears heal, but he kept writhing.

He did it again, gritting his teeth and closing his eyes as he did so.

Please. If I can’t end his pain, let me take some of it for him. I’ll take it myself if I have to. Please let me hold onto it to help him.

Michael wasn’t sure who he was talking to. The God he’d left behind in his old world, long before he'd died? The divine in this new one? It didn’t matter who the original request was to, he got an answer from only one of them.

Michael inhaled sharply and nearly buckled as sharp pain slammed into all of his limbs and across the rest of his body. He caught himself on the edge of the bed, gripping the sheets with enough force to tear them as he clenched his teeth.

He forced his eyes open, and could see white light in his vision that looked to be flowing from Ollie into him. It didn’t seem that any of the others could see it, but Ollie had stilled. He was shaking, his body twitching, but it wasn’t the violent thrashing he’d been doing before. Michael looked at the white lines, gritting his teeth more and willing the flow of them to increase from Ollie to him. The pain increased for him, but Ollie stilled even more.

“The medication must’ve taken some extra time to kick in because of everything else going on with his body,” said one of the medics.

Marta looked at her, and then to Michael. “No. I don’t think that’s it. Did you… just take his pain from him?”

Michael was unable to speak, so just forced a nod.

“Get him a chair and a piece of rope to bite down on,” she looked at him. “How long do you think you can manage?”

Michael looked up at her. “As long as I need to,” his voice came out as a wisp, barely audible.