Uroboros 11, 12

11

This was it. This was the end. The world grew dim and dull around him. The words of the blonde man were far and distant. He could feel the hard earth beneath his knees and the sweat on his face but nothing else. This was death.

 Davis heard a sound he had not heard in so many years. Clear and real as the desert in which he knelt.

It was a soft rustle and the calm whistle of wind. A cool autumn breeze blowing gently threw the upper wheat fields. He saw it now. The golden waves of the swaying wheat. The clean and clear and bright blue sky. His father, Victor lawliet Alaric, stood by the field. He had seemed so tall to a young Davis. His black hair blew in the breeze. Davis had run to him. His father had picked him up so easily and sat his young son on his shoulder. He heard his father’s voice then. So clear and so strong. Indeed, it had carried across the endless miles and harsh years.

“Davis.” There was a small smile on his father’s face.

“Yes da?”

“Where do we come from?”

Davis recited his lesson. He knew it well.

“We are sons born from the line of Alaric.”

“Yes Davis.” His father paused. He brought Davis off his shoulder and put him down. Then he kneeled to be at eye level with his young son.

“We come from a noble bloodline. From a line of kings. The kings and their kingdoms are far gone, but their line remains. It lives in us. And it will continue through you my son.” Victor Alaric smiled. The golden field rustled again.

“When you are trained, my work will be finished. You will take the burden of the oath we swore so long ago. In your time you may stumble, you may doubt and you may fall. But you will bear the burden and all the suffering and pain that follows.” He kissed his son’s forehead and put his hand on his head.

“You will bear it because in your veins flows the blood of a king. You will bear it because you are my son.”

Victor spoke with certainty in his heart and in his eyes. There was no doubt in him. There was only faith. Faith in his son. Faith in what he would do and who he would become. Tears had run down Davis’ young smiling face. This was the moment. Just before his fifth winter. This was the moment Davis Lawliet  Alaric, son of Victor and decedent of kings accepted his duty.

Through whatever pain may come Davis would do his duty.

12

Davis roared into the dusty sky. His cry was long and true. He willed the dull, fading world around him back into focus. The pain returned to him in a single wave. His shoulder was bleeding. His nose and several of his ribs were broken.

Davis forced himself back to his feet. Blood flowed freely down his shirt. Elven looked back at his opponent in disbelief. He had turned and had begun to walk away after Davis had fallen. The broken sword still in his hand.

“How?” Seemed to be all he could articulate.

Davis tightened his grip on his weapons. The broken sword had made the blonde man strong and inhumanly fast. He seemed to be able to stop bullets with only his sword. Davis’ skills as a gunslinger and swordsman had been rendered useless. This was a fight he could not win. The blonde man was going to kill him. Davis smiled. His smile was fierce and unafraid. He raised his sword and pointed it at the blonde man.

“You want my head? Then come and fucking get it.”