Born in the Flame

Chapter Three

"You really told him that?" My brother asked, dodging a kick I had aimed at his head. "Stop using your legs so much. That's such an elf thing to do."

"Yes I did, and it's not my fault that you're so short." I replied, a little out of breath.

The following morning after that night on the tavern balcony, I greeted Salim as if he were any other customer retrieving their finished blade. Of course, it was a difficult thing to do, but I had no intention of exploring something with someone that wouldn't be here for months on end.

I threw my leg out in a sweeping motion to my brother's legs, causing him to tumble over onto the fighting mat. It was a sunny autumn afternoon, and the air was light and airy on our sweat covered bodies. Since I wrapped up all my commissions and stocked the inventory the day before last, I took the morning off to train with Sigurd. From an early age, my father threw the both of us into the fighting ring in the upper part of the blade-smith shop to learn to fight. When he was our age, he lived a life in chains and was unable to learn how to fight except when he was thrown into the fight pits. Of course, I never complained, I always loved hand to hand combat.

Sigurd and I always had that in common. My father hated the dwarven fighting pits, but for us it was an enjoyable pastime. As it was for a good majority of people. If the humans gave the continent great innovations such as the train, electricity, and modern plumbing, we gave them the dwarven fight pits. Of course, a lot of dwarves had a disdain for it after the two hundred year leash the dawn elves held over them. Their cultured pastime was rooted in history and honor, but was turned into a perverse thrill during their reign. Which often meant throwing in whoever they wanted to see be beaten into a pulp.

While many travelers came for the elusive dwarven goods that were often hard to come by, many came just to see the dwarven fighting pits that sat on the level just below ours. On occasion, my brother and I would still sneak out just to see the latest fight and route for our favorite team.

"Looks like my elf moves kicked your ass." I said, grinning like an idiot as I held out my hand for my brother.

"Whatever." He chuckled in between heavy breaths, lifting himself off the mat.  "So, if you do end up seeing that wayward again, what will you do?"

"Do what? I think I drew my line in the sand pretty thoroughly." I scoffed.

"Sounds to me like you didn't." He retorted, "Honestly, it sounds like you might entertain the idea of something else coming from it."

"As interesting as that would be, no. It wouldn't be good for me. I enjoy my job and he seems to enjoy his. Neither of us will give it up for the other." I said, taking off the fighting wraps that covered my feet and hands.

"Hm. You're right." He laughed, "At least you have 400ish years to figure out your love life. Maybe be lucky enough to have a mate."

"As if that's enough time." I laughed back, taking the last bit of wrappings off my feet. In our training room, there were several windows carved into the mountain to be able to see the eastern horizon. Today, we had the windows open letting in the chilled air to cool down our sweat riddled bodies. I tilted my head back to enjoy the breeze. I then continued, "Well, I gotta go take over the shop for the old man."

"Hope it's a slow day for you." Sigurd called from the mat. He allowed one hand to wave a goodbye while the other continued to untie his own wrappings.

I knew it most likely would be. It was a Sunday, which meant most would be attending the fighting pits. The largest team matches are held on Sundays during the day. Though it was called the dwarven fight pits, teams were formed from all kinds of races. They were all trained under the same strict rules as the ancient dwarven. Since no magic was allowed, it couldn't turn into a bloodbath as quickly.  Thankfully, it would give me a day of light foot traffic into the shop.