A HENRY STORY 2: Trials Of The Fallen Prince

XXII. R a g e

"And thus, we arrive at this momentous occasion—a streak of thirty consecutive victories. Can anyone ever hope to surpass such a feat? We all ask ourselves, but don't we, in truth, already know?"

Achilles hardly took notice of the nonsensical chatter of Dustfur, somewhere on his right. Was this really what was meant to occur?

If I am ever again made to fight something other than a gnawer, I shall let it kill me. He recalled his own words, written only a few days ago, and his gaze remained fixed on the massive body of the stinger he had just killed. Observing as two gnawers emerged from a side tunnel to carry away the body, he couldn't help but wonder where they were taking them. Where did they take all those he killed?

The sword nearly slipped from his grasp as someone energetically shoved him in the back. "Fantastic battle, Achilles," snarled Longclaw into his ear, and before he knew what hit him, the massive gnawer had lifted him and placed him on his shoulders, then stood tall on his hind legs. "Behold him!" he yelled. "Behold! Behold! Still barely more than a pup, and already such an excellent killer!"

As the crowd erupted in cheers and Longclaw paraded him around on his shoulders, the usual rush of joy that came with praise was nowhere to be found. Achilles struggled to even raise his sword triumphantly. They are cheering for me, he thought over and over. Cheering . . . praising . . . And he craved the applause . . . yet suddenly, he hated the attention. It was empty. It was . . .

Was he only a killer? A ruiner? Was that all that he could excel at? All that he could be admired for? A chill shot down his back, making his head spin. Blood trickled from his cracked lips as he forced them into a smile.

He should have killed me . . . the stinger, he should have . . . Not by a gnawer, thought Achilles. He had no desire to be killed by a gnawer, and he could easily give a long list of reasons why. But by a stinger? He had never even seen one before today. This stinger who had been captured and dragged here was so much more deserving of victory, of life, than Achilles.

You have told yourself that you will be the master of your own death. The voice in his head spoke louder than Longclaw. You are absent of cause or excuse. You are indulgent and despicable, and no one besides this audience of fiends could ever want you.

His mouth opened, but nothing came out.

You are one of them, too. You will not be more than a rat among rats. Is it not so? It is empty, Achilles. All empty. Your act here is a ruse.

It was. He could no longer even relish it. He was . . .

So cease hesitating. End it all now. It is pointless to hesitate. Why do you hesitate?

He could not answer. There was no answer. There was no . . . Only when Longclaw put him back on his feet did he realize he was trembling. Wasn't the temperature here always the same? His eye met one of the vibrant braziers, casting a warm glow over the sandy circle.

Is it not why you do this? To end it? To be the master of your own death?

The voice . . . he squinted, desperate to block it out, wishing it would never haunt him again. It was a voice he knew well, yet couldn't quite pinpoint. A voice that both comforted and tormented him, one that disrupted his dull routine, yet also brought him unbearable truths.

"We shall notify you as always when the next brave contender arises!" Longclaw called after him as Achilles was already making his way up the path toward the lake. He could barely keep himself walking straight, and the moment the arena vanished from his view, he ripped off his mask and took a series of deep breaths, one after the other.