Between Wind And Fire

Chivalry And Ignorance

Uriel awoke on the hill, feeling the soreness that came from the cold of the hill against his body. His throat was dry, and his eyes were puffy from the tears he had shed the night before. He sat up gently, knowing the weight of the day itself was bearing down on him already. Work beckoned: there was always more to do.

He went to the well to fetch the much-needed water; each step seemed to get heavier and heavier. The morning air was crisp now, and some life was beginning to show in the village. Arriving at the well, he found something all too familiar and all so unwelcome: Garrick and his gang, laying their presence over the village square much like a very dark cloud. Garrick had always tormented Uriel from early childhood, and the harassment had only become worse with time.

But now it wasn't Uriel who was the receiver of their nastiness. It was Elanda. Uriel's heart was bowling in his chest when he watched her being surrounded by Garrick and his goons. There stood Elanda, brown curls cascading away in the early morning light, green eyes wide but resolved. Garrick's laughter, loud and cackling, cut through the air as he and his cronies cracked jokes at her expense.

Uriel clenched his hands into fists. Garrick's yellow teeth and skinny fingers. he hated him. He always seemed to relish the discomfort of others. Uriel could stand up to Garrick when he harassed him, but standing by and watching Elanda suffer was just too much. He wanted to do something, but what? There were six of them and one of him. He knew the broken basics of boxing, but his only practice had been with bags of sand in his spare time.

Uriel felt his frown creasing as he watched Garrick move closer to Elanda, his sneer widening. The others in the village turned their heads, pretending not to see, too cowardly even to express the look. Fear had a way of making cowards of them all. Uriel's heart began to pound in his chest, a mix of fear and anger. Yet his tongue began to move on its own accord, his anger overwhelming his fear as a shout escaped his lips, "Get away from her !"

Garrick's head snapped over at Uriel, amused at the sudden courage he was able to muster. With a malice filled silence, he began to take slow deliberate steps in Uriel's direction, his gang around him doing the same. With a look of worry Elanda quickly stepped in before the situation worsened, her voice slicing through the tension. "Stop it, Garrick," she spoke, her tone calm yet accurate. "Not now..
Please..."

For an instant, he almost listened. Then he laughed, a cruel mocking laugh. "You're lucky today, ghost. As the lady commands."

With that, his hand slid around her side in a possessive manner before he turned and took off, his gang following reluctantly. Uriel watched them leave, his body trembling with adrenaline. Elanda looked over her shoulder at him, her expression one of gratitude mixed with concern; slowly, she shook her head, as if saying, "Not now, not here."

Uriel was speechless. Inside his head ran a tornado of feelings—relief, fear, anger, and something else he couldn't pin down. He had stood up to Garrick, but he knew this was just a temporary reprieve.

Uriel's head snapped up, fingers still twitching in his lap. Glancing to his left, he found Jirad there, milling about in the center of the group. The old man's brows furrowed in mild distaste, the last thing Uriel cared about. He was pissed. That son of a bitch had no right to lay his hands on Elanda that way.

Uriel turned back and walked towards home, dropping both buckets with the water. He had to think. He roamed the streets, thoughts running a mile a minute, his original destination being the hill, but he was so lost in his thoughts he just kept walking aimlessly. He was broken out of his thoughts by a distinctly foul voice.

"HEY GHOST!" the shout came from behind him.

Garrick.

Uriel's heart thudded in him. There he was—Garrick, flanked by his gang, turned around with an sadistic grin over his face. He walked forward with yellow teeth bared in a mocking smile: "Thought you could play hero, did you? Thought you could save the day?" he sneered, dripping with disdain.

Uriel made fists with his hands once again, feeling that old anger begin to rise inside of him once again; he knew he was outnumbered and outclassed, but he couldn't back down now. He pulled in a deep breath that would calm his trembling hands.

"Took you long enough," Uriel said. He was surprised he could even muster the words. He felt the heat rising through his body, like surging flames that rose from his chest to his neck.

The grin stretched into a very wild smile from Garrick. "Oh, it's just the beginning, ghost. You think you can say that and get away with it? You're going to regret ever crossing me."

Before Uriel could even reply, two of Garrick's lackeys were already on him. Gaunt and Borgo, both far too eager to please their group leader ran ahead with sinister grins. Gaunt, the skinnier of the two, rushed ahead, his arms raised in a poorly formed guard. Borgo followed, slower but more intimidating with his bulk. Uriel's guard was only marginally better as he settled into position, ready to hold them off. If he were to fall here, he resolved to take at least one of them down with him.

Gaunt swung wildly, a powerful but poorly telegraphed arc aimed at Uriel's head. Uriel anticipated the move; Gaunt had always relied on brute strength over technique. He raised his forearm to block, then drove his left hand forward in a jab, pouring his weight into the punch. His knuckles met Gaunt's nose with a satisfying crunch. Warm blood trickled down Uriel's fingertips, and the sound of bone breaking confirmed the damage was not his own.

"AGKK... HE BROKE MY—" Gaunt's protest was cut short as Uriel's cross jab connected with his jaw, dropping him to the ground unconscious. Borgo hesitated, stunned by Uriel's unexpected resistance. In their fifteen years of torment, never had Uriel fought back with such ferocity. Or even fought back at all.

What was this feeling in him, wondered Uriel. Did he strike Gaunt down after all? He could not think on it, though; Borgo was but a stride away.

Uriel crossed his forearms over, tensing up against the weighty fist that struck him flush on his guard. The blow was softened by the adrenaline Uriel had in his veins. He held out until Borgo put more behind his attack, his jab, then flicked the punch out of the way with a quickly extended slap of his arm. Not losing the moment, Uriel shot a hook that landed on Borgo's temple. The latter was momentarily dazed, and the smaller man took those precious seconds to press his advantage.

Uriel shifted and twisted his body, and his next strike came from his strong hand, straight into Borgo's eye. His head jolted back, screaming a sound Uriel had never heard from him before. Instinct took over as Uriel twisted his left arm lazily up into an uppercut beneath Borgo's chin. The big man went down writhing on the dirt, choking.

Years of held-down rage and frustration combined within this single moment. Uriel raised his foot then brought it down on Borgo's ankle with a satisfying crunch. Garrick and his lackeys stood in stunned silence, their sneers replaced by open shock. This was Uriel, the ghost of the village. How could he be doing this?

Uriel wept freely now himself, in rage, sadness, and a near euphoric joy. For so long he had waited for this day. He kicked down again and again, every strike full of years of pent-up emotions as Borgo tried to crawl away. His tears made everything blurry, but he didn't care. He finally made them hurt.

"Garrick.." Uriel growls, a voice of barely restrained violence, "We are not finished yet.."