Democracy

Fight

Fabien waits, sword clutched in his hand. I leap forward swinging the sword in my hand. Before he can blink, a small cut has been carved into Fabien's upper arm. Pain stabs my ankle as he moves downward and brings his blade against my leg. I dodge backwards. As does he. After a brief hesitation, soon his sword is swinging at me again and I roll under the metal. I bring my own sword to the back of his leg. Quietly, he cries out in pain. But, taking the opportunity of me having to get to my feet, he spins his body and bashes into my own. Balancing on my hands, I jump to my feet. Our swords clash against each other, moving forwards and backwards in a little dance. Eventually gaining the upper ground, I push him to the ground. His sword clatters out of his hand. My knees hold down his wrist and I press my blade against his throat. Blood pours out of the small incision I make in his skin. Tossing my sword away, I bring my fist up. I pound him over and over until my fist is a bloody mess and his face is in a similar way. He doesn't once cry out in pain.

"That's enough," my father says, pulling me off my brother. Wiping my hand across my forehead where there is a thin layer of perspiration, I smirk at my brother. "Fabien, go into Rest." Sharply, Fabien nods and looks over to Satherine.

"You, stay here," he barks. She bows her head. It's their first day together. Tonight, there will be a feast in which they officially meet. But for today, she has to tail him like a dog. It makes my blood boil with anger.

My father raises his voice so Fabien can hear. "There is a lunch in ten minutes." My stomach fills with dread. These 'lunches' are just meetings where we are given a sickly mission to undertake. The timings of the dinners are sporadic and are designed to keep me on guard. Being forced to stuff myself with food before commanding executions or leading a raid or acting as a judge in a court where the main punishment is capital, it is not my idea of pleasant. Fabien seems to enjoy the lunches. He loves to boast about how much he tends to overshadow me. He can do it faster, more easily, less mercifully. If I didn't know better I would think that my father liked Fabien more than me purely because he excelled at the tasks he was set.

A hand pressed against my back arouses me from my thoughts. "Come on, Tyler. We need to get the special guest for today's lunch." Questions awaken in my head. Why do we need a guest? Who is the guest? As I recognise the route to the cells, my thoughts become much more fearful. What has this person done? What will happen to them? What will happen to us? We stop at a cell with thick glass walls.

Inside sits a small black man with thick muscular arms. He is topless. My father unbolts the door and beckons the man to the door. Reluctantly the boy stands, his eyes look across to mine, but I am staring at his back. Deep cuts are jaggedly drawn down his spine. The skin, that surrounds the scars of lashing after lashing, is a horrible violent pink. From old scars that I have let heal I can see some cuts are little over a week old. It's a wonder he has any skin left. He winces as he approaches the door. I watch him cross the cell. I would bet that he has done nothing. Maybe my father just didn't like the look of him. A lump begins forming in my throat and my eyes are stinging from attempting to block a tear that threatens to break out.

My father orders me to take him upstairs. Then, thankfully, he moves away from us and deeper into the prison. When I am certain he can't see, I take my jacket off and wrap it around the boy. We begin to walk. He barely looks at me during the journey, choosing to rather focus on the tiles.

I wonder what will be done to him. I wonder if I'll have to hurt him. I wonder if I'll hear him scream. I probably will. I don't want that. With others I have felt the same, but here desperation is stacking up and up atop my heart, weighing it down. Midway through the journey when the corridor is empty, I push him against the wall.