Broken Halves

Chapter Twenty-Three

POV: Cole

Snarling in frustration, I roll over to avoid the dagger that is thrown my way. My opponent has given me a good run for my money, and I am started to grow angry because he has lasted this long. I am Abaddon, a destroyer; people aren't supposed to last this long in the arena with me.

Quickly spinning left, I dodge his attack only to have his blade nick the side of my ear. Pausing to hold my hand up to my ear, I am surprised to see blood coating my hand when I pull it away. No one has been able to put a mark on me in all my time here fighting in this arena. I frown, feeling even more annoyed now than I had been two minutes ago. It is time for me to end this. Sure, the show has been good and the crowd is going wild but I am fed up with this match and am ready to end it; all I want is to retire to my room and be alone with my memories. 

"Have I tired you out Abaddon?" The man sneers in an attempt to mock me. Slowly, I unleash my sword from my side. The man watches me confused by my actions. Everyone knows that I don't normally partake in sword fighting. However, he is underestimating my skills. He thinks that just because I don't typically choose this weapon it must be a weakness of mine; wrong. In fact, sword fighting was my strength growing up; being a royal does that to you.

At the palace, sword fighting is the norm for the guards. Due to the castle's location in France, it is taught that shifting into your wolf should only be done as your last resort. Therefore, it is actually quite common to see the guards training in the courtyards with their swords. When I was really little, I was fascinated. Sword fighting was not something that occurred at home and therefore the technique was foreign to me. I loved the way the men would move so gracefully all the while maintaining a deadly aura.

Granted, I probably shouldn't have been as obsessed with the fighting style as I was five, but the guards humored me. When they first saw me hiding in the bushes with an awestruck expression on my face, I was frightened that they would send me away and tell my mother; or even worse my grandmother. However, they didn't. They invited me to join them and began vocalizing every step that they made while sparring. I was too young at the time to hold one of their swords, but once word got around to my grandfather that I was intrigued, he personally taught me.

I spent hours training with my grandfather every summer when I came to visit. By the time I was 13, I was wielding an actual sword and had the agility to make me unbeatable. Ames was bulkier than I as a teen and struggled highly with sword fighting. I on the other hand, saw it as my own personal release. Whenever I was sparring with an opponent or just practicing by myself, I was always in peace. For many years I was always able to use the sport to calm down. There was something about holding the blade in my hand that just felt right to me.

I like to say that a part of that is because of my mother. Nobody, including myself, could wield a sword the way she could. When it came to grace, the woman was the true embodiment of it. She truly turned sword fighting into an art. It drove my grandmother wild, but my grandfather told me seeing her fight always made him so proud. He would tell me stories of how I fought exactly like her, with grace, speed, and an almost angelic like beauty. He would tell me there was never a time when she was growing up where she didn't have her sword secured to her side. Just like me, my mother found the motions calming and peaceful.

Grandfather would tell me that when watching one of us spar, one would believe that the weapon was attached to our bodies as we wielded it so well. When she died, my father hung her sword up in History Hall. However, I would spend hours standing there looking at it, trying to conjure what she looked like when she fought. I came to the conclusion that she would look like she was dancing. Her hair would fly in the wind as she twisted and turned with nothing but grace and agility in, what I consider her perfected art, before she went for the kill. I imagine, she would be the type of fighter who left all onlookers in shock; and I am the same way.

As I take ahold of the handle of my weapon, I breathe in the calm that the blade brings to me. Taking a second to close my eyes, I see my Mother, with her sword raised high above her head as she leaps into the air before coming down with her blade directly through the heart of her enemy.

I am bulkier now than I was as a teen, but the speed and agility never left me. I swing my blade around a few times to intimidate my opponent before posing exactly as I would when squaring off with my Grandfather.

I consider sword fighting such an intimate act, that I am almost angry with myself for sharing it with these blood thirsty spectators. But by now, I am too far gone in the peace and familiarity the weapon brings to me.

My opponent raises his daggers to show me that he is unafraid, except, he should be. He thinks he has me beat; only, he will be gone before I have even truly gotten started. He charges first, both blades raised with a look of confidence plastered on his face. I channel what I call my inner strength and allow the blade to become one with my body. I raise my left hand, weapon in tow. Once he has entered what I consider to be my space, I turn swiftly bringing my blade down with me, efficiently knocking his weapons out of his hands.

He stares at me, surprise evident in his eyes; but I don't give him much time to ponder before I am airborne, bringing my right hand to grip my weapon for added support before I perform the exact move my mother had done in my mind. Of course, ending the same way she did; with my blade piercing through the heart of my opponent.

Removing my blade, I come down from the high sword fighting always brings to me. I raise my fist in the air to please the crowd as I recount the day's events. For the past four months I have been here, slaying who I once considered my equals, my brethren. Today has been no different.

Every day, for the past four months has been the same for me. Wake up, kill, remember past memories of Jorden and Dani, and then sleep. The cycle will continue for the next 32 months. I have to live 960 more days just like today; 23,040 more hours of this life before I can return to my loved ones. But you know what? I will do it all with a smile on my face because in the end, returning to Dani is worth it, no matter how many of the same actions I have to live through.

Question of the Day: What is your go to candy?

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