Beneath The Endless Sky

Without Night To Grieve There Is No Morrow

Leslie enjoyed fighting.

It wasn't the proudest thing he had ever learned about himself. In fact, it had been a source of sorrow for more than a few years of his life. But it was a part of him, and it was easier to appreciate in moments like this.

He had just spent three minutes trading blows with the young man now being attended to. Three minutes where his fists struck muscle and bone, where the palms of his hands caught or turned fists away, where his feet danced to the cacophonous rhythm of a fight. And those minutes were sublime.

It was the simplicity of a fight that appealed to him so much. The relief of having life narrowed down into the focused demands of combat.

And now he waited, both relieved and relaxed, for the next round to begin.

Somewhere in the crowd, he could hear someone cheering his name. He put a few seconds into looking around at the hundreds of people watching, but couldn't spot Anita.

He turned back to his opponent just as the referee stepped into the middle of the dirt square that served as their ring. The man looked at Leslie, then looked over at the young man in the other corner. "Fighters, forward."

Leslie stepped up, his feet so light on the dirt he was worried he hadn't actually walked. His young opponent looked like he had changed quite a bit since the beginning of their first round together. His cheerful arrogance had vanished like morning mist in the sun. Where he had hopped about before the first round, he now stood with his guard already up.

Leslie suspected the cut eyebrow, the red welt in the shape of a fist on the boy's cheek, and the face that the boy seemed to hurt on his left side, all contributed to his opponent's newfound wariness.

"All right lads," the referee said. More so than anyone in the audience, the heavy-set man overseeing their match seemed to be enjoying himself. Leslie wasn't sure if the man enjoyed the fight, or if he had money on the outcome. "Nice and clean, just like last round. Three minutes, or anything that ends the match before then. Fighters, are you ready?"

"Ready," Leslie responded immediately. His opponent nodded a moment later.

"Then fight!" The referee cried out, and swept his arm down between them.

The crowd roared, and Leslie moved with the swelling cheers. Two quick steps closed the distance, his left foot forward, his left fist in a jab aimed straight at his opponent's face.

The boy, startled, took a half-step back, and leaned to the side. Leslie saw the dip in the boy's stance, the pull of the shoulder, and kept his left arm partially extended, to draw his opponent into countering.

His opponent took the bait, extending into a right cross, twisting his torso into the punch. Leslie, hoping for it, had already shifted his weight to his right leg. He used his left arm to brush the punch aside, and threw a hard right hook.

Leslie's blow rocked the boy's to the side, sending him stumbling backwards. Arms crossed in front of his face, the boy shuffled back another couple of steps. Leslie might have followed, but the first punch felt less like hitting a person, and more like hitting an open door.

"You rolled with that punch nicely," Leslie said, and meant the compliment. If there was anything Wayfarers understood better than anyone else under the sky, it was momentum.

The boy stopped when he saw Leslie wasn't pursuing, and rose back up to his full height. Once they made eye contact, and he could see the boy was ready, he shuffled forward and opened with a few quick jabs. Nothing hard, just enough to make sure the boy kept his hands up.