THE APOSTATE SAINT

The feast was already in its early stages about an hour after the final competition had drawn to a close. The benefactor of the contests had extended an invitation to dine to all of the immediate families of the competitors. That act cast a wide net and drew a large crowd of Primisian, so it was as such that the guests treated the event as they did all parties for the highest class of society. Servants made their way through the hungry crowd with fresh fruit and libations. And, of course, there was music being played by all of the best musicians except one. Alaric would have preferred to be among that group, rather than being overwhelmed by all of the well-wishers and social climbers now bombarding him with niceties.

Alaric lost track of the runner-up Fridok as soon as they arrived to the party. The way the Solumian swordsman had been able to slip away from all of the commotion without being accosted made Alaric outright jealous of the man's ability to make himself invisible. It seemed that being a Solumian did come with some perks, even though they were likely few and far between. Perhaps the Gifted One would attempt to rein in a new order of things, one that would remake the City to be more like the utopian society of old, when the City was ruled by a fair and gentle leader and no man ever went hungry. If that was his intention, then the man would be very likely be fighting against an overwhelming force of enemies very soon. Primisians were in power and they were not keen on giving up an ounce of it. The fact that the Senate was allowing all of this to continue unobstructed came as an absolute shock to Alaric. It was obvious they were blindsided by the whole chain of events, but their lack of resistance was completely unlike them. Alaric decided that business was for his father and his colleagues, who were sparse this evening.

A great host of servants came forth carrying large trays of food, splitting the crowd. Alaric eventually found his seat, the chair right next to where the Gifted Man would sit, whenever he was to arrive. He was quite an enigmatic and intimidating fellow, but he was full of surprises. The way he already commanded respect from some of the highest ranking officials of the City elevated his mystique to levels Alaric had never seen in his short life. The republic was deliberately designed to prevent a monarch from ascending, yet already many people were calling for this man to ascend to the seat of the Toriad. Some Senators even vocally supported this idea, but those already showing support for the crowning were all lower in rank and tenure. It was clear that these junior Senators saw opportunity in this man, and they aimed to latch onto him as they hoisted him up.

Sitting two seats away from Alaric was his friend Geilamir, who gave Alaric a friendly pat on the back when he found his seat. “I don’t know about you,” he said. “But I’m starving.” Alaric agreed, fully aware of how hungry the afternoon’s events had made him. Training always brought his appetite to the forefront, but right now he was downright starving.

Seated in the other places of honor were many faces that Alaric recognized, each the winners of their respective competitions. Sitting next to Geilamir were his friends Euric Alcamora and his cousin Bulgar. It came as no surprise to Alaric that these two had won the archery competition – their rivalry was well known throughout the City, and there was no one who could even come close to either one of them in target shooting. Next in line were Ervig Lacertian and Isidore Maritium, the victors of the spear and lance competition. Aside from the Solumian Fridok who was still missing, all of the winners of the competitions were well known to Alaric as his peers and mentors. While Ervig and Isidore were considerably older than the rest, they were still regular faces at the training grounds where Alaric spent most of his time outside of the home. The two of them were actually some of the earliest trainers Alaric had for swordplay, before he graduated to the top of his class. He still looked to them for advice.

Alaric had enjoyed watching all of the games that were held that day. The spear and lance competition boasted a jousting tournament that provided considerable danger, though nobody died in that event, like in the sword competition. There had been six casualties in Alaric’s event, and four of them were people that Alaric knew personally. Among the dead were Crassius Lomen the second son of Senator Caldeus Lomen, Senator Minimus Brutus Mortimer the head of his house and one of the first to show support to the outsider. There was also Palodius Sixtus the kindly middle-aged amphitheater groundskeeper, and Tommus Grelian the crotchety old retired Senator who never married, always saying it was because women and children were a distraction. All of these men were now dead, trampled under the weight of their ambition. The veneer of Alaric’s victory had been tarnished by their blood.

“I bet Senator Minimus Mortimer thought he would be up here instead of us,” Geilamir said, too casually for Alaric’s liking. It was odd that he said that, right as Alaric was considering the dead. “I bet he wasn't counting on a swordfight being the end of his political career. They're all fools, you know. They didn't have to fight. Fools, each one of them. Serves them right.”

“What are you talking about?” Alaric said. “How can you say such a thing? Have you no respect at all for the dead?”

“They started it by getting into the arena with real fighters. They should have known better. And now they're dead.” Geilamir pantomimed squishing an insect under his thumb, making a crude splatting noise with his mouth.

Alaric simply couldn’t believe the audacity of his friend’s statements. He understood that it might be too hard to face the reality of the situation, but his behavior was rather unbecoming of a Primisian.

“Where's the filthy workman who cut him up, anyway?” Geilamir asked, motioning toward Fridok's empty seat. “That brute probably realized he was too far out of his element and tucked tail back to whatever hole he crawled out of. It’ll be better with just us six unlucky bastards anyway. He will probably just slow us down or break rank at the first sign of trouble. That's what a liability looks like, and I'm glad he's not here.”

“He will be here,” Alaric retorted with false confidence. He didn’t really know anything about the man, after all, aside from the fact that he could swing a sword. To Alaric, however, that actually carried a lot of weight. Very few people actually gave him much of a challenge anymore. “And don’t forget that he beat you in the melee,” Alaric added.

“He lasted longer by sheer coincidence; he didn’t beat me,” Geilamir said. “From what my father said, that man only made it out of his fights because everybody else ignored him. It was a fluke, nothing else. The sort of thing that could never happen twice.”

“Perhaps you’ll do well being far away from your father,” Alaric said. Geilamir frowned. “Just what is that supposed to mean?” Alaric wasted no time responding. “You didn’t fight Fridok. I did. If it weren’t for the poor make of his sword, I’d be sitting right next to you instead of in the top chair. I’m telling you, he earned his place here just as much as you did. He probably deserves it more, even. He doesn’t have the luxury of masters-at-arms and three hours of free training every day like we do. He’s tough because he’s had to fight every moment of his life to be here.”

“I think maybe you’re assuming an awful lot about the fellow,” said Geilamir. “It was just one fight. You really know nothing about his character or his history. You just love singing about unlikely heroes.”

“Maybe we can go a round after this mess, just you and me?” came a voice from behind. Fridok the Solumian stood there, staring right at Geilamir. Alaric had no idea just how long he had been listening to the conversation. Just as easily as he had disappeared, he had turned back up.

“Oh, sure,” said Geilamir. “But with what sword?” He must have felt very proud of that insult. “He can use mine,” retorted Alaric, quickly coming to Fridok’s aid. “I’d love to see what he can do with a blade that matches his skill.”

Fridok stared intensely at Geilamir, who suddenly found other things much more interesting to stare at instead. It was a nice change of pace.

Fridok took his seat. Alaric could tell that the man was deeply uncomfortable here. Alaric decided he would have to do his best to make Fridok feel welcome from now on. Maybe Geilamir was right. Maybe Alaric found Fridok interesting because he was exactly the kind of person that belonged in a song.

“Where’s your friend?” Alaric asked. “Art, was it?”

Fridok pointed over at another table some distance away. Art saw Fridok point at him and responded with a very rude hand gesture.

“I couldn’t find a soul who would let him sit with them, so I had to threaten to beat some of their faces in if they didn’t.” Alaric smiled sheepishly at the comment.

The man spoke so freely and without restraint. Alaric only wished he could speak his mind half as much as what came so naturally for this man.

Horns blasted a fanfare that interrupted every conversation taking place in the entire garden. Gasps and cheers filled the air as a group of men walked in a line from where the trumpets were sounding. It took Alaric a moment to realize why the audience had reacted in such a way, but when he saw it, he couldn’t believe his eyes.

Every single swordsman who had been killed in the melee was now alive and walked among them. Each of them wore clothing of pure white, theatrics the like of which Alaric appreciated greatly. Unbelievable, he thought. They live!

Geilamir gagged and grasped at his throat. Apparently he was even more shocked than Alaric was, so much so that he had swallowed something incorrectly. In a flash, Fridok was on his feet, slamming the flat of his hand hard against Geilamir’s back. A large grape was ejected from Geilamir's mouth with tremendous force. Geilamir found instant relief, but both of his hands went instinctively to comfort the part of his back where Fridok had hit him. Fridok sat down with this act, gave Alaric a cheeky smile, then pulled his chair in and focused on the procession.

“Namer, you slap like a donkey kicks,” Geilamir said, coming back to his senses. He stared at the men there, being paraded around. It was nothing short of a miracle, indeed that these men were alive. It was no wonder why some people were beginning to call this man "the Son". To them, his heritage was no question.

“I killed that man right there,” Geilamir said, pointing at one of the two men that Alaric didn’t recognize. “I cut him to bits. I damn near butchered him.” Geilamir stopped himself before he could say anything else, but Alaric could tell that it had been weighing heavily on him all day.

“Thank the Namer then,” said Alaric.

“They can thank the Son to his face,” Fridok said. He turned to Geilamir, bringing a grape up to his mouth. “But you – you can thank me.” He chewed, slowly, and swallowed. He grabbed the seed from his mouth with his thumb and pointer finger, showing Geilamir that, indeed, one should always remember to spit out the seed when eating grapes. Geilamir fumed, and then, at last, the meal began to be served.

"Finally," said Fridok. "I've been waiting for this moment."