THE APOSTATE SAINT

His chance, it seemed, had finally come. Without even allowing himself a moment to catch his breath, Fridok enthusiastically retrieved his sword from its hiding place inside his tiny apartment. It was time to emerge, once and for all, from this loathsome place with its mold-covered walls and its legion of foul odors. A savior had come at last to the City. After demonstrating his divinity in front of the entire City, the savior called for a tournament to be held, something not even the Senate was able to deny. For the first time in years, the amphitheater would reopen to the public and a grand exhibition would be held. The liberator didn't just call for Primisian contestants; he specifically said he wanted "any able-bodied Citizen who is willing to give everything to conquer the darkness." Even though the man made it clear that only the best warriors would accompany him, Fridok knew there would never again be such an opportunity to seize his own destiny.

Fridok left the run-down, cramped apartment building, confident that it wouldn't be long before he could bid farewell to that squalor. Nothing else mattered to him other than this one chance to lift himself up. He had seen exactly what life in the City had in store for him, if he didn't do this thing. It was either he take this chance now or he might as well cast himself into the chasm of the quarry to avoid the regret and shame of missing out.

Nobody paid Fridok any mind on the way to the old amphitheater. On a normal day, he would have been inundated with questions of why a Solumian would need to carry a sword, along with how it had managed to end up in his hands in the first place. Accusations would be thrown, somebody would probably attempt to confiscate his sword and then things would undoubtedly get pretty ugly pretty quickly. Thankfully there was an abundance of chaos at that time, so people barely even took notice of Fridok and his sword. If only his father could see him now.

"Boys carry weapons and fight a thousand imaginary foes. Men know that if they feel the need to carry weapons at all, then the real enemy has already won."

It was something his father said once to Fridok when he was a small child obsessed with swords. Fridok would drone on and on about one day having a sword like the nobility, so one day his father stopped him and said those words to him. The words re-emerged in his mind when his father died, and had stuck with Fridok ever since. Fridok had given up on the dream of owning a sword until he remembered what his father said. It was Fridok's greatest act of defiance, then, to dedicate himself to one day owning a sword so that he could spite the man whose death had destroyed his own family.

I carry a sword because there ARE thousands of enemies, all around me, all the time.

A great crowd had amassed in the plaza outside the amphitheater which was still roped-off while the laborers worked to make the building suitable for use. Fridok scanned the area for an indication of where he might be able to enlist for the tournament. Only after climbing halfway up a tree and peering over the crowd did he see the booth where men were lined up. Fridok made haste toward that group, pushing people aside who wouldn't move out of his way. When he arrived at the place and joined the queue, he instantly felt awkward and out of place.

He, a destitute Solumian stuck out like the feathers in his tattered pillow in the back of the line of Primisian pretty-boys. Each of the rich young men standing ahead of him were hungry to prove their pedigree was the best. Fridok had seen many of them before in the training grounds, but he had never stood among them. Each of these pampered boys had the luxury to pursue swordplay as a pastime, personally trained by weapon masters. To them, this must have been just a demonstration of their high status, a game in which they would play prior to returning to lap of luxury. Surely, they were not actually hoping to win this contest. They would leave all of their wealth and comforts of home. Fridok decided he would make short work of them. To him, this was the only thing in life that now mattered. To them, it was just another day at the amphitheater.

When Fridok’s turn finally came up in the queue, the magistrate scribbling away paid him little regard.

“State your name.”

“Fridok.”

The man winced, clearly annoyed. “Not what your friends call you, damn it. Name, family name and honorary title, if you have one. This is an official registration, which means I need to know exactly who you are.”

“Fridok.”

The man turned up from his parchment, just then taking his first glimpse at Fridok. He was clearly taken aback by Fridok's appearance, and appeared mortified when he saw that Fridok actually carried a sword on his person.

The magistrate's visceral response to Fridok’s appearance reassured the queer feelings he had gotten when he joined the queue.

“You cannot be serious,” the man said. The look itself was enough damage to make Fridok want to shrink up and flee. Instead of allowing the man's attitude to deter him from his goals, Fridok steeled his resolve and prepared to fight one of the thousand enemies he always knew surrounded him.

“My steel is strong and sharp. My body is stronger and sharper, and my will is strongest and sharpest of all.” Fridok said, rebuking the man's words. “The man called for all able-bodied men, and I have answered that call. React however you like, but in the end you will see what I am capable of in the arena."

“Bold of you to assume we would allow refuse like you inside in the first place. Begone.” He shooed Fridok away.

“I missed the part where he said I wasn't allowed to participate. Do not deny him what he has summoned. I've come to answer that call, and I've even brought my own sword. You cannot deny me my destiny.”

“This isn’t some back-alley fighting ring where any filthy Solum can scrap about in their piss and shit. This will be the most prestigious melee of our time. You are not welcome here, not even as a spectator, and I, certainly, will not permit you to join the ranks of true athletes. Leave at once!”

Fridok placed his prized gladius upon the table. “I wager this,” he said. The man looked down at Fridok’s blade, only the slightest bit entertained. “To you, personally. If I should lose this contest, I won’t be needing it anymore, so you can take pride in knowing you disarmed a Solumian and put him back in his place.”

The man hesitated. Fridok could tell the proposition enticed him, but he resisted it anyway.

“You seek to bribe me with some flawed, discount sword?” he said. “That piece of scrap wouldn’t last three strikes against proper steel without buckling or breaking.”

“Look again!” Fridok demanded, fury fueling his insistence. “I may be Solumian, but the blade was purchased at fair market value from a Primisian blacksmith. If you understood how much I paid for this sword, you would not balk so easily at it. It is the work of the blade smith Taranilius. See, his inscription here.”

The man eyed the etchings of the gladius tentatively. If he was at all impressed, the only indicator Fridok had was that he didn't immediately reiterate himself.

“Taranilius is only the fourth or fifth best weaponsmith in the City. Swords aren’t even his specialty – he’s better known for his spears. I wasn’t aware he even made these.” The magistrate placed one hand on the hilt and one hand on the tip and attempted to bend the sword. Fridok stared at him with disbelief. He wasn’t even sure how to respond at this point. Being attacked for things he couldn’t control was something he had dealt with all of his life. Having his prized possession, the object he had worked for years to obtain, be insulted and berated was something Fridok was failing to withstand rather extravagantly.

“What do I care?” the man said, changing his tone. “You lack proper training, so you’ll be dead or disarmed in thirty seconds in the battle, anyway. Not to mention you'll be an easy target by the look of you. If you want to throw away your life and donate your sword to me, I won’t stand in the way of your righteous self-destruction.”

“You’ll enter my name, then?” Fridok asked, a flood of emotion coursing through his body.

“Your name means nothing, and neither do you. You wish so badly to dance in a league in which you’ll never be a member, I will grant you this one opportunity. But when you fall, the sword is mine. It should fetch a few silver, at least. Sign here for the role call, and sign... here, for the wager." Fridok did exactly as he was told with haste, as to avoid the man possibly changing his mind. "Good. Now, begone Fridok. You’re holding up my line and there are far more relevant registrants that still need to be processed.”

Fridok buried his excitement but was immolated with it. The moment he had been hoping for had become real. All of the countless hours he’d spent anticipating this one opportunity to pull himself out of obscurity were finally about to pay off. In his excitement, he didn’t look behind himself before walking away. He stumbled into a young noble with long blond hair.

“Sorry,” Fridok said, realizing only a second later who the young man was.

“No problem at all,” the boy replied. “Congratulations on winning your first battle. See you on the field, then?”

Hearing Alaricus speak to him not as a commoner but as a proper peer made pride well up in Fridok. This was the beginning of a new chapter in his life. It was time to make his mother proud. It was time to prove his father was wrong about everything.