The Battle of Centarium

Theo coughed, the taste of blood and dust in the back of his throat. He stumbled and tripped while trying to stand. All around him noises echoed. Theo tried in a daze to understand them, but they were just a senseless ring in his ears.

As his eyes started to clear, he felt a push in the center of his face. As he collapsed, the sounds abruptly loudened. The screams and cheers of the small crowd were near deafening as he came back to his senses. He was in the arena, inside the city of Jakwell. Jumping to his feet, he turned to his opponent.

Theo stood there, short, thin black hair, build from years of blacksmith work and hard labor. This is when he felt alive, in the center of the war games, wiping blood from his chin. Chanting from the hundred people in the stands in the back of his mind as he watched the man across from him.

The man was as built as Theo, taller, and more violent. Long brown hair than covering his face. As he examined him, he built a plan of attack. Before he could finish the man charged, and to Theo's surprised, ran in for a headbutt. Theo took a step back to balance his weight, and lunged forward into the attack headfirst.

They collided with a horrid 'thud', but Theo's combatant got the worst of it. They fell to the ground in a tangle of limbs, and Theo quickly climbed on top of the man as hurriedly as he could. The man rose his hands, a desperate attempt to stop the fists that were about to pound him into submission.

He pushed the man's hands out of his face, then started throwing hard shots at the man's jaw. One, two, three strikes in the teeth. Still, the man struggled to escape his grasp. The crowd was frantically yelling, whether at Theo's relentless attack or the other man's persistence, he knew not.

Theo grabbed the man's hair, and held his head in place. Theo took one last look into his combatant's eyes, as if apologizing for the pain he was about to cause. He rose his already bloody fist, and measured the shot slowly. Then, with a stressful push on his bicep, he thrust his knuckles into the man's forehead. The man choked, spit out a few teeth, and passed out.
Letting the mans head drop to the floor, Theo stood and rose his arms in the air, triumph on his face. For the first time, he let the crowds cheers get to him, he let himself smile. This was, after all, when he felt alive.

The next morning, he awoke trampled, sore, and already forgotten by the crowd that witnessed his victory. As these things go, he collected his winnings. Disappointed that he had only won first in hand to hand, and then was on his way home to Elorith.
He walked to the edge of Jakwel, and decided to take a horse drawn wagon home. Even with the relaxed ride, he was stressed. To be forgotten was a usual aspect to him, too usual he thought. His father, Abraham, had been a champion in arenas during his youth. Fighting for the memory of his deceased wife, Theo's mother. Theo, however, never could live to the expectations set before him.

He was not as good a blacksmith, not as good a fighter, and not as good a man as his late father. It tortured him, ripping his pride to pieces. "Winners are forgotten, but legends live forever." His father would tell him. What he never told his child, was how to become that legend.

Hard work and skill wasn't enough, he knew because he had both. He had practiced swordsmanship and archery since he was old enough to walk, and in his later years built himself a physique that rivaled any. Still, no matter how much he won, they never remembered his name upon his next entrance.

Hanging his head and running his hands over a lump that had arisen, Theo began to cry. Tears flowing, coughing and trembling, but keeping it quiet so the driver didn't hear.

"I've done it all father," he whispered to himself, "I've done what you instructed. Still, I am not respected by a soul. I have fought and burned steel my whole life,"

He cut off, choking on his tears and feeling weak for letting go, "but once I die it will have been for nothing. My life... will have been for nothing." He sobbed, anger, sorrow and despair in his usually strong voice.

He stilled his tears, and looked up to see a sign, 'Elorith 5 miles'. He called to the driver that he could walk the rest, and jumped off the wagon.

"Have a nice day sir'," the driver bellowed as Theo walked off. He thanked him with a small wave, and walked into the night before him.

He had a smith to run in the morning, so a rest would do him good. Before he could make it home, however, he heard a rustle in the bushes ahead of him. Squinting curiously at the hedge, he walked forward. Without warning there was a blade to his back and a whisper in his ear.

"Take off ya' clothes and give me yer' gold." The voice slithered, pressing the knife harder on his back. An implication that he would kill, but an implication that Theo ignored.

"Ye- yes mister. Just l- l- let me get my c- c- coin purse," Theo lied as he slowly reached his fingers toward his jacket. The thief's voice had a little tick at this. Feeling empowered at the fear he believed he caused.

With a quick grab and a twist of his wrist, Theo had the man on his knees and the knife on the ground. Before the thief could fumble for the weapon in the darkness, he was struck dead center in the face with the heel of Theo's foot.

He rolled and moaned as he was kicked away, and tried to pull himself up from the dirt. Theo took a step toward him, intent on staying in attack mode. Suddenly, a noise deafened him, churning his stomach and threatening to throw him off his feet. He clutched at his head as this scraping noise grew louder and more painful. Finally, he landed hard on his hands and knees, and looked up long enough to see the thief running for dear life before Theo fell on his face.

Still it didn't dull, it persisted with the intent, Theo felt, of exploding his head. Then, it stopped. Silence was all he heard, and it was a moment before he realized it. His heart started beating like a drum, feeling it throb hard in his throat. He rolled on his back in fear, and saw that the ceiling of the world was the sight of hell itself.

Flames bit and nipped at each others tail, and spun as if pushed into each other. From horizon to horizon, there was nothing but the fire that consumed the moon and stars that he had grown to care for. Nothing but chaos remained.

He gazed unblinkingly at it for several minutes, then sat up and averted his eyes. 'Not possible' were the only two words he could think of, and was terrified at the thought of the flames falling upon him. He stood and started to step backwards, until he bumped into a hard object that hadn't been there only a moment ago.

Spinning on his heel and ready to defend himself, Theo noticed what the obstruction was. A single, and beautiful, sword. It stuck in the ground straight up, as if dropped from the heavens. Its pommel, a black flame that was sharp enough to cut in and of its self. Then the hilt and cross guard, which looked like a blackish marble, was shaped in the image of two dragons heads. Great and majestic, perfect in every way.

He gazed for a moment before he threw his hands upon it, and at this action all hell broke loose. The trees around him began to shake, leafs and limbs alike crashing into Theo's chest and back. He didn't let go, he persisted, refusing to let go of this brilliant piece of art. The hurricane winds lasted but a second, and in those seconds Theo forgot about the burning sky.
A chorus of voices rang over the mountains and through the trees, speaking only seven words. "The Battle of Centarium has now begun." With that, it all vanished. The wind, the burning sky, all but the sword in his palm's had sunk into a soft, calm nothingness.

Confused and shaken, Theo glared at his new weapon. Without a word, he vowed then and there to find the meaning of it all. Not knowing his destiny had just been sung, in the form of seven words.