REKINDLED

“REKINDLED”

“Arcen! You’re on in five.” The club’s referee shouted, slamming the locker room doors as he left.

Thomas nodded, hearing his words. The prodigal duelist unsheathed his estoc, its blade shimmering in the torchlight surrounding him. He examined the slender steel, and its flawless surface. Such a sword was an unusual choice among fencers, for such a tool was intended for splitting armor. It was blunted, of course, for these little skirmishes were non-lethal. He loathed them, for the adrenaline of swordfighting came from escaping death with skill.

Alas, in this case, it was merely escaping defeat. Rules needed to be followed, lest his hard work and honing of skills would be for naught. Lamenting his career, he slipped the sword into its leather-bound sheath, and prepared for the final match. The prodigy laced his boots, and did the same with his white jacket. Placing his helmet, he took a few deep breaths as his visage was entombed within iron chainlinks. He walked to the exit of the locker room, teeth and fists clenched in frustration. He had gone so far, and for what? Prestige in a gentleman’s secret society? He knew no money would become of this, for the only spoils of battle would be a mere medal.

He stepped into the sunlight, into a courtyard where men and women of opulent upbringing awaited their spectacle. They surrounded a strip of canvas; an elevated stage of combat. At the other end of this platform awaited his final opponent, whose identity he did not care for. It mattered not, for he was confident in his victory.

Slowly, he drew his blade, and the crowd erupted with applause. The gaze of the stadium transfixed on his form, for no fencer nor warrior had bested him. There was something within Thomas that sparked fear in the minds of his opponents; some speculate it was his height, for he stood at a towering six feet, six inches. Others say his pupils delivered a deathly stare, as if one would be looking into the eyes of the Reaper himself. Regardless of the theories, Thomas was an excellent fighter. But perhaps, too much so…

The finalists stood parallel to each other, the masks’ opaqueness blocking the everlasting gaze of the prodigy.

“Guard!” The referee shouted, from the center of the platform.

They raised their swords simultaneously, and the crowd’s previous silence reprised. Their fingers fidgeted as their handles were gripped, momentarily letting go before clenching once more.

“Duel!” The middleman dashed away from the combat zone, as the unknown contender rushed towards Thomas.

He stood unfazed at the sight of such a move. Thomas was no stranger to aggression; it was what drove him to fight, after all. Although, along the path to mastery, he had discovered a greater virtue; humility. As the assailant soared through the air, aiming for the champion’s chest, a simple side step dismantled the attack. With a flick of his wrist, the tip of his estoc tapped the opponent’s vest. The challenger stopped in his tracks, staggered by the speed in which he was countered.

“One-nil!” The referee called out, causing the spectators to provide another wave of applause.

An audible growl was heard from the anonymous competitor, as he returned to his starting position. His steps resounded against the white ground, almost like controlled stomping. A shift in stance brought the prodigy back to where he began, and their swords were raised once more.

“Guard!” The referee called out.

Thomas stared down the strip of land, eyes transfixed on his opponent. This time, he saw a grip of wrath envelop the rapier which his estoc bested. It was the telltale sign of a faltering spirit.

“Duel!”

A sound erupted from Thomas’ opposition. Time stood still for the prodigy, as his agile body was paralyzed in fear. The sound of thunder and the scent of black powder spread throughout the club. The spectators dashed away in a collective panic. The unthinkable had happened. A flintlock was shakily held in the competitor’s left hand, and one of his boots seemed to be loosely laced. Thomas looked down, and his white clothing was stained in crimson essence. The blood fell onto the canvas, and the fan-favorite followed suit.

“Thomas! GUARDS!” The referee called out, running over to the wounded fencer.

--

“I am Thomas! Thomas Arcen! Do you know nothing?!”  The prodigy screamed at the merchant.

“All I know is that your sword is worthless. Any mace or halberd can destroy such a thin blade. Most importantly, that is a fencing estoc. Do not waste my time.” The merchant replied, looking below the counter.

Thomas dismissed his comment, and limped to another stall in the marketplace.

“You! Swordsman. Come here.” A brown-skinned man pointed at the fencer from afar. He followed his command, his breath bated with every step.

“I know who you are. Do not let that go to your head. I am offering you a bargain.”
He continued, stroking the ends of his large mustache.

“Let’s get it over with. What are your terms?” A tinge of impatience stained his tone.

“I will fix you. Your sword, your chest, and your leg. They will return to their former state. But you must journey with a new accomplice.”

“Fix me? How will you--”

The palms of the mysterious stranger glowed a bright orange, dust-like particles illuminating his dark skin. He rested his hand on the swordfighter’s leg, and the rigid tissue and disjointed ligaments were no more. As more dust seemed to surround his body, Thomas stood in awe.

"--I'll be damned. Who is accompanying me?"

The mysterious man pulled out his own weapon from a curved, golden scabbard. It was a scimitar, unlike any other. Its arcing blade was warped into tiny waves of steel alloy, providing a serrated, fan-like edge. The handle was wrapped in burnt leather, and it smelt as if it had been salvaged from a housefire.

"Take this." He handed him the weapon, with an expression of relief on his face.

As he gripped the blade, the restoration dust that floated in the air glowed a bright red. They shifted like embers in coalfire, and the particles began to glow.

"Hello, Thomas. I am Narron. Allow me to make myself present." A voice rang in the fighter's head.

Sweat began to drip from his neck, and before he could react, Thomas was engulfed in flame. He screamed as he felt the flame charring his skin, and bystanders were rushing to find a way to extinguish the spontaneous combustion. The foreign man seemed to run away, his body joyful with every stride.

"Do not panic. Your pain will leave with your tranquility. Breathe."

With nary a water bucket to set him free from this demonic inferno, he followed the voice within his consciousness.

He took a deep breath, and exhaled. The flames rose higher, and the ground was merely soot and ash. Opening his eyes, Thomas was amazed of his newfound resistance. His body ceased to feel pain, as if it was mere air that surrounded him.

"Well done."

The flames subsided, and retreated into his scimitar's steel blade. Onlookers were in awe of the spectacle laid before them. Magic was a commonality of these lands, but this was something entirely different.

"Do you know why that man rendered my service unto you? He could not grasp my abilities. Many a mistake was made, my friend. He is dishonoured. It was as if a child had picked up a warhammer. But you, Mister Arcen...you are a veteran. You are worthy of my services. Though I am bound to you, know this; I shall not take a knee to you. For I have not seen a display worthy of true loyalty thus far. Perhaps, you could change that. It is all in your hands, Mister Arcen. You are reborn by my inferno, and it is best you live as if your life prior never occurred."

The sword's glowing, golden sheen dissipated, along with the Djinn's voice. Thomas somberly walked away from the burnt ground, pondering his future actions. Perhaps, this was what he needed. A fresh start.