29 - Alexander - A Torturous Mistake:

I lay in bed for a time, staring at the ceiling. A man had failed to see this dawn due to my action...and my inaction. My adoptive father had always said I had a gift - an extraordinary talent in combat. Here it had been proven – I had delivered a mortal wound on instinct alone. I had trained with the intent of defending others, but was defending myself alone a worthy act? I had no immediate answer, but there seemed little honour in it.

Paradoxically, while my skills at combat appeared to have developed only too well, my other ability – for which I had been better known among the people of Hammerfell – had achieved nothing. Had I simply been too late in casting the spell of healing? If so, my immediate reaction of disgust had fuelled further injury to the wounded, simply through my inaction. My hesitation had cost a life, and I now vowed never to hesitate again – not when I knew what was right.

What then was I doing now other than hesitating... contemplating the past with regret. In line with my new vow, I forced myself to rise, and - with a sensation almost of revulsion - clad myself in my iron armour. Leaving without a further word to Nerussa (and hoping she would forgive my lack of manners) I turned towards where the Imperial City awaited me.

The rising sun shone from behind the walls, lighting the sky as I paced across the immense bridge that spanned Lake Rumare. The light would have blinded me, but for the fact that I walked now in the shadow of the Palace Tower – so great as to be visible from the very borders of Cyrodiil. The gates hung open, guards standing to attention on either side, and I strode into the city.

Standing in Talos Plaze I gazed around in open wonder. Here stood a guard, dressed in intricate ornate armour, there a marble house – generations old, and here - the great statue of a Dragon. I suppose in time this shall become familiar to me – certainly the inhabitants seemed to be keeping their heads down – but for now, the sights were new and wondrous.

My reverie was broken however, by the intrusion of a beggar. He stood forlorn and desperate, his face speaking of sorrow and poverty. A single coin? I handed it over without hesitation, food for a day said he, and my heart lightened with my purse.

Alas my purse was already light enough, for beyond my armour, a sword, a change of clothes and the smiths hammers gifted upon me by my father, I too was in need. I had hoped that the Fighters Guild might provide some income, but it seemed now as if that would have to wait until I journeyed to a far flung town – and I could not travel on an empty purse. Yet I did not begrudge the beggar my gold for even a second; his need was greater than mine, and it merely spurred my efforts.

Walking onwards, I came upon a striking poster adorning a wall. It illustrated a scene of glory, bold combatants standing in the foreground, while in the background – The Arena! Perhaps this could provide me with some income. The idea appealed to me, for the fights would be honourable and against willing opponents. Further, I would use my healing magic upon my opponents upon defeating them, and likewise presumable an official would do so unto me if I were bested.

So it was that ten minutes later I found myself approaching the blond haired Bosner who stood before the Arena coliseum.

“Ah, a fresh face. Welcome! Come to place a wager on the outcome of a match? Or perhaps you wish to become one of our fine combatants?” An enthusiastic patter of speech.

“Not the former, betting is dishonoura…” I began, pausing, before deciding that simplicity would suffice “I would be a combatant”

“Excellent, we’re always looking for new bodie…ah, that is, new faces. Very well, you will be assigned to the yellow team. They’re a little undermanned these days, mainly due to a certain…” he paused, glancing around, before hissing “…witch”

“Do the duels allow magic then? I know only healing magic”

“Ah that’s good…no that shouldn’t be a problem. There is only one person who reall…look, it’s nothing to be concerned about. I wish you luck”

He had already turned away, espying a man in blue robes approaching. A regular customer perhaps… not the 'witch' anyway.

‘No hesitation’ I had vowed, and I therefore strode into the yellow teams’ under works; a dimly lit training facility. Approaching an Orchish gladiator, I was informed in a gruff and dismissive tone that the yellow supervisor didn’t “waste his time on Pit Dogs”, and that I should simply grab an Arena Raiment and head up to the Arena floor.

The armour was lain out upon the side. Standardised armour for all combatants…I approved of that, it spoke of fairness. Stripping off my iron garb, and leaving only my helm, shield and sword, I donned a heavier form of the raiment, before walking up a winding passage which would take me to the Arena proper. Clotted blood marked the floor, and I began to wonder whether sometimes the Arena healers didn’t always get there in time. No…surely they would be trained beyond even my notable skills. This was no time to get distracted; I stepped forth into the harsh blinding light of the Arena.

An announcer’s voice boomed out, introducing the opponent and I – she being a female Dunmar. It seemed she too was a ‘Pit Dog’, and had yet to fight. Perhaps they were easing us in; it seemed a little unlikely that I could otherwise have come up against an unproven combatant. Hoping she would prove an honourable opponent, I nevertheless cast aside such considerations as the gate fell.

We both charged, meeting at the centre of the Arena. She armed with a short sword and light raiment, while I wielding my iron long sword and shield. It became clear almost instantly that she was outmatched, her cuts and lunges positively lethargic compared to my swift fencing and footwork. A series of quick feints threw her off balance and I struck, cutting lightly into her sword arm’s shoulder. She leapt backwards panting.

“Do you yield, honourable opponent?” I asked

She spoke not a word, looking at me in disbelief and…fear? I had never had a woman look upon me with fear in her eyes, and it unnerved me. Would she not yield before I dealt her a serious injury? I had no option but to continue, again easily overcoming her defences to deal a second blow, this time sending her helm flying and landing a thin gash across her brow.

“Will you not yield!?” I demanded again, louder than before

“Do not…mock me!” She spoke through clenched teeth, clearly in some pain.

I struggled to understand her words; did she refer to the wounds I had given her? However, I had no time to formulate a reply, for she charged upon me with a cry. Alas her defence was wide open, and I merely leapt aside lightly, drawing forth a trail of blood from her left hand. She stood again, breathing heavily.

Cries emerged from the crowd, yet I could not hear the words. Were they disappointed with the fight? An aspect of it? What more could I do… she would not yield. Perhaps her stubbornness then was the cause for the crowds’ impatience. I had won, she had been defeated, and now I should heal her and support her out of the Arena, making way for the next match.

I stepped forward, palm outstretched, but she fell back, tripping as she went – staring at me in abject terror. I approached again, leaning forward and reaching forth – but as I did so she grabbed for her short sword, stabbing upwards. I twisted away, slipping, and fell upon her, the short sword between us. Scrabbling desperately, I leapt back in a single movement, but it was too late - none would now ever come from her.

A pool of blood spread outward from her…from the wound in her chest…from the sword that my body had driven through her. I jumped forward summoning a spell of healing with all my strength, casting it again and again into her still body…but she would not move. I howled in despair, my vision clouding.

I can remember little of the following minutes; eventually I found myself sitting propped against a wall in the under works. None approached, and indeed my fellow fighters appeared to be eying me with disgust. Would they ever forgive me for killing a gladiator? I was desolate, and grabbing my pack (and a purse that had been cast beside me) I left the under works behind without a word.

Upon emerging, blinking, into the streets above, I was approached by the blue robed man I had observed earlier. Before he could speak however, a drunk man swaggered past, swearing at me.

“Cruel Alexander you are…ye…why did ye ‘av to kill ‘er like that? She waz ‘jus a little lady..n you…you tortured ‘err you did! You tortured er' before th' end! N' then...n' then desecratin 'er body wit magic...pah”

“But I…she wouldn’t yield! I tried to save her, I swear I tried!” I cried; but the drunk had walked away, his spittle the only reply.

I felt an arm upon my shoulder; the man in blue.

“I understand my son, I can understand you... and this tragedy, completely” he spoke softly, reassuringly “Come with me, I have a place we can go…please”

“I begged her to yield!” I began “I begged her, but she wouldn’t give up! Why!?”

A look of sympathy crossed his face “Aye lad, these are mortal fights, only one emerges alive. I see you’re in need of help, and I won’t turn away from one in need, come with me to the temple”

I could barely understand his words. Fights to the death? Then the accusations of torture had been because of my refusal to mortally wound the lady? My actions appearing to prolong agony out of evil cruelty? I could scarcely begin to appreciate the enormity of my blunder. I stumbled alongside the robed man, leaning upon him for support as tears streamed down my face.

A beggar clawed at my leg from the gutter; I looked down through swollen eyes to see the man was afflicted with plague. He flinched as I stooped, and I almost hesitated…the recent memories…but I forced myself not to shrink, casting a spell of healing upon him. As my new friend tugged upon my arm, I turned one last time, throwing the blood money from the Arena to the beggar in the dirt; his look of fear replaced now with wonder.

“I see ye have more than one gift friend Alexander, it was wasn’t it? I am Brother Andrew, please come with me and rest at the temple, we can help you there”

Directionless, I simply followed Brother Andrew as we stumbled through the central graveyard; I like a lame man, he a guide. The temple district lay before us.