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Warrior Alaraeus

by N.F. David
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Published by N.F. David at Smashwords
Copyright 2012 N.F. David
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The crowd went wild as Viaresha pulled out her curved blade and cut a slash over her breast. It was dull metal and left a ragged trail, destined to heal as horrid as the chaos of ranked scars directly below. Alaraeus watched the woman through a gate of the arena's Entry Area. He shook his head, saddened by a sight ought to be fair.
She was taller than most men, and though scars plastered her muscled frame, ugly as she feigned, her figure stood in tempting curves--a man's woman. Viaresha was native to the Ahnarset region. Alaraeus recalled the stray prattle recounting these warrior women, the fascinations of their bald heads bobbing over high grasses as they stalked the plains. Any venturer who survived an approach gushed over the womens' lengthy appendages, their golden ornaments; rings, chains, which in varied dimension, circled neck, wrist, and ankle.
Alaraeus, in his occupation as Recorder, had observed these same women up close and knew more than their terrible bodies: foliage and wood spun architecture, pottery engraved in spectacles detailed as inked-art, more expressive than many a threaded marvel. He bathed with them in the waters of the Delcotiez River; and they stood exposed, as uncaring towards the eyes of Alaraeus as they were for their own men who washed beside them. This was no tribal culture, no pack of barefoot illiterates racing the wilds. Their literature proved a standard, and with their artistic talents, defined a society of rank, with added preference of an existence aligned with nature.
But Viaresha stood against her line in mongrel caricature as she gripped her handleless blade strong, tossed it hand to hand and allowed her lacerated palms to drip blood from neck to navel. And she ripped a glee from the beast-eyed audience, as she fondled herself with a soiled hand, sousing the patched front of a thong below.
The podgy announcer Grimlandon strode into the circle of dirt that floored the arena. He was an absurd display, dressed in sea colored, gold numeraled robes with peach wraps, his fingers decked in rings stacked with stone-sized emeralds, the nails lengthy, adorned beyond a woman's endowment; his milky hair flowed to his backside. He gave the arena's occupants a cherry glossed smile, his fat cheeks blushed to the their adulation. The fancy pig gorged from his fist of berries and he addressed the crowd through the sweets as they burst in his mouth and dripped in a purple stream down his chin.
"HOOOO–you blessed eyes of Carlinia!" Grimlandon said.
The crowd screamed in salutation. Alaraeus smirked, wondering if his old friend truly believed their clamor aimed at a legend so round and gaudy.
"As now the tall beauty Viaresha allows me the lauded role of announcer . . . I SPEAK!!" Cheers from the crowd. "And as the series has ended, as we remain here in fascinations, on this monument of days, I will, to your paramount of regret, part time, and sight, of my beauty."
Grimlandon brought the crowd to laughter as he spun in dance and twiddled his jeweled fingers high over his head.
"This is the final! I myself scarred knee and knuckle to cleanse from this place the soured blood that brimmed to the highest row. But it sparkles--I say the arena is refreshed! And through standards existing and documents withstanding, a fresh arena shall only be glazed with the freshest of blood!"
A lasting roar came from the crowd. Grimlandon turned to Alaraeus, glared at him through the gate. "And from today's challenger, may Carlinia beg just one . . . fucking . . . drop!" Grimlandon gave Alaraeus a wink, Alaraeus nodded in turn.
"And this challenger," Grimlandon continued, "this bloodless warrior, who with expert hands and deceptive manipulations of his own attire, parried sword and dagger. Whose educations, like the stone that builds this arena, weighed over our heads in verbal garnishments, past conquer . . . after conquer. Though your lust for carnage stirs your loathing, you are here! The man is above you, yet this man fights below . . . for you! FOR YOU CARLINIA!!"
The citizens leapt to their feet, fisting the air; their stomps echoed like thunder throughout the arena, through Alaraeus' marrow. He allowed a crack in his aural void to feel the energy. Viaresha watched him hungrily through the gate.
"No discard for queen Viaresha, his name is Alaraeus. This man . . . WARRIOR ALARAEUS!!" Grimlandon bellowed, arm out in indication of Alaraeus' location.
Cheers from the crowd. Cheers! Hidden mechanisms clanked into operation and the massive arena gate was drawn up. Alaraeus stood firm in his snowy attire as clouds of rust and dirt poured off the rising barrier. Whispers played to his ear. Alaraeus risked any hampering ridicule as he eased out of his withdrawal and gave a curious glance to the men seated in the surrounding blackness: his former opponents. They held steel in their eyes and offered spurring nods. Alaraeus bowed in appreciation. He turned back to the arena.
"Give the dog-bitch hell. . . . Break her a man. . . . Make it less the fray than our scrap," the warriors said.
Alaraeus would have wished a kinship with these men, that they saw their woundless conquering as a gift, their conqueror, commendable in merit. But warriors born of such contest rank themselves through victories proven in scars. Alaraeus knew his charity was an offense more infinite to the challenger more seasoned. The men were legends, but stand wasted by their own standard. Fools; their ultimate purpose as gushed remembrances. They seek honor in eternity, accolade through histories left in their wake, yet ignore the possibility of their warrior spirit's inability to savor past achievements from a forever hot as hell.
Alaraeus walked past the gate, into the torrid light and heavy air of the arena. The crowd's roar clarified as he moved to a position beside Grimlandon, a body length from Viaresha. Her eyes blinked flashes of uncertainty. Alaraeus smiled. He turned and scanned the crowd.
Drunks howled and swore, hecklers gave their obscene gestures, folk twisted in lust paused to give him notice. Armed Goliaths secured scantly occupied sections that were composed of the famed and noble. Alaraeus recognized some quiet, analyzing intellectuals. He knew he was a sight to them: a fellow in scholarship who locks arms with the most wretched of brutes, and in reliable prediction leaves his murderous rivals immobile yet spared, himself, unbroken.
Alaraeus turned back to Viaresha. Her bald head gave scattered reflections of the flaming lanterns that hung high over the arena's walls. She squatted deeply on her powerful legs, stood and flexed with her arms wide, her eyes tearing in forced rage. Alaraeus yawned in drama, eliciting chuckles from the crowd. He calmly smoothed his hands over his tunic, carefully stretched his neck, legs and wrists. Alaraeus felt he was gifted a critical advantage. Weapons, minus for Viaresha's bestial display, were not permitted in the final. Bare muscle and naked fist constituted this apex of the games where even the most veteran of armed masters fell--to Viaresha.
Alaraeus turned from her ugliness and settled on his loves, who in matched attire sat still amongst the audience's patterned characters, resembling dips of color settled in cloth soft as the pearl of ambiance which held them. His wife: Leaoyoo; his son: Charren. Their eyes gripped husband and father with a concern pinned deeper than the pride laid thin over their hearts exposed. Alaraeus blew a kiss to his wife, she seized it between her lips, trapped it forever with the tip of her delicate finger; to Charren a nod, equivalent the gesture given to his fallen opponents, though with an added hint of assurance. Viaresha traced Alaraeus' attention, ran to the stands and leapt high to a banister before the bottom row. Leaoyoo covered Charren's eyes as Viaresha parted her thong and fingered herself to the crowd's delight.
Leaoyoo grimaced, rolled her eyes and fanned a hand before her nose, amplifying the crowd's commotion. Alaraeus laughed along. She was stance, moral and comedy on occasion. And as Viaresha stood ill-sexed for the public, bare images of Leaoyoo forced Alaraeus to tear his eyes from her. His sole anticipation, a singular regard past opposition, to couple with a flesh so firm and unblemished; oh Leaoyoo, past perfumed waters, a day's filth and a night's revelry left behind.
Viaresha dropped down and moved to post, heaving in offense; the charge and quarry, one steeled Alaraeus. She wanted more than his blood. Grimlandon, ever the vibrant mass, stood between them.
"Both you titans are versed in standard. Beg you carry the rules of this arena. Alas!" Grimlandon put a hand to his forehead in mock weary. "Thou dost slander Carlinia have one be broken." He bowed deeply, held a palm up to face the audience. "On our word Carlinia!"
Grimlandon turned and quickly shuffled to a select area: a mountain of assorted pillows and throws, dyed loud as his own dress, varied, yet matched in their exquisiteness. Young, thin and oiled men fanned the gorgeous beast with feathers as he fell to comfort like a wedge of larded dough. Grimlandon, again, gorged his berries, again, raised a palm high and facing the crowd.
Viaresha stepped closer to Alaraeus and reached to grab his crotch: another of her rituals. Alaraeus easily caught her hand in a flash of his own and kept her in a fist. He intensified his glare, worsened his grip. Pain twisted Viaresha's composition, feminized her. Alaraeus released the woman; she stumbled backwards and stood unsure. He eased like fluid to a pose: bare feet wide, inward, hands open at his upper torso, Alaraeus, sound as sculpture.
"WAR!" Grimlandon screamed, turned his palm as a knife and arced it to the earth.
Viaresha raced her agitation, flexing, swaying in stance. Alaraeus stood unmoving. He turned to Grimlandon and watched him . . . for a time. Realization slayed the announcer's cheery composure; he dropped his fruit, shook his head and mouthed the word . . . NO. Another fellow in scholarship, as curious of traditions within other cultures--Alaraeus'. Grimlandon had turned a different path, but in times of their youth, shared private words with Alaraeus over requirements set in stone for the challenger grown father.
A child wrought past tears through discipline, his father's legacy awarded before eyes not of his own, nor of his understanding. An announcement in passing, a law engraved, carried by the seed grown without water, there in instant, accordance, their legacy continued.
Grimlandon covered his face and ran from the arena. Alaraeus turned back to Viaresha on her first assault. It was as telegraphed as all of her rituals: a step back, dips left, right, and a rising kick thrown with promise to his temple. Alaraeus felt his impatience rise along as he subdued every impulse, every natural reaction grown from roots of instruction. And he felt the eyes of his loves, more painful than the blast of Viaresha's instep. But the contact held force enough; Alaraeus fell in a daze, his eyes locked onto his wife and son as his face smacked against the fresh dirt of the arena.
There were gasps from the crowd, noble wails of horror. Silence clutched the arena and played escort to fancy for Alaraeus--of Leaoyoo. Past an extended journey,with his body fired in soreness, Alaraeus first set eyes on her. She rested on one of several low walls that ran from entry in winding paths to Quertomann Stand--birthplace of Alaraeus, Leaoyoo and Charren. She was in cheerful debate with a group of women, matched in her cream summer dress, bare on foot and shoulder. The sun's rays ran from the west and placed her in a day's glow. She turned and focused on Alaraeus as he approached, healing him with her smile.
Leaoyoo was doubled in the sparkling water that rimmed pools beneath the outer walkways. Even as rippled she was most beautiful; Alaraeus would have been satisfied with her reflection. He needed her and to be healed upon invitation . . . to his death.
There were countless obstacles, but no trials as the journey to a union with Leaoyoo was only harsh as any quest in any direction over hills brushed with flowers. Then she loved him, but he had been hers from first sight. Their circles found reason to bicker: Alaraeus, Recorder, his bearing tainted by destination; Leaoyoo, Mathmetician, cold, with a vision composed only of lines and angles. But all blood thinned in their merry as Alaraeus raised Leaoyoo in his arms and spun her in celebration, days past matrimony.
And he carried her to where he first loved her, placed Leaoyoo on that pale stone and kissed his wife anew, close as their exteriors allowed. Then they disrobed and left conformance behind to swim nude in the waters circling Quertomann, chasing their reflections by the moon's light.
Their home was built as every structure within the isolated city; by folk respective, cylindrical to regulations, ornament the only available option. And both Alaraeus and Leaoyoo were free of conscious as they left the pond in arms and walked to their residence, past guard, blood and prior flame.
The interior lay as bare, its design, their gift and responsibility. And they built with love for each other: sharp and sturdy for a woman's literature, curved and smooth for a wanderer's comfort. And Leaoyoo's belly swelled to a mass resembling the domed roof above. Charren soon joined them, wailing upon birth, quietly absorbed in his youth, his massive eyes open till Leaoyoo softly hummed him to rest. It was a love shared in trio but powered on one level.
Alaraeus existed in a distance too far to feel Viaresha's powerful hands grip his jaw and cradle his skull. Charren sat calm, focused--unwatered. Leaoyoo watched with her Mathematician's glare . . . then smiled. Viaresha pulled in opposites and Alaraeus soared as his neck was broken.
The speed invigorated him; the touch of air, he recalled . . . welcoming as the moment he left his mother's womb. And she was with her husband on the outer walls of Quertomann. Alaraeus sat beside them, the air now amorous. Each moment passed brought quick sorrow of the sensation left behind; the sorrow washed off by a heightened pleasure, in contract to rise for eternity. His father gripped his arm and laughed as they balanced triumphs. Alaraeus' for Leaoyoo: any touch between them tiered only from ardor to deliverance--a law engraved. But time can only run. She would be with him soon. And they will watch their seed . . .
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