Original Stories Fan Fiction ❯ To Overcome ❯ A fight ( Chapter 3 )

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High priest of Liyra, the lion god of life, on this, the seven hundredth anniversary of the first Liyra emperor's crowning, I now crown you champion and emperor of Damzeer; may your right hand be justice and your left hand retribution.” The empress took her crown from her own head and laid it gently upon her son's.

 

Smiling softly at his serious face she then reached for the tome of death and held it out for him to take. “I now give you the Tome of death; you shall be the giver of death; the god of mortality, prince of the seven cities and keeper of peace.” She finished her part of the crowning ceremony and bowed deeply to her son and watched as he rose regally from his low throne to appear before the people completing the ceremony of the second emperor.

 

Once Najja was fully standing, Jorg rose form his high throne and offered it to Akil, who sat stiffly.

 

“High priest of Scylliss, the snake goddess of seduction, on this, the two hundred and fifty-third anniversary of the first Scylliss king, I now crown you high emperor of Damzeer, may your tongue be silver and your mind like steel.” The emperor beamed mightily as he laid his heavy crown upon Akil's head, the boy's head wobbled slightly at the weight.

 

Jorg reached behind him to grab the bronze sceptre in the shape of a torch. “With the power of death in your brother's hands, I now give you the flame of life, you shall be the giver of life, god of resurrection, prince of the nine planets and keeper of prosperity.” He finished his half of the crowning ceremony and kneeled beside his wife, head bowed to his sons, his emperors.

 

Akil joined his brother, standing at his left, in the position of authority over him.

 

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The singing of blades filled the air as two bodies leapt and twirled in an intimate dance of death; short breaths ghosting between slightly parted lips, drops of perspirations running smoothly down exposed skin, slicking hair.

 

Elaborate but extremely functional, low to the ground and cunning in its swiftness, the style of fighting had never before been seen in these lands, where brute force was the deciding factor in a fight. It was a swift and pliable style, utilizing the flexibility of one's body to dodge what a blade or shield could not block. It was at once a tiger and a snake, low and cunning but swift to strike and strike devastatingly, the usually poison tipped blades flashed with such speed that only the glinting of the sun and the singing of their passing made their presence known.

 

The two Celtic princesses danced their deadly but equal fight; neither would gain the upper hand; confidant in their own and their sibling's skill.

 

They wore little more than they had the night before, and the little bit they did wear gave no protection from the chance of a slipped blade, merely because of the fact that a blade would not slip, its puppeteer to well trained in its use to let such a novice's mistake take place.

 

Finally the dancers stopped and held perfectly still, apart from the heaving of their chests as they silently fought for breath. They crouched, mirror image of the other, twin blades held behind them posed to strike at a moments notice, their long braids swinging in tandem, one dark as blood and the other pale as the sands; drops of sweet dripping from nearly identical noses and long graceful legs tucked under their bodies, ready to spring.

 

Suddenly clapping filled the silence, and then the roar of approval from the large crowd that had gathered for the royal party in honour of the new emperors.

 

The princesses sheathed their twin dirks across their backs and turned to face their lords; placing their knees together they leaned forward and touched their heads to the floor, bowing in tandem like they did everything else.

 

Najja found the duel interesting to the extreme, not once had they stopped to gauge their opponent's move, not once had they faltered or slipped; they had probably trained from a very young age to fight with such confidence.

 

His mind began to turn over ideas and plans, tactics running through his brain with very little encouragement. Plans, strategies, ways to utilize this new style, to have it integrated into his own, to have it blend with that of his armies; now the idea of having this girl, this extremely adept fighter, stay by his side as wife seemed much more appealing.

 

Akil saw the physical beauty in the fight, heaving breasts, straining legs, flying hair and the parting of moist lips; he also noticed the potential of the style but paid it very little heed, too enthralled by the beautiful display of flesh and agility.

 

He thought of how well he would like to be in his bed with the highly desired company of the night before, his wife, as he had been told only this morning.

 

He had woken to his father congratulating him on his marriage, saying how the virgin's stain upon the sheet had sealed the treaty's completion. He had been forced to undergo the ridiculously humiliating adoration of his father and the simpering of his mother, somehow in the time it took for him and Cairine to be congratulated, he had heard of his twin's bedding ceremony, and thanked Scylliss he had not been forced to undergo such an embarrassing process, poor Najja.

 

What surprised Akil was that apparently Najja had completed the act as well, which didn't really make sense, as he had been practically sleeping before he'd been sent to bed. Akil knew Najja was exhausted, and he also knew that his twin would not engage in such an activity unless he felt he could do his best; he was rather lazy that way, it was also the reason everyone believed Najja to still be a virgin.

 

But the Virgin's stain had been found, and the treaty signed by both Aislin and Najja, and sent off to Ireland and its high king.

 

 

Najja stood gracefully and walked towards the still kneeling princesses, stopping in front of his red haired one, he remembered her name was Aislin, and he found it to be such an odd name, but disregarded the thought because his own name was unusual in these parts.

 

“Aislin,” he called softly and watched as she raised her head but her eyes stayed low, like a slaves, and he frowned. This could be difficult if she wouldn't even look at him. He looked about the room for someone, he didn't yet know who, but he had to make it apparent that he was speaking to the crowd.

 

“Is there a translator here?” he spoke blandly but regally, his voice carried through that of the murmuring crowd; when he spoke people listened, they seemed to fear him, and he found the reaction to be based upon a bad sense of judgment, both on his father's and the people's side, his father for instilling him into the order of Liyra the god of retribution and judgment, and his people for believing him to be cold hearted when he had never given them a reason to believe that he was, though he hadn't given them reason not to believe so either.

 

“Here my lord,” one of the princesses' guards spoke up, in a thickly accented version of the Damzeer language. The guard bowed low before the emperor and awaited his words.

 

“Ask her if she will train me in this style of fighting,” Najja commanded, while looking upon his subservient bride. The man rolled off a few words in the same sloping and harsh language Najja had heard Aislin speak the night before, and Aislin answered softly before finally raising her eyes to his.

 

“She says that she would be honoured to train his majesty in her people's way of combat, my lord.”

 

“hn,” Najja replied before extending his hand down to the prostrate girl and helping her to her feet. When she was standing he took her jaw in his hand and gently kissed her on the lips in a show of gratitude, the gathered crowd of course took it as a sign of affection and cheered.

 

He searched the dark violet gaze of the girl, assessing her as she assessed him; finally her eyes fell, submitting to his control.

 

He led her back up to the dais and had her sit beside him the rest of the night.