Four rounds later, the searing pain in her head had subsided to a dull ache, or at least it had been pushed into a closet by her spiked adrenaline.
She stooped low to avoid a well-powered but poorly planned strike to her head, then immediately propelled her chest and right shoulder into her young opponent's torso, causing him to stumble. She snatched his knees forward with both hands, effectively sprawling him onto his back.
The last few battles seemed to have all melted together in her mind; she could barely remember the faces of the individuals she had fought to submission. The only thing she knew for sure is that she was exhausted from the near-constant movement. She'd burned through her energy so fast that by round three, as she'd made her way over and around the remains of the newly deceased, she barely processed that one of the lifeless faces waiting to be carted off belonged to Gasmi. She had never seen the woman look so peaceful, so free of burdens.
A good Chorlak would react precisely how Avaria did, detached and scarcely affected with sights set only upon the goal. Still, lingering at the outer reaches of her mind was disgust and shame directed towards herself. She had spent a lot of time with Gasmi in the past ten years, even if almost all of it was born of sheer necessity, she should feel something about her death. But she didn't, not really. There was a strange type of brokenness inside of her like something important had been unplugged in her mind. She quashed those self-analyzing thoughts; there was no time for them.
She had gone somewhat numb to all of the deaths now, numb in general, really. She barely felt her elbow connect with her adversary's cheekbone, almost didn't notice the hand smacking her side in surrender. But she did notice, so she released her grasp and flopped off of him, every limb deteriorating to mush as soon as they realized they were no longer being called upon for combat.
Avaria closed her eyes for a few seconds while consciously slowing her breathing. Her addled brain managed to supply a single coherent thought over the blood surging through her veins: she had one more battle to fight. She reopened her eyes, calmer now that her heart rate had begun to settle.
She sprung up, or at least she felt like she did, her groggy state of mind was still tainting the precision of her movements. Her unfocused vision encountered a mass of blurry moving shapes that she could only assume was the remaining Marred, still spectating from the edges of the opening.
She wasn't interested in them. She wanted to find the final two who remained in the fight so she could evaluate the competition. Through the fog in her eyes, she scanned the area, finally identifying two fuzzy figures still in the heat of battle. She blinked madly, every ounce of her remaining energy compelling her eyes to pitch in on her efforts to succeed.
Finally, brow furrowed with the effort it took, she was able to see one of the faces clearly. It was Fike, an older Chorlak who compensated for his lack of technique with his unusually bulky stature. He was a brute, but she was confident her well-practiced techniques would overpower his sledgehammer fighting style.
She turned her attention to the other profile as he landed a punch in Fike's stomach. She couldn't see the other fighter's face, his back was to her, but her muscles clenched in dread as her subconscious helpfully but unwelcomely insisted that she recognized his profile. She tried to banish the possibility; all of the male Chorlak had short white hair and a muscular frame. It was nearly impossible to tell them apart.
Nonetheless, the seed had burrowed deep into the recesses of her mind. She stood rooted to the spot, tensely awaiting a better angle, her addled brain failing to supply her with the simple solution of moving until she could see.
Fike fell backward, his legs swept from under him by his opponent, who took the opening to climb on top of him. He was done for, Avaria knew he lacked the tactics to escape such a disadvantageous position. She could see the winning Chorlak's shoulders raring back in alternating succession, no doubt sending blow after blow to Fike's face. Regardless, the man refused to surrender, instead clawing uselessly at the hips and torso that trapped him.
His attempts slowed, like an old machine gradually winding towards shutdown, until finally, his arms looked limp. His opponent delivered one final powerful punch before he stood over his victim, his hands still balled into fists at his sides. Fike's chest still rose and fell, but his face would certainly never look the same. Alas, the victor turned over his shoulder to look at her, confirming the identity she'd already suspected: Korbak. He met her eyes, a small trickle of green oozing from his lip.
“We have our final match!” Zileca's voice cut through the air, her unexpected interjection serving to remind them she was there. It seemed that the woman didn't like to be far from the center of a public spectacle.
Avaria abandoned her face-off with Korbak to look at Zileca, who had at some point descended from her raised pedestal and was now coming towards them, her lips quirked in a confident half-smile.
“You have both proved to be mighty foes. You look absolutely exhausted.”
Something about the way she enunciated her words seemed odd, although her tone wasn't menacing or even passive-aggressive. Actually, it sounded almost considerate. Avaria wasn't entirely sure what to think of the woman, and she didn't care enough to expel the effort necessary to decide. The Vice Overseer looked each of them up and down before she spoke again, a friendly grin muting her sharp features.
“We will return here to witness these two mighty warriors battle for victory when the first sun has set.” She spoke louder this time, ensuring her voice was heard throughout the arena.
Zileca gestured them closer as she also moved in, bringing the three of them into close proximity as though she might tell them a secret.
“Take this time to rest, my friends.” She paused, unexpectedly bringing a hand to gently grip Avaria's chin and angle her head to the side. “That looks terribly unpleasant.” She leaned in slightly to better inspect the injury, almost like an attentive mother, despite being only a few years older. “Do visit my medic before you go on your way. She'll stitch that up for you.”
Avaria didn't appreciate that the woman was still touching her, but she didn't comment on it. Instead, she nodded, the movement serving to casually displace the offending hand. Seemingly satisfied, Zileca firmly returned her arm to her side with a somewhat pacifying smile.
“This is a time for good cheer!” She threw both hands up in celebration, resting one on each of their outer shoulders as she brought them back down. “I have immeasurable confidence in you both.” She still wore the ghost of a friendly smile, but her words had a commanding undertone and the angles of her face were firm, almost like she was giving an order of some sort.
Her smile blossomed once again, the expression appearing full and genuine. Then she released her hold and strode between them head high, concluding the interaction.
Avaria and Korbak turned a bit to watch her go, suspicion etched in both of their sets of features. Disappointingly, they hadn't been told a secret, and now they were left standing together rather awkwardly.
The two turned their heads toward each other at the same time, eyes meeting once again. Neither knew what to say. Korbak's face looked dark, as always, but the expression showed more symptoms of being a facade than an actual display of his internal aggression.
He never looked happy, but it was especially prevalent now. Based on Avaria's knowledge of his character, she'd have expected him to be smugger, but he looked... almost sad. Maybe he wasn't as on board with this bloodbath as she initially thought. Avaria nodded briskly, lips slightly pursed with tension, then parted ways with him.
Her head was throbbing again, and although she doubted stitches would alleviate the pain, she was eager to stop wiping the blood from her eye. The medic was still there, her bulky bag of utensils at her side. Avaria approached the severe woman with her head held high with confidence, refusing to be ignored despite knowing that the woman was displeased to be there.
“I need stitches.”
The well-aged woman's pinched face contorted even more, in case her displeasure was unclear, but she gestured with her empty hand to a nearby crate for Avaria to sit on and then dropped the bag she held into the grass with a light thump. Avaria sat obediently, her knees bent at an odd angle to accommodate the shortness of the box.
If the cream the medic had slathered onto the wound was meant to numb it, her efforts had been ineffective because Avaria grit her teeth each time the needle punctured her skin. She could barely think clearly about what would take place at dusk. Her adrenaline's departure had left every fiber of her being too exhausted to focus on anything very effectively.
The medic snipped the end of her thread, finishing her task. Whatever substance was on the cloth that she then wiped the area with stung, but Avaria's wince was barely detectable, masked as she slipped into an almost trance-like state of numbness. She couldn't feel her tiredness all of a sudden, and she was hardly aware that she was even still alive as her eyes stared blankly at the white fuzziness that was likely the grass.
“Clean it once a day until it heals.” The words sounded muffled, her mind discarding them as though they hadn't been meant for her.
Her eyes snapped to attention as a 'click' sounded when the woman shut her bag. It seemed incredibly loud, and she couldn't stop staring at the spot even when the medic and her bag was long gone.
One question echoed endlessly through her mind, the only strand of coherence in the muddled abyss of her brain.
Was she willing to kill Korbak tonight?
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