THE APOSTATE SAINT

Just like that, Fridok's dreams were broken. He held the pieces of the blade he had saved for years to afford in his hands, staring at them in disbelief. The magistrate was right – Fridok had been sold a poorly made weapon. He considered himself a right fool, now that he no longer had anything to show for his struggles. Not only was he now out of the sword and the money he paid to obtain it, he had actually lost both the wager and the collateral. He was now, somehow, in a worse position than he had predicted was even possible. Death would have been a more favorable end than this most unfortunate outcome.

Fridok dropped the now useless pieces of his weapon onto the ground and wandered slowly and aimlessly against the crowd lining up to see the next round of competitions. He needed to be away from all of this, to escape the suffocation of his failure. He didn’t know where he would go or what he would do, now, but now he fully understood that he didn’t belong there. All he could think about was the fragile nature of everything he ever once cared about.

Other men, Primisian men, might have taken pride in finishing in second place in such a competition. Fridok had no such feelings. He had gotten so close to being vindicated after all of his ire, but in the end not even an indominable will could change the way things were in the City. Everyone would remember the great swordsman Alaricus, and how he triumphed and brought honor to his family. Nobody would remember Fridok in the same way, nor would they even remember his name. There was no family name for him to elevate, nor would he raise himself out of obscurity by being almost the best swordsman. He didn’t even have friends with whom to celebrate, or, more pragmatically, to help him come to terms with his loss. He was as hopeless as he had ever been to elevate himself out of the darkness.

Fridok simply left the amphitheater, numb, and expecting it would be the last time he would ever look upon it again.

The discouraged man drudged in a blur through the City. The further away from the arena he got, the emptier and quieter everything became. This was his preference. He wanted nothing more than to be alone with his thoughts, hoping he would be able to overcome the helplessness he now felt. He knew the hard truth about the failure; no matter how hard he tried to make things better in his life, there was nothing he could do to save himself.

Fridok unconsciously clutched his sheath. The emptiness of it further rubbed salt in his open wounds. He ripped it from his belt and, in a fit of rage, hurled the defunct object as far as he could. It deflected off of a wall and landed with a clank on a metal sewer cover. A vagrant Farraige man looked up from his place nestled in the filth just inside an alleyway. Fridok had thought the man was just discarded cloth before he moved. It spooked Fridok when the man called out to him.

“Hey, prick!” the man shouted, in an accent and manner common to his people. “If you’re trying to hit me, you’re going to have to learn how to aim. Arse licker.” The Daoine Farraige people were not well-liked in the City; they were the only major non-native group who had managed to get safely inside the walls prior to the Fall of Man. Their ancestral home, the Isles far to the northwest of the City, had fallen alongside every other major hold in the land, but not before a large group of their people emigrated to the City. They claimed to have been driven to find shelter in the City by a premonition. Though they were spared the devastation that reigned everywhere outside of the City's gleaming white walls, they were lower in stature than even the Solumians, Fridok's people. If Fridok and his people were hopeless to improve their station, then the Farraige people were better off not even polluting their thoughts with something like hope.

Fridok bit right back at the man. “You think I meant to hit you? No. If I meant to hit you, you wouldn't be barking at me right now.” The Farraige man wasn't satisfied with one insult. “You knob! Your aim’s twice as bad as you look, and your face is like trampled horse shite. I thought I had a bad lot in life, and here you are making me look right blessed with the pouty mug of yours. Holy hell, look at your face, man. It's about as red as a dog's cock and twice as hard to keep from staring at it.”

“Big man, you are. You want to stand up when you insult me, or would you have to focus too much of your rotten brain on not falling down, you sodding drunk?” Fridok said.

“Who says I’m drunk?” the man said with an overly offended tone.

“It would be a first for your people if you weren’t.”

“Oh, right. That’s assuming an awful lot, don’t you think? Like, me, being able to actually afford a drink!”

Fridok felt disarmed all over again. His impulse told him to crack a smile at the self-deprecation, but he maintained his sullen expression. He was not willing to give up the anger he held for himself that easily. He hadn't let it play out yet.

“You think you have it hard?” Fridok said, approaching the man just to see what would happen. “Try working for years for something and having it all come crashing down on you in an instant.”

“Oh no, I would know nothing about that. You poor child, are you gonna be alright? Where does it hurt? Daddy will kiss it.”

Fridok grabbed at his crotch and gave it a yank. “Or you can kiss my arse, your choice. But I suppose that would require you to actually get off of yours, wouldn’t it? Is there anything more terrifying to a Farraige than that?”

“Waking up and having a face like yours, I suppose!”

Fridok got within striking range, ready to really let the man have it. Instead of being afraid whatsoever, the man looked up at Fridok with indignance. Fridok had always prided himself on his intimidating appearance. He had worked very hard for a very long time to make sure his body reflected his ambition. Some good that had done.

“Hit me then!” the man trained his eyes upon Fridok. “Come on then, give us a good wallop. Just don't make a promise you can't keep. Nobody ever goes through with it once they see me up close.”

Fridok grabbed the man’s shoulders and with all of his pent-up rage, he lifted him up and pinned him against the wall. The man’s bottom half had been covered in his rags, so it wasn’t until he was hoisted into the air that Fridok saw that the man’s legs stopped just above where his knees should have been. Fridok was taken aback, confronted by the fact that he was about to bully a cripple. The man, sensing Fridok's hesitation, wasted no time at all in countering. He pressed the stumps of his legs against the wall behind him and cracked the top of his head against Fridok's forehead as hard as he could. Fridok dropped the man and he flopped to the ground, unable to catch himself. Both men immediately understood the headache that would accompany that maneuver.

“That’s right,” the man said, shifting himself back to his seated position. “You’ll think twice before laying your grubby mitts on ol’ Art again.” Both Fridok and the man rubbed their heads in pain. Fridok, realizing the frivolity of the conflict, allowed himself to fall backward against the wall on the other side of the alleyway. The man who called himself Art watched him closely, still prepared to fight once more.

“That’s really unfair, you know,” Fridok said, after the pain had begun to settle. “You really ought to warn a man about your legs before you start a fight.”

“You think that’s unfair,” Art replied. “You should try not having any legs.”

It was a rather long and cathartic moment, when the two men recognized in each other a kind of shared trauma. The man was a manifestation of the way that Fridok felt in that moment. The tension between the men slowly waned, and a small but unspoken bond was formed.

“So, what gives with the sheath anyway?” the man said, once their communion had time to digest. “You finally realizing it was a bad idea to buy one without being able to afford a sword of your own?”

“I did own a sword,” Fridok said. “As a matter of fact, I just used it.”

“Well, shite,” Art said. “If you're a wanted man, you could at least warn a guy so they don't think I'm an accomplice. Do you understand how long it takes for me to get from place to place?”

Fridok scoffed. “I can assure you that nobody wants me.” He looked down at the man’s stumps, one of which was exposed because of their scuffle. Art noticed his gaze and pulled his pantleg down to cover it out of instinct. Then, in a play at humor, he lifted the pantleg and batted his eyelashes at Fridok, like a street lady did with a skirt. At once, Fridok felt the full wave of his foolishness wash over him. This man meant no harm. He didn't deserve to be the recipient of Fridok's frustration.

“Listen, I don’t have much, but I can probably help you out with a warm meal or two, here and there.” Fridok said, making sure through his tone to let the man know he meant no harm. To his surprise, the man became suddenly defensive again.

“Oh no, you don’t,” Art said. “Don't you do that. That’s not right. That’s not fair. You don’t get to look down on me. I get enough of that crap from everyone else. I don’t need your pity. If you want to go another round, then let’s do it. But also know that I bite and scratch and I’ve got a hell of a right hook.”

Fridok smiled at the man and said nothing else. The man had nothing to his name and still, somehow, he demanded respect. He was right. He didn’t need Fridok's pity and handouts. He needed things to change in the City, just liked Fridok did.

“Listen,” Fridok said, not sure what words were going to follow, or if they would be accepted by the man. “I don’t mean anything by it, and you don’t have to think of it as pity, but I was just on my way back to–“

“There you are!” came a voice from the main road. Fridok turned to look, and, to his great surprise, the voice belonged to Alaricus.

“We’ve been looking all around for you!"

Fridok shook his head in dismay. "I don't know why you would do that."

The boy, very excitedly, said, "Didn’t you hear? You are called to join us on the expedition!”

Fridok couldn't even process what the boy had said, but he could see realization forming on the Farraige man’s face. He turned to Alaricus, a feeling in his stomach nudging him to believe this young man – that he meant Fridok no harm. He had never known how to trust anyone after his mother passed, so it took real bravery for him to accept Alaricus’ words. If this were a prank, then Fridok feared he might have to kill him.

“I lost. Even if what you say is true and not just Primisian cruelty, I’ve no sword to carry anymore. I could never afford to get another weapon in time.”

“I am truly sorry about your blade,” said Alaricus. “It must have meant a lot to you, given your--." He stopped himself from saying something that might anger Fridok. "I know there’s no way to replace the meaningful sword you’ve lost, but I’ve been assured that not having a weapon is no obstacle. If you’d still like to go with us, know that you have earned your place. You fought with bravery and if it weren’t for the faultiness of the sword’s make, you would have beaten me. You have every bit as much right to go along as I do.”

The boy's words washed over him like cleansing waters to his soul. Fridok looked at the Farraige man, who appeared to have new reverence and respect for Fridok. Art turned away as soon as Fridok looked at him. The thing that had bonded the two of them had apparently dried up.

Fridok cleared his throat, to avoid choking up. “Thank you,” he said, softly with sincerity. “It would be all I could ask to join you. When we are leaving?”

“As soon as the other competitions are complete,” said Alaric. “Once it is determined which seven competitors will accompany the Son, there will be a feast to celebrate. We will leave before the week is through.”

Fridok had never partaken in a feast before. That kind of thing was really only a Primisian enjoyment, not something for somebody like Fridok. That gave him an idea. He rose to his feet, reached out his hand to Art the Farraige man. Art raised his eyebrow at Fridok, clearly unsure of the meaning of the gesture.

“Don’t think of it as charity,” Fridok said. Sensing Art's repulsion, Fridok came at it from a different angle. "You can't just show me those sexy legs of yours and think I'm going to let you go." Art couldn't help but laugh at Fridok's attempt to break through his defenses with humor. He put aside his pride and met Fridok’s hand with his own.

Fridok hoisted the poor man up, situated him onto his back and turned to Alaricus, nodding. Art looked like he was about to throw up.

“Alright, then...” Alaricus said, completely unsure of Fridok's behavior and choice to bring Art. “Shall we be off?”