Luna of the Beastly Lycan King

Chapter 4. Strange

☉DANIKA

His eyes flew open.

An eruption of cheers swept over the colosseum, stamping feet and jumping spectators raising dust into a thick layer over the ground. Their excitement was thick and wildly visible, bursting free from the string that had held it back when Finarfin had collapsed.

I could not move. I could not breathe. I could not dare disrupt the potent relief that racked through my entire being as he began to stir in my arms. Under my palm was the strong and steady beat of a healthy heart. A heart that I was sure was perfectly dead a moment ago.

As strange as it was, I was overjoyed, tears brimming in my eyes. He was disoriented, by the earth-shattering noise, and dust that he did not even look at me. He did not seem to realize his upper body lay on my thighs.

“Finarfin, My prince.”

He did not respond. He did not seem to hear me. Or see me. Or sense me, even. Before I could say anything more, large hands grabbed me by the shoulders. I fought them off, even as they lifted me from the ground, my feet kicking against the floor.

“Let go of me!”

“The battle of rites continues, maiden! Out of the way!”

I was dragged off the arena, back into the crowd of spectators whose cheers had dissolved into familiar ominous chants. The chant was a deep repeated word in an ancient Cynthros language that meant “bloodshed” and they said it over, and over again. It was accompanied by foot stamps, fists to the chest, guttural cries, and bellows.

The sound was a herald of doom to come, rising the highest pillars of the colosseum, whetting their thirst for blood and violence. It made my stomach sink, a far cry from the joy I had felt seconds before. Finarfin should not be out there. He was not made for a despicable and humiliating end in this violent pit.

As a foreigner, I found the entire rite macabre and far too removed from the present-day practices and standards. This tradition should have died in the crude, ancient times.

At least, the high council could have exempted Finarfin from taking part in the battle of rites. He could have been given another challenge to show his worth. He had a weak heart, and everyone in the city knew that. He was already at a huge disadvantage. When I had brought it up with him, he only laughed and claimed that tradition changed for no one.

Shying away from the battle of rites was even worse than exile. That was a disgrace upon his royal blood, House Tyrune, and everything he stood for as the Lycan prince. He had to do it. And for a moment, he died for that decision…

But here he was again, very much alive.

“I can go the rest of the way myself!” I shrugged their sweaty hands off my shoulders, and gathered my dusty dress in my arms, running to the demarcation. That was the closest I could get without entering the arena.

Finarfin was now in a sitting position, looking all over the colosseum like he had never seen it before, listening to their war chants. Another stab of worry hit me. He should not be in there. He should be resting, after taking such a fatal blow to the chest earlier.

Goddess knows how much more weakened he has become. He stood no chance against Fergal, his final opponent, who would never go easy on him. He was out for blood.

Fergal charged, with a blood-curdling roar, his blade a deadly steel glint under the merciless sun. My heart leaped to my throat, watching as he maneuvered through the air, plunging straight at Finarfin in one macabre strike.

A deafening strike echoed through the colosseum, followed by a billow of dust.

Everyone fell silent.

My heart thudded, as I tried to see through the dust. It was a mere second, but it felt like an eternity, until the dust cleared, to reveal Finarfin, meeting his opponent blade to blade. There was a dark look I had never seen before… on his face. The crowd erupted in cheers.

What happened next was unbelievable.

Effortlessly, Finarfin twisted his blade and knocked Fergal away. Fergal's eyes widened in shock, stumbling back from the mere force of the attack. Soon he recovered, and charged again, unsheathing two curved knives from behind. There was no hesitation on Finarfin’s part. He charged directly at his blades, meeting his opponent blades for blade, kick for kick, floating through the air with an ease that seemed… impossible.

“What…” I whispered, eyes widened in shock.

Was Finarfin this skilled all along? I could hardly follow their dance of death, a startled scream escaping me when one of Fergal's blades missed Finarfin by a few millimeters. Instead, it cut an inch off his flying long hair.

It was like a whole different person.

Finarfin flipped mid-air, and delivered a kick directly to Fergal's unguarded neck, sending him to the ground. Fergal put up an admirable fight, despite his disorientation. He roared, but Finarfin knocked both knives into the dust, and slammed his fists down.

Blood spurted.

The crowd was jumping now, making the ground itself tremble with the same force as an earthquake. The chants were deafening, dust rising further up in the air.

Finarfin released his fist into Fergal's face, again, again, and again until Fergal’s bloody body slumped into the sand. Unconscious. Without even as much as a sign of exertion or tiredness, Finarfin straightened up, fists dripping with blood.

He stood over the body of his fallen opponent, and stared up at the thousands of wild spectators cheering deafeningly.

“As the Goddess would have it, before you are the last man standing in the battle of rites!” A male voice boomed over the roar. “Ardghal Finarfin Evigeden, the next Lycan King of Cynthros!!”

A small relieved smile curved my lips, goosebumps running down my spine.

He did it.

He really won against the terrible odds. They were all chanting his name, but he did not look triumphant at all. No, there was nothing but a blank expression on his face, as if this all meant nothing to him at all. How could that be? This was the most important day of his life, which he had shown so much passion and dedication towards.

My eyebrows furrowed. Was he not alright? I gasped in realization. He must be in terrible shock. That devastating blow from Fergal had stopped his heart for a moment, and when he came to, he had to be purely functioning on adrenaline and desperation. But the damage was still there.

Quickly, I hitched my dress up and hurried down the stands. He was already heading for the exit, meeting me halfway in the next moment.

“My prince!” I cried, reaching for him, “I'm so glad, triumph is yours just like you wished! For a moment, I was frightened but—”

He jerked away the moment my hand touched his arm. There was a strange look on his face.

“Does it hurt?” I looked at his arm. “Oh my, you need to rest, my prince. I should take a look at your injuries, and help you recover from this brutal ordeal...”

He blinked, stepping back from me. There was sweat coating his tan skin, that long dark hair sticking to his face and neck in thin strands. A fine layer of dust coated his clothes, even as his bloody fist held on tighter to the blade.

Why wasn't he speaking?

“Finarfin?” I was worried, “You must be so tired. Come, let's get you rested, at once.”

I held his arm again, and he stiffened. But this time he did not jerk away. Reluctantly, he followed me out of the colosseum, past the fallen pillars and sky-high walls laced with dark plant vines against their stark white color. He stared around like he had never seen them before, and my worry grew.

Did he sustain a head injury?

I quickened my pace, ignoring the throngs of people lining both sides of the path, screaming incoherent words at him. Flowers were thrown, shredded gold fibers, and plenty of other materials that seemed to signal their excitement. Guards approached, leading us the rest of the way.

“As the next king, you shall ride in the royal carriage back to the palace, Your Highness.” A man in flowing robes sidled close, “A huge feast shall also be thrown for all the families of house Tyrune, as you have made the Lycans proud.”

Finarfin’s expression was flat and empty, staring down at the man with vague curiosity.

I nervously interjected, “It was a brutal fight, he definitely needs time to rest. The celebration can go on without him, I believe.”

“Y-yes…”

“Excellent. I'll tend to him, and instruct the palace maids on what to do.” I smiled, climbing into the carriage.

Finarfin stepped in after me, his towering and broad body consuming most of the space within. His rough, wild, and torn appearance was at complete odds with the shiny and lavish carriage. I smiled again, feeling so relieved that this nightmare was finally over, and I had not lost my only friend left in this world.

He glanced at me with those questioning and suspicious eyes and caught my smile. My smile faltered, because he did not smile back.

☆☆☆

Back in Finarfin's chambers, I let him saunter into his bedroom first, while I instructed the maids on the medicinal materials to provide me with. They all held me in high esteem, even though I arrived here as nothing but a tramp picked off the streets by their master.

As my friendship with him got stronger, everyone around us began to treat me like they treated him. Like royalty – half royalty.

Once I received the basket full of medicinal substances, I entered the bedroom. “Food will be brought up here, in a short time, you must be ravenous after—”

“What is your name?” His voice cut into my ramblings.

I froze, looking up to see him in the middle of the large room. He was staring at himself in the mirror, and around the bedroom cautiously. Then I remembered his question.

“M-my name?” I frowned, “My prince, I think I would have to call the royal healers—”

“—there will be no need for that.” He narrowed his eyes. “I'm fine. And, I just gave you an order.”

I swallowed, baffled by the entire situation. It had to be—shock. Stress. Whatever affliction that blow from Fergal had triggered in him. After proper rest, he should be okay.

“Danika is my name.”

“Danika, tell me what happened. Why I had to fight the other man… while a crowd cheered and watched?”

My eyes fell to his bloody fist. “Let me attend to you, Finarfin, and I'll tell you everything. You're injured.”

He regarded me for a moment, before he gave a sharp nod, placed the blade away, and ripped off his leather-plated clothes. My eyes widened first, at his broad and muscled body that had always been hidden under layers of clothing… then it widened further when I saw the blackened and ugly bruise festering across his chest.

From Fergal's blow.

“You were very brave, my prince,” I whispered, guiding him to a seat.

Trying to hold back my tears, I prepared a bowl of medicinal water and sat beside him, wiping the blood off his cuts, and the dust off his bruise. He fixed me with that unfamiliar stare, stiffening slightly each time I touched him.

It hurt me, but whatever injuries he had sustained in the bowels of the Regal Colloseum, was incomparable.

So I placed the cloth down and smeared a healing fluid across his chest, slowly recounting the events of the day to him. From his reason for fighting the battle of Rite against Fergal, how he had almost been defeated, to how he would now be the Lycan King of Cynthros.