protected - dnf

sixteen, pt. 1

The noon sun beat down mercilessly on top of George's head. Stuffed inside of a suit of second-hand armor, he felt like a chicken roasting in a metal pot. His heart hammered in his chest as he readjusted his grip on the unwieldly sword in his right hand, hoisting a heavy shield in his left.

Several yards in front of him stood his opponent, covered from head to toe in finely-made chainmail and iron armor. His sword glinted dangerously in the sunlight.

On all sides of them stretched an enormous, empty field, the grass scorched and yellow from the summer heat. There was nobody else in sight. Crickets and cicadas whirred loudly from the grass and trees nearby, and George thought bitterly that they would be the only witnesses to the travesty that was about to unfold.

"Defend yourself or die!" his opponent roared, his voice muffled through the helmet.

George grit his teeth and widened his stance. "Come on then," he yelled back, cursing himself as he heard his voice waver, and waited for the inevitable.

All at once, his opponent raised his sword and rushed him, moving fluidly, as though the weight of his armor meant nothing at all. George heaved his shield up in a last-minute block of his opponent's first strike and swung his sword in a wide arc his opponent easily parried, shoving him backwards. His opponent struck him once more on the shield, then lunged for his right side; George managed to bring his sword up in a block, but the impact knocked him back a half-step so that he wobbled for a second, off-balance.

Seizing the moment, his opponent feinted to the right and then brought his full weight against the shield that George tried to bring cross-body to block the blow, successfully knocking him onto the ground. George hit the earth with an oof, the heaviness of the armor worsening the impact, and brought his shield up against another strike of the sword. Frantically, George tried to swing his weapon from the ground, but the other man kicked it from his hand.

George's attacker planted a foot on his chest, swung his sword in an arc and aimed the point at George's heart, and for a moment, George felt his magic instinctively spark to life in his hands, showing him everything he could do to defend himself: twist his arm, knock him back, let the earth swallow him whole...

"Do you yield?" came the metallic voice and George closed his fist, stifling his magic and letting his head fall back in annoyance.

"Alright, fine, I get it already," he shouted in exasperation, "will you let me up, please?"

Rather than remove his foot, his attacker brought his hand up to remove his helmet and threw it to the side. Prince Clay grinned down at his servant, sweat lining his brow and plastering his hair to his forehead. "Come on, George, it's no fun if you don't yield," he said, his eyes glinting mischievously.

"Are you kidding me, Dream?" George groaned, but Dream didn't move his foot, raising an eyebrow in expectation. "I yield, I freaking yield, you dolt, get off me!"

Dream chuckled and stepped back and George pulled himself up from the ground with as much dignity as he could muster. "This is servant abuse, you know," George grumbled, tearing his own helmet off.

"Hey, you agreed to come out here with me," Dream reminded him, and George sighed because it was true. An afternoon spent training with Dream beat sitting around the castle mending tunics any day, no matter how many bruises he ended up with afterwards.

Dream returned to his initial position and turned again, sword in hand. "Okay, one more round. Best out of five."

"Dream, come on," George complained. "We've been out here for hours."