Chapter 34
34
“This is ridiculous.”
I have no other word for what’s unfolding in front of us. Erik faces Val, the men circling each other, wooden swords in hand. They watch each other with feigned fury, weighing their moves. Each is dressed in Elytheum garb, Val-Fred in one of his costumes and Erik having picked up black, muscle-emphasizing garments of his own from the student store.
“I think it’s hot,” Brit declares.
“Just because it’s ridiculous doesn’t mean it can’t be hot,” Laurel points out in agreement.
I shake my head in disapproval. The duel is held on the campus’s soccer field, where there’s plenty of room for Experience-goers to gather and cheer on their favorite fictional crush—Val, namely. The audience is heavily in his favor. When Erik darts forward, striking a tap of his sword on Val’s shoulder, he raises his arms to the crowd, earning only gasps of worry for his opponent. Fred holds his shoulder, pretending the wound really hurt, and I notice Amelia biting her lip in worry.
Scott and I dutifully cheer for Erik, who drops his character’s vengeful determination for only a moment to smile in our direction.
The pair continue their sparring. It’s evident they’ve practiced stage fighting—each of them knows how to accentuate the moves and play up the emotion, enriching the choreography with natural drama. When Val evens the match, landing a strike on Erik, Erik exaggerates his recoil the way Fred had.
Even so, with the context I have on the duel, I know the pretend fighting draws on very nonfictional resentment. Real anger flashes in Erik’s eyes—he’s self-conscious, I know, of Fred showing him up in front of Heather.
Of course, Erik uses the feeling to fuel his performance. He flies toward his brother, who deftly dodges. They move fast, with impressive skill. “You stole what was mine!” Erik snarls. No one knows what the accusation means for his Elytheum character, but it doesn’t matter. Everyone leans in.
“No, I did something much worse,” Fred retorts, effortlessly continuing the half-invented scene. “I won it.”
Erik roars and lunges forward, landing another hit. The audience cries out in dismay. Except Scott and me, of course.
“Then I,” Erik vows dramatically, “shall win it back.”
I can’t help glancing at Heather Winters, who watches from the closest duel-side seat. The author looks quite amused, if impartial. She neither cheers nor gasps when Fred wheels his sword and sweeps a carefully controlled stroke close to Erik’s chest.
As the fight continues, something starts to shift. The men’s faces relax, their movements loosen. They almost look like they’re…having fun, swinging and sizing each other up, planning each of their exciting maneuvers with more cooperation than competition.
Watching them, I find the duel ridiculous and hot—and kind of inspiring. Maybe they needed the guise of Elytheum to share their feelings out in the open, and now, freed in fantasy, they can enjoy each other’s company and mutual joy in their craft. Or, possibly they just needed an outlet for their anger, which they’ve released in physical exertion. I wonder whether Erik, duel instigator, is a secret genius of sibling relationships.
Fred swipes at Erik, and Erik leaps back, a laugh escaping him for a moment. It makes Fred smile. Then they remember their audience and fix performed scowls on their faces. Or, they remember the audience until Fred’s sword goes flying and he somersaults to retrieve it, earning an impressed whoop from his “opponent.”
It’s not only adorable. It’s heartening. Their fantastical characters have somehow summoned their most real selves. The boys who probably work out and train together, who roughhoused as children.
Brothers whose dream can’t divide them. Not really.
They rush together, swords crossed in front of their chests. In the midst of their wrestling to overpower each other, their lips move, inconspicuous words exchanged under the guise of combat. Although I can’t hear what they’re saying, I notice Erik nod and Fred smile.
Then they break apart, pushing each other away with duel-evocative intensity. Erik shouts out in anger, heightening the moment. They square off at opposite ends of the makeshift arena, eyeing each other like competing champions for a queen’s hand or fierce enemies meeting on the field of war.
The whole audience hushes in rapt anticipation—I mean, honestly, I would watch an Elytheum show starring either one of them—until Erik charges, fiery conviction in his eyes.
Fred doesn’t flinch. He waits, his stance ready. The perfect image of the fae warrior who stood down the darkest enemies of Elytheum.
When Erik rushes him, at the last possible moment, Fred swings his foot wide as if to sweep Erik’s legs out from under him.
Although Fred makes no physical contact, the effect is marvelous. Erik manages to reverse his direction with what looks like incredible physical strength. Mastering his own momentum, he falls backward, pretending to impale himself on his own sword.
Fred—or rather, Val—picks up the moment’s drama. Riven with sudden anguish, he rushes to his counterpart’s side, where he drops to his knees. “Brother!” he cries out. “No!”
And Erik…Erik puts on a death fit for the screen.
In front of his rapt audience is not my enthusiastic, flirtatious, occasionally goofy roommate. Instead, it’s the man who I know has devoted years of effort to his craft. He’s Shakespearean. He’s HBO-worthy.
“Forgive me,” he exhales, imploring Fred. His eyelids flutter. He clutches Fred’s hand with failing strength.
Even the audience, who had been rooting against him the whole time, has gone silent, immersed in his performance. I sneak a look and—yes, even Heather seems genuinely impressed. When Erik lets his head droop back, a hushed moment of reverence descends over the crowd.
Until Fred starts a slow clap. Immediately, Scott and I join in.
And when Erik opens his eyes, having given his “death” the proper finality, everyone is applauding him.
I recognize the look on Erik’s face. Not just joy—it’s more. It’s the portrait of wanting to remember exactly this moment forever. The look of dreams coming to life. He regards his audience, grinning, a combination of humbled and exhilarated.
As I watch, his gaze doesn’t find Heather. Instead, he looks up at Fred, who helps him to his feet.
“That was incredible,” Fred exclaims. “The way you stopped yourself while charging me? I know we worked on a variation of that, but to do it midair?” He shakes his head in earnest astonishment. “You’ve got to teach me that one.”
Erik demurs, visibly delighted. “Well, you set me up perfectly. It wouldn’t have worked with anyone else . And come on, I had to do something after you executed that somersault, man.”
They clap each other on the shoulder, and in front of us, their enthusiastic crowd, they bow in unison. The duel concluded, everyone rises from the stands, dispersing into the daylight. I overhear the chatter of fans, and well, I expect a few scrolls with phone numbers addressed to my roommate will appear under our door in the coming day.
We don’t depart with the rest of the crowd. Instead, we join our famous dueling friends. Erik and Fred have moved past recapping their fight to seeming to reenact their favorite moments in slow motion. When I near Fred while he’s walking Erik through his somersault, I notice blood on the younger man’s arm.
“Fred, you’re injured!” I exclaim, nothing performed in my concern.
Neither the observation nor the reality appears to distress the brothers, oddly. Instead, they exchange a conspiring glance, one I don’t have the chance to analyze when Amelia hears me from feet away and comes running over.
“Oh no,” she gasps. She reaches unhesitatingly for Fred’s arm, examining the long puncture intently.
“It’s fine,” Fred assures her. “It happened during the somersault. I hit a rock or something.”
“You’ll let our medic look at it, right?” Amelia presses. Her worry does not pass for professional diligence. I’ve never heard her this wound up, not over work deadlines or intimidating meetings. “I want to make sure you don’t get an infection…” she frets.
“Of course,” Fred replies readily. “Will you escort me there? I feel a little faint,” he admits.
Having a way to help appears to fortify Amelia. With rather adorable resolve, she decisively pulls his massive arm around her slight shoulders.
“Lean on me,” she says.
Fred does. As they walk away, he glances at Erik, who gives him a silent salute.
Scott puts it together. “Did you…plan that?” he asks my roommate with genuine curiosity.
“He gave me my moment in the spotlight,” Erik says, “so I gave him what I knew he wanted.” He nods after Amelia escorting Fred, who is playing up how valiantly he is withstanding the pain of his wound.
“It didn’t happen in the somersault,” I surmise.
Erik smiles. “The tips of these wooden swords are quite sharp,” he observes.
I have to laugh. Even with their impressive performance, I wasn’t giving them enough credit for their cooperation. “You two make a great team,” I say honestly.
“We do, don’t we?” Erik puffs up his chest. His gaze, ever eager, roams over the duel field as if he’s remembering his past glory. He has every right. “We had the audience eating out of the palms of our hands,” he says.
“You know who was included in that audience,” Scott points out. Heather hasn’t left—she’s in conversation with a courageous fan who approached her after the duel. “Are you going to go talk to her? Now’s your moment,” Scott urges him. “Jennifer and I saw how impressed she was.”
Erik looks at the author for a single moment of yearning. I know Erik has fantasies of his own flashing in his eyes—Hollywood meetings, red carpets, awards afterparties. His fantasies carried him here just like mine did.
Then his eyes refocus on us, returning him to reality.
“Fred is the better Val,” he declares. “He’s doing it all for the girl after all. What could be more in character than that? I cede to him,” Erik concludes with courtly finality, fitting for the naming of the new Lord of Night.
I reach out impulsively and hug him. “I’m so proud of you,” I say.
Erik looks pleased, if somewhat startled. When I release him, he sweeps his hair from his forehead self-consciously.
“Perhaps if I fall in love I can really challenge him for the role one day,” he ventures, eyeing his former audience like his own queen or demoness could wait among them. “Alas, until then I will content myself with the many commercial gigs I am up for. I’m sure I can bring what I’ve learned from being Val to the deodorant ad I’m shooting next month.”
He looks to us, inspired.
“Would you run lines with me, actually? It involves my working up a sweat walking dogs who can, of course, smell me,” he explains seriously. “You would play the inner voices of the dogs.”
I smile. Not only do I admire Erik’s optimism, I have done plenty of acting over the past week. Acting like a lady of Elytheum, acting like I flirt with fae often. Acting fine with my rival showing up here unannounced. I can definitely handle the voice of a judgmental dog.
“Of course, Erik,” I say. “We would love to.”