Festival （Part 3）
Gareth lingered at the field's edge, the taunts of the other contestants fading into background noise.
Only Quindarr held his attention.
Every muscle tensed as Gareth watched his rival stride to the boulder, the crowd's cheers swelling with every confident step.
A soldier jabbed Gareth's shoulder, voice dripping with pride.
"Quindarr's our commander for a reason. He's never lost. Even if you could beat him at a game, you'll never win the tournament."
Gareth locked his gaze on the field, arms folded tight, blocking out the fauns' laughter. His focus sharpened, every muscle taut with anticipation.
Quindarr seized the boulder, muscles rippling as he spun and hurled it with a guttural roar. The stone soared, thudding far beyond any previous mark.
Gareth's jaw tensed, and his brows shot up, despite his effort to stay composed.
An elf darted out with a ribbon, measuring the distance with trembling hands.
"Thirty-eight lengths!" The elf called out.
The crowd roared in response.
"A new record!" the soldier crowed, jabbing Gareth again, eyes wide with admiration for his commander.
Gareth forced down a lump in his throat, his palms damp with sweat. He was impressed despite himself and had to battle the uneasy tension coiling inside.
Quindarr turned, lips curling into a taunt. He beckoned Gareth forward with a slow, deliberate gesture.
Gareth drew in a shaky breath, forcing his nerves to calm, then strode onto the field.
He could feel every eye fixed on him. He was buzzing with nerves and anticipation.
He'd forgotten how much he loved the thrill.
A hush rippled through the crowd—murmurs and uncertain glances replacing applause as Gareth approached the boulder.
The Dissolver jumped up and down excitedly from their spot at the tree, pointing,
"Look Rowena, there he is!"
Rowena watched, anxiety twisting in her gut as Gareth's smaller frame stood out among the elk-men.
Her eyes darted to Jhas'tir, whose gentle smile vanished, replaced by a sudden blaze of fury as he saw Gareth near the boulder.
Rowena's heart hammered in her chest.
She wondered what he might do.
"Look, Rowena!" The Dissolver exclaimed, tapping her shoulder and snapping her attention back to the field.
Rowena's jaw dropped as Gareth seized the stone, lifting it with surprising strength. He loaded it into the sling, wound up, and let it fly.
The crowd held its breath as the boulder crashed down
unmistakably close to Quindarr's mark.
Gareth staggered back, face flushed, chest heaving
half-shocked, half-triumphant.
The elf sprinted into the field, ribbon in hand, to measure the distance.
"Thirty-seven and a half!" He called.
A hesitant ripple of applause broke out.
The soldiers gaped, stunned.
Gareth walked back taller, meeting Quindarr's stare head-on. He took his place beside him, arms crossed, struggling to hide the grin threatening to break out on his face.
Quindarr's smirk lingered, but his eyes glinted with new respect as he leaned in and whispered,
"Looks like the games just got interesting."
After that, the competition crackled with a newfound electricity.
Every eye was glued to Gareth and Quindarr as they clashed through event after event
each victory hard-won,
each defeat razor-close.
They dominated over the rest.
Sweat slicked their brows.
Their muscles trembled with effort.
Their rivalry turned the crowd feverish.
Rowena, usually indifferent to such spectacles, sat on the edge of her seat, pulse thrumming.
Gareth's tales of his gladiator days had always seemed just that—tales. But now, seeing him move with ferocious grace, outmatching even the strongest, she felt a rush of awe bordering on disbelief.
Was this really the same man she knew?
At last, the final challenge: the tournament.
The crowd's roar was deafening as Quindarr and Gareth seized their quarterstaffs and strode to the field's center.
Rowena's heart hammered. She had always turned away from violence, but now she was trapped.
Her eyes locked on Gareth, torn between horror and hope, dread and pride.
Quindarr charged, hooves pounding like war drums, staff swinging in a blur. Gareth slipped aside at the last instant, landing a sharp crack across Quindarr's flank.
Laughter exploded from the stands as Quindarr's face flushed with fury.
Gareth flashed a cocky grin.
What was a show without a little flash?
The next instant, Quindarr returned, but his next assault was relentless. Quindarr's blows came faster, heavier, forcing Gareth to defend and retreat, sweat stinging his eyes.
The fight blurred into a storm of wood and flesh.
Rowena's knuckles whitened as she clung to Gareth's shirt, twisting the fabric with every brutal blow. Each strike that landed on him made her flinch, breath catching sharp in her throat.
The Dissolver shouted encouragement, but Rowena barely heard.
Her whole world encompassed only the battered figure on the field.
The duel dragged on, brutal and unyielding.
Both men bled from split skin and raw welts. Their quarterstaffs were slicked with sweat and blood.
Gasps and murmurs rippled through the crowd—no one had ever seen a contest so savage.
Still, neither Gareth nor Quindarr would give an inch.
Jhas'tir glared from the sidelines, jaw clenched, anger and anxiety plain in his eyes. His stare seemed to scorch Quindarr from afar, silently demanding victory.
Gareth fought on the edge of exhaustion, eyes searching for an opening.
Then—there!
Quindarr limped, favoring the leg Gareth had struck earlier. The stumble was slight, invisible to all but Gareth's keen eye.
He let Quindarr press the attack, parrying blow after blow, then suddenly darted aside and smashed his staff into the wounded joint.
A sickening crack split the air as Quindarr staggered.
A collective gasp tore through the crowd, followed by frantic shouts for Quindarr to rise.
The Dissolver's lone voice called for Gareth to finish it.
The soldiers roared for their commander.
Jhas'tir leaped to his feet, eyes blazing with fury.
Terror twisted Rowena's insides. The games were meant to inspire, not break their leader.
What if Gareth had gone too far?
Gareth's vision tunneled.
Quindarr's bloodied face.
The soldiers' cries.
The king's inscrutable gaze.
Rowena, wide-eyed with fear.
Rage surged—he could end it, avenge every wound.
But the crowd's faces pleaded for mercy, not destruction.
His grip faltered, as he let go of his pride, just for a second—long enough for Quindarr to swing.
Gareth braced for pain.
The staff crashed across Gareth's face. Stars exploded behind his eyes as he fell to the dirt, blood streaking down his brow.
The crowd erupted, wild and deafening.
Rowena screamed, sprinting from her seat beneath the tree, shoving aside startled creatures to reach him.
She dropped to her knees, hands trembling as she cradled his head, heedless of blood soaking her dress.
"Gareth!" Her voice cracked as she clutched him. "Can you hear me?"
Worry creased her forehead, and blood and dirt smeared her gown, but for a moment, nothing else mattered but the battered man in her arms.
Gareth's eyes fluttered open, pain etched deep in every line of his face. He forced a crooked smile for Rowena, haloed in sunlight above him.
For a moment, his agony faded—
her touch,
her doting,
made every bruise worth it.
He groaned, struggling to sit. The world tilted sickeningly, and Rowena's desperate efforts barely kept him upright—they tumbled back to the ground together.
Suddenly, Quindarr loomed over them, his shadow falling across the pair. He extended a hand. Gareth clasped it, and Quindarr hauled him up with surprising gentleness.
When the world steadied, Gareth met Quindarr's gaze—dazed and questioning. Quindarr clapped him on the back, eyes glinting with understanding.
He knew.
Gareth's mercy hadn't gone unnoticed.
"Ever tasted our wine?" Quindarr asked, a grin breaking the tension, voice warm despite the sweat and blood.
Gareth shook his head, smearing blood from his brow with the back of a trembling hand.
"Come then," Quindarr beckoned, leading Gareth and Rowena from the field. "Best wine in Solmira—tonight, you've earned it."