Drake Caine ⚔ Theseus (abductorofwomen) wrote in mythologs, @ 2012-05-27 01:24:00 |
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Entry tags: | !event #020, heimdall, set, theseus |
[completed/closed]
Characters: Set (voiceofthunder), Heimdall (heimdall) & Theseus (abductorofwomen)
Date/Time: May 26th, about afternoon-ish
Location: The Arena
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Fighting and death.
Summary: The match doesn't end as planned.
Everything hurt.
Well, perhaps not everything but enough of Theseus felt as if he would never feel the same again. As if whatever had been normal for him was now replaced by this sore, dirty and stressed feeling. At some point, his helmet had been lost, followed by his sword but then he recovered that after sacrificing his shield. He also had opened himself to attack and had received a deep gash that still persisted in leaking his blood.
It was very traitorous of his body, he decided with a grin, right eye on his opponents (the other wasn't doing so well, was caked with blood that he had given up on wiping away). And that body, though well taken care of, was not like it had been when he had been, say, the ages of his opponents. Experience was one thing but he was so very mortal, unlike the days when he ruled in Greece.
Resentment never really came no matter how often he was reminded how vulnerable he could be the way he was. As long as he could enjoy life and live it that way he wanted, he would accept whatever came. Every moment mattered, even when much of him was bleeding and he was certain at least two or three of his ribs were broken.
Within a split second, it was Set he decided to go after, Set with his spear and who was most familiar to him. Knowing the other was partly on his blind side, he twisted to his left to give him his full attention and lunged forward, the tip of his sword aimed for the man's belly.
Set had prepared himself for the battle as much as he possibly could have. He had even swallowed his pride enough to get tips from the false sister the shift in setting had given him. However, nothing he could have done could have truly prepared him for battle in a body that had been in nothing more than fist fights in the past. Granted, they had not been few in his boyhood, but this was very different from that. His sense and reaction time was down a peg, even from what it was back in New York. It wasn't easy. The only thing he was very aware of was the amount of blood he was losing from the wounds he had already obtained in the battle. He had never felt so weak.
It was fine for the time being. It would have to be fine. Biting his lip to push through the pain, he kept himself on his feet and alert as he possibly could. Most of his important protective equipment had already been lost. He was lighter and could move much easier without a heavy shield or helmet anyway. However, he kept a fierce grip on his spear. He would not lose it. Without it, he knew he would be finished. It was all he needed.
Breathe.
He tried to control his breath to keep himself focused on what mattered. Quiet, and waiting for the next move, the former god was as ready as he could've been when Theseus came in for an attack. He tried to dodge as quickly as he could, but he found himself wincing and biting his lip harder when the sword met his side instead. It was not a complete miss, but it gave him an opening. There was no hesitation in his blow. He acted instinctually, reaching to strike his opponent's weak point before there was a chance for him to attack again. Set couldn't afford any more injuries. And so, when he moved, his spear went for Theseus's neck.
No words were spared for the man. There was a pause and a silent stare at him for a moment, but the look was not an apology. He was certain there was an understanding that things were just as they were. If they were to be brought back from death, he would remember to buy him a drink. Their battle had to have been a better way to go than being driven off of a cliff at least.
Just a moment was enjoyed of having at least caught the man when Theseus felt the spear catch him, sealing his end. Not a word could be offered but an understanding of this having gone another way passed through his mind before he closed his eyes and allowed himself to fall. The sounds of the crowd had faded the moment the strike had been successful, leaving him only with the warmth of the sun that would soon fade once he did.
His last of thoughts...well. Though were fairly private, weren't they?
There were no real rules for a fight of this type. You got into the arena, you raised your weapon and you attacked whatever came at you. Heimdall had followed that rule to an extreme; forcing his muscles to move properly even without the extra strength they usually carried. It explained the needed break, the breath he forced into his lungs when his opponents become more interested in each other than on his presence. This was demeaning in a way the Gatekeeper couldn’t explain. Even as a mortal, he had been used to counting with that shadow of what he once was, always there in the background. Without it, Heimdall felt like he was pretending to be who he was. Or had been.
He bent carelessly, coughing to clear his throat of whatever was making his breathing harder. Blood slipped past his lips, down his fingers only to be thrown to the ground. As he had said, demeaning. If he kept losing time and dragging this on, it was likely that whatever damage he had causing him to bleed internally would worsen. His time was running out; as certain as he was still standing.
Gripping his sword more tightly – two handed, he couldn’t afford to lose any advantage, not then – Heimdall waited for the other two fighters to be done with one another. First, it was easier to focus on a single opponent. Second, an attempt to intervene would be ridiculous if he couldn’t see properly what he was doing.
The second Set was done with the other man, Heimdall forced himself to form a proper stance and charged. In his usual manner, there was nothing like discretion or hesitation. He walked closer and swung the larger sword in a wiped arc, ripping the air in front of him with all his strength.
Had he been able to react as he normally could have, perhaps he could have been spared from Heimdall's sudden attack. But he was too slow. He had removed his spear from Theseus and turned to his remaining opponent, but that was it. The sword had plunged into his flesh. The pain was sharp, but he clenched his jaw, refusing to allow himself to cry out. He would have rather bitten off his own tongue than shown that sort of weakness. But the pain. Fuck the pain.
His breath was heavy and seething. He didn't even want to think of how much blood he was losing. All he knew was that his head was feeling lighter and he was quickly losing his strength. It wasn't going to end this way. He wasn't supposed to lose. Not when Horus had won. Not when Osiris had won. Quickly pulling together the last of what he had, Set reached out to grab onto one of Heimdall's arms at the other end of the sword. Then, he gripped the spear tightly in his fist and swung the weapon forward. He was losing balance, but he had used the sword's path as a guide for his own weapon.
Wherever the spear hit, he wasn't sure. His vision was darkening. He was trying to will himself to move again, but he couldn't. He only coughed when he tried to curse his mortal body. Nothing other than blood would come. Pathetic. He wasn't afraid of death. He knew he wasn't invincible. It wasn't the pain or the darkness that clouded his eyes. It had never been any of that, and he had at least died in a way that he could have been satisfied with. Set didn't hold anything against the men he fought against. It was just too soon this time. Nothing was finished. There was something he still had to do.
If only his sheer stubbornness could have stopped his bleeding. It was over for him.
His blow had been true and so had his aim. For one blessed second, Heimdall actually believed that even with the weariness taking over every muscle, even with the injuries with had no count, he would have been able to survive. To leave that place, luckily for ever. That was before his arm was touched. He leaned forward involuntarily, giving into the strength of the other before any thought of freedom was driven from his head. The spear was quick, like a snake hiding on the grass or a bullet when a soldier least expected it. Heimdall had the time to see a flash of silver before the blade pierced his chest.
Blood which had already been flowing out, spread careless over his skin, sliding down to the remains of his clothing. It also filled his mouth, constricted his ability to breathe. The Norse allowed his sword to fall to the ground – useless as it was – and gripped the spear’s shaft on both hands. It was useless, he knew, the wound was too deep, fatal. Still, he ripped the weapon out, not able to resist the urge to cry out in pain or the lack of strength which drove him to his knees.
It was over. Heimdall had done the best he could but it was over. Face met the dry sand, the heat not enough to keep his body warm anymore. And his last thought was somewhere between cursing his stupidity by not being careful enough – or strong enough, fast enough – and congratulate himself for at least being the last one standing. That tended to happen to him far too often.