Ruby blood dripped down his ornate longsword’s blade onto the arena sands–blood they said would run black as mud. Cathar stood over his prey and pulled off his helm. The nameless ogre lay low upon its back, knee shattered by a well-placed strike from the anointed knight.
Above, the assembled court yelled their derision. Men and women who never wore armor heavier than silk rained chants of " death " upon the two warriors.
The onlookers chanted their jeers as the Ogre shifted onto his forearms, pain ripping across his tusked face, but resigned to his fate. They raised Cathar on dread tales of those tusks - how even a dying ogre would devour him like a rabid dog. His jagged iron sword lay broken, and his tattered leather armor clung weakly together, scoured to rags from Cathar’s assaults. He did not moan nor plead. Instead, the Ogre greeted Cathar with familiar eyes still full of life.
As their gaze met, Cathar saw something entirely unexpected but exceedingly familiar to the seasoned warrior. Something intimate.
Under the cries of the crowd, Cathar struck.
His longsword fell discarded to the sand as Cathar carried his adversary from the silenced arena.
Years passed, and Cathar’s son, the very likeness of his father, rode peacefully through a pleasant Ogre village, the ink on their treaty long since dry. An Elder sat on the longhouse porch, lame leg tucked beneath him as his smiling children waved at the knight. As their eyes met, the old Ogre smiled.
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A/N
I love the classic trope of the nameless/faceless horde in high fantasy, but there are very real implications to such dehumanizing language and characterizations. I hope pieces like this can chip away at those falsehoods experienced in the real world.
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About the Creator
Matthew J. Fromm
Full-time nerd, history enthusiast, and proprietor of arcane knowledge.
Here there be dragons, knights, castles, and quests (plus the occasional dose of absurdity).
I can be reached at [email protected]
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