As the once highly regarded palace of justice began to tremble down like a verdict passed down unjustifiably or a brutally enforced confession, the soldiers from both sides began to crush into each other, like ants scrambling amidst the hooves of a herd of horses. The hole Ilianus had cracked before, was the first victim of the debilitated place, crashing down and obstructed by fallen stones, it was the first ray of hope and the first thought of a route to escape, but it diminished like the morning stars and closed like the doors of fortune. The soldiers began looking for other openings, the collapse itself offering some dangerous outlets but it was a bet deserving the risk. Once the place was evacuated, neither Aengus, Caden, Diarmuid or Laurentius were in sight, Plinius eyes never left the shaking ground around the place, still and silent, as if he was deaf to the tumultuous blast. Laurentius's troop called for their leader, praying for a miraculous appearance, some tried to get once again inside but were denied and forcefully stopped by the lieutenant, imploring them not to waste their lives in vain. Everyone remained silent, only viciously howling when they caught sight of one of the "Justice Pallbearers" and killing them vengefully. Oscar looked at the building, his eyes betraying the many thoughts storming his mind. He held his lance more tightly, took few steps forward then after casting another glance at the palace, he turned his back and went to aid Ilianus and look after him.
***
The four remaining men, presumed dead and buried under the rumble, were very much still breathing and surviving the crumbling site merely with the power of fate, not intending to end their lives yet. They heard the screams, the crashing, the cries for help but each had his own honor to restore and his own reason to endanger his life.
Diarmuid could only pray wholeheartedly for the safety of Oscar and Ilianus and although he was torn by the guilt of not returning to check on them and assisting them, he still had his golden lance that was denied of shining throughout the whole fight. That spear was not just a weapon, a carved metallic stick meant to kill and pierce. It was an extension of his soul, and additional letter to his name, a testimony to his chivalry and valor, a crucial part of his adventures, a tribute for his love.
The lancer was used to a certain degree of darkness, his eyes brightened his field of vision like two shiny orbs borrowing their light from the sun, and despite the noise and yells, despite the blackness of both the darkness and the despair engulfing the place in its last stance, he caught the nimble movement of a small body running and creeping around like a spider. Taking a slight detour, he hid himself behind a wall, ceasing his breaths yet not dulling his eyes, he finally caught the boy's full silhouette and with the briskness of a leopard, cut his escape route. Caden stopped startled for the first time, not expecting the lancer to still be following him, gambling his life but the thought excited his mind and heart. How obsessed was the man with his aureate spear?
"I believe you still owe me something?"
The lancer spoke calmly, wanting a peaceful return with no idiotic fight or stupid tricks, but Caden was more stubborn and proud in his deed of stealing the spear than a victorious emperor.
"The only thing I owe you is not killing you, you treacherous filth!"
Caden spoke with the same calmness, but his eyes carried a different expression; one
of anger, shame and vengeance as if he had a personal agenda against the Celtic lancer, and that identity precisely was the agenda.
The boy stood in his place with a sick smile, bearing the golden lance hidden between the black layers of his clothes to the open, jeering at the lancer but the latter's face showed no provocation. The lance was simply his own, and retrieving it was an undisputed future waiting to happen. He did not wish to fight the boy, still in a young age, similar to his friend and pupil Oscar and of his kin. However, Caden acknowledged nothing of these reasons as he charged so self – assured in his skills at handling the weapon, and Diarmuid had no choice but to swing his crimson blade. Trying to avoid and run around the boy in circles was useless against his athletic talent and speed.
"You are a traitor, Diarmuid of the radiant face, Diarmuid the dual Wielder, Diarmuid the firs knight of the Fianna, you have forgotten all of these honors and helped these maggots who feast on our helpless land!"
The boy dashed like a crazed horse and began exchanging blows with the lancer, gold against red, radiating through the darkness like an extension of Sol - Invictus and Mars. The two brothers, the twin, unlike their wielders of the same land and blood, reckoned each other, their blows useless and fearing to leave a single scratch on the other's body. Diarmuid smiled charmingly upon noticing this, though it might be just an illusion created by the passion widely known among the Celts behind these pair of spears, while rage popped veins on Caden face which o had not grown hair yet to shave.
The boy's inexperience with fighting using a spear quickly came evident, he felt the weapon itself had a soul calling for help from his original wielder and partner through the good and the bad, through pride and dishonor, as every wound he came close to inflicting missed somehow, the damn shaft even pained his fingers and pulled the muscles of his arm tighter than a weapon should in a duel. That duel lasted few minutes before Caden found himself cornered, his back stuck to a wall, and the crimson lance threatening his front, as Diarmuid preferred to keep distance between him and his foe, in case he was hiding any tricks. The boy looked at his detested kin, unable to comprehend how the stolen lance he aimed at the older man was clutched tightly from the tip by his foe, bleeding the lancer palm but without any pain or discomfort. Such was the bond between the dual wielder and his two spears.
A crazy maneuver had to have been made by the lancer. Otherwise he would not have risked retrieving the blade by gripping it from the sharpened. That was the spear's worth, and the lancer did not mind or waver, sparing no second before making the decision.
"I cannot understand! You hold to these Celtic – made spears as if they were a gift from our gods, then sully them shamelessly to fight against the people who are suffering like you, most of them running in their veins the same blood as yours!"
The boy Caden loudly exclaimed in a sorrow outweighing his frustration, his need for an answer making him forget the danger he was in and the possibility of death, if not by the tip of the blade then by being buried alive.
"It not as you think, little one."
Caden lips opened then closed at the endearing name, there was a smile fighting no less rigorously to reside on these youthful lips but it was defeated, as the boy furrowed his eyebrows but the Diarmuid kept talking with the same calmness.
"I am neither fighting against the Celtics, nor fighting with the Romans. I am simply fighting for what it is right."
"And our revolution is not right!!!"
Caden interrupted the quiet speech like a fevered man. The lancer shook his head then continued, more sharply this time:
"What you are doing is plundering, vandalism, cheap tactics pursuing only the weak and helpless. Even if these victims were rich or wealthy, they still were no warriors or fighters, taken down from the back. You have killed some important figures, but by assassinating them like cowards tarnishing what could have been a small temporary warning by mutilating and torturing them alive and dead."
The boy listened, his visage not changing although his lips did tremble once more but this time it was not due to a smile struggling to show. It was because he had many words and examples to validate his group's methods yet could not bring himself to speak any of them.
"Had you grouped yourself into one huge army ready to battle, were you to challenge the deserving opponents, blade to blade, face to face, you would have found me Caden, in any line you would have chosen for me."
Words failed the boy once again, emotions he could not sort into wrong and right overflowing his heart. The place was bidding its last shell of its structure a farewell, so he could only choose one feeling to hold to and act upon.
"I hate you, Diarmuid!"
The boy screamed. Taking advantage of the lancer's hesitancy in killing him, he slithered against the wall, down to the ground, pushing with his legs the taken by surprise lancer, but his leg strength alone was not enough to make the sturdy man budge for less than an inch, so a sharp cut hissed through the silence, exceeded by the cry of pain Diarmuid grunted as low as he could trying not to sound like a child – birthing woman. He fell to his knees, a deep wound cutting through his right leg, staining his vernal clothes and the ground beneath him with a color imitating his crimson spear's. Diarmuid turned his back quickly to prepare for the second attack, but Caden was also panting and waiting before charging again, his close encounter with death leaving a trace of fright on his young face. Diarmuid staggered to stand up, having no time to shred a piece of his clothes and tie the wound. During this short exchange the boy regained his clarity of mind, unsheathing from his belt a perfectly hidden Siccae.
"I will kill you, and your death will claim no honor, only to my name as I have slew the faithless traitor!"
Despite the agonizing pain tearing through the lancer's leg, reaching into his abdomen and heart, inches away from shutting his mind, he still held himself fine, and with his confidant smile that aroused the boy's indignation more and more, delivering its purpose, Diarmuid stated:
"I hail your confidence but lament to what it is dedicated. If you were not mad, you would have made a respectable fearless knight, but you chose the wrong path, mainly because I oppose it!"
"I will carve out that famous mole of yours that made you the knight of the radiant face and feed it to the dogs!"
Caden was still a boy, easily incensed and provoked by insults directed to his person, and there was nothing strange or abnormal about that to a lad in his rebellious age. However, when it came to taking his path lightly and ridiculing it, putting it on the same scale as madness and profanity, his mind strayed into a depthless darkness, grown from innate hatred and taught malice. He showed his scimitar openly, returning the haughty challenge with acts rather than words, as he jumped at the injured man swinging his weapon with great lightness and precision, like an instrument too familiar with his hand and fingers, he did not even have a problem with changing the hand he used, he fought with the right hand as well and perfectly as with his left one, dizzying the spear – man eyes who was already bleeding profusely, his senses steps away from numbing. Nevertheless, his blades continued their ritual dance of death, never failing to reach its final move. The lancer tried to forget about his injury and silence the pain by the sole desire to awaken this lad from his sick mind, although he doubted he would be able to as the boy's attacks became more ferocious and deadly. He actually managed to leave few scars on the lancer's shoulders and arms, and tried many times to deepen his leg wound like a preying animal, ecstatic by the scent of blood and hungered by the taste of flesh awaiting his canines but Diarmuid was aware of that. Though his footwork was not at its best, he could still endure the pain and brush it away from his thoughts. Both were running out of time as the building wailed its last cries, but Caden did not stop, even when he Diarmuid pointed that to him, he kept fighting and slashing air and flesh alike. Diarmuid focused on one thing; he could allow his spears to get stuck in the curve of the Siccae, and he was skilled enough to avoid every trial made by Caden to seize the spears, at least one of them, as they in return blurred his eyesight with their quick interlacing movements. Time did not matter to the boy, he was so sure since he was younger that his stamina will allow him to stand longer than his foe, and give him enough time to escape to continue his holy mission. But Diarmuid though older, was a well-trained warrior, a knight, some calling him a demi - god, yet he was still wise enough to realize that time was not their ally. Deepening the wound of his leg by himself by using extra speed, the boy suddenly found himself cornered again from every direction by the gold and red tips, forced into a defensive stand. The lancer knew only a grave wound will be able to cripple that little devil, so he resorted to his merciless warrior heart, and with the golden lance that was stolen from him with trickery and deceit, he pried the Siccae away from the lad's hand, holding it with his other hand with a mocking smile, declaring the debt is paid, the lesson to be learnt only remained. Discarding the scimitar into a gaping hole in the ground, he took full use of his hand and with the blood – colored spear impaled the boy from his shoulder to the wall, pulling out of him a tearful cry of pain.
"Kill me, kill your blood and flesh! Kill your kin and prove your treachery further! I might be the sole witness to this but believe me, your memory will engrave this act on every grand stadium and clan's house!"
The boy spoke big words but his face and eyes betrayed this masked bravery and acceptance of defeat. But he had nothing to worry about, killing him was not on the lancer's mind. The latter was willing to go as far as to smuggle him somewhere else, only if he were to change his stubbornly washed mind by false ideals.
Senses numbed by the loss of blood and exhaustion, the lancer failed to hear the seven footsteps approaching, only noticing when Caden smiled viciously. It seemed this high place, the cellar led to an escape route only trusted few knew of and Diarmuid out of nowhere found himself surrounded by seven hooded men. Although he could no longer ignore the pain and the dizziness, he pulled his crimson spear out of the boy's wound, releasing from him another wail of pain, as he collapsed clutching to his wounded shoulder overtaken by a burning pain.
Under different circumstances, the lancer would have no problem fighting against seven or more men, but in his current condition, he had to understand that this battle which he was about to win, sarcastically, will grant him a freedom of another kind, an eternal silent one; death.
Another footsteps were heard, were it another hooded man joining his comrades? Diarmuid bit his lips at this malicious ending but the flowing red cape and silver armor revealed the newcomer to be a friend.
It was Plinius refusing to abandon the remaining men, returning through the crumbles and falling stones and walls after he made sure his surviving men were safe. Wounds similar in number but less in gravity adorned his body like Diarmuid. And he sighed happily with relief when he saw the dual wielder, with his two spears reunited again.
"I was certain you are not a man to fall a prey to those heartless bastards!"
The lieutenant raised his sword, one against seven and Diarmuid hated the idea of being saved by a Roman soldier once more, even one he respected and appreciated his noble soul. Plinius sword did not spare the enemies' lives, taking note of the time more than before, especially that had barely arrived without being crushed or buried beneath a hungry ground. But when Plinius watched the lancer trying to join the fight but hindered by his wound, he stopped him saying:
"I already owe you my life, I am returning the debt!"
"You have already paid your debt, and I hate to be indebted once again!"
The lieutenant said referring to the thief incident at the city's boundaries, while the lancer replied reminding him of the accusation of treason and the fake blade. But Plinius took no hint to that, even the vexation the Celtic was speaking with, and which surprised himself, not knowing where it suddenly came from, which deep well of hatred or pride did they come from? Was it Caden's words poisoning his heart? Were the names and curses he had called him by a poison or an antidote to the blindness he believed was right and honorable in the first place?
Biting his lips to muffle the pain, till they bled with redness mixed with shame, and honing his sleeping senses with sudden burst of disdain and embarrassment to his honor, he quickly tore a piece of his clothe and warped his wound, though it did not do much at this rate but the illusion of getting a brief treatment fueled his will and he joined the fight despite the Roman's protests.
Twisting in pain, Caden watched his comrades fall one after one, remaining the sole survivor of his group once again. He was ready for death, but the way Diarmuid did not finish the boy, and how he did not injure him in a deadly strike, he refrained from taking any action, only cussing at the alleys and promising them an inescapable punishment and justice through foaming teeth.
"What should we do about this one?"
Plinius asked reasonably, but the lancer's furrowed, as if no one else but him could decide the boy's fate and he felt an immense guilt devouring him. If only Caden had managed to escape somehow, if only he did not stubbornly decided to fight him like a mule… but at the same time he was not an innocent soul to stand by and defend.
"He is a misguided kid, few hits and lessons and he will turn fine."
Diarmuid spoke solemnly without knowing why, his guts told him this will not be the case and Plinius indeed argued back, in the same manner.
"I can sympathize with his age, but you saw and heard yourself, he is completely responsible and proud in his wrongdoings too!"
Remaining still, the lancer did not move his eyes from the waggling boy, who was eyeing them both men in despise. The lieutenant went on firmly, as if trying to break the knight's trance and dissolve his current problem about the young criminal lad.
"He joined a criminal murderous group, mislead others to join them in their lunacy and assassinated and killed innocent citizens and honorable warriors!"
Diarmuid could not deny these facts, and Caden's proudly sneering face did not help.
"He has to stand at a trial and receive a suitable punishment."
"Like those six men we captured?"
The lancer finally spoke, the gears in his mind turning rapidly with choices and possibilities. If this had happened in his land, the outcome would not be any different but the foreign place grew out of the reasonably speaking roman lieutenant an innate disgruntlement in the Celtic's heart. He was not blinded enough to know Plinius was right, but he also did not want this justice to take that form it intended to.
Plinius was a man of unbiased actions, of noble motives and pure fighting spirit and style, and he will stand in his face whether he ransomed for the boy's life like a kidnapped, asked kindly, or resorted to fighting.
But while justice was passed down from the potency of gods to reside in the wisdom and fairness of man, fate remained reigning free, preventing any one from unweaving
his threads, albeit at his own choice and whims and what followed proved this.
The boy Caden crawling like a worm through the rumble, his Siccae way beyond reach was still determined to fight even when bared of any weapons but the reunion with his Siccae came fast to his surprise, and it was not a joyful one. It became possible but with a deadly price.
The Celtic boy's cries of pain grew into a surprised loud gasp, full with fear and terror as the wall the ground beneath him finally gave up and started to shatter like a mirror, ratifying many grooves. The lancer was sharp enough to know where to stand but Plinius just like the boy, was failed by his senses and fell into another hole. Diarmuid watched in horror as the two men, lieutenant and criminal fell into two different holes, holding with great difficulty to the collapsing edges and hanging in the air like condemned men to the gallows.
The floor started to crash more rapidly, and the two men's wounds impeded their climbing trials.
There was not much time and two striving men with one savior, fate giving him with the limited time he offered one choice.
Which one to save and which one to let go of.