Tri-District Tournament Day Two: Fray vs. Le Roux

Tarver had grabbed the flail out of Noel's bruised hands and thrown it to the ground -- "fight with a real weapon next time."

"Thanks Dad," she'd drawled, eyes rolling up to the back of her head. No matter the win to her name Noel still wasn't good enough. A rough day, so what? And in her spite, bitter words caught between her teeth, she'd spent the rest of the afternoon with her previous opponent. Turns out Juno of Two was as good a companion as she was a sparring opponent, and as a bonus Noel knew her sportsmanship would only make her adopted father seethe.

Le Roux, the bracket told her - spear in her hands, she'd been taught enough about them to know they were the shinier, newer versions of the Frays. Honey-haired children with a victor from this decade, whispers calling them the Golden House of Fray's replacements dancing in the summer air.

But who faced her on the mat that afternoon was both a stranger and someone so familiar, it took the breath from Noel's lungs in shock. No sandy-haired child, but a boy who carried himself like she and Leon. Every child from the streets knows a fellow orphan when they see one. If the Le Rouxes were the Fray family's replacements, it seems that they had taken a page out of Tarver's book and found their own street-rat children to pluck from obscurity.

He had the edge in this eyes, one that reflected back in Noel's own vision. Familiarity, she smiled - if she were going to lose, my god she hoped it was to Eden Le Roux.

If that was really his name, as make-believe as Noel Fray.

A wound like that across her head, Noel should cry. But instead she winces, and although her eyes swim with tears she laughs instead. There's a thrill in combat up-close and personal, two kids with names that don't belong to them - who shouldn't even be here.

"Nice," she grins, stepping back to wipe the blood that pools in her eyebrows with the back of her hand. A red smear stains her skin, a dull throbbing below her hairline - this feels different than the wind knocked out of her chest yesterday, raw and primal.

Like she's home. Like he's Leon.

She's still smiling stupid at him when she strikes again, and a playful laugh escapes when his sword catches the tip of her spear.

There's something about the way Leon fights, both in the training centre and on the Exy fields, that transforms him. She's always been the grumpy one of the two, the one to jump in front of a blade for him, the bad to his good. But in the way that Leon has taught Noel to be kinder, softer, gentler on herself, she has taught him how to grit his teeth and fight to survive.

And she sees this in Eden Le Roux, the way he bares his teeth and snarls as their blades collide. He's not giving up easy. Noel thinks he might not give up at all. Good, she thinks, the weight of his block providing momentum to push away and pirouette like she'd been trained to to.

As if he can read her thoughts - see her path before she takes it - he strikes, and when she turns around she groans, a flash of pain at the back of her skull and strands of blood-matted hair falling to coat the floor beneath them. 

"You're quick," a smile. "Too quick."

A strike.

He's quiet. Noel could learn - should learn - from someone like Eden.

Her big mouth has gotten her into more fights than she can count, and that's only within the walls of the Fray household. At school they call her a fake, a counterfeit, a street rat. And she tells them that they're right, and then they turn around and say she should be grateful for what she has.

She wins the fight against Juno from Two and her father takes it as a loss regardless. There is no winning when you are Noel, nobody. There is no victory as Noel Fray, somebody, either.

She and Leon were born to find each-other, and she will die trying to let him live, but she knows she alone was born to fail. Leon is careful, quiet, pensive - and it will keep him alive, like Eden Le Roux.

Noel knows she is fighting a losing battle. She has known it all along, even when it looks as through her cuts dig deeper. But the difference here is she doesn't mind losing. Not to him. Not to her kinfolk.

For the first time in her life, it finally feels like she's fighting a fair fight.

They're awfully quiet, save for the clashes of steel and huffs of breath and soft patter of feet upon the mat below them. Noel's used to so much noise, taunts and jeers and great cries of strength in the Fray training center. She far prefers this type of fight, without all the bravado and show. Here it's just two kids alike and their weapons, a dance without an orchestra.

But Noel misses the familiar bite of words, the comradery that comes with a battle. It's half the fun - "Oof!" she chokes out as her leg spills open, pink skin and gold fabric ripped apart by a sword's blade. Her hands catch her knees and she crouches, taking a second to absorb the shock that comes with the pain and breathe.

"Didn't like these pants anyway," and she bares her teeth too - the corners of her mouth twisted upward. "Thanks!"

Up she goes, blood and sweat and momentum.

She's seeing stars now, the world tipping with each strike. Le Roux's got stamina, and hers is fast but fading. It's only when Noel's leg groans as she shifts her weight to support her body that she looks down and sees her once gold leggings now soaked in red, the wound weeping warm, sticky blood that pools at the soles of her shoes.

"Oh," she sighs gently, blinking once, twice, three times.

He's going to win, Noel thinks softly. Even her thoughts are tiring, the voice of her conscience just a whisper. But she manages a smile, because she's okay with this. He's like her. Like Leon. He's different, out of place in this show yet born to fight. To rebel. To survive.

"Oh."

Her arms are shaking as she lifts her spear one final time, vision crinkling around the edges.

"It was," she starts, finishing her words in tandem with the effort of thrusting her spear forward one final time, "an honour."

And, I hope we meet again.

But she only has enough strength left to think it.

So this is survival instinct.

Fight or flight, she always chooses the former. Even subconsciously, seconds away from doubling over and succumbing to blood loss, Noel lets her mind go and allows her body to take over.

At the last half-second something in her reacts. The damaged muscles in her legs ache as she dodges out of the way of Le Roux's sword in slow-motion, watching with half-closed eyes as the steel flies past her head and beyond her shoulder. Somewhere behind her a voice in the crowd whoops and cheers, and on the come-up she feels her hand tighten around the spear's steel-and-rubber handle.

But her eyes tear away from the sword, unsure where on Eden's body muscle-memory is directing the tip of the spear, and focus on his own stare. Dark, dark, dark -- his eyes narrow.

Her own shine.