He passed so many judgments upon many people, regarding their integrity, talent, trustworthiness, bravery and nobility, and even enjoyed voicing smug comments about their weakness and lack of resolve when faced by his twin spears, or haughty though justified praise about his skills and honor.
He never thought he will be judged one day, and that the person to do so would be himself and no one other than himself.
And at these moments all what he could judge was the fragments of the knight he used to be. Pieces he could never reconnect together neither by nobility nor by chivalry or honor.
He was born to a simple family, noble in origin but not with that much wealth. Name was what he had to hold onto until he realized he did not need to. He was quickly discovered by swordsmen and men of war, his talent shining through like the rising sun and overshadowing everyone who stood in its shade. It was said his strength and speed were a gift from gods, a talent bestowed upon him, a fraction of their potency and magic. Everyone said he was fated to be the strongest knight, the most renowned, and their prophecies did not prove wrong. But he did not attribute his status to fate, it was the rigorous training, and the countless hours he spent with any weapon's company. Then, a lady who favored him gifted him the two spears of gold and red after saving her.
To say it was his hard work was a true statement, but none denied he was a favorite of fate. But if so, how did fate turn suddenly so cruel and humiliating?
He was defeated, enslaved, and stripped from his title. He was not his own person, he belonged like any piece of furniture or accessory to someone else.
Even after dominating the arena and the crowds with the same skills he used to boast about and thus was treated more respectfully, he was still not restored. His image forever marred with wounds that would not only leave scars. No, they were wounds that never closed and kept bleeding painfully yet silently. Their only treatment was averting his eyes away from them despite their growing number and deepening scarring, equating them to negligence in hopes the latter will evolve into forgetfulness.
But he was not the type of man to forget easily, if ever. After all what had happened, he could still remember distinctly the angry look on the betrayed Fionn's face though he only knew of it through descriptions. He was also unable to forget the devastated faces of his fellow knights and comrades as both sides unsheathed their blades to face each other. He would never forget the admiring look of the little shy lad, who resided in the only village to accept the two lovers, as he approached him timidly asking the estranged guest to train him, the admiring looks his eyes shone purely with. However, this was a twisted memory, as the only recollection made when it came to Oscar was that of the envy and hatred his eyes harbored, bearing innocence and gentleness no more. The young apprentice memory was forever connected to those eyes of jealousy and spite.
To say it was the boy's fate to die at his hands was much more easier to say that it was his own recklessness and false sense of confidence. Fate was still not kind, so why not make him carry the blame of the thirst for a win or misguided steps?
Grainne's pleading eyes were a sight he never wanted to let go of, wishing to hold to it forever as a pillar of support and patience. But why could he no longer recall them as they must have been? Pleading yet demanding, beautiful yet ambitious, hopeful and radiating with the scent of endless green fields, fragrant with freedom and willfulness? Why does he remember their bright as a manipulative ray that steered him away from his principles, greedy for their own dreams with the pretense of love and happiness? Was this another distorted memory or was it the truth all along?
No matter how much he tried to recreate the incident, when the esteemed princess snuck into his bedchambers and asked for his help, avowing her love with her beaming stares that pledged fidelity and unconditional love, his mind refused to bring the old picture, gowned in neither truths nor in lies... the same way the sun rays and the moon beams refused to bring out her shadow, the same way the shades of the interlacing branches refused to weave her picture. Was this a testimony to his forgetfulness, to his rage at answering her pleading for help, or a testimony to her deceit and use of him?
Were the sun, moon and trees still bringing his memory to her or had they stopped as well? His role being finished, ushering her to safety away from the much older king?
He could say it was the misfortunate fate brought on the two lovers, to separate across seas and lands, deeming their love a blasphemy, a treason that deserved no happy ending. He did not want to equal the word "love" with "mistake" or "whim". Fate simply was too cruel on them.
He could not remember if she had cried the day he left her to join the battle against the invading threat. Did she cry or was she pretending? Did she cry at all? He could not tell or recall.
They had both tainted each other, he by eloping with her and tarnishing her reputation and honor on the day of a betrothal that was meant to establish an impossible peace before, rubbing her of the nobility of the sacrifice, and she in return, defiled him by making him betray his king the same night he was feasting with him and drinking to his name and feats, dragging his honor and noble reputation to the mud, comparing his name with the most vicious traitors of his time and the ones before.
Still, he looked up to her and bestowed his hopes on her lingering shadow as they were parted by the seas, each on a different end of it. But that shadow had stopped appearing and he could not think by whose will was this disappearance.
Was it the will of fate to teach him of the true meaning of betrayal and make him taste the same taste of treason he had dealt his king?
They gave up everything for each other, and were left with nothing. Furthermore, they gained nothing.
Of his victorious battles, led against the clans and smaller kingdoms that opposed his king, he could recall nothing. Hazy images of him riding his chariot or horse, waving his two spears and summoning triumph by their blessed origins was all what lingered in his memories. Him returning smugly victorious yet humbly presenting his victories to his king, wearing no armor, wielding his two spears, and enjoying the return journey that he prolonged with his passion of hunting, as he returned contended with wearing the fur of the foxes and bears he had slain, and the skulls of the enemies he had horded, while offering all the loots and prized possessions of the enemies to said king without desiring any of it were all foggy shards in the desert of his mind.
Of his victories, the only vivid and alive memories came from the arena dominating his mind completely, clear and unclouded. So detailed and vibrant making him live the moments of endless cheers and recognition, of lingering admiration and pride, making him live through all what he had lost in his homeland in a foreign land, at a grotesque battlefield devoid of honor, where winning equaled losing; the arena.
The arena, just as Sextus had said and promised, brought back all the glory he had once gained before losing and tarnishing it.
Was this fate's way of showing him where he truly belonged after his treason?
Was these wins and kills his punishment, as they were all what he could recall and boast about now, though they were shameful battles and a flashy show devoid of a meaning or a greater purpose?
Despite this, the curse of the green eyes did not escape him, and confronted him even more directly and savagely than Grainne's eyes had.
Both emerald green yet so different in their shade and what they harbored.
Sabina's green was sharp like the edge of a sword, undefiled and ferocious like the soul that held her body together and moved it in the direction of her aims and goals. While the princess's green ravaged his principles and tainted his illustrious past and denied him of a glorious future, the noble woman's green promised him a new glory, one that was not vain or mythical but true and noble. She wished to reshape a whole city into order and virtue, though she did not care for the method and had used the lancer the same way Grainne had used him with similar ravaging results to his noble blades. However, her ambition was still more admirable and would leave the dual wielder who was denuded of his honor able to trace it back and piece it together even if he was still not convinced that if he were to follow her, he would be able to wear it back, proudly and gracefully like in his past days.
Was this a compensation from the fate that had prolonged his suffering or another regrettable choice?
Then came the most strange and alluring color among all those eyes. A reddish brown that resembled wine in the intoxicating hopes and dreams it brought, while also taking after the color of ruthlessly shed blood. For the lancer, the similarity to those totally different examples complemented each other, as the first apparently could not be accomplished or reached without the second. That color weaved a whole different picture. However, Diarmuid realized how often did the shade of that color fluctuate, not only under the moon of the nights or the sun of the days, it changed so fast within minutes, barely persisted the same domain for hours, never staying constant.
But were not dreams and hopes just as fluctuating as that color depending on the circumstances? Was that a fault in those eyes that promised him glory and hopes repeatedly despite the ever – changing shades they were colored with?
The green eyes promised him dreams within reach but through a difficult route.
The red eyes promised him dreams away from one's reach as they never settled on a fixed path.
Both promised yet none delivered yet.
Was this another test from fate, to show those it had abandoned his cruelty and omnipotence?
He was not a fool, he knew both were using him. Doubting their intentions at first before he believed they were sincere but corrupted in their ways and methods. But he had already became a part of their game whether through coincidences or by his own will.
It was a matter of whose side to choose.
"I needed your blade, that undiscriminating ruthless blades, the picture of what true justice should be, by my side… I have chosen you to fight with me… I need you to!"
"Kill that counselor for me…"
"I need nothing of this. I believe in the power of man!"
"I can trust these days no one but you, hide these papers in Lord Atticus house."
He was used to Sabina's dirty missions and was surprised by her noble aim. He admired Germanous's visions and pledged his loyalty to his dreams but it was that final command that unraveled the truth he was blind to. Germanous had noble dreams, but what he exacted were carefully calculated goals, devoid of the enchanting passion with which he spoke about said dreams, and to top it, he carried out his goals in the same disgraceful methods as Sabina. It was then when he realized the truth to Sabina's words; Germanous did exist, but he was a reflected mirage by a sun much dangerous and fiery than what he could conquer, and so he walked out after being given that last command by the governor in a silent mourning over a bond that did not seem to be fated to remain strong or unchangeable.
He knew Germanous eyes were bidding him a farewell, and he did not want to experience farewells once again, since his last one could not be distinguished from truth or deceit.
Simply, the two sides he was supposed to choose from proved to be the same, wearing each other's interior as an exterior and vice versa. Two faces of the same coin, chirping beautiful words while walking down a filthy path that he had already stepped on by himself, not pushed by either, and thus choosing a side remained an issue, a riddle with no clear clues as so much was still hidden between the layers of green and red.
Fate no longer graced him with the companionship of noble knights or proud lords, he showed him another side of humanity. A side maybe he himself possessed and was more suitable to, as his steps were no longer hesitant and quickly taken.
He had trod this filthy path not the moment he won his trial, nor when he started participating in the games and rising to an undisputed fame. He could blame these small steps toward that path on Claudius or Sextus but the determining step was taken by him, and no one other. The moment he killed Plinius by stabbing him in the back, then, in a vain attempt to save his long dissipating honor, he killed the gravely injured boy who was not just his kin, but a boy who believed he had found a safe refuge in the lancer who did not hesitate to end his life immediately. He had sank further in that path when he killed Oscar, though a fair punishment for his crime, he could not face the real reason and admit it, the zeal the battle brought.
He thought by killing Oscar with the golden spear he was saving the weapon from the disgrace his twin was suffering but he had long realized both spears had been tainted the moment he wielded them against the Fianna but he still fought this idea, seeing in the golden shine of the shorter spear a haven, a reflection of his true core despite what everything around him was suggesting.
For all of the turmoil he had been through, could he blame fate? Could he say that fate was simply too cruel? What a satisfying conclusion that would be. Wishing for another chance to undo the mistakes and oppose fate, how honorable did that sound, yet how impossible it was.
Fate had nothing to do with his actions and choices, it blew the wind his ship sailed through, but he was still the one steering it.
He believed he could start anew here, grasp a new beginning where he could stand on his own, following no one, but both Sabina and Germanous held the key to unlock this fresh start.
Speaking of a new beginning, what about his own eyes? Looking at himself in the mirror, seeing his reflection, he was not shocked but saddened at the bright they no longer emanated with. There was no radiance though his beauty was only blooming and flowering along the days, with every win, with every battle, with every confrontation. The struggle that stripped the princess from her youthfulness only made him more charming and handsome. Nonetheless, his eyes had lost their luster but not forever. Only when he was in his self's company did they not shine. When he was in Sabina or Germanous's presence, they lighted in an unmatched brilliance.
Was that light their own, or was it just a reflection of the other two's radiance?
Facing that question was so horrifying that he did not seek an answer to it. But it was that specific answer what would determine his position, and if his eyes were in fact reacting to another's light, then that was the side he should stand with.
Answers came by themselves sometimes, but for this dreaded question he had to look into his heart, a deed more fearsome than facing an army or leading a battle. So, he decided to wait and spare himself a dreadful conclusion. Waiting for fate, the only thing he could blame anything on to grant him this answer, and this wait did not take too long.