In all of his fifteen years, Shane had never seen his father quite so nervous. He’d seen him angry, joyful and a handful of emotions in between, but never nervous. He’d been told time and time again just how much this tournament mattered to the kingdom and their future, but Shane had assumed the nerves would wane by the time a third of the event was over and the crowd showed no sign of losing their excitement. If anything, the crowds seemed to be getting more and more excited with every match. Always chanting for more as soon as the victor’s bloody hand was raised and the loser’s bloody body was led back to the tent. The Executioner had hardly been prodded, SD had needed a bandage and Matt was going to need a lot of whiskey to clean out his wound, but he’d live and his arm would be fine. So where was the problem?
His father was pacing a lot more than what felt normal. He’d be at one end of the tent, walk across, pause at the doorway to watch the action and either wince or nod depending on what was happening before making his way to the other side. He’d repeat it back and forth for ages. Almost like he was doing it just to wear on everyone’s nerves.
By the time his father was about to cross the tent for the 86th time, Shane stood up and grabbed his elbow as gently as he could.
“Pops, I know you’re nervous, but you gotta stop pacing. Gonna dig yourself a rut,” he murmured, keeping his voice as low as possible to keep from being accused of insulting the king.
“That’s none of your concern, Shane. Are your girls ready?”
“They’re ready. Just like they have been every other time you asked me to try and change the subject. They’re ready and they’re gonna stay ready.”
“Don’t take that tone with me, boy.”
“I’m not taking a tone, Pops. I’m saying so because I’m worried about you. I don’t want to be king just yet, so don’t give yourself a heart attack.”
His father blew a puff of air out of his nose. That was about as much as he’d laughed in the last six months.
“Plenty of better people here to worry about, Shane. I’m not one of the ones you should be spending that energy on.”
“Who should I be spending it on?”
“Should be worrying about the miscalculation I made.”
“What miscalculation? You planned everything here down to how many fence posts would be put up today.”
“There was something I didn’t take into account. I didn’t think about how these knights would watch each other perform. See what garnered the most applause and the most hatred. How they would take what they’d see and make it more dangerous. Learn from each other. In other tournaments where there’s maybe a fraction of the people here, one can hardly hear the applause anyway. They don’t become addicted to it like the men today are. I can see it in their eyes. They’ve gotten a taste and they want more. Then the ones who follow want to taste more than his predecessor.”
“Pops, I think you’re exaggerating…”
“Am I? The first blood drawn was barely a papercut. The second one could have easily killed SD. The third one almost removed Matt’s arm. It likely won’t work right anymore. We’re three matches into nine and a livelihood has likely already been ruined. What comes after that, a death?”
“Maybe. It could be. Accidents happen all the time. Everyone on that stage knows the risk and everyone close enough to it know the risk too. People get hurt at tournaments.”
“Not here. Not at SteelMania. Here, everyone goes home to their families alive.”
“But you can’t keep accidents from happening.”
“I’m the king, dammit, I can do whatever I want.”
“Something like this isn’t in your hands, Pops. You picked these fighters, or chose men you trusted to pick good fighters. Everyone who’s on that stage is a professional, or has been trained by a professional. They know the risks and how to minimize them. At some point, you’re gonna have to figure out how to trust the people near to you.”
King Vincent finally tore his eyes from the stage and looked to his young son. At some point in the last fifteen years, he’d grown into a fine young man. Wiser than he was given credit for. He’d make a fine king someday. All he had to do was learn a very important lesson.
“That’s where you’re wrong, Shane. Trust is the most dangerous weakness a king can have. The closest he can afford to come is lack of distrust. The only person you can place full trust in is your spouse, and even then, not unconditionally.”
Hearing his father’s words just made Shane’s heart sink.
“There’s no one here who you would trust?”
“Not a soul.”
“Even me?”
“Of everyone on the planet, you have the most to gain by wanting me dead or out of power. Only because you’ve done nothing to merit distrust am I allowing you to be here instead of back at the palace with your sister.”
So that was it. All the work he’d put in to making the match he was in charge of a success and a matter of pride for his father still wouldn’t get him the trust he wanted. Not even close. If this hadn’t worked, nothing would.
“Seems like a lonely existence,” he murmured, turning back to the door of the tent to watch the stage.
“You don’t become king in order to have friends, Shane. That’s not what you’re there for. As king, you rule over your people and you guide them. To have any more than an acquaintance is opening yourself up for the possibility of having your weaknesses exploited. You’re too kind for your own good, Shane. To be a good king, you will have to hide away that part of you. Showing that you feel anything besides calm is a weakness and I’m sorry I’ve shown it today.”
A lonely existence. Shane would never say so out loud, but he would never let that happen to him. Never relegate himself to barely trusting his spouse, believing the entire world is plotting against him. Never let his future sons believe he’d never have any pride in them. As a king, as a father and as a man, that was never who he’d let himself become.
He backed away from the tent flap where the match being concluded was determined a draw.
Bruno Sammartino, a former knight of Vincent the First had been invited to participate, but had politely declined, insisting he was too old, and volunteered his son, David, in his place. David had fought viciously, just as his father had trained him, but he was still a man who bled red just like any other. His opponent, a man by the name of Brutus Beefcake, had taken it upon himself to kick David into the corner post, where the wood opened a gash on his forehead, at the same moment that David had swiped a cut alongside Brutus’s inner elbow. Impossible to determine who had drawn the first blood. It had flowed in unison, so the arms of both men had been raised.
King Vincent hadn’t placed much stock in the matches that made up the middle of the day. The sun would be just overhead and many people wouldn’t be paying much attention in favour of having a light lunch instead. He still wanted excitement to be presented, but he wasn’t intending them to be as intense as the first and last matches. Give the audience a little time to cool down so that they wouldn’t wear themselves out completely before the final big matches. He hadn’t expected much from them, but the matches were still enjoyable.
True to his word of bringing in a man to compete, Lord Monsoon had brought a man by the name of Greg Valentine. A strong athlete, but when Lord Monsoon was told that Greg would be the villain in his match, he requested a favor of Lord Hart to accompany him to the ring in his stead. Though he’d been cheered against a number of times in his past, Lord Monsoon didn’t feel he could do it properly through words only. Action was where his strength in the dastardly lay. Lord Hart, on the other hand, was all too pleased to be able to be in the spotlight a second time. He took on the role of Greg’s villainous lord with ease. He might not have led Greg to victory, but judging by the ovation that his conqueuer, the Junkyard Dog, received, it was perhaps not the worst outcome.
That wasn’t to say every villain lost and every hero won. King Vincent hadn’t exactly planned the outcome of the final match of the three middle ones, but he did want it to go a specific way, so he’d requested Captain Albano to select two of his weaker fighters.
Lord Blassie, unable to decide which man he ought to bring to the tournament had driven up with two large, foreign men in tow. Initially, King Vincent had wanted each of them to have their own match. Upon learning that if such a thing happened, the tournament may go until dark, he took a day or two to riddle out what to do. The conclusion he eventually came to was a style of fighting that hadn’t been in style in a couple of years: the four-way battle. Two men on a respective two teams, but all fighting at once. If a man drew blood, both he and his partner would be the victors.
The style had gone out of fashion when the last war had broken out and spectators realized it was a very near replica of a wartime battle, which did nothing but bring up bad memories and open fresh wounds. Given that both of the men Lord Blassie had brought along were from across the eastern sea, an opportunity opened for a tiny war to occur upon the stage. Four men battling for the glory of their native kingdom. An opportunity to stir up great feelings of pride in the crowd, and an even better opportunity to get them angry and excited when their national heroes were defeated. After the comparatively dull middle three matches, King Vincent’s main concern was to amp up the crowd’s energy before the final three. The biggest three. The three that everyone had come to see that were unlike any kind of match they had ever witnessed before.
~
Unlike the other knights, Andre wasn’t watching the action on the stage through the flap in the tent. It wasn’t that he didn’t care, but that he didn’t feel like his time would be best spent watching fighting and only getting himself nervous. Nerves would serve him no purpose this afternoon. What would serve him purpose would be ensuring his sword was ready.
Sharpening his blade served Andre three purposes, as he counted them. Firstly, it ensured he had a razor-sharp blade to work with. They were the safest weapons one could wield. Drew blood nice and easily without having to pierce one’s opponent. He could just make a quick slice and everything would be over in a flash. A little unnecessary for his match, but he just had to knock Studd down; Andre figured it would be easier to knock the man down if he were to be bleeding profusely. Secondly, working on sharpening his sword occupied his hands and his mind. If he was counting strokes with the stone, he had no spare space in his attention to worry about anything or anyone. Thirdly, Andre knew exactly what he looked like. Even just sitting quietly and sharpening his sword, he posed an imposing figure. His deep focus had a tendency to unnerve people. When his primary focus was to achieve a psychological victory before he could achieve one on the battlefield, he’d already half won.
Andre was doing his best to count the ten strokes before flipping, but as he counted, his mind was wandering a little. Wandering to Studd, who’d elected to stay at the palace with Lord Heenan for as long as possible. He didn’t care much to sit in a tent for hours, so Lord Heenan instructed to send for them both when the match before them began.
They’d both finally arrived in the tent a few minutes before, sitting a couple benches away from Andre and very obviously continually sneaking glances his way. Andre struggled hard to keep his smirking to a minimum. If he already had his opponent mentally off-balance, the physical aspect wouldn’t be far behind. All he had to do was knock the man over. Easy as pie.
He’d been ever-so-slightly concerned when he had first seen Studd. Knowing Lord Heenan and his penchant for exaggeration, he’d never expected that Studd would actually be so close to his own height. Smaller around the middle, certainly, with a little more lean muscle, but suspiciously close to Andre’s height. His comfort came when he saw what weapon Studd intended to use. Not a greatsword like Andre’s, but still fairly large. Seeing such a small sword indicated two things to Andre: primarily that he intended to be quicker. He wanted to outmaneuver his opponent and make Andre seem like a clumsy, lumbering giant. Secondly, with that speed, he wanted to make Andre bleed. He wanted to cause a submission by begging for mercy.
He’d happily die before he begged for mercy.
Andre could nearly hear the interview going on on the stage, the crowd having become nearly dead silent in an attempt to hear and cling to every word. A match such as the one announced to them had never been done before. If Andre were to guess, the bulk of the audience’s savings all together would add up to about fifteen thousand. Seeing a man fight for such an amount was likely mind-boggling.
“Alright, we’re just moments away from the big one,” Gene began, his words falling out a bit quicker in his own excitement. “When I say big, the battle of the titans Big John Studd with fifteen thousand in gold, Lord Bobby Heenan, come on in. Andre the Giant, putting his entire career on the line.”
Neither Studd nor Lord Heenan were truly paying attention to Gene, far more concerned with the large burlap sack they were hoisting up the steps to the stage.
“This bag is heavy, man, this is what it was all about, fifteen thousand that we use for bait. John Studd, the only giant in the kingdom, seven foot plus, nearly 400lbs, that’s all in muscle. And this is what we wanted, to prove to the whole world that I am the giant. In a few short moments along with this fifteen thousand, you’re gonna see me on this stage and you’re gonna see a last match of Andre because he retires when he can’t do it.”
The clanging of coins as the bag was dropped down into the centre of the ring rang out over the audience, truly hitting home how much money was in the bag. Some onlookers may have been tempted to attempt a heist, but were deterred by the giant man with his hand around the tied opening of the sack. The closest who tried was Gene, whose hand was promptly slapped away by Lord Heenan.
“Bobby Heenan, I’m just trying to touch the money here…”
“Keep your hands to yourself, pal. For fifteen thousand and a hair cut, we’re eliminating Andre the Giant from his knighthood. Oh yeah, a lot of glad handers around here today…” he commented, smacking Gene’s hand away a second time. “Only two people are gonna see this money; that’s Studd and myself. But not the Giant. He’s retired. He’s done.”
That was it.
Andre stood at the words and pushed his way to the front of the tent, making his way up to the stage.
Given that he occasionally struggled in English, even when he wasn’t under pressure, it had been agreed that it might be more beneficial to Andre as a story to not speak to the audience. He would let his actions do the talking for him.
The relative quiet that had befallen the audience during Studd’s interview was rapidly overtaken by a shrieking din as Andre made his way through the crowd. In addition to his lesser capabilities in English, it had been decided by King Vincent that Andre didn’t need an interview. He was one of the most-known knights in the country. Less because of his skill on the stage and more because of just how widely he traveled in his youth. As a large man with superb skill in the greatsword, he had the ability to draw crowds just about anywhere he went for a tournament. Even if this crowd had come from all over, there was a good chance they knew Andre.
His reveling in their cheers was unfortunately short-lived. The instant the bell was rung, Studd ran at Andre, backing him into a corner seemingly immediately. His psychological advantage allowed Studd the opportunity to test the durability of Andre’s armor, slashing across the chest, then across the back. No cuts made yet, but Andre had the sneaking suspicion that one or both of them would be bleeding before the match was over. He had fifteen minutes and had to use each and every one of them to their full advantage with nothing less than his complete focus.
Using that focus was what made him able to swing at Studd in return. Three more followed, each pushing Studd a little closer away and allowing Andre to make his way out of the corner. He finalized his minor bout of assault with a head butt, finally ensuring they were both in the center of the ring. No corners and no trickery.
Head spinning slightly, Studd made his way out of the ring. He needed to walk off the blow. Besides, this would kill some of the time Andre had and waste it. All he had to do was to not get knocked down for fifteen minutes. Not a big deal.
The only problem was that with each step he took outside of the ring, Andre only seemed to be getting angrier and more frustrated. With another knight, this would be good. Blinded by rage opened the opportunity for far too many mistakes. With a normal knight as his opponent, this would be brilliant strategy. In Andre, rage and frustration only helped him become more focused. Mind clear of anything and everything except enacting revenge upon those who had wronged him.
It was why the instant Studd stepped back onto the ring, Andre had him shoved up against the ropes. It could have probably been easy to grasp Studd around the neck and throw him with all of his might to the ground. An easy victory. The unfortunate situation at hand was that Andre wanted to hurt Studd. He knew he could win; bet his career on it, after all. The audience was likely just as certain. That didn’t keep them from needing a little bit of drama in the match. It was one of the biggest ones of the day, after all. Many people had likely come to the tournament to witness this particular feat of strength and power. Andre wasn’t about to make them feel like their time had been wasted coming all this way. A far more fun method of madness was to continue taking swings at Studd until his chainmail broke, or he fell, whichever happened to come first.
In actuality, what came first was Andre growing bored of torturing the man with consistent blows of sword against ribs. They’d likely already be cracked, if not, broken. It might be advisable to ensure at least cracked ribs to keep Studd from being able to take in a proper deep breath, removing a good bit of his strength.
Andre’s strategy of rib-cracking involved not his sword, but the rest of his body. Dropping it and instead grasping the ropes to steady himself as he pushed Studd between his back and the post keeping the ropes into place. 500lbs being pushed against him with a giant’s force. Still feeling Studd able to breathe, Andre let go of the pressure slightly before ramming backwards, hitting Studd’s spine on the rough wooden post. A second time. The little gasp of pain punctuated with labored breathing finally evoked a little mercy from Andre. Or he simply didn’t want to leave his sword laying around for too long. Doing so felt like a foolish move that he wasn’t quite willing to risk.
As he bent over to retrieve it, Studd gained enough of his air back to attempt a kick at the back of Andre’s legs, not quite having the strength to raise his arms for a proper swing. He needed to build it up for the proper swing that came when Andre stood at his highest, giving Studd an opportunity to knock him down. He’d gain no victory over knocking Andre down, but Studd didn’t exactly have high hopes of doing so.
Lord Heenan had made a habit of exaggerating a little bit of everything in his life. While it was true that Studd had never been knocked down in a tournament, it wasn’t exactly true that he’d never been knocked down in his life. A handful of occasions had resulted in exactly that. And it was always against smaller opponents. Until he saw Andre for the first time, Studd had never met a man even close to his own height and weight. Seeing someone who made him feel small was a new feeling, and one Studd certainly didn’t take kindly to. He wasn’t going to win anything by knocking Andre down, but he may gain something; the psychological advantage. If Andre knew that he could be knocked down by a smaller opponent, he may begin second-guessing his own size and strength which, if used properly, could allow Studd to avoid any attack that came his way with quicker defense.
His attempt at a knockdown was rebuffed with a swift and vicious knee to the ribs and a following slash across the chest. Studd heard the tell-tale falling of cut-apart chain links to the ground and felt something warm begin spreading across his chest. He counted himself lucky that it wasn’t much more than a long papercut that had narrowly avoided the two points of his chest he deeply preferred to not ever have near any kind of blade.
The distraction caused by the falling blood gave Andre the opportunity to wrap his arms around Studd’s middle, crushing his ribs further and putting deeply uncomfortable pressure against the cut.
This was it; the end. End of the match. Andre would toss him in a victorious heap and then probably place one of his far-too-large boots on Studd’s chest and squish the last remaining life out of him. Studd’s only hope was to reach out and grasp one of the ropes as tightly as he could. Each one of them was secured firmly to the post, which went all the way down through the stage. Without the proper leverage, Andre was only able to lift Studd a foot or two off the stage. He managed it a couple of times, but was foiled each time by Studd’s backwards grip, completely unreachable from Andre’s position. The broad chests and middles of both men made it impossible for Andre to keep his steady hold and break Studd’s grip at the same time.
Studd began getting a little bit risky, using on hand to push against Andre’s forehead, trying anything he could to break the hold before the pain of his ribs knocked him out completely. The best he could do was jabbing the back end of his sword between Andre’s eyes, which not only successfully broke the hold, but made Andre back away just enough to give Studd room to breathe. He just wanted, needed to get away for a moment or two to catch his breath. All he got was a vicious slash across the back.
Every time Andre swung that massive sword, Studd’s heart began to race. Swords like that were usually used in wartime by only the largest and the strongest of knights with the design of slicing a man clear in two in any direction. Most common was the removal of the head, which would certainly cause Studd to be knocked down, but he’d also heard of splitting the head in two or removing the torso from the legs. The fact that he was only being scratched with such a weapon meant Andre was far more skilled and precise than he seemed to be at first glance.
Studd only got the chance to lean against the opposite post for a moment before he felt Andre’s presence mere inches behind him. He attempted a backwards elbow strike, but upon hitting nothing but air, realized his moments of advantage were through as Andre re-captured him once again, but from behind. Without being able to capture a full breath of air for so long, Studd’s grip on the ropes wasn’t nearly as strong, nor was he able to squirm as much. Just enough squirming to annoy Andre into giving him a hard shove back into the corner.
The match was going to end soon; Studd could feel it. He was staying on his feet well, but it was annoying Andre beyond anything else. The strikes would only get harder and more vicious until he did eventually fall.
Wonder how much time is left…
The world was getting more and more blurry until Studd’s tunnel vision only allowed him to see Andre and the glint from his armor battering Studd’s body. He knew Lord Heenan had to be yelling at him to pick up his arms, to use his sword, to do something, but Studd simply couldn’t. The strength was fading fast.
Andre pulled him away from the ropes viciously, knocking Studd down to one knee. The jumbled voices of the crowd only grew louder. To Studd’s knowledge, he had to be knocked down to his back. One knee, and even two knees didn’t count. Knowing that encouraged him to stand once more with a groan. Remaining steady on his feet didn’t stay long as Andre threw him against the ropes, seemingly hoping to knock him down when Studd inevitably bounced back against his sword. The only defense he could think of was to stop short and try to kick Andre over, which was intercepted when Andre grabbed Studd’s ankle with his free hand.
This had to be it; it had to be the end. Andre had his leg. He had no stable footing anymore. Lifting his leg any higher would make him fall.
“Please,” was all he could whisper above the din, hands held up a few inches in what probably appeared to the audience as either surrender or begging for mercy. “Please not like this.”
Having a mistake be exploited couldn’t be his downfall. It wasn’t allowed to be. Lord Heenan would fire him for sure if Studd was knocked over and lost him fifteen thousand because of a snap error in judgment. Where would he find other employment? Who would hire the man who lost his employer fifteen thousand for trying to kick a man during competition as his only defense when his sole objective was to not fall down for fifteen minutes?
Andre wasn’t a particularly merciful man during tournaments. He fought to win and nothing less. But pity had to be taken on the man so desperate that he begged during a match. It wasn’t as if he was fighting the inevitable, only prolonging it. He wanted to lose honorably, which Andre could respect.
Instead of tossing Studd’s ankle upwards, he slammed it down to the stage and sliced across Studd’s chest again before attacking the same leg a second time.
His knee was going to give him troubles, Studd was certain. Two kicks to the same knee that brought him down on two separate occasions was heavily going to impede his ability for speed. Given that it was his sole advantage, Studd almost felt angry at himself for having not anticipated it. Of course Andre would try to keep him stationary. Stationary fighting was where he excelled. Playing on Andre’s home field, so to speak. As if to drive the point home, Andre kicked the leg once more as Studd attempted rising to his feet.
A couple more slices across the chest made the world feel even woozier and spinnier than it already had. He was losing a lot of blood as he stumbled to the corner where Lord Heenan had been shouting at him. Studd was pretty sure he was being shouted at from that corner, anyway.
“Need help,” he mumbled.
“What kind of help?”
“Medical.”
He couldn’t say more before Andre gave him another kick to the back of the leg. A second. A third. A fourth.
The sun is so bright today…
A final blow across the chest knocked Studd down to his back hard.
He didn’t move after that. Didn’t want to move. Everything in the world felt so bright and he just knew he was gonna fall asleep really soon. He just hoped he’d fought hard enough for Lord Heenan not to fire him.
The bag of coins was passed over top of him into Andre’s free hand. The greatsword clattered down beside Studd and Andre reached into the bag, letting the coins fall through his fingers experimentally.
Growing up in the mountains, Andre didn’t get to see much money. Most of what his village bartered with were goods and services. For many, that was more than enough. Once he’d begun participating in tournaments on this side of the eastern sea, he’d come to learn that money was easy to come by, and things he used to do in exchange for a goat, he would now be paid in coins. 10 coins would pay him to harvest a field. It only cost five coins to buy a goat. As a result, he very quickly had more money than he knew what to do with. He didn’t need these riches. They would be far better served being distributed to the people who had come to show their support for their kingdom.
Andre grabbed small handfuls of coins and began tossing them out to the crowd. Small handfuls only so he wouldn’t injure anyone too badly. The cheers only grew louder as he circled the stage, tossing out the coins. He’d been so caught up in enjoying the adoration that he didn’t even notice when Lord Heenan snuck up behind him and snatched the bag from his hand, quickly scuttling out of the ring and back towards the palace, leaving Studd bleeding on his back.
Minutes ago, Studd had been one of the least defeated knights in the kingdom. Never knocked over, hardly a scar on his body. Now, the man he had sacrificed his body for was running away with the money he’d lost, considering the remaining thousands over the life of his knight.
💜✨ This is an Amazing Creator Award! Your creations are incredible, and they light up every dashboard they land on. Pass this on to eight of your favorite creators to show your appreciation and let them know their art is loved! ✨💜
haha I see you!
Thank you so much! I'm sending this right back to you but I'm so lazy right now so I'm not going to copy and paste and send it out but I will tag @nylwnder @inthetags @hockeyunits @stilesedit @hockeyisit @verdandis-blog @naiey @freddiecangetit @glassdanse and @mandypants95
You're beautiful, talented, wonderful people and I love you and your content dearly!
You know I'm actually extremely picky with poly ships, I think I have 2 or 3 poly ships I really like. But I'll draw poly threat just this once since I don't think there's a lot of it in the fandom(?). I can't deny that it's super cute. I hope I did well on this tho ^^;
