What some would’ve described as a heroic, desperate, brave or stupid – adjectives writers could choose between in similar situations without any consequence – act was proven to be completely pathetic at last. Unless one accounted the juggling of breasts or hasty breaches within underwear, Peake Andaris’ frame was unaccustomed to anything that involved acrobatics, detail which the surge of adrenaline had hidden and now, once the desperately brave and heroically stupid deed had been done, came afloat at last. Combining the explosion behind, the haste acquired in his rush forth, the imbalanced weight of his plates, and the unexpected location of the hellish knave, the results were dreadfully anticlimactic. Flying out the window was achieved, yet any sort of momentum use was impossible, for the shield impacted against the large head of the beast and Peake’s body, in consequence, came to a sudden, ungraceful halt on the cobblestone ground.
Landing forcefully on his side, the shield’s straps were cut loose from his forearm, and now the male found only his weapon at hand, quite literally, for his hand held onto it desperately. The remaining adrenaline pushed body and mind off the ground, the cumbersome armor offering an unfair fight once the male vaulted over to his belly, using his arms to propel himself up with large effort. Peake’s mind neglected the beast for the time being, surely for the protection of its intentions to live, or in an effort to keep some sanity within it. Instead, the beast had been replaced by a vague but powerful sense of urgency, similar to what a housewife felt whenever the image of a forgotten lit stove came across her mind. In this case, the urgency would be qualified as recalling a thousand forgotten stoves.
Incorporating himself in that split thrill of a strangely quiet scene, Peake Andaris rose, and his eyes witnessed the beast once more. Standing before its large size numbed his own sense of gigantism, as everything paled in comparison once meeting face to face before such a hellish abomination. Peake’s features paled as well, his legs refusing his move despite being healthy, his arm refusing to swing despite being armed. Instead he remained in place, frozen by fear, a mere witness to the scene of two heads becoming even larger once the beast approached. Were his sphincter not as stubborn as the man’s paralyzed eyes, it too would release liquid tears. Recovering his mind or will to fight was impossible at this point, for Peake’s mind had already accepted the worst possible outcome, traumatized by the beast and the events it had provoked. Images of devoured bodies being flung like fish or a burning bakery that smothered the life out of him now haunted the mind, subconsciously, and so it had shot down.
The beast’s paw sliced the air, directly approaching Peake’s features. The mind was paralyzed, yet the survival instincts remained within him as much as they did in any living creature. In the last moment, Peake’s body leaned back, face turning right in order to get away. It was too late a response, as instead a sharp pain invaded Peake’s features. The blood loss was felt by the wound was felt, but unfortunately it was also heard. The sound of flesh being ripped apart was heard in all detail, for it was his ear what was ripped off. Along with the pinna went the facial hair, or at least the part of it that stood on his left side, the talon being an excellently sharp razor that shaved the male’s features in one single strike, taking with it not only the beard every male would die for, but also the tears, snots, and sweat that had accumulated within the watermelon-scented man bush.
Although any male would’ve considered the loss of his beard as the reason for his mind’s awakening, it was in fact the sharp pain from the loss of his ear what brought some sense within Peake. Now his eyes saw what he stood against, realizing how wobbly his body felt now that he tried to return balance upon his feet. His mind realized the amount of damage the beast could do, and the amount of threat it supposed to his survival. Bereft from any stubborn emotions like pride or duty, his frame’s reaction was obvious: it tried to flee. Turning around, the male ran down the street, to get as far away as possible, to believe there was a fancy gala somewhere that needed his intrusion, a courtroom that needed his schemes or that a woman cried his name out in a faraway night. He wanted to believe anything else but reality.
“Help!” he screamed, desperate. “Help me!”
Peake approached the tall and secure walls of the buildings, and stopped before each bolted door in order to bang with a heavy fist, to pant and cry for a few moments. No door opened for him, and so he moved on, skipping a few doors to gain distance over the beast before trying again. In some of those buildings, Peake could see the curtains moving, the individuals inside subtly rejected him in order to save themselves. Everyone was a witness in their own way, be it by ignoring his forlorn howls, by watching how their door trembled under his fist for a few moments, or by praying the beast would silence the wails before they damaged their consciousness. Refusing to look back and address the beast that closed in on him, Peake was willing to surrender anything in exchange of his survival.
It was the third approached door the one that opened, even before Peake managed to knock on it. On the other side stood a young boy of no more than seven arcs of age, with golden hairs, blue eyes, and some bruises on his cheeks.
“… but he’s hurt, ma,” said his soft voice, head turning forth to meet the nobleman. Those blue eyes stared up at the nobleman innocently, with clear admiration for the wounded and armored man that stood before him, and the beast that slowly approached from behind.
Peake saw it then, as clear as the day that opened up over the burning city and the urban battlegrounds that spawned over his home. He saw his father, his abuse, his coldness, and his blood-coated hands, but he also saw his reason. Peake was molded from clay into a scholar, into a politician, a soldier. Everything in his life had been directed towards greatness, towards the throne a man like him deserved to sit on. To be the King needed to save this Kingdom from pointless wars like the one Peake had tried to avoid.
As he looked at the boy, however, he saw the mediocrity of the youth. This boy, born into a family with a business, was nothing compared to him. Childish innocence did not raise a politician, a scholar, or a leader. This boy was never educated by the best, abused out of his childhood and forced into a premature manhood. This boy had never done anything vile, nor forever tainted his soul with heinous crimes for the greater good. This boy had friends, and he wasn’t afraid to speak up about what he wanted, or what he needed. This boy would never be fit to be a King, and his destiny would lead him into a grave instead of history books. Peake saw it, and for once in his life, he did not doubt to practice what he had been taught.
He was bigger. He was stronger. He was more important. He had a bright future. The boy did not.
Peake's arms came forth, hands moving under his armpits. Peake loft him, and with no remorse, he tossed him right into the beast’s open maws. Without looking back, nor without hearing the screams of the boy nor the crunch of his bones, Peake crossed the large doors of the business. His eyes did not address the hysteric mother that rushed towards the exit in tears, carrying her newborn with her. Instead, Peake only thought about his survival – the survival of the fittest.
Be it in sex, in heritage, or in life, Peake always came first.
