Selection

Flash Fiction

For ten years, Huxley trained for a good death. A warrior's death.

His family feared the opposite would happen if he did not act soon enough. Their minds rattled with the thoughts of his face battered with wrinkles instead of scars, loss of limb due to poor health instead of the price of combat, or his life succumbing to cancer and other diseases. He wondered what his legacy would be.

Now at age thirty-five, he was up for Selection. 

The sun fell that evening and the cool air of autumn night wrapped the District City tight in the darkness. The perfume of burning leaves failed to mask the stench of death and rot within the city limits with rowdy spectators thronging the arena that towered in the center of the District - an iron jungle in desperate need of cleansing fire. 

He stood in front of the balcony at 5 '10, bare-chested, olive skin, bald, and built like a prize fighter itching to return to the ring. Looking down at the rabble, he wrapped his hands gently in black cotton as the arena roared like an unruly horde of soldiers hungry for battle. Their chants boomed throughout the arena drowning out the blare of the band’s trumpets. 

Only his Private Guard accompanied him in the palatial chamber; a dozen men, each one a hulking figure clad in full black body armor with shoulder pads on each side showing off a purple Phoenix washed in a white flame.

Huxley returned from the balcony with the crowd's chanting still ringing in his ear. A servant girl, her face covered in a dark veil, escorted an elderly woman whose hands were wrapped in gold ornaments and jewels. The old woman's face, though soft and masked with special scented oils and powders, carried lines and markings from an ancient and sacred tradition long since passed. Her robes, elegant and regal, declared the dark lavender colors of the House of Ashton. Huxley's House. 

"My dearest son," the old woman slithered her hands up to Huxley's face and caressed it gently. 

Huxley bowed as all sons of Ashton must do before their matriarch. 

"Your time has come. The nation calls for a new leader and your sacrifice is needed. Do your duty. Just like we rehearsed."

Huxley stood in silence. Death was calling to him. 

"Just like we rehearsed"

His mother's words haunted him. Of course, it was all an act. Everything. Politics is theater after all. There were only two great houses and there would only be two great houses for the next century. This was by their design. The ballot box was dead. Replaced with a contest of blood. Selection.

In the tunnel below the Grand Arena, Huxley awaited his fate. His hand gripped tightly at his rondel dagger, the reflection in the blade stopped him cold as he watched his eyes grow weary. Accept death, he thought, for the good of the nation.

A tall, well-groomed man built like a bull with youthful vigor approached Huxley. 

“You’re not tired already, are you?” 

“Of course not,” Huxley stretched and sheathed his dagger. “I see the House of Morenz is running out of their finest, eh?”

 Xavier of the House of Morenz stood unamused with his dark, red-hot eyes.

“I don’t ask questions, Hux. The family chose me for Selection. How could I protest?”

The arena drowned in the cheer of Xavier’s name. 

“You’ve become quite popular. The people favor you.” 

Xavier smiled, “The people favor change, my friend. Our public quarrel tonight is the instrument of that change. The House of Ashton has occupied the crown for a decade too long. We are doing our part, Hux. Good clean entertainment for our tribal nation that will calm the riff-raff just enough to scratch their itch for the next Selection.”

Huxley’s eyes twitched. “Too long? I’ve reigned as King for as long as your father did before me!” 

“And look what that has brought us. Rising crime rates, economic turmoil, and now some states wish to secede - Again. Change is needed before they revolt against us! ”

The men held their own, entrenched in each family’s opposing political ideals. Huxley stood back.

“Calm yourself. I know my role here. Just like we rehearsed.” 

The song of clanging steel echoed. Each thrust deadlier than the last. Xavier’s knife made short work of the young king. Huxley’s chest bore every slash, his arms too tired to parry the advancing attacks. He took every blow imaginably. 

Huxley caught his opponent's dagger well into his shoulder. He fell to his knees, his body bloodied and bruised as the crowd looked on. 

Xavier stood over the wounded warrior king.

“Now drop your weapon. I’ll be sure to cut deep enough to make it quick.” 

Is this what the Son of House Ashton would be? A simple pawn in a game to preserve the power of two families? Huxley laid there catching his breath watching his blood from the cut above his eye drip onto the concrete beneath him.

Xavier clasped the grip of his dagger with both hands, raising it slowly above his head. 

After the sudden downward thrust, Huxley caught the dagger before the blow and locked Xavier’s arm.

“What are you doing?” cried Xavier.

Huxley pulled the arm down hard, breaking it and disarming his enemy.

The crowd began to stir in the stands. Huxley stood tall looking around him with a renewed spirit inside him. Like fire.

“You’re a damn fool, Hux! Just accept your fate.” 

Huxley turned to him, “You first,”  and watched as his blade sliced Xavier’s neck. 

Mother would be furious, he thought. A scandal was sure to erupt now that the events of the Selection were shifted. But Huxley didn’t care. For now, he was concerned with correcting his legacy.

Death would have to wait for him a little longer.