* * * "You saved my life," the Sangheili lying on the bed croaked out gratefully, staring up at her with wide, thankful eyes. Savara smiled gently. "The minister did most of the saving," she explained, taking his hand and noting that warmth had returned to it once more. "Constabulary are waiting outside, they want to speak to you about the poisoning. Should I tell them to leave for now?" "No," her patient decided, sitting up and coughing slightly as he did. His eyes were still sunken pits, his skin ashen from the toll the poison had taken up him. "I'm good. But I doubt I can tell them much." "Is there any reason why anyone would want to kill you?" Savara asked. The patient shook his head, shrugging. "I just help unload cargo in the docks," he replied weakly. "My biggest enemy is a malfunctioning grav-loader." Savara smiled, patting his hand and adjusting his pillows. She nodded. "Well, I'm going to go for now. I'll be back to check on you later," she reassured, gathering up her charts and bag and making her way for the door. As she left the room, two burly Sangheili wearing heavy thornbeast-skin coats moved past her and entered. The San 'Shyuum physician who was officially the poisoned Sangheili's healer saw her, and moved her gravity chair towards where she stood. "You didn't need to stay with him," she told Savara, her voice laden with the wheezing, almost sickly note many of her kind had. "My teacher taught me to stay with anyone you heal until the end, good or ill," Savara explained, taking a seat. She hadn't slept in many hours; straight after visiting Sorran's grave she had received the news that her patient had awoken, and had hurried to the infirmary quickly. "Convalescence, was it?" the San 'Shyuum recalled. "The name sounds familiar." "He was once personal physician to the three former hierarchs," Savara input. "Obligation, Tolerance and Restraint." "Of course, I remember. You are fortunate to have such a skilled tutor," she told Savara, who smiled sadly. "He lost a lot of standing when both Obligation and Tolerance died of illness some years back. People blamed him." "When things go wrong the masses always find a scapegoat," the San 'Shyuum commented sadly. "I am High Physician Conservator, incidentally." "Savara Grymar'ii," she replied, bowing respectfully. Conservator blinked with surprise. "Then your father is--" "Imperial Admiral Grymar'ee of the second fleet, yes," Savara replied, repeating the same words she spoke almost every time she told someone her house name. The High Physician smiled. "You must be proud." "My father kills people. My job is to save people. Do you really think I am proud?" Savara answered sarcastically, rolling her eyes. "I am sorry, I was rude." "No," Conservator protested. "You spoke the truth -- never be apologetic for that. I must go do the rounds, my child. Will I see you again?" "I'll be checking up on my patient later, so probably," Savara nodded. "Then farewell for now. Give Convalescence my greetings." * * * It was a large duelling arena by a ship's standards. Not just some small box, it was about the length and width of a large lounge. Unlike a lounge, it was devoid of any furniture. Instead, one-way energy shields lined the entirety of the arena; once two stepped in, they would only permit exit once one was dead. Xatan'ee obviously enjoyed a crowd, too. Thousands of Covenant; Sangheili, Mgalekgolo, Unggoy, Kig-Yar -- any and all had come to watch the upstart ultra get trampled by the hardened animal. Their screams slightly intimidated Zharn as he walked out towards the arena, chaperoned by Ahkrin and Orpheus. He could see Xatan'ee on the opposite side, arms raised as if he were already triumphant as he too walked towards the arena. Cameras from all the newscasts hovered around. One dared to get too close to Zharn's face, and suddenly found its lens halfway up Orpheus' arm. The Jiralhanae ripped the broken camera off and let it topple to the floor. Finally, they both reached the rim of the arena. Zharn looked up at it with trepidation, feeling faint. He turned back to Ahkrin. "If I should fail today--" "Worry not, I will kill Xatan'ee myself no matter the consequences," Ahkrin promised. Zharn blinked for a few moments. "Not what I was going to say, but a good suggestion regardless. I want you to bury me where my family's manor once stood upon Sangheilios." "Of course," Ahkrin swore. "Anything else?" Zharn thought long and hard for a few moments, before thinking of something he was ashamed to have overlooked for so long. "Sorran is still buried amongst all those true heretics and criminals. Do whatever it takes to have his body moved, and try to have him buried upon his place of birth." "Even if I have to raid the graveyard with a shovel, I shall do as you say, Zharn. But you can command it be done yourself once you're fleetmaster," Ahkrin smiled optimistically. Zharn grimaced, looking across at Xatan'ee. The Sangheili was slightly smaller than him in height, but right now Zharn felt as small as an Unggoy. He wore tournament-armour that was not unscathed like Zharn's; it bore the scratches and scars of hundreds of battles. Behind his visor glowed two almost red eyes, and they locked with Zharn's own. It took all his courage to maintain the glare, until Xatan'ee was finally distracted by an orderly. "Whatever happens, my friend," Orpheus assured, placing a heavy mitt on his right shoulder. "You are Sangheili. And win or lose, today your honour shall soar." Ahkrin glanced sideways, putting a hand on Zharn's left shoulder and nodding. "Look at Xatan'ee, Zharn. All those sycophants fussing about him merely because it is their duty. He has no friends, no brothers. You do. He is not fighting for a reason. You are. Stay true to that reason, and you will not go wrong." Zharn had to fight to keep his eyes dry then, and was about to reply when suddenly the crowd erupted in a new wave of screeching. Zharn suddenly felt two heavy hands of duelling moderators grab him and throw him up into the duelling arena without so much as a word. He passed through the shields as if they were not even then, but when he pressed a hand against them again he found them quite solid. He was in the duelling arena. And would remain inside until either he or Xatan'ee was dead. On the other side, Xatan'ee stepped up gracefully, doing one final pose for the crowd. Then the showboating was over, and he turned back to face Zharn. "If you surrender now, I might spare your worthless life and you will escape only with a demotion," Xatan'ee leered, as the two Sangheili circled each other. Hearing his voice, Zharn remembered the horrors he had seen the fleetmaster commit and found from somewhere a new strength. He laughed mockingly. "Perhaps honour no longer means anything to you, [i]bloodless[/i]," Zharn scathed, using one of the worst insults in Sangheili culture. "But to surrender now would be a fate worse than death. I am not sure you would understand." Xatan'ee tensed then, and Zharn could almost hear him growling like the dog he was. "You had your chance, Zharn Thierr'ee. When you are on the floor, I will not spare you life no matter how much you beg." "If that is what you think will happen today, then you will be disappointed," Zharn swore vehemently. Xatan'ee moved to retort when suddenly the large tournament bell rang out clear, like a summoner to the afterlife. Xatan'ee drew out his blade; it glowed scarlet, and crackled dangerously as it extended. The fleetmaster raised it, and pointed its tip at Zharn menacingly. A flash of blue, as he drew out his own sword and mimicked Xatan'ee actions. Another ring of the bell. Blue and red rushed to meet each other.