Sunlight stabbed at Sigmar through misted windows, squeezed its way between his eyelids. He groaned, pawed his face and rolled away from the wall. Nearly fell off his cot. It was morning, to be sure, but late. Close to noon. He peeled his eyes open and just as quick squeezed them shut for the pain. He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept so many hours. Or the last time he hurt so damn much.
Again he blinked in the sunlit room. As the world came into focus, general aches crept together, coalescing into harsh points of pain. Both his legs hurt, and the left one blazed with muscular strife across his hamstring. His right shoulder felt like it’d been smashed with bricks. His ribs were tender, probably bruised. And he had a headache.
You old fool.
With another groan Sigmar sat up and tested his limbs. Everything seemed to be workable, if not up to snuff. He remembered limping into the Theramore inn some time after the event, stripping his armor, fixing up his cuts with naught but muttered words and bandages. Now his dull yellow plate was strewn across the tiny room, his tabard hung over the back of a stained chair, and his under-chain sat in a dirty pile at the foot of the cot. His mail shirt’s armpit was torn. The fuzzy memory of an arrow grazing his ribs high flashed across Sigmar’s mind. More pain came with it.
Sigmar shook his head, stood on wary legs and peeled off his linen shirt, then hobbled to the room’s small cabinet and washbasin. He scooped lukewarm water into his palms and splashed it across his face. Felt good. Damn good. Then he unwrapped the gauze circling his torso, round and round, letting the bloodied fabric pile at his feet. Once the cut along his ribs was free he craned his neck down and sniffed. Odorless, other than sweat. No rot, then. Again he cupped water, this time to wash his wounds.
The duels came back to him as his mind finally awoke far behind his body. Frantic running. Holy cants conjured with hasty words. Light-blessed geometries of protection. His battle-hardened warcry, sounding like a child’s next to the orc’s terrible roar. Boots pounding Tanaris sand. His obsidian sword, Sunder, feinting and arcing…
Victory, twice done.
Sigmar leaned over the washbasin, hands gripping the cabinet’s edges as sweaty water dripped from his bald head. The matches had been for charity, of course, but Sigmar knew he’d pulled all the stops, spent every ounce of energy he’d had, and that he was very fortunate it had taken place in the Gadgetzan arena. The confined space had certainly given him the edge. He shook his head and palmed his face, breathing out hard.
Charity. Yes. But damn it, he wasn’t getting any younger. It was a foolish gesture, dropping nearly a thousand crowns to duel a battle-hardened orcish marksman. And for what? For the glory of his guild? For the bygone kingdom of Azeroth? For honor? For some unseen ends?
No. He knew it’d been a moment of weakness, of vanity. He’d done it to prove – to himself and others – that he still possessed something of his youth. Vanity. Such a silly thing when observed in another, but how easily it overmatches a man’s mind when he himself becomes enthralled by it…
Experience. That was what it’d come down to. Luck and experience. They’d saved him when his body faltered, Sigmar knew. But would they again?
