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There was a boy. He stood, a pillar of steel against an onslaught of trickery and deceit. He never once wavered in the face of a challenger, gritting his teeth and fighting until he could fight no longer. He was undoubtedly a strong soldier. It were as though he called on lightning to aid him in his battles; a powerful force to combat the greatest enemies. The boy rose from the bottom with his rage and his drive, and his hunger for victory. He was well fed in such an honour, would have held banquets with the excess.
Of course, he could not emerge as winner after every conflict. There were times when he returned with his tail between his legs, and cried tears of shame and sheer disappointment. In himself, in his failure. There were times when the boy could not meet the eyes of those he held close to heart. He was afraid of what he might find.
If the boy had looked a little farther from the ground in these moments of weakness, he would have been struck with guilt. Not from a negative response, no - but from the comfort, the adoration with which those eyes reminded him of his worth, even through the sickening defeat that was inevitable after so many rounds of bloodshed.
There was a boy. He was stronger than most, in ways more unexpected than most. He was not particularly intimidating, but conducted orchestras from the storms he brought to the battlefield. Yet even with all his strength, there were others who had just as much.
~
There was another boy. He gave the impression of a man who was too scared of failure to seize victory for himself. His power would stretch for miles, if he were to wind it out. Though none would see this wonder, for the boy was too modest, too humble to acknowledge his great prowess.
He was not lacking in size, or muscle. He could wield the heaviest of weapons. With weaponry came equal burdens, though the boy had others to support the crushing weights.
He, too, had lapses in confidence of his success. There were long nights during which he sat in silence, breaking it only when a stray sob slipped past his iron defences. The boy had once isolated himself for this reason, but had relearned that his confrontations did not have to be taken on alone.
If the first boy was a pillar, the second was a wrecking ball. His potential mapped out otherwise undiscovered corners of the arenas he stepped foot in, and while his chain may have been thin he swung with unmatched ferocity, giving him a stronger impact still.
~
The next boy was like a bulletproof vest. He stood strong amidst the falling comrades around him, and looked past the darker days in favour of brighter promises of victory. This boy did not feel as though he could crumble. He was dependable, and well-versed in the brutality of battle.
He kept forging on through lengths of slight insecurity in his capabilities. The boy was not made to be violent, rather a sturdy wall to fall back on. One that locked in thick roots and did not allow himselfs to be ignored. His presence was immense, and shook hostile armies that were filled to the brim with hidden stars.
The boy was a beam of support, a brick block destined to protect, to be relied on by friends, to be feared by foes. He proved his worth time and time again, striking down opponents in his almost gentle desire for vengence.
He was, one could claim, born to lead. He was mighty, and worked well with his soldiers. He was a boy whom other boys would follow through Hell's fires without question.
~
The fourth boy was more of an angel. He kept his spirit high, lending a feathered wing as an olive branch to others below him.
This boy was no stranger to sacrifice. He had learned to contain his doubt, instead using it to empower his fellow soldiers. Those he faced underestimated his skill; they created their own downfall. The boy concealed a devil's horns beneath his peaceful exterior. One could not quite be pure amid the hardships of his kind of battle, after all.
He knew, all of them knew, that loss could be crushing. He stood strong, and leaned on shoulders when it was all he could do to rise to his feet once more. The boy saw years of these losses before he became accustomed to a victor's glory. It suited him, though he was perhaps less aware of this than the boy - the bulletproof vest - whom he fought beside.
It was not only his sharp sting and grit that kept him able to claw at his foes. His beauty was somewhat well-renowned amongst his opponents - a source of envy that brought all the more frustration to their eyes as they stared up at him in despair.
~
There was another boy. He wavered like the others, except he did not often see his value. Said value could make the difference, could turn the sweeping tides in a mere few instants. The boy was a knife to the side: a surprising dig when the enemy lower their guards even just a little.
This boy had endured years of loneliness only to find solace in this collection of entities. They were the leather sheath that protected his edge from wearing out. When freed from this comforting barrier, he was lethal. Polished to near-perfection, his blade sliced deep and uprooted his opponents.
He felt as though to win was to grow. Maybe it was. At least, it was for him. The boy, starting out nervous, developed his attacks and carefully calculated his next plays in elaborate patterns, until the fight to reach the boundary of his skill was complete.
Then, the boy cut past this boundary. He recieved assistance, for none could accomplish that alone. But primarily, it was this boy, with tears of blood trailing down his face, along his clenched jaw, who carved his own pedestal to perch on. He climbed with no gloves. He would continue to climb, though for now the boy was content. Hunger had been satisfied, and would soon return.
~
Another boy in particular helped the previous to achieve the things both of them wished to. He stood at his comrade's side, the other edge to his blade, and swung viciously at his foes. He was at first without drive to succeed, and it was a question of pride that carried him through his conquests.
However, this boy was reinforced with confidence, ability and quick wit. He pondered to his rivals' faces the worth of the battles he fought, and recieves expressions that wondered why one such as he could be anything but determined.
He played dirty. He clawed at eyes, pulled at hair... all while maintaining an honest display of his character. The boy was independent, yet chose not to be entirely so. He knew inside of himself that he was meant for more.
~
A sixth boy. He was the Apollo of this deprived circus; a force of pure light to replace his lack of stature. He was perhaps the hungriest of the motley crew, even reverting to the simplest of tactics to tear down those he invited to joust with him.
He grew infuriated if his opposition did not give their all. In the boy's eyes, he was the odd one out, and so condemned himself to fighting twice as hard as any other.
This boy had his own share of scars, each with a different story. He wanted his adversaries to tremble in fear as he rerold these tales with such nonchalance. Yet the boy held a thousand lifetimes of - dare it be said - failure in the foreground of his mind. And when he threw a desperate fist, it had all his concentration and might behind it. An impressive feat, considering his history of tragic weakness.
It was not uncommon for a warrior to act in this way, however. Each was linked by passion, after all, and the soldiers would be dammed if they could not see themselves through to the end.
~
The last boy. The final piece to connect the circuit. Once a tyrant king; he presently held his head high with no baseless pride, among his allies. This boy was a fraction colder than most, but just as brutal as his army.
He had raging fires in his eyes. The unmitigated heat cast out by them was enough to turn away his opponents in a sudden fit of cowardice. The boy was disappointed. He wished to charge into battle with his brethren, and these weaklings were a waste of his energy.
The boy was more picky about his conflicts. He plotted almost constantly and had no mercy, whether he was prepared for combat or not. It mattered little to him.
He was a master at his craft, knew all the tricks of his trade. Well-seasoned, he was formidable alone and unbeatable with his cohort. The boy was aware of this, and while he may previously have lorded over his unit he was now surrounded by monsters just like him.
Monsters who shone, monsters who climbed. Monsters who cared, monsters who cried.
~
There they each stood, shoulder to shoulder.
A murder of crows.
The boys grinned, feral.
The cheering began.