The tournament was over, Ryven the victor, and both he and Baillieu were on the return voyage back to Airaken on-board a refit Badger Mk. I. The boy sat, obviously confused, his close-shaven head illuminated by the overhead lighting. He wore the blue and silver sash of the victor. The losers received nothing, except the knowledge that they were beaten and they submitted. Ahrima was on Ryven's mind.
"Should I feel something?" Ryven asked. "I killed him. Should I feel something?"
His eyes displayed only the sincere desire for an answer to this question. Baillieu wished he knew how to answer. From his own Gallentean upbringing, the answer was certainly yes, but this was not a Gallentean child. This was a young Caldari, and the rules were different.
"You should feel respect." He finally responded. "Respect for the skill and honor of the fallen warrior."
"What if I face someone without skill or honor?"
"Then respect the fact that they died on the end of your fists, feet, or whatever weapons you used." He paused for a moment before continuing. "You should also always strive to be worthy of respect as well. Fighting honorably is just as important as fighting skillfully."
"If you say so." Ryven seemed less than convinced.
"You don't agree?"
"If I fight honorably without skill, then I will die." Ryven said, matter-of-factly. "Honor is of little use to a corpse."
"True." Baillieu acquiesced. "But, you will die only a brigand. Legends are born of those who fight with honor."
Ryven didn't know this was the last time he would ever speak to Baillieu Crennelle, the man who became his surrogate father. The ship shuddered as the pilot activated the stargate to Airaken.
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