A portrait of Nilson Fegrew, champion to Emperor Cintarian during a day of judgment.

A Day with the Champion
by Arcie Emm

It was said that amongst the denizens of the palace, only Emperor Cintarian enjoyed the day known by some as Audience Day, and to most others as Judgment Day. Yet not because of the power that he could wield over his subjects, that power did not need a special day to manifest. No he enjoyed Audience Day because everyone else was so busy that, except for the three hours devoted to dressing before and conducting the audience, most of his day would be free to pursue passion of the moment, currently that being painting.

Amongst everyone else no such benefit could be found. For the nobility, it often served as a bitter reminder that despite their great powers, so too could they be judged. For the bureaucrats who enriched themselves by controlling access to the emperor, it was a day where their wealth did not grow and strict were the lessons against those who tempted to sell a time slot on that day, as the seller often found himself taking it to be judged himself. For the Emperor’s Chosen, the day was one of worry, with everyone having the right to have their cause heard, the palace gates were opened wide to those without security clearance and who were often angry. For the palace servants, there were the additional guests to house and feed, never mind the disgusting task of cleaning the Audience Chamber’s floor after certain judgments. And for the Champion, well he hated having his routine changed.

Ghastly to be woken before sun up. Yet what else could he do, on this day of any day, he needed to be ready to do his duty. So early morning found him in his private gymnasium stretching and running through simple forms to loosen muscles, ensuring his body would not betray him that day. Then to the masseuse table to loosen tightness in his left calf muscle, before a full body massage, with aromatic oils, left his golden skinned body glistening with health. A body so unlike any that have previously laid upon that table in the champion’s quarters.

Even different than Agnes Dubrovsky, the champion who had started him on his improbable path to this day. Hatchet face and with a body little different than the those she defeated to earn the position, her victory had shocked the worlds of the Empire. None more than the Felintin, home of many past champions, where the belief was that Agnes only won because Empress Ceelasion wished to have a female champion. There was a great deal of outrage.

But not at the dueling salon of Werther Kelimon champion of the Canton of Sedicrew, who despite being a wonderful teacher constantly lost his most gifted students to schools run by those of greater renown. He saw it as an opportunity to differentiate himself from better known schools, yet even he was too hidebound to open his doors to a female student. Instead he had keyed upon Nilson Fegrew, winner of the canton’s last two Youth Fencing Tournaments. His skill being the only thing keeping Nilson from being the butt of every joke for being to pretty for a boy. Informed of the offer, Nilson had begged and cajoled his father into selling his personal bond to Master Wether, hoping escape from the boredom of life on their farm.

Years later, Nilson often found himself wondering if he would have been so eager had he been aware of Werther’s plans for his new bondsman. Usually Nilson could convince himself the answer was no.

Yet sometimes, when life weighed heavy, he was not sure. Nilson still remembered the universal shock when The Scepter, along with the Empress and her champion, was lost in space. It had been almost two years into his studies, not long after he stopped denying what was being done to his body, and Kelimon had decided to end the experiment upon learning the new Emperor Cintarian’s Champion was a man. Both fearful of what would happen if cut adrift and eager to continue his studies, Nilson had reluctantly embraced what had been done to him and used it to worm his way into the Werther’s arms. Earning himself a permanent place, Nilson proved a most apt pupil on the mats of both the salon and Master Werther’s bedroom. Having been so willing to exploit something he had previously fought against, it was not hard to imagine that he would have accepted the master’s offer even if fully aware of the man’s plan.

Finished with his massage, Nilson wrapped himself into a robe, moved to a table, and began to eat the simple meal that had been set upon it. Eating the unflavoured noodles and seared squid, while washing it down with a specially prepared drink, was the last step to preparing his body for what may come that day. He would have preferred to do it in quiet solitude, but there was no time, so he did stop his body servants as they began to work on his appearance for the day. Truthfully, though he never said it aloud, he found their gentle fingers rather soothing.

First they worked on the golden hair, which during his days on the beginner circuits had earned him fame beyond his skills with a sword. Long and straight, it brushed the floor at the back of the chair on which he sat. Completely inappropriate though it seemed for his chosen profession, it served a purpose. As Jelynn brushed the hair away from his face, to begin creating a thick braid, Terise began to attach small tablets, a centimeter square of ivory, silver, gold, copper, brass, or steel. Personal marks of those he had defeated in his career, it was these that demanded his hair be so long, for all to fit. They only left enough length in which to weave a metal weight, that with a sudden spin could leave an opponent stunned.

Nilson’s bowls were empty long before his hair was complete, so closing his eyes he brought himself into a meditative state. One that was not broken even as Terise began to paint his face, both enhancing its beauty and forming a haughty mask he could hide behind. At the same time lacquered his long nails with a burnished copper, creating never used, though welcome weapons of last defense.

Only as they moved away did he open his eyes. Knowing they would return with his uniform, he stood to perform another form, testing that his braid did not bring unbalance. Spinning to a stop he saw them watching him, a question in their eyes. Speaking for the first time that day, in his surgically created soprano voice, Nilson said, “Perfectly done ladies.”

Smiling, they moved forward to dress him. An activity that did not require involve much. His uniform was the result of years of experimentation and though not as exotic as most, for instance he had fought for over a year wearing nothing but paint, it hid little. Wary though he had been when he first adopted it, believing greater dignity should be shown as Emperor’s Champion, he had quickly grown to enjoy its fit. Nor had it been as big of economic hit as he had worried. Admittedly the licensing fees he received from the sale of vids from his fights had dropped, vids that had made him such a hit behind closed doors, but they had been offset by sales of his holographs that were more socially acceptable to display.

Armour being useless against vibra-blades. Nilson wore a sleeveless tunic of feather-lite, white silk embroidered with golden thread around its short skirt and collar, which slithered over wonderful curves as he moved. Underneath there was even less, just a small silken thong, which offered distracting glimpses to an opponent.

Yet most would be surprised to learn the flatness it covered was little different than what was hidden under the trousers of most of the top duelists. Recognizing the potential weakness to blows between their legs, many underwent a surgical procedure that created pouch inside their body in which they could tuck themselves, somewhat safely, away. Admittedly they would not stay tucked away for the extended periods that were normal for Nilson, nor have his cosmetic enhancements, but the idea was the same.

On his feet were boots of Interium raptor leather dyed a gold colour. No longer were they thigh high, as earlier in his career. He found that those limited his flexibility and speed. Now he wore ones that were knee-high and only covered his shins, leaving narrow straps encircling the back of his legs, which minimized the sweat and the sloshy feeling that could occur during a fight. However, he had not gotten rid of the ten centimeter high heels from those original boots. He found the added height brought him closer to eye-level with those he fought, plus the deutuxon stilettos were another surprise he had put to good use.

Twisting and turning in front of a full length mirror, Nilson ensured everything was perfect before offering his thanks to and receiving well wishes from his ladies. Then opening the door he moved out into the sitting lounge of his quarters, where he spotted a older man dozing in a chair. Smiling, he crossed the floor, leaned over to plant a quick kiss on a cheek, and say, “Time to wake up Master.”

“What? Oh, I’m not asleep girly, just resting my eyes.”

“Yeah, right.”

Through it all Nilson had kept Werther Kelimon at his side. No longer lovers, they had moved even beyond mentor and pupil to become best friends. Mutually and wordlessly they usually left the past buried, both what the man had done to the boy and the payment the no-longer boy had later offered to stay. Werther continued to prepare his pupil for what he would face with sword in hand, but rarely offered advice about life. Though he was always there to offer support when decisions made did not to consequences sought. With Werther, unlike with everybody else including himself, Nilson was content being a lovely girl.

Rising to his feet, with the grace of a Master Swordsman, Werther picked up a belt and scabbard, matching Nilson`s boots, and offered, “Shall I?”

“No it bruises the silk of my tunic, can you hold it for me?”

“Of course my dear. Will you wear your cape?”

“I can’t very well ignore a gift of the Emperor’s.”

“No you can’t. Here let me help you with it.” He agreed, before draping the cloak of white satin and gold trim over the champion’s shoulders. Then as Nilson fastened the golden clasp, fashioned in the shape of the Emperor’s phoenix, the older man pulled the long braid free. “Honestly I don’t know how you manage this thing, it weighs a ton.”

“Hardly. But I am so used to it that I would be hopelessly unbalanced without it.”

“Like the raptor whose boots you wear after your accidentally shot off its tail?”

“Very funny. Have you heard what is on the docket?”

“Rumours imply that it is a light load and that your services will not be needed. Still I don’t like rumours and wish I could get more from those damned paper pushers. They are under the impressions that you are sort of on the outs with the emperor and do not believe it is worth their time to talk to me.”

”They’re right. The two of us have nothing in common and in bed we’re both too subby for the other’s enjoyment.”

“I`m sorry.”

“Not your fault old man. After your time I spent too much time seeking love from those who were afraid of me. In seeking to quell their fears it became natural to let myself be controlled. It’s better when the Empress is with us, she naturally takes charge.”

Embarrassed at where the conversation had gone and still feeling guilty, Werther mumbled, “We better go if we are to make it on time.”

“Yes.”

Striding together through the halls of the palace, Werther seemed to fade away, silent of step and shrunken of appearance, as the Amazon beside him drew all attention. As was proper. Soon they entered the mostly full Audience Chamber, ignoring all stares as they moved to take their place at the side of the dais upon which sat two empty thrones. Their wait was short, as almost immediately a fan fare was followed by the entrance of the royal couple, both showing well-bred loveliness. Even the Emperor, though his was a strangely masculine form of beauty.

After his comments to Werther, Nilson was pleased to see that the Empress’s return from the planet of Vernigar, where she had been visiting her family. But now was not the time to think about bridging his relationship with the Emperor, for his tunic would too easily display those thoughts. Better to focus on the droning major domo.

Soon bored with this and the cases being brought forward, he joined in the activity of most in the audience, studying each other. Scanning the crowd his eye was drawn to a red cloak, but of course is was not Dugus von Majoriol, he existed only in Nilson’s past.

Of all his lovers, art loving Dugus had come the closest to being something, but like Werther he had ended up becoming more mentor than companion. Not in the arts of war, but in those of being a woman. It had been Dugus who seen that he learned the manner of a lady, who had planned and payed for the body sculpting that had given Nilson the face and body of what Dugus called a devilish angel. Yet these changes had caused the end of their physical relationship, Dugus had been more interested in the previously angular and still boyish Nilson. They had soon completely parted ways.

A year later Nilson had spent most of week red-eyed, after hearing that Dugus has died in speeder crash with his latest prodigy.

The sound of raised voices pulled his attention away from the man in the red cloak and to the case being argued and that was the correct word. Quickly he determined that it was a tax case, the boy who tried to be old enough to be a man, argued on his family’s behalf trying to explain away their arrears so they did not lose their farm. But despite his passion, Nilson could see that the prosecutor, who embarrassed the boy with a blatant description of his father’s drunkenness and gambling problems, would win the day.

Unless...

...and there it was.

“I seek final judgment.”

With those words, boredom faded from amongst the audience. This is why they were there, hopeing to see the champion at work. Even to just cut down some farm boy who played with the vibra-blade sword so common throughout the empire, a weapon of personal safety, yet useless in revolt against the blasters of the Imperial Army. While they leaned forward, Nilson sighed and reached up to undo the phoenix clasp. Not looking back, knowing it would be caught by Werther, he stuck out a hand waiting for that worthy to slap the hilt of his own blade into palm.

Moving forward, he stopped at the throne, when the emperor gestured, “Disarm him first, I would make an offer.”

“Yes Sire.”

Stepping into the open space in front of the thrones, Nilson studied the boy. Apparently shocked at his own actions he dully studied the swords available for those seeking justice. Finally he took one, sobbed a deep breath and moved in front of Nilson.

Looking across at the scared face Nilson knew that this fight would supply no personal mark to join the others in his hair, yet he offered the full duelists salute. It cost him nothing, while offering respect for the boy’s courage. But that was all that Nilson was willing to offer, he could not make what followed into more of a fight, that would be disrespectful to Werther and all those like him. Still the lightning strike that usually followed a disarming was slow enough to be interrupted.

“Hold my Champion. Young man, I am impressed by your passion and bravery, if not by your intelligence. Yet I offer you a deal, give yourself to my army for an enlistment of ten years and I will wipe out the arrears of your family. This time.”

Falling almost over himself in a bow, the boy could not agree fast enough. Then triumphantly he walked from the room with the Sergeant-at-Arms, off to his new life, while thinking the smiles of the audience were for him. Nilson wondered how long it would take the boy to remember the Emperor’s use of “this time” and realize that his family’s farm would soon be once more doomed by his father’s actions.

Another gesture brought Nilson to stand beside the pleased Emperor’s throne, instead of off to the side. This time with sword still in hand Nilson paid more attention to the next cases, that attention turning the cases quite academic. Soon his attention wandered back to the boy’s bravery.

It made him wonder if he had shown the same bravery, when first he had decided to seduce Werther, how different his life would be. Looking back, he now knew that at that point he had barely dipped his toe in the pool of femininity. Maybe he would have been able to return to the farm, find his own wife, maybe even be happy. Maybe...yes, tonight he would remove himself from his pouch, take Terise or Jelynn, possibly both, to bed and remind himself what it was to be a man. Smiling at the thought his eye was drawn to the couple entering the room and moving to a pair of seats.

The man’s type was obvious, even if he did not know his name Nilson knew him to be a duelist, like those whose marks adorned his braid. But it was the woman who took his breath away, petite and beautiful, he was shocked to see Valentina deBroge, the last of his lover mentors. It had been she who had raised him up to be champion and she who completely torn away the doors holding back his submissiveness in bed. Primed to her presence his response immediately manifested as twin points showing through the silk of his tunic.

Almost instantaneously vid cameras were focussed upon him. But those observant reporters were not the only one to notice the Champion’s reaction to the new arrivals. So too did the Emperor, who frowned before reaching out to possessively grasp and caress a gleaming thigh, below the short skirt of white tunic.

The surprising firmness of the Emperor’s touch, combined with Valentina’s presence, even the knowledge that his reaction would be broadcast into every home of the empire was heady stuff. Dreamily closing his eyes, he could not stop the purr that escaped between his parted lips. All thoughts of Terise or Jelynn were wiped from his mind, right then he could only think about being taken by the Emperor.

Tomorrow he would remember Valentina’s smirk as she studied his reaction. Remember back to when the two of them had come to observe Audience Day, while they had still been together.

Tomorrow he would begin to think about defeating her latest paramour.

The End

Afterward:

And in my mind’s eye the visual portrait is of Corson brenn Torisk, a character created by J.F.Rivkin and the blonde in the following picture, possibly by Luis Royo: