A Prison For Glory

The metal clinked neglectfully on the floor at the front of the cell. Heylir shrieked in desperation for his prize. His chain would not let him get close enough as his teeth chipped on the cobblestone floor. The pinicale prize of noroball, the Premier Championship was his. And this guard droppped it like he was discarding an empty pint of ale.

"Hey! Don't dent it!" Heylir cried hoarsely.

Of course, the drop wouldn't dent it. That trophy was made of the finest metals, pulled right from the mine beneath the city. Tough and beautiful, the most coveted of precious metals, hammered, chiseled, and warped with magic to be the coveted Premier noroball trophy. It's beauty was unmatched. It would shimmer in the moonlight in way you'd forget the aurora. But there was no moonlight in that cavernous dungeon. Still, it's silouette danced, beckoning him to reach out and grasp it.

It was so close.

Time and time he tried. Time and time he failed. When his playing days were unceremoniously and unjustly cut short by his father. His father's disapproved in his obsession for the sport. Grow up he said. It was time to be a man, to be a leader and lift those up around him. Bah, what did he know? He gave his life to the King who dodged the impending war and the people suffered for it.

No, the people needed noroball. And he needed to be it's champion. And since that was robbed from him by his father, he had no choice but to become the Boss of a Noroball Club. He started shoveling manure in the stables for a small team. He would give his all to noroball, if only noroball wanted him.

No, to progress in the ranks, he had to play outside the rules. He cheated, lied, and stole his way to favor in different clubs. He traveled across the continent, and even to a few islands to work for clubs in different leagues. The elves, the dwarves, the nylino, the hurocs, whatever human leagues he needed to climb in the forsaken Noroball pyramid. All to one day, become a Boss. A Boss in the premier league to win the championship.

Then everyone from the capital, to the mountains, and across the treacherous sea would know and respect his name. They would admire him and lift him from this pitiful prison floor. He had no strength to pull himself further. That trophy, that was now rightfully his, was 5 feet too far from his fingertips due to his chain on his leg.

The chain was definitely his, as he stole, lied, cheated, and blackmailed to get his team to the top. He even went as far as to risk treason to acquire a favorable sponsorship from a certain foreign interest. He cut down the dreams of others so his might press forward. He spared no expense, no resource, no relationship. Any family he hadn't already betrayed had disowned him. And in the final year, he reached the summit, the nakedness of his character was known in every circle.

Yes, he was resourceful, but now, none of that was going to close the distance. None of that was going to close the distance between him and his prize. His eyes swelled. Tears in the darkness, something he hadn't experienced since he was a little boy.

He dropped his head and sobbed on the cobblestone.

All his life, everyone told him he couldn't have it. He did whatever he could to reach the pinnacle anyways. And now that coveted piece of metal was rightfully his, no matter how tainted it was beneath the surface, he could not reach it.

A soft rush of wind came into the cell, and the trophy clanged as it unnaturally rolled towards him. An unnatural wind for the deepest prison in the castle. He did not care, as he clutched it against his chest, sitting up as if he were a mother covering her baby in a storm.

A green light source came from the barred entrance, illuminating the trophy. The colors came to life as that faceless faceless statue of a noroball player posing with a fist pump in mid air stared back at him.

The trophy was lighter than he expected, and that player on the trophy was still faceless. Nameless. No different than the replica he would stare at as a kid.

"You deserve that." The guard said.

The guard. He hadn't moved since dropping the trophy on the floor. He witnessed all of Heylir's not so private meltdown. Still, the voice wasn't mean, the voice wasn't congratulatory. The voice was hurt.

Heylir lifted his eyes towards the entrance at the guard. This was no ordinary guard. His soft expression was more hurt than he was.

"Congratulations..." the guard said the beginning of that sentance, as if he wanted to address him by their relation. But their relationship was no more.

"Son!" Heylir gasped, as his son, Norod extinguished the light in his palms. "How did you- Why are you- What-"

From the darkness, Norod's silhouette struggled to not shake, "Son? Last I checked, you referred to me as 'an additional player to sweeten the deal.'"

Heylir hadn't thought about that trade since it happened. What was it, 10, 12, 15 years ago?

"Son, I'm sorry, we said we'd do whatever it took for our dream-"

"Your dream." Those were the only words Norod could muster before he started to cry.

"Son-"

"I'm not your son."

"... let me see your face." Heylir struggled to say.

Norod did not respond. His silhouette stood there, as timid and shaky as when he played for Heylir many years ago. It angered Heylir, he wanted his son to be a strong leader.

There were many things Norod could say to him, but even if he found the right words to hurt his father the way his father hurt him, it didn't change all the time he lost because of his father.

"Norod! Answer me-!... Son... answer me." Heylir gained his composure without wiping his eyes.

A long moment passed, as if to represent the silence between them for so long.

"Enjoy your glory... Dad." Norod turned and walked away as his silhouette did the best it could to keep his chin from falling to the floor.

Heylir sobbed as those two words have never been so close in his life, and yet they were still out of reach.