Gaining Momentum - Madison Kelly vs. Margaux LeFeuvre

The stars are beautiful tonight…

Margaux's eyes chased patches of light that danced across her vision.. She could hear her breathing in every empty constriction of her battered lungs. Blood and heartache escaped in thin strays between her lips and took in little wisps of oxygen. Teetering somewhere between the empty void and the cold canvas of the ring, her blank eyes flickered in tandem with the twitches and involuntary jerks of muscle that writhed her body against the floor. All she could feel was gravity, all she could see was the rays of light, all she could hear was…

...the abbey’s…

“FIVE!”

Her eyes brightened with the light of sentience. The Frenchwoman came back to reality with a slight gasp echoed through her rejuvenated blood. There was about several times the work Dull tones and sounds from the world around her filtered in through the distortions permeating her eyes and ears. Slowly, the forces of time and space came back into alignment and she could breathe the air once more. She felt it all. The gloves in her hand, the taste of another’s sweat on her tongue. Who did that belong to?

Her eyes trailed up to witness the impossible sight occurring just a few feet away. The Australian dared to rise again from the ashes. For a moment, Margaux forgot to rise and simply stared back through mismatched eyes at her resolve. Her beauty. Her perfection. The dance. They had to dance.

“SIX!”

The French boxer rolled onto her stomach, pressing her skull to the mat as she demanded her body to raise from the canvas. Her body surged and reflected as a thin veil of sweat highlighted the contours of her inflamed, defined muscles. The lightness in her head felt tethered by the overwhelming weight from her battered body. Impressions of Madison’s deceptive strength made themselves known again and again as she attempted to rise from the floor.

One boot slammed down underneath her, raising her body upright as she eyed the brunette with a manic stare. A stark white smile stretched from ear to ear as a trail of vicious red streaked the corner of her lip.

“SEVEN!”

The Frenchwoman’s body moved on its own, driven solely by the promise of blood and satisfaction just beyond. Her eyes lost their focus and trailed every which way as she forced herself to stand tall. Raise. Fight. Kill. Madison’s scream of determination proved to be the last impetus the Frenchwoman required. Her second foot came high and slammed down with a resounding thud, her fist raised high ahead of her eyes. Her body trembled with excitement and ecstasy, even as she failed to bring her sight from the floor. Just a second longer, a second more and they’d-

“EIGHT!”

She heard a thud. A light series of them, as if an animal had wandered into the ring and suddenly dropped dead at her feet. The pinkette’s gaze trailed from her smeared essence on the floor across the canvas to the body collapsed and beaten where a small warrior once stood. Margaux’s face slackened, a surprised horror overtaking her features.

“NINE!”

“Madis-!”

“TEN!’

The arena surged into an uproar as the bell chimed loudly. It resonated in her ears, eliciting a series of unpleasant reactions inside of her body. A boiling sensation in the pit of her stomach slowly wormed its way to the surface and set her blood alight. Her teeth grit and snarled, her arms shook irrevocably as the ringing grew louder and louder, higher and higher. Her face contorted and scrunched in a million directions...then relaxed. Her disgust left her, and the world quieted once again. The official tentatively stepped to her side to raise her arm in victory, but Margaux simply turned and walked to her corner, where her attendant stood dutifully.

“If you would pardon my confession, Madame. An evanescent and ultimately unwarranted worry tainted my heart witnessing that uncouth bit of rabble dare to stand in place of your infinitely more deserving grace.” He placed one hand to his heart and bowed his head forward. “My lack of faith is deplorable in every regard.” Margaux giggled snickered, holding her gloves out for Olivier to undo.

“No such apologies are needed, mon fidèle compagnon.” The laces of her left glove came undone first, allowing her to slip one sweat-laden hand free, the ragged bandages wrapped around her palm stained and worn from the brisk skirmish.

“What would be such an excellent night of theatre absent the mystifying performance of Drama, that most untenable and captivating actor of zem all?” She looked over to her shoulder to her former opponent. The attending nurse had stepped into the ring to take after her, examining the brunette’s awareness with the rest of her company not far behind. “Yes. A more worthy star was never witnessed. Is its destructive end not so brilliant to watch?”

“Brilliant indeed, Madame.”

Margaux closed her eyes and let out a refreshing sigh. All of the tremors and aches rattling her body to the core seemed to vanish all at once. With that, she opened her eyes, folded her hands behind her back, and stepped through the ropes down to the ring floor. Upright, prim, proper. Her composure echoed that of a delicate ballerina taking her leave to the curtains as she passed the broken body of the Australian, sparing not a glance towards the small crowd surrounding her, nor the crew rushing past the refined pair with a stretcher as the Frenchwoman and her dignified aide made their way up the ramp.

A mix of cheers and jeers rained down around her, conflicted of the dark mistresses’ victory over an undeniably hard-fought bout. Madison had rallied considerable support for evidently defying tonight’s expectations. Margaux pondered the brunette’s mindset, how she would approach this loss as she sealed her cuts and licked her wounds. Her mind had busied itself with another question, the answer hanging on the horizon.

“Who falls next?”