Thus Always to Tyrants, a Short Story

The Tyrant stands ready at the starting gates. On the precipice of her final race, her mind finds itself dwelling on events the month prior.


The Tyrant's loss at l'Arc ached fresh in her mind, hampering her training. It remained as a splinter that she could not decree remove itself from her brain. One day, her trainer had informed her of a young fan whom would like to meet. The Tyrant always spared time for children, thus she assented.

The Tyrant was taken to the local hospital, and led to a room in the palliative care wing. She laid eyes upon a young boy, strung with uncountable tubes and monitoring wires.

At the mere sight of her, the boy wrested himself from the bed, tearfully hugging the Tyrant around the waist. The Tyrant flinched at this, but quickly relaxed. There were established rules against such contact with racers in meetings. In this moment, the Tyrant deemed such rules beneath her. 

The boy spared no breath, excitedly recounting the Tyrant's accomplishments. He had watched every race she had run, and he had remembered every detail.

The Tyrant's mid-race blunder and heroic charge to second place in the Hanshin Daishoten. 
The feverish duel with Eishin Flash in the Arima Kinen two years prior, claiming another G1 win on top of a Triple Crown season. 
Her disappointing loss in the Prix de l'Arc de Triomphe, just the month before.

The boy beamed while recounting every accolade. The Tyrant had remained his hero, through triumph and tragedy.

The Tyrant's loss at l'Arc suddenly felt insignificant in comparison to this meeting. The joy and laughter of this young fan set the Tyrant's mind at peace. She left the boy with a singular promise in parting.

"For you, my most loyal subject - I will win the Arima Kinen."

Not long after, the Tyrant was informed that the boy would not make it to the race.


The fanfare concludes, and the gates snap open. The faces of her friends and rivals lapse from her attention, now only dedicated to the track ahead of her. She starts strong, but chooses to settle near the rear of the pack. The Tyrant lies in wait for the most opportune moment to strike. 

Upon rounding the third corner, she makes her move. Turf ruptures underfoot as the Tyrant storms forth. The backs of the other racers part as waves for the Tyrant, and fade from sight in but an instant. She now sees only open track ahead of her.

"She takes the lead in the fourth corner!"

One length.

"With every last bit of strength, Win Variation pursues, but the gap's already there!"

Two lengths.

"Gold Ship pursues, but she's in third place!"

Three lengths.

"The final uphill stretch is nothing!"

Four lengths.

"This is it! This is it!"

Five lengths.

"Burn this moment into your eyes!"

Six lengths.

"This is..."

Seven lengths.

"ORFEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEVRE!"

Eight lengths.

"Last run, a perfect ending! She ends her career on a high note!"

An overwhelming victory, by eight lengths.

"Such strength! It's unbelievable that this is her last run!"

And a promise kept.

Orfevre rounds the track to the stands, and halts in front of the frenzied crowd. Chants bearing her name crash down upon her, but she hears none of it. She turns her back to the stands and her gaze to the sky. Only two words escape her lips.

"We won."

Tears flow from beneath white bangs where none can see, as the Golden Tyrant can never show such weakness.