A matter of honor/ - Writing Contest Finish the Tale. Story #16 [ENG-ESP]

Just as The Hero raised his sword in triumph, his pants betrayed him and fell down in front of the whole kingdom.

The din of combat died down at that precise second. The battered enemies were astonished, while a slight murmur began to be heard, as if a thousand flies were looking for blood. But it was not flies, but the commentary in crescendo within his troop.
His own people jeered, at first discreetly, until the faint purr became the unbearable burst of laughter, the terrible symphony of mockery.

Then, no one remembered the days of hunger, the shared loaf of bread; no one remembered the effort to save the wounded he carried on his shoulders. Now the important thing was his unprotected scrawny thighs. How not to mock his windblown backside?

The humiliating blush colored his face. "Who ever saw a peasant win battles?" The Hero turned from embarrassment to reality. With his sword still held high he could not make up his mind to deliver the final cut to his rival. He thought briefly that, for him, the die was cast. That event put an end to his heroic career.
"What miracle would save him now? This was not how the story was supposed to end." The end he envisioned was of girls throwing flowers his way and children asking to ride on the back of his white horse, with golden plume and harness...He was not supposed to go from shame to death in revenge.

His face was paling unable to pull up his pants, as The Opponent stood up, not without great difficulty. The laughter and shouts of the people continued, annoyed, ungrateful.

The Opponent, finally stood up, looked at him for a long time, and in that look there was no longer the hatred of combat.

—You can clean yourself up— he said.

When our hero had corrected his embarrassment, The Opponent approached and spoke something that only they knew. Suddenly, to everyone's astonishment, The Hero turned his back on his enemy and walked out towards his troop amidst the smoke and corpses of both sides. Then there was general silence.

The Hero, with his sword in its sheath, recalled the words spoken by his contendant with each step: —Go in peace, friend. Before this campaign I was the Jester.

Justo cuando El Héroe levantaba su espada en señal de triunfo, sus pantalones le traicionaron cayéndose delante de todo el reino.

El fragor del combate se apagó en ese preciso segundo. Los maltrechos enemigos quedaron atónitos, mientras comenzaba a escucharse un ligero murmullo como de un millar de moscas que buscaban sangre. Pero no se trataba de moscas sino del comentario in crescendo dentro de su tropa.
Su propia gente se burlaba, primero a discreción, hasta que el leve ronroneo se volvió el insoportable estallido de carcajadas, la terrible sinfonía de la burla.

Entonces, nadie recordó los días del hambre, la hogaza de pan compartida; nadie recordó el esfuerzo por salvar a los heridos que llevó en hombros. Ahora lo importante resultaban sus muslos escuálidos desprotegidos. ¿Cómo no mofarse de su trasero al viento?

El humillante rubor le coloreó la cara. "¿Quién ha visto a un campesino ganar batallas?" El Héroe pasó de la vergüenza a la realidad. Con la espada aún en alto no pudo decidirse a asestar el corte final a su rival. Pensó brevemente en que, para él, la suerte estaba echada. Ese evento puso final a su heroica carrera.

"¿Qué milagro le salvaría ahora? Así no se suponía que terminaría la historia". El final que avisoró era de muchachas lanzando flores a su paso y niños pidiéndole montar a la grupa de su caballo blanco, con penacho y arnés dorados...No se suponía que de la vergüenza pasara a la muerte en revancha.

Su rostro iba palideciendo, incapaz de subirse los pantalones, cuando El Contrincante se ponía de pie, no sin gran dificultad. Las risas y gritos de la gente continuaban, molestas, ingratas.

El Contrincante, al fin erguido, le miró largamente y en esa mirada ya no se traducía el odio del combate.

—Puede usted, adecentarse— profirió.

Cuando nuestro héroe hubo corregido su vergüenza, El Contrincante se acercó y habló algo que solo ellos supieron. De repente, para asombro de todos, El Héroe dió la espalda a su enemigo y salió caminando hacia su tropa entre el humo y los cadáveres de uno y otro bando. Entonces se hizo silencio general.

El Héroe con la espada en su funda, rememoraba las palabras dichas por su contrario con cada paso: —Vaya en paz, amigo. Antes de esta campaña yo era el Bufón.