It is what it is

Life had never consisted of anything exciting or interesting for you. As you grew up to be an independent young woman after the death of your parents, you found yourself living quite a boring life. Living alone in a small cottage in the forest outside the village, you worked at the local Inn. Every day was the same as the other. Meeting the same people, having the same dull conversation.

Little did you know, it was soon about to change.

You knew of the creatures in the world, of the elves and trolls, goblins ad orcs, but you'd never encountered one. Their lands were far away from the humans, so distant it felt like a fairytale red to spellbound children.

It was late at night after another shift. You walked through the dark and murky forest, following the stone path to your home. Suddenly, your skin tingled and your eyes flickered as your breath deepened, inhaling more air. Your footsteps slowed down as you listened with great intensity, couldn't shake the feeling that you were being watched.

You looked behind you, expecting your eyes to connect with a rodent, a wolf, or a bird, but nothing was there. Nothing but a lingering knowing. Looking onward again, you quickened your steps this time, hoping to escape the constant feeling of being followed by watchful eyes.

*

Yolmar hid in the darkness of the forest, watching the fragile, little female figure walking the path through the woods. He had never seen a human before. His head tilted, nostrils flaring as he felt the smell of your fear. It was almost like hunting a deer.

Yolmar had never been this far away from home. As he came of age, Yolmar was sent to explore the world to find a suitable mate. He never expected that it was the sent of a human that would awaken his interest.

A sudden crack made him look to the side, his pulse quickening at seeing the wolf sneaking up on you. His eyes snapped back to you, then back to the wolf, his instincts taking over when the animal suddenly lunged towards you.

*

It all happened so fast. Despite your senses being on high alert, you barely had time to react when you heard the crack of a breaking tree branch behind you. Twirling around, you stared at the wolf galloping towards you. Your scream didn't have time to leave your lips before the wolf was knocked to the ground by an enormous, green-skinned humanlike creature. You stared at the scene before you, unable to move as the creature wrapped his muscular arm around the wolf's neck and broke it. The green beast dropped the lifeless wolf to the ground, its chest heaving with heavy breaths as he turned his attention to you, staring at you with yellow, intense eyes.

From the stories told to you as a child, you knew that it was an orc.

You thought you would die on the spot as the orc moved closer, its heavy footsteps booming in your ears in pace with the sound of your own racing heartbeat.

"You okay?" the orc spoke, his voice guttural as he struggled to speak your tongue. You blinked, once, twice, as you stared up at this monstrous beast before you. His yellow eyes examined you with what you could only describe as...concern? He was tall, probably close to 6,6, his bare-chested upper body flexing with muscles as he breathed heavily.

You nodded at his question, couldn't find your voice as your gaze dropped to his loincloth, your face heating up as you imagined what was hidden beneath. What on earth possessed you to think such inappropriate thoughts in the face of death? You looked up again, your eyes following the shape of the black mohawk on his head, down his pointy ears, and the two tusks protruding from his bottom lips.

"Good," the orc answered to your nod, his gaze slowly roaming down the shape of your body, and you found yourself blushing. Why did he make you feel so utterly naked and bare?

"Uhm...t-thank you. For...for saving me," you finally managed to say, your voice shaking as much as your heart pounding in your chest.

The orc nodded, a smirk ghosting across his lips as he looked back up to your face and met your gaze.

"W-what are y-you doing here? I-I mean, s-so far away from your homeland?" you asked, not knowing where you got the courage to speak. Good lord, this was so unreal. Were you actually having a conversation with an orc?

"I left my clan to search for a mate," the orc replied, taking a step closer to you as he gazed at you leeringly. "I am Yolmar. What's your name, little human?"

You stared up at him, unable to breathe at his closeness and the lustful glimmer in his eyes.

"Y-Y/n...," you croaked and wetted your lips, scared of what might happen next.

"Well, y/n..." Yolmar placed his forefinger under your chin, lifting it up and forcing you to hold his gaze. "I believe you owe me for saving you."

Holding your breath, you felt a heat rush through your core as you looked into his piercing, yellow eyes.

"I-I...w-what do you want?" you whispered, barely loud enough for him to hear.

"You. As my mate."

Your eyes widened as you kept staring up into his eyes. Your ears were buzzing, mind unfocused on everything except the word coming from his lips.

Mate.

"W-What?" you flickered your eyes, the nervous beating of your heart increasing. "W-What do you mean?"

"It's your scent. I could smell it from miles away, the way only a mate could sense it. You and I are mates, destined to be together. I must confess I was disappointed at first that you're not an orc. But now that I see you, how tempting your soft and tiny body is, I can't wait to claim you. To make you mine."

Yolmar smirked and leaned down to your ear, inhaling your scent. A growl of appreciation rumbled in his chest, and the sound along with his hot breath on your skin caused a trail of goosebumps down your body. You couldn't believe this was happening, couldn't believe how willing your body was to accept him when your mind was still trying to protest. Yolmar's finger left your chin and slid down the nape of your neck, sending another wave of goosebumps down your skin. A keen whimper slipped from your lips and you became shamefully aware of the arousal pooling between your thighs. Yolmar growled at the sound coming from your lips, his hand landing on your waist, covering your entire hip.

"P-Please don't, I can't...," you begged, hated the uncertainty in your voice and how your body betrayed you, aching and throbbing to feel him inside you.

"I can smell your arousal, human," he growled, digging his fingers into the soft flesh of your hips, coaxing an embarrassed moan from your lips. Yolmar snickered. "You want me as much as I want you."

His hand found its way underneath your dress and undergarments, two of his long, thick fingers slipping between your soft folds and into your wet, spongy core. You gasped and grabbed his big arms as his fingers stretched you out.

"So wet and tight," Yolmar mumbled and started moving his fingers inside you, grunting at the squishing sounds your pussy was making. His cock jerked at the feeling of your wetness, twitching, and hardening to life, eager to fill your tight, little cunt to the brim.

"Oh fuck," you gasped at the feeling of his fingers thrusting into you, didn't understand why you didn't stop this stranger, this monster, from doing this to you. Most of all, you didn't understand why you wanted him to do this, why your body seemed to crave his touch. Maybe it was true what he said? That the two of you were destined to be mates.

"Such foul words coming from such a sweet, little thing," Yolmar chuckled, the sound vibrating through your core. "Tell me, my little human...Do you crave my cock inside you?" At the last word, he pushed his fingers deeper inside you, pushing against your g-spot and you screamed out in pleasure.

"Y-Yes! Please, yes," you whimpered, tears welling up in your eyes as he repeatedly thrust his fingers into you at a rapid pace.

Yolmar grinned and took out his fingers from your pussy, his hands violently ripping the dress from your body, leaving you only in your undergarments. You gasped, wanted to cover your bare chest when the orc stared at your breasts but didn't have time to react before his calloused hand cupped your tits. "Pretty," was all he said and kneaded the soft flesh, felt the weight of them in his hands, and rubbed his rough thumbs across your nipples that hardened at his touch.

"P-Please," you begged, bit your lip at the feeling of your pussy aching and clenching desperately to be filled.

Yolmar lifted his gaze, his yellow eyes filled with hunger as he removed his loincloth. Your gaze dropped, widened when you saw his enormous, engorged member pulsating and leaking with precum as it stood proudly in a curve up against his stomach.

"Oh, fuck...," you whispered, wondering how it would ever fit inside you at the same time as your pussy twitched at the sight of him.

Yolmar chuckled at the frightened wonder on your face. "Don't worry, little one. It will fit. If we take it slowly. Now, get down on your hands and knees."

You obeyed on trembling legs, jerked and gasped when he ripped the undergarments from your body and grabbed your hips with both hands, pulling your ass up in the air. Then, you felt him at your entrance, slowly pushing the bulbous head between your fold and into the tight hole of your pussy. Your eyes widened, breath coming out in short gasps through your parted lips.

"So tight. So fucking tight and small," Yolmar mumbled and howled in pleasure when the head of his cock suddenly popped inside your warm, wet entrance. At that point, he couldn't control himself anymore. Grabbing your hips harder, he bucked his hips against your ass, pushing his cock into you halfway before pulling back. You cried out, back arching and head thrown back as his huge cock stretched out more than you thought was possible. Then, he thrust forward again and you screamed a silent moan, realizing he had only been halfway inside you and he was now fully seated in your womb.

"Feels so good...so good, my sweet, little human," he crooned, almost lovingly, as he started a slow and gentle pace of fucking you, claiming you as his mate. Your vision got blurrier with each of his thrusts, sending wave after wave of pleasure through your body. Soon, your mind became dazed and numbed, and a smile spread across your lips when all you cared about was how absolutely divine his cock felt inside you. You could feel the pressure building in your core with each thrust, bringing you closer and closer to orgasm. Then, the orc suddenly pulled out and you whined at the loss of contact, of feeling so empty inside.

Yolmar pulled out and positioned himself above you, on his hands and feet as he pushed inside you again, his massive frame hovering above yours as he thrust into you. You moaned when Yolmar pushed back into you again, smiled as you looked up at him over your shoulder. You looked into his eyes and held his gaze as he quickened the pace once more, rapidly shoving his dick inside you over and over until your senses were overflowing.

Yolmar looked back into your eyes as he slammed into you hard and fast, rougher with each thrust. The slapping sounds filled the forest, blending with your high-pitched moans and the orc's snarling growls above you. The pressure in your belly intensified and finally erupted just as you felt the orc pump into you a final time, burying himself deep inside you as he came. His cock twitched inside you and the feeling of his seed pulsing into you brought you swiftly over the edge, your pussy clenching and milking every last drop out of him. Yolmar threw his head back, his loud, guttural growl echoing through the forest as he emptied his seed inside your belly. You collapsed onto the ground, panting for air and your body becoming limp as you felt his cum flow out of you, creating a white river on the dirty ground between your thighs.

"Mine," he muttered quietly and out of breath as he picked up your exhausted body.

Raised only by his poor father, he spent the first years of his life in poverty. He was loved and they lived a quiet life, but the times were hard. His father would leave home most nights after Mattheus had gone to sleep, betting what little coin he had in games of dice. He meant well, trying to do better for his son, wanting to give him luxuries he never had as a child, but Jacobus often lost. One faithful night, he lost a substantial sum. Unable to pay his debts, Jacobus tried to flee, but was killed before he reached his home. And as Jacobus laid there on the square, his blood covering the stones, little Mattheus laid in his bed, now an orphan.

.

All alone, Mattheus had to find a way to support himself. He found work at the local tar pit. The days were filled with hard, grueling work, as he would transport the tar to the shipyard. He often got burned, as the men would plaster the tar on their ships to make them impermeable.

One day, however, one of the older men didn't pay attention to little Mattheus and his cart, tumbling over them both. The hot, black liquid spilled onto the streets, causing the old man to groan out in pain as his arm landed in the tar. But his groan was soon silenced by the cries of the little boy beside him, screaming out in pain as he covered his face.

An old seasoned worker in the tar pit ran to the boy's side, removing his hand only to find the black liquid in Mattheus' eyes. He removed what he could, running back to the barracks to bandage Mattheus up.

"I can't see." He said with a cry, his little hands touching the bandage. He was told to lay still, to heal. Mattheus asked if he would ever see again, the old man told him they would see. But they all knew the truth. Tar in the eyes was a death sentence. Not that it would kill you, but a boy this young without his sight? He would live a poor life.

.

He healed. His sight was lost, but he soon discovered he didn’t need it. Everything around got louder. He heard everything, smelled everything, sensed things he shouldn't. Yet still the master of the pits fired the poor boy, not deeming him good enough for the grueling work. But the goddesses of fate had already set in motion a plan for him, knowing he was destined for more.

Not long after, a slave trader from one of the great roman cities visited Londinium in his hunt for fresh slaves. He spotted the little boy in the square, alone in the rain, instantly seeing something in him. It didn’t

take much for the boy to say yes when asked if he wanted to follow the stranger. That’s how Mattheus found himself on a ship, miles from shore as they sailed towards his new home in Capua.

Four years went by and now a young man of 14, Mattheus worked hard for the slave trader. Each day his skills grew, his senses sharpened and even the slave trader sometimes wondered if the boy was truly blind. Even the men there for slaves, would often look at the hardworking boy, but none would use the coin on a blind slave. That was until Septimus Alethius came by.

Never one to accept a no, he purchased the boy, thinking he would make a great addition to his house. The first days were hard, trying to earn the respect of the champions and the Doctore, none of them deeming the blind boy worthy to step on the sacred grounds of their Ludus. But he proved himself, working hard and long, taking every beating he got without a word.

“Don’t let them get to you.” A friendly voice spoke in the darkness, a hand reached out for Matt to take. The man was Decius, a young Gaul recently purchased by the Dominus. Together the two of them formed a strong bond, becoming inseparable. In the late hours when the others had left the training grounds, Decius and Matt would spar together. It soon became clear that Mattheus’ heightened senses were an advantage, quickly becoming better than Decius. Even without sight, he was a better fighter. He danced around Decius’ sword like nothing could touch him, like it was his calling.

The competition between the Gladiators was always there. A hierarchy you had to earn a place in, a sacred group a few could be a part of. At House Alethius the greatest champion was Franciscus. An undefeated Celt said to have been blessed by Jupiter himself, his name song all over the roman empire. Anyone who stood in his way would either take a beating in the Ludus or meet their end in the arena.

He would assert himself in any way he could, humiliate the younger ones. One rough day, all of them tired from a day under the scorching sun, his target was Decius. The young Gaul fought the best he could, but he was no match for the experienced Celt. Franciscus kept coming at him, the poor boy blue and beaten, until suddenly a sword blocked Franciscus’ path. Mattheus had got in between.

Angered by the defiance in the young boy, someone who had no claim to act against a gladiator, Franciscus pushed back against his sword. All focus on Decius were gone, everything turned to Mattheus. The Celt was only a few summers older than Mattheus, but already seasoned in the arena, so Franciscus’ onslaught on him caught Mattheus by surprise.

Quickly he regained his footing and moved against Franciscus, quickly memorizing his fight pattern, dodging his sword. Stunned, Franciscus lost his focus and the next second found himself on the ground with Mattheus on top of him, sword at his throat.

That little brawl would prove to be both his blessing and his curse. The Doctore, impressed by his skills, took Mattheus to see their Dominus. Septimus demanded to see it for himself, throwing Mattheus back to the training grounds, ordering opponent upon opponent to go against him. Despite being untrained, he held his ground against the older gladiators and as the sun set upon the Ludus, Septimus told the Doctore to train Mattheus. But not for the arena, no, but for the pits. Hell on earth, a dark place that either forge beasts or spit them out dead.

He could see potential in the young man, but the fear of being laughed at for putting a blind man in the arena, was enough to make him think twice. He could prove his worth in the pits and earn him a few coins or die trying.

.

The pits were not a place anyone aspired to be. The underground fighting pit reeked of death, the smell of old dried blood and torn limbs hanging in the air. A filthy place no respectable man would admit having visited, yet many were there for the thrill, blood and coin.

Words of the skilled blind man who took down Capua’s greatest champion were whispered in the streets, reached every corner of Capua. They knew he would be at the pits, and everyone wanted to see him. and none were disappointed. Mattheus fought like Mars himself were at his side. Night after night, new cuts and bruises added each time, he fought down his opponents.

People questioned if he was truly blind, leading Septimus to cover Mattheus’ eyes. He wanted to make a spectacle of it, give people a show. Still, he would win, the number of dead men at his feet growing higher. One night Septimus would praise him, told him that even in the deepest pits of Hell, Mattheus fought like a seeing man in the sun. This just earned him a chuckle from Mattheus. “When you’ve spent your whole life in the darkness, you embrace it as a friend.”

It started as small whispers. A blind man fighting like he was blessed by the Gods. But the men who had seen him slay men in the darkness of the pit soon began to whisper of a certain God. He fought like he wasn’t afraid to die, almost as if he knew death would never come to him. He sold his soul to Pluto, they whispered, convinced this man would never die.

Septimus heard the whispers, knowing how much people would pay to see this servant of Pluto on the sands of the arena. The other Lanista’s were envious, and Septimus wanted to use that to his advantage. He dragged Mattheus out of the pit and got him suited for his own armor, much to Franciscus’ dismay.

Not long after Mattheus took the Sacramentum Gladiatorum, the gladiators oath. A day where they promised to serve the Ludus and their Dominus for honor in the arena. Vowed to endure being bound, beaten and to be killed by the sword. Now a grown man at 20, six years after he came to Capua, Mattheus became a gladiator.

All welcomed their new brother, except one. Franciscus swore to Jupiter that he would make life hard on the newest gladiator, praying that one day he would be the one to drive a word through Mattheus. Still having the shame of an untrained boy hanging over him, Franciscus had never forgot.

The resentment grew as he saw how well the newest of Septimus’ champions did. Starting with the lowest battles, he soon come closer to the Primus. To the spot that had been Franciscus’ for years. But nothing could be done. The people loved Mattheus, chanting for the devil as soon as they entered the arena. Diabolus, they called him, the man without fear. And thus, a legend was born.

“And so was it the little blind boy became the best gladiator, feared throughout the entire Roman Empire. Diabolus, the man who sold his soul to Pluto.” He pauses for dramatic effect. The kids gasp in awe at the tale, their eyes full of excitement. Atticus looks over the crowd gathered around him, all eyes fixed on him. Atticus grins wider, but just before he speaks, a voice call out to him.

“Telling your stories again, Atticus?” Mattheus smiles, walking past the crowd gathered in front of the old man, before he looks to the people with a grin. “You shouldn’t believe everything he tells you.”

With that, he walks through the back gates to the Amphitheater. The seats are already filling with the citizens of Capua, ready for another day of bloodshed.

Thank you so much for reading <3

TFC girls: @mindidjarin @itwasthereaminuteago @e-dubbc11 @idrinkcoffeeandobsess @saintmurd0ck @mattmurdocksscars @pedrito-friskito

Raised only by his poor father, he spent the first years of his life in poverty. He was loved and they lived a quiet life, but the times were hard. His father would leave home most nights after Mattheus had gone to sleep, betting what little coin he had in games of dice. He meant well, trying to do better for his son, wanting to give him luxuries he never had as a child, but Jacobus often lost. One faithful night, he lost a substantial sum. Unable to pay his debts, Jacobus tried to flee, but was killed before he reached his home. And as Jacobus laid there on the square, his blood covering the stones, little Mattheus laid in his bed, now an orphan.

.

All alone, Mattheus had to find a way to support himself. He found work at the local tar pit. The days were filled with hard, grueling work, as he would transport the tar to the shipyard. He often got burned, as the men would plaster the tar on their ships to make them impermeable.

One day, however, one of the older men didn't pay attention to little Mattheus and his cart, tumbling over them both. The hot, black liquid spilled onto the streets, causing the old man to groan out in pain as his arm landed in the tar. But his groan was soon silenced by the cries of the little boy beside him, screaming out in pain as he covered his face.

An old seasoned worker in the tar pit ran to the boy's side, removing his hand only to find the black liquid in Mattheus' eyes. He removed what he could, running back to the barracks to bandage Mattheus up.

"I can't see." He said with a cry, his little hands touching the bandage. He was told to lay still, to heal. Mattheus asked if he would ever see again, the old man told him they would see. But they all knew the truth. Tar in the eyes was a death sentence. Not that it would kill you, but a boy this young without his sight? He would live a poor life.

.

He healed. His sight was lost, but he soon discovered he didn’t need it. Everything around got louder. He heard everything, smelled everything, sensed things he shouldn't. Yet still the master of the pits fired the poor boy, not deeming him good enough for the grueling work. But the goddesses of fate had already set in motion a plan for him, knowing he was destined for more.

Not long after, a slave trader from one of the great roman cities visited Londinium in his hunt for fresh slaves. He spotted the little boy in the square, alone in the rain, instantly seeing something in him. It didn’t

take much for the boy to say yes when asked if he wanted to follow the stranger. That’s how Mattheus found himself on a ship, miles from shore as they sailed towards his new home in Capua.

Four years went by and now a young man of 14, Mattheus worked hard for the slave trader. Each day his skills grew, his senses sharpened and even the slave trader sometimes wondered if the boy was truly blind. Even the men there for slaves, would often look at the hardworking boy, but none would use the coin on a blind slave. That was until Septimus Alethius came by.

Never one to accept a no, he purchased the boy, thinking he would make a great addition to his house. The first days were hard, trying to earn the respect of the champions and the Doctore, none of them deeming the blind boy worthy to step on the sacred grounds of their Ludus. But he proved himself, working hard and long, taking every beating he got without a word.

“Don’t let them get to you.” A friendly voice spoke in the darkness, a hand reached out for Matt to take. The man was Decius, a young Gaul recently purchased by the Dominus. Together the two of them formed a strong bond, becoming inseparable. In the late hours when the others had left the training grounds, Decius and Matt would spar together. It soon became clear that Mattheus’ heightened senses were an advantage, quickly becoming better than Decius. Even without sight, he was a better fighter. He danced around Decius’ sword like nothing could touch him, like it was his calling.

The competition between the Gladiators was always there. A hierarchy you had to earn a place in, a sacred group a few could be a part of. At House Alethius the greatest champion was Franciscus. An undefeated Celt said to have been blessed by Jupiter himself, his name song all over the roman empire. Anyone who stood in his way would either take a beating in the Ludus or meet their end in the arena.

He would assert himself in any way he could, humiliate the younger ones. One rough day, all of them tired from a day under the scorching sun, his target was Decius. The young Gaul fought the best he could, but he was no match for the experienced Celt. Franciscus kept coming at him, the poor boy blue and beaten, until suddenly a sword blocked Franciscus’ path. Mattheus had got in between.

Angered by the defiance in the young boy, someone who had no claim to act against a gladiator, Franciscus pushed back against his sword. All focus on Decius were gone, everything turned to Mattheus. The Celt was only a few summers older than Mattheus, but already seasoned in the arena, so Franciscus’ onslaught on him caught Mattheus by surprise.

Quickly he regained his footing and moved against Franciscus, quickly memorizing his fight pattern, dodging his sword. Stunned, Franciscus lost his focus and the next second found himself on the ground with Mattheus on top of him, sword at his throat.

That little brawl would prove to be both his blessing and his curse. The Doctore, impressed by his skills, took Mattheus to see their Dominus. Septimus demanded to see it for himself, throwing Mattheus back to the training grounds, ordering opponent upon opponent to go against him. Despite being untrained, he held his ground against the older gladiators and as the sun set upon the Ludus, Septimus told the Doctore to train Mattheus. But not for the arena, no, but for the pits. Hell on earth, a dark place that either forge beasts or spit them out dead.

He could see potential in the young man, but the fear of being laughed at for putting a blind man in the arena, was enough to make him think twice. He could prove his worth in the pits and earn him a few coins or die trying.

.

The pits were not a place anyone aspired to be. The underground fighting pit reeked of death, the smell of old dried blood and torn limbs hanging in the air. A filthy place no respectable man would admit having visited, yet many were there for the thrill, blood and coin.

Words of the skilled blind man who took down Capua’s greatest champion were whispered in the streets, reached every corner of Capua. They knew he would be at the pits, and everyone wanted to see him. and none were disappointed. Mattheus fought like Mars himself were at his side. Night after night, new cuts and bruises added each time, he fought down his opponents.

People questioned if he was truly blind, leading Septimus to cover Mattheus’ eyes. He wanted to make a spectacle of it, give people a show. Still, he would win, the number of dead men at his feet growing higher. One night Septimus would praise him, told him that even in the deepest pits of Hell, Mattheus fought like a seeing man in the sun. This just earned him a chuckle from Mattheus. “When you’ve spent your whole life in the darkness, you embrace it as a friend.”

It started as small whispers. A blind man fighting like he was blessed by the Gods. But the men who had seen him slay men in the darkness of the pit soon began to whisper of a certain God. He fought like he wasn’t afraid to die, almost as if he knew death would never come to him. He sold his soul to Pluto, they whispered, convinced this man would never die.

Septimus heard the whispers, knowing how much people would pay to see this servant of Pluto on the sands of the arena. The other Lanista’s were envious, and Septimus wanted to use that to his advantage. He dragged Mattheus out of the pit and got him suited for his own armor, much to Franciscus’ dismay.

Not long after Mattheus took the Sacramentum Gladiatorum, the gladiators oath. A day where they promised to serve the Ludus and their Dominus for honor in the arena. Vowed to endure being bound, beaten and to be killed by the sword. Now a grown man at 20, six years after he came to Capua, Mattheus became a gladiator.

All welcomed their new brother, except one. Franciscus swore to Jupiter that he would make life hard on the newest gladiator, praying that one day he would be the one to drive a word through Mattheus. Still having the shame of an untrained boy hanging over him, Franciscus had never forgot.

The resentment grew as he saw how well the newest of Septimus’ champions did. Starting with the lowest battles, he soon come closer to the Primus. To the spot that had been Franciscus’ for years. But nothing could be done. The people loved Mattheus, chanting for the devil as soon as they entered the arena. Diabolus, they called him, the man without fear. And thus, a legend was born.

“And so was it the little blind boy became the best gladiator, feared throughout the entire Roman Empire. Diabolus, the man who sold his soul to Pluto.” He pauses for dramatic effect. The kids gasp in awe at the tale, their eyes full of excitement. Atticus looks over the crowd gathered around him, all eyes fixed on him. Atticus grins wider, but just before he speaks, a voice call out to him.

“Telling your stories again, Atticus?” Mattheus smiles, walking past the crowd gathered in front of the old man, before he looks to the people with a grin. “You shouldn’t believe everything he tells you.”

With that, he walks through the back gates to the Amphitheater. The seats are already filling with the citizens of Capua, ready for another day of bloodshed.

Thank you so much for reading <3

TFC girls: @mindidjarin @itwasthereaminuteago @e-dubbc11 @idrinkcoffeeandobsess @saintmurd0ck @mattmurdocksscars @pedrito-friskito

Raised only by his poor father, he spent the first years of his life in poverty. He was loved and they lived a quiet life, but the times were hard. His father would leave home most nights after Mattheus had gone to sleep, betting what little coin he had in games of dice. He meant well, trying to do better for his son, wanting to give him luxuries he never had as a child, but Jacobus often lost. One faithful night, he lost a substantial sum. Unable to pay his debts, Jacobus tried to flee, but was killed before he reached his home. And as Jacobus laid there on the square, his blood covering the stones, little Mattheus laid in his bed, now an orphan.

.

All alone, Mattheus had to find a way to support himself. He found work at the local tar pit. The days were filled with hard, grueling work, as he would transport the tar to the shipyard. He often got burned, as the men would plaster the tar on their ships to make them impermeable.

One day, however, one of the older men didn't pay attention to little Mattheus and his cart, tumbling over them both. The hot, black liquid spilled onto the streets, causing the old man to groan out in pain as his arm landed in the tar. But his groan was soon silenced by the cries of the little boy beside him, screaming out in pain as he covered his face.

An old seasoned worker in the tar pit ran to the boy's side, removing his hand only to find the black liquid in Mattheus' eyes. He removed what he could, running back to the barracks to bandage Mattheus up.

"I can't see." He said with a cry, his little hands touching the bandage. He was told to lay still, to heal. Mattheus asked if he would ever see again, the old man told him they would see. But they all knew the truth. Tar in the eyes was a death sentence. Not that it would kill you, but a boy this young without his sight? He would live a poor life.

.

He healed. His sight was lost, but he soon discovered he didn’t need it. Everything around got louder. He heard everything, smelled everything, sensed things he shouldn't. Yet still the master of the pits fired the poor boy, not deeming him good enough for the grueling work. But the goddesses of fate had already set in motion a plan for him, knowing he was destined for more.

Not long after, a slave trader from one of the great roman cities visited Londinium in his hunt for fresh slaves. He spotted the little boy in the square, alone in the rain, instantly seeing something in him. It didn’t

take much for the boy to say yes when asked if he wanted to follow the stranger. That’s how Mattheus found himself on a ship, miles from shore as they sailed towards his new home in Capua.

Four years went by and now a young man of 14, Mattheus worked hard for the slave trader. Each day his skills grew, his senses sharpened and even the slave trader sometimes wondered if the boy was truly blind. Even the men there for slaves, would often look at the hardworking boy, but none would use the coin on a blind slave. That was until Septimus Alethius came by.

Never one to accept a no, he purchased the boy, thinking he would make a great addition to his house. The first days were hard, trying to earn the respect of the champions and the Doctore, none of them deeming the blind boy worthy to step on the sacred grounds of their Ludus. But he proved himself, working hard and long, taking every beating he got without a word.

“Don’t let them get to you.” A friendly voice spoke in the darkness, a hand reached out for Matt to take. The man was Decius, a young Gaul recently purchased by the Dominus. Together the two of them formed a strong bond, becoming inseparable. In the late hours when the others had left the training grounds, Decius and Matt would spar together. It soon became clear that Mattheus’ heightened senses were an advantage, quickly becoming better than Decius. Even without sight, he was a better fighter. He danced around Decius’ sword like nothing could touch him, like it was his calling.

The competition between the Gladiators was always there. A hierarchy you had to earn a place in, a sacred group a few could be a part of. At House Alethius the greatest champion was Franciscus. An undefeated Celt said to have been blessed by Jupiter himself, his name song all over the roman empire. Anyone who stood in his way would either take a beating in the Ludus or meet their end in the arena.

He would assert himself in any way he could, humiliate the younger ones. One rough day, all of them tired from a day under the scorching sun, his target was Decius. The young Gaul fought the best he could, but he was no match for the experienced Celt. Franciscus kept coming at him, the poor boy blue and beaten, until suddenly a sword blocked Franciscus’ path. Mattheus had got in between.

Angered by the defiance in the young boy, someone who had no claim to act against a gladiator, Franciscus pushed back against his sword. All focus on Decius were gone, everything turned to Mattheus. The Celt was only a few summers older than Mattheus, but already seasoned in the arena, so Franciscus’ onslaught on him caught Mattheus by surprise.

Quickly he regained his footing and moved against Franciscus, quickly memorizing his fight pattern, dodging his sword. Stunned, Franciscus lost his focus and the next second found himself on the ground with Mattheus on top of him, sword at his throat.

That little brawl would prove to be both his blessing and his curse. The Doctore, impressed by his skills, took Mattheus to see their Dominus. Septimus demanded to see it for himself, throwing Mattheus back to the training grounds, ordering opponent upon opponent to go against him. Despite being untrained, he held his ground against the older gladiators and as the sun set upon the Ludus, Septimus told the Doctore to train Mattheus. But not for the arena, no, but for the pits. Hell on earth, a dark place that either forge beasts or spit them out dead.

He could see potential in the young man, but the fear of being laughed at for putting a blind man in the arena, was enough to make him think twice. He could prove his worth in the pits and earn him a few coins or die trying.

.

The pits were not a place anyone aspired to be. The underground fighting pit reeked of death, the smell of old dried blood and torn limbs hanging in the air. A filthy place no respectable man would admit having visited, yet many were there for the thrill, blood and coin.

Words of the skilled blind man who took down Capua’s greatest champion were whispered in the streets, reached every corner of Capua. They knew he would be at the pits, and everyone wanted to see him. and none were disappointed. Mattheus fought like Mars himself were at his side. Night after night, new cuts and bruises added each time, he fought down his opponents.

People questioned if he was truly blind, leading Septimus to cover Mattheus’ eyes. He wanted to make a spectacle of it, give people a show. Still, he would win, the number of dead men at his feet growing higher. One night Septimus would praise him, told him that even in the deepest pits of Hell, Mattheus fought like a seeing man in the sun. This just earned him a chuckle from Mattheus. “When you’ve spent your whole life in the darkness, you embrace it as a friend.”

It started as small whispers. A blind man fighting like he was blessed by the Gods. But the men who had seen him slay men in the darkness of the pit soon began to whisper of a certain God. He fought like he wasn’t afraid to die, almost as if he knew death would never come to him. He sold his soul to Pluto, they whispered, convinced this man would never die.

Septimus heard the whispers, knowing how much people would pay to see this servant of Pluto on the sands of the arena. The other Lanista’s were envious, and Septimus wanted to use that to his advantage. He dragged Mattheus out of the pit and got him suited for his own armor, much to Franciscus’ dismay.

Not long after Mattheus took the Sacramentum Gladiatorum, the gladiators oath. A day where they promised to serve the Ludus and their Dominus for honor in the arena. Vowed to endure being bound, beaten and to be killed by the sword. Now a grown man at 20, six years after he came to Capua, Mattheus became a gladiator.

All welcomed their new brother, except one. Franciscus swore to Jupiter that he would make life hard on the newest gladiator, praying that one day he would be the one to drive a word through Mattheus. Still having the shame of an untrained boy hanging over him, Franciscus had never forgot.

The resentment grew as he saw how well the newest of Septimus’ champions did. Starting with the lowest battles, he soon come closer to the Primus. To the spot that had been Franciscus’ for years. But nothing could be done. The people loved Mattheus, chanting for the devil as soon as they entered the arena. Diabolus, they called him, the man without fear. And thus, a legend was born.

“And so was it the little blind boy became the best gladiator, feared throughout the entire Roman Empire. Diabolus, the man who sold his soul to Pluto.” He pauses for dramatic effect. The kids gasp in awe at the tale, their eyes full of excitement. Atticus looks over the crowd gathered around him, all eyes fixed on him. Atticus grins wider, but just before he speaks, a voice call out to him.

“Telling your stories again, Atticus?” Mattheus smiles, walking past the crowd gathered in front of the old man, before he looks to the people with a grin. “You shouldn’t believe everything he tells you.”

With that, he walks through the back gates to the Amphitheater. The seats are already filling with the citizens of Capua, ready for another day of bloodshed.

Thank you so much for reading <3

TFC girls: @mindidjarin @itwasthereaminuteago @e-dubbc11 @idrinkcoffeeandobsess @saintmurd0ck @mattmurdocksscars @pedrito-friskito

Raised only by his poor father, he spent the first years of his life in poverty. He was loved and they lived a quiet life, but the times were hard. His father would leave home most nights after Mattheus had gone to sleep, betting what little coin he had in games of dice. He meant well, trying to do better for his son, wanting to give him luxuries he never had as a child, but Jacobus often lost. One faithful night, he lost a substantial sum. Unable to pay his debts, Jacobus tried to flee, but was killed before he reached his home. And as Jacobus laid there on the square, his blood covering the stones, little Mattheus laid in his bed, now an orphan.

.

All alone, Mattheus had to find a way to support himself. He found work at the local tar pit. The days were filled with hard, grueling work, as he would transport the tar to the shipyard. He often got burned, as the men would plaster the tar on their ships to make them impermeable.

One day, however, one of the older men didn't pay attention to little Mattheus and his cart, tumbling over them both. The hot, black liquid spilled onto the streets, causing the old man to groan out in pain as his arm landed in the tar. But his groan was soon silenced by the cries of the little boy beside him, screaming out in pain as he covered his face.

An old seasoned worker in the tar pit ran to the boy's side, removing his hand only to find the black liquid in Mattheus' eyes. He removed what he could, running back to the barracks to bandage Mattheus up.

"I can't see." He said with a cry, his little hands touching the bandage. He was told to lay still, to heal. Mattheus asked if he would ever see again, the old man told him they would see. But they all knew the truth. Tar in the eyes was a death sentence. Not that it would kill you, but a boy this young without his sight? He would live a poor life.

.

He healed. His sight was lost, but he soon discovered he didn’t need it. Everything around got louder. He heard everything, smelled everything, sensed things he shouldn't. Yet still the master of the pits fired the poor boy, not deeming him good enough for the grueling work. But the goddesses of fate had already set in motion a plan for him, knowing he was destined for more.

Not long after, a slave trader from one of the great roman cities visited Londinium in his hunt for fresh slaves. He spotted the little boy in the square, alone in the rain, instantly seeing something in him. It didn’t

take much for the boy to say yes when asked if he wanted to follow the stranger. That’s how Mattheus found himself on a ship, miles from shore as they sailed towards his new home in Capua.

Four years went by and now a young man of 14, Mattheus worked hard for the slave trader. Each day his skills grew, his senses sharpened and even the slave trader sometimes wondered if the boy was truly blind. Even the men there for slaves, would often look at the hardworking boy, but none would use the coin on a blind slave. That was until Septimus Alethius came by.

Never one to accept a no, he purchased the boy, thinking he would make a great addition to his house. The first days were hard, trying to earn the respect of the champions and the Doctore, none of them deeming the blind boy worthy to step on the sacred grounds of their Ludus. But he proved himself, working hard and long, taking every beating he got without a word.

“Don’t let them get to you.” A friendly voice spoke in the darkness, a hand reached out for Matt to take. The man was Decius, a young Gaul recently purchased by the Dominus. Together the two of them formed a strong bond, becoming inseparable. In the late hours when the others had left the training grounds, Decius and Matt would spar together. It soon became clear that Mattheus’ heightened senses were an advantage, quickly becoming better than Decius. Even without sight, he was a better fighter. He danced around Decius’ sword like nothing could touch him, like it was his calling.

The competition between the Gladiators was always there. A hierarchy you had to earn a place in, a sacred group a few could be a part of. At House Alethius the greatest champion was Franciscus. An undefeated Celt said to have been blessed by Jupiter himself, his name song all over the roman empire. Anyone who stood in his way would either take a beating in the Ludus or meet their end in the arena.

He would assert himself in any way he could, humiliate the younger ones. One rough day, all of them tired from a day under the scorching sun, his target was Decius. The young Gaul fought the best he could, but he was no match for the experienced Celt. Franciscus kept coming at him, the poor boy blue and beaten, until suddenly a sword blocked Franciscus’ path. Mattheus had got in between.

Angered by the defiance in the young boy, someone who had no claim to act against a gladiator, Franciscus pushed back against his sword. All focus on Decius were gone, everything turned to Mattheus. The Celt was only a few summers older than Mattheus, but already seasoned in the arena, so Franciscus’ onslaught on him caught Mattheus by surprise.

Quickly he regained his footing and moved against Franciscus, quickly memorizing his fight pattern, dodging his sword. Stunned, Franciscus lost his focus and the next second found himself on the ground with Mattheus on top of him, sword at his throat.

That little brawl would prove to be both his blessing and his curse. The Doctore, impressed by his skills, took Mattheus to see their Dominus. Septimus demanded to see it for himself, throwing Mattheus back to the training grounds, ordering opponent upon opponent to go against him. Despite being untrained, he held his ground against the older gladiators and as the sun set upon the Ludus, Septimus told the Doctore to train Mattheus. But not for the arena, no, but for the pits. Hell on earth, a dark place that either forge beasts or spit them out dead.

He could see potential in the young man, but the fear of being laughed at for putting a blind man in the arena, was enough to make him think twice. He could prove his worth in the pits and earn him a few coins or die trying.

.

The pits were not a place anyone aspired to be. The underground fighting pit reeked of death, the smell of old dried blood and torn limbs hanging in the air. A filthy place no respectable man would admit having visited, yet many were there for the thrill, blood and coin.

Words of the skilled blind man who took down Capua’s greatest champion were whispered in the streets, reached every corner of Capua. They knew he would be at the pits, and everyone wanted to see him. and none were disappointed. Mattheus fought like Mars himself were at his side. Night after night, new cuts and bruises added each time, he fought down his opponents.

People questioned if he was truly blind, leading Septimus to cover Mattheus’ eyes. He wanted to make a spectacle of it, give people a show. Still, he would win, the number of dead men at his feet growing higher. One night Septimus would praise him, told him that even in the deepest pits of Hell, Mattheus fought like a seeing man in the sun. This just earned him a chuckle from Mattheus. “When you’ve spent your whole life in the darkness, you embrace it as a friend.”

It started as small whispers. A blind man fighting like he was blessed by the Gods. But the men who had seen him slay men in the darkness of the pit soon began to whisper of a certain God. He fought like he wasn’t afraid to die, almost as if he knew death would never come to him. He sold his soul to Pluto, they whispered, convinced this man would never die.

Septimus heard the whispers, knowing how much people would pay to see this servant of Pluto on the sands of the arena. The other Lanista’s were envious, and Septimus wanted to use that to his advantage. He dragged Mattheus out of the pit and got him suited for his own armor, much to Franciscus’ dismay.

Not long after Mattheus took the Sacramentum Gladiatorum, the gladiators oath. A day where they promised to serve the Ludus and their Dominus for honor in the arena. Vowed to endure being bound, beaten and to be killed by the sword. Now a grown man at 20, six years after he came to Capua, Mattheus became a gladiator.

All welcomed their new brother, except one. Franciscus swore to Jupiter that he would make life hard on the newest gladiator, praying that one day he would be the one to drive a word through Mattheus. Still having the shame of an untrained boy hanging over him, Franciscus had never forgot.

The resentment grew as he saw how well the newest of Septimus’ champions did. Starting with the lowest battles, he soon come closer to the Primus. To the spot that had been Franciscus’ for years. But nothing could be done. The people loved Mattheus, chanting for the devil as soon as they entered the arena. Diabolus, they called him, the man without fear. And thus, a legend was born.

“And so was it the little blind boy became the best gladiator, feared throughout the entire Roman Empire. Diabolus, the man who sold his soul to Pluto.” He pauses for dramatic effect. The kids gasp in awe at the tale, their eyes full of excitement. Atticus looks over the crowd gathered around him, all eyes fixed on him. Atticus grins wider, but just before he speaks, a voice call out to him.

“Telling your stories again, Atticus?” Mattheus smiles, walking past the crowd gathered in front of the old man, before he looks to the people with a grin. “You shouldn’t believe everything he tells you.”

With that, he walks through the back gates to the Amphitheater. The seats are already filling with the citizens of Capua, ready for another day of bloodshed.

Thank you so much for reading <3

TFC girls: @mindidjarin @itwasthereaminuteago @e-dubbc11 @idrinkcoffeeandobsess @saintmurd0ck @mattmurdocksscars @pedrito-friskito