#apologues

“Clamber to the upturned keel..and cold is the Oceans's feel.” 

The doors to the underground hold swing wide with two guards following at the heels of a corpse being dragged by its ankles.The scent of lingering shit taints the tight quarters when it passes through, snaking through the dusty paths where blooded gladiators awaiting their next chance at glory spit and piss on the fresh cadaver in its passing. No tears exist for the memory of a life that might’ve been as what was done before the arena mattered not. 

It’s a face unproven and in such a brotherhood where prowess was measured by the flesh sacrificed to the sands and the notches earned on ones sword, there was no reward in a death unblooded. Many fresh fighters had succumbed that day, and many more likely would. Should he lose, this was to be his fate. Though the odds are far from his favor, he embraces them anyways for the sins that brought him here to begin with. He would die if the Gods willed it for all he’d done. 

“Let not your courage bend, for here your life will end...”

The two guards march to the lion’s cage where his chin lifts to the jingle of fumbled keys  shoved into the grate and his golden eyes glow like two suns in the dark. He’s led by his chains to the fighter’s pit where the weight of his shackles are traded for the more freeing burden of sword, shield, and subligar regalia and where the crowd hisses and spits just outside the pens, hungry for another demise. His demise, no less. 

“Old man, don’t scowl, though winds blow foul...”

The opposition’s Champion is announced to cries more loving -- a fan-favored Goliath with accolades worthy of the title beared...but he would turn their thoughts once he was baptized in the blood of his enemy. This was the way, and there was to be no other for him. Light from the falling sun filters through the grated face plate of his helm, desperate to blind and he knows that the underdog is given the sunset to increase the odds of failure. He does not let this distract him. 

Sword and shield are gripped as something holy, voice growing in ferocity from whispered spring to roaring tide, powerful as he beats the flat of his blade against the metal surface of his hoplon. “With maidens --- you did lie!” The gates rise and so too does the Lion’s adrenaline, as he bounds forward to meet his enemy head on with a powerful slash and vicious warcry. . 

“ONCE, ALL MEN MUST DIE!” 

The Champion’s expectation is not for their opponent to come flying from the opposing end of the arena and though surprised, blade rises to  intercept the Lion’s wild strike at the last second. It’s an eagerness the Champion is all too willing to indulge and steel meets steel fiercely, much to the exhilaration of the crowd. Ferocity is traded back and forth in terrible blows meant to rob the other of limb or life, and for a time the Hellion even seems to be holding his own.

The natural experience of time is the Champion’s advantage however, and each empowered blow is only bated to sap the strength from the youthful beast, barely yet the age of a man. Yet, just like the battlefield, morals could be no obstacle here lest you be the one to fall. All the Champion saw was inexperience in need of correcting and he did so. Brutally. 

The young hrothgar over extends and is pulled off balance to the sands and though he rolls to recover, the bite of the Champion’s blade still catches him between the shoulder blades. The lion’s back is wet and warm when he rises, his roar a mix of pain and ferocity as he resumes the assault with further gusto. Though the slave is familiar with battle, its nothing in comparison to the savagery met here and his hits are batted away as easily as one might a fly. Retaliation comes swift and decisively, until he’s all but being carved where he stands and he realizes then that he’s being toyed with. 

Strength wanes with time and still he pushes on with the knowledge dawning that he can’t possibly win this fight. Victory, or death. It is all he has now. He forsakes neither one to fear though it begins to swell in his chest under the reign of a vicious onslaught of strikes more powerful than the last. The youth’s blade is severed from his grip and his shield splinters under the weight of the final blow. The lion hits the ground, stunned by the impact of such a strike and he can do little else but watch as the Champion  stalks forward and kicks his blade out of reach. 

“Do you hear that little kitten!? “ He begins with arms spread, gesturing to the surrounding crowd. There’s an accent that’s thick and rolling, reminiscent of the hannish locals. “Do you feel that tremble of your heart? While you called for your gods, the people called for your death! And now there is no god left here, but /me/! You may have thought you had a chance! But your life was FORFEIT the moment you stepped through those gates!  And you have only lived this long because I have allowed it!”  

The pressure of abuse keeps the lion low, as Champion’s words were reinforced by a bone shattering stomps and a kick to the chin that removes his helmet from his head. His attempts to crawl away or lash back are simply ignored as demise approaches ever nearer. ”You can feel it now, can’t you -- the fear. I no longer know the sensation, but I can see it in your eyes.”  The Champion's blade rises above the crumpled form and in that moment, the Lion is left to decide --- Victory, or death. 

The weapon plunges and time moves slow. Everything does. From the fall of the weapon, to the drops of beaded sweat that fall from the Champion’s raised arms. The crowd becomes muted, distant, and background to the pounding of his own pulse in his ears before he lunges. Body is thrown towards the remains of what had once been a shield. The spot previously occupied --now empty-- was cleaved in twain, the steel biting down upon the earth instead of flesh. Splintered wood is brandished in the paw of the lion as a weapon of sorts and plunged into the vulnerable space of the Champion’s inner thigh, while unsheathed claws are used to gouge the ankles. 

Achilles tendon is compromised in a spray of crimson as the Champion’s leg buckles beneath the weight of his own massive frame. The wounded giant howls in pained fury, bellowing his curses amidst wild swings and he begins to feel it -- the fear he’d so brazenly denied as the battered slave picks himself up from the ground with all the slow certainty of a shark smelling blood. The gladiator can’t fight the chill that catches his spine when youth’s golden eyes fall upon him, the wild element trapped within such a gaze telling the Champion that his days alive were narrowed now to minutes if he did not give it his all.

The crowd, fickle as it is, turns on their Champion like a pack of starved hounds, eager for any result that ended in blood and now it is the Lion’s turn to play. It’s not an easy victory as the injury does little more than even the odds and when the men collide once more, the lion still has the champion’s formidable strength to deal with. 

The struggle for dominance is unrelentingly violent, depraved of even the barest vestige of humanity as men become animals, primal and unfettered. Its the Goliath that ultimately comes out on top with his hands wrapped around the lion’s throat, screaming bloody murder while the youth’s struggles become erratic. This is it. The lion thinks. It seems then the moment is lost, until -- 

CRACK!

It’s a sound that can be heard even over the shocked gasps of spectators and is followed by a second as the helmet previously discarded is used to strike the Champion in the skull once more. The large man falls over, only to receive the shock of another impact, and then another, as the golden eyed lion straddles him and pins him down. The sickening sounds become less profound and wet as the skull beneath caves under the lion’s brutality, and the feral moment lasts well after the former Champion has stopped breathing. 

What seemed like a fond memory however, was nothing more than precursor to tragedy as the male’s lips straightened and his tone darkened significantly. 

“She ran afoul of one of her clients. Some noble cunt that I’d scared off once before. He had his eye on her, and not in any good way. Once I’d stepped in, I thought the situation taken care of, but I fucked up…underestimated his obsessiveness. He’d simply gone off to war and came back with fresh hunger. When he saw her state, he wasn’t happy. In truth, the child could have been his given the timeline, but he didn’t fuckin’ believe her.”

“I came to her place that night with the intent of entertaining a hot meal. Do you know what the stench of a burning child smells like? I had thought her to be cooking fresh lamb. I remember my mouth…salivating before I walked in and I remember what the bastard looked like, sitting there on her couch covered in blood. In disbelief, as if even he couldn’t come to terms with what he’d fuckin’ done.” Briefly, the male’s throaty tone breaks under the weight of his words, horror and disgust both present before he inhales a staggering breath to calm the turn of his belly. 

“Delphine had bled out on the floor, but a trail led from her body to the fireplace where I discovered the rest. I…can not recall what I did next, but I was later told much of his body had been crushed to the bones.”  The big guy sniffs, whiskers twitching as he rolls his shoulders forward and rotates his neck until the joints pop audibly. Fallen strands of chocolate are captured with lifted hand and returned behind tufted ears as piercing eyes of gold retain their vigilance upon inquirer’s visage.