#gladiator arena

The steady grip on the hilt of your sword is the only thing that grounds you. In the roaring cheers of the audience, it is much too easy to lose yourself. 

Racing feet. Your blood mixes with the sharp rocks that line your path away from your pursuers. Your sisters cut down and captured one after another. Tears down your cheeks, blood on your feet, you looked every bit the fleeing half-nymph you were.

Your mind lingers on the hot sand underneath your feet. It holds the hot fury of the noon sun. So much so, you almost imagine the blood that has soaked into it to evaporate. 

Slippery sand. You crash into the river bed and make a break for it. You are strong for a half mortal. Though, it truly wouldn’t have made much of a difference. Not in any way that matters.

Just like the sand, the sun beats down on your form. You do not raise your sword in victory, you never have and never will in such a bastardly place. You were supposed to be living by the river with the kin you have always felt closest to. 

Artemis was not enough to protect you. She could retrieve your sisters, the full nymphs, but for ones with mortal blood? There was nothing she could do. Not as you were dragged kicking and screaming into a slave wagon.

The hot iron shackles burn as you’re dragged back to your cell. Your weapon taken, there is little you can do. It would be futile to think otherwise. You have seen what they have done to those who do not listen. It takes all your self-restraint not to join the brutish display they have turned into. 

Tossed into a wagon with bars made for animals. You do not see any of your sisters nearby. One final cry, and you realize they have all been struck down or captured. All your sisters had been under the tutelage of Artemis. An inspiring goddess. She is, perhaps, the only reason you had gotten so far in the first place. 

A solid kick to the back of your knee and you find yourself brought to your knees. Cleaned with buckets of water, your wounds are also seen too. Bandaged and tired you are finally allowed to rest on your meager cot. You do not know how long you have been fighting in this arena, and to be honest, you don’t really care. 

Watching your God prepare for a hunt was one of the most exciting parts about serving under her. To hear her wisdom, to feel her confidence, it was one of the most honorable things to experience. If only she had stayed a bit longer, there was nothing she could do from her eye in the moon. 

Your cot is stiff as a board as you lie down. You have been here long enough to require your own cell and actual provisions. Having never lost a fight, you have gained a bit of a reputation among the slaves that have lasted long enough to see you in action. There is no sense of kinship or camaraderie in this place. All the better, you do not need to become attached to someone who will eventually die by your hand. 

She was a thing of beauty and chastity with the way she held herself. You and your sisters looked up to her. Striving to hold a small fraction of the confidence and beauty she inspired. Her teachings had always left you feeling accomplished. Her wisdom with the bow creating a small army of followers all armed. Those bows hadn’t saved you from the fire those men had caused. Hadn’t saved you from their dogs as they snapped at your ankles through the wagon. 

You are told that, eventually, you will have enough funds to buy yourself out of the ring. It's almost funny that your owners don’t realize you already know what happens to those who are close to leaving. Always struck down just before being able to. Every single time without fail they fall. And then, they have the gall to tell you that you only have a few more fights to go. At least they let you know of your soon to be death, perhaps you will see Keres, Lady Kristen, as she guides you to the otherworld. You will welcome her with open arms. There are many tales of her being beautiful. Her loyal crows are seen as harbingers of death if they linger too long. A ca-caw outside your barred window causes a rare smile to grace your lips. You used to think that crows were startling with their cadence. Now, you think of it as the most beautiful thing you’ve ever heard.

You had taken pride in your long flowing hair. The care and maintenance it required made you quite vain about its beauty. Those men had paid no heed to your screams as they cut it shorter than it has ever been. Once long hair rendered down to barely an inch. The sight of it on the floor collected around you only causes more righteous anger. They eventually tied a strip of cloth around your mouth just to shut you up.

The moonlight gazes in from your barred window. You make no move to show yourself to a god you know is not watching. You lost your hope she would come long ago. Lost it in the first blood you spilled into the sand of that hell pit. While it is hell, it has become your new home. If these people denied your right to a death in your old home, they will be forced to accept your death in this new one.

You cannot speak, cannot eat, and cannot drink - as they have made sure of it. The fight you had put up against your captors wasn’t worth it. They have denied you meager offerings of food and water. The other women captured in the slave wagon get your portion. They do not look at you while they fight over your food. Reduced to nothing, all you can do is watch. 

You have watched many other slaves come and go from the arena. Many of those you cut down yourself in a bitter attempt to survive. Their features all blend in together and meet you for their revenge in your dreams. Sometimes, when you’re well and truly tired after a match, it's almost like you can hear them.

“Will we ever meet any other gods and goddesses, Lady Artemis?” One of your sisters asked. You and your sisters have only ever met Lady Artemis. Artemis stops attending to her bow, looking up you see a pensive look has overtaken her face. “Other gods and goddesses can be fickle. They can be much more cruel than I have ever been and ever will be. I would not seek out those you have not met before. Especially the gods who live and breathe violence. They will not be kind to you.” The garden goes quiet with her words. The sister that asked looks like she just bit into a lemon. Violence and bloodshed scares all of your sisters equally. They have not had to watch mortals be struck down by swords or illnesses, not in the way you have. 

With a bone deep weariness, you force yourself to stop thinking of the past. You think of these memories every day. Fighting for your life cannot even take away your attention from what was. There is no god that can save you - no peaceful one anyway.