#smptober

Day 7 and 8

The stadium filled with the roaring of the bloodthirsty crowd above him. Beads of sweat rolled down his forehead, out of the anticipation of fighting and the mid-noon sun that glared down at him and the savages he aimed to appease. He found the weight of his broadsword comforting; It was the only thing anchoring to reality. The cheers continued as Dave looked down at the newly polished sword. They forced a peasant to clean his sword—a sword that most likely killed their friends and family. He pushed down the disgust he felt towards what he had become, instead channelling it into a rage for the upcoming match.

Boos and the clacking of chains fuelled his hatred. With eyes full of malice, he glared down at the prisoner a few metres across the sand from him. The boy—cheekbones jutted out from need of nutrition, eyes now darker with lack of sleep—nervously glanced the champion up and down as the guard undid his chains.

It would be an easy match for the warrior.

A cloaked announcer emerged from one of the dark tunnels leading to the arena. “Ladies and gentlemen, are you ready for this bloody match prepared for you this fine afternoon?” His booming voice reached the audience who roared in anticipation. He praised their excitement and introduced the match. “Our first competitor, the king’s own champion, a legend among men: Technoblade!” Upon hearing his given name, Dave forced a look of pride as he raised his sword into the air; He swallowed back his disgust at the praise.

“His competitor—a traitor of the crown!” Insults emerged from the crowd’s lips, the boy ducked his head in shame. The announcer pretended not to notice as he said to the two, “Let’s have a fair, blood-filled fight, boys!” With that, he retreated to the safety of the tunnels.

Trumpets signified the beginning of the match. Techno strengthened the grip on his sword as he carefully creeped towards the challenger. Realising the match had begun, the prisoner copied his form—short knife in his hand with a white-knuckled grip. The fighters had a moment of tense peace as they sized the other. Without hesitation, Techno dived forward.

With carefully planned precision, the sword cut through the boy’s sleeve and into his flesh. Blood dyed the dirty shirt a deep red within a moment’s notice. The captive leaped back as he grabbed his arm with a quiet shout.

Techno lightly cut the boy, he jumped back, and the crowd roared in victory—this was the next hour of the match.

As the crowd was praising the sadistic game, the king caught Techno’s eye. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the king trace his throat—he’d grown bored with this match.

With a slight nod of his head, he aimed his next attack. The sickening sound of sharp metal penetrating the boy’s throat clogged his ears. He swiftly ripped his sword back, fresh blood coated its surface. The liquid shot out of the wound before he tried to stop it with both hands. Blood seeped through his fingers; His eyes began to glaze over like that of the dead. The savages above screamed as they watched the young boy bleed out onto the sand below.

massive thanks to @givethispromptatry for the prompt. i had absolutely no idea what to do for this one.

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Morning light filled the living area, basking Brendan in its light blue glow. He casually leaned to one side, hand holding his head, as he flipped through channels on the television. He yawned, tears naturally forming at the edge of his eyes. There was nothing to do. Nothing interesting on television, everyone else was sleeping, another blizzard ravaged outside. The man let out a quiet groan of annoyance. Channel after channel; Boring nonsense after boring nonsense.

Tired of being a channel-flipper, Brendan watched whatever program was on. His luck was not fortunate. A snooze-inducing episode of ‘How It’s Made’ played. He sighed as the monotone narrator detailed the intricate process of the making of horseradish. He drummed his fingers against the arm of the comfy chair, the action bringing a sense of relief to his buzzing mind.

Everything became a blur of colour as his eyes unfocused. His ears, sensitive to sound without his normal vision, cringed at the sound of static. Snapped back to reality, he realised the cause of the harsh noise. The blizzard must have knocked out the satellite.

He ran a hand through his hair as he leaned back in the chair. This was just his luck. With nothing better to do, Brendan went back to his daydreaming, eyes on the blaring television.

The television static looked like snow and as he looked closer, he swore he could make out a figure in the pixels. The person looked too small to be a man. Brendan blinked several times before he squinted at the boy. It had to be a trick his mind was playing on him. There’s no way it could be who he thought it was. He threw himself off of the seat and knelt in front of the television. It couldn’t be…

Inside the television, pounding of the screen from the inside, was a mini Ty. Though he was screaming at the top of his lungs, the static swallowed every word. Brendan couldn’t hear a single word. He tried to comprehend the scene in front of him. It must be a trick of his mind. The young boy was still in his room, sound asleep—he never left, right?

Brendan dashed to his friend’s room, leaving the figment behind, smacking against the glass and screaming for help. He threw open the door—Ty wasn’t there. His features fell when he didn’t see the boy anywhere. Where had he gone? Was that really him in the television? Questions raced around in his mind as he steadily paced back to the static box.

Only static was present on the screen. This crushed all hope he had in an instant. Where the hell was Ty? Brendan stared out the window. Dread infected his chest as he saw a line of small footsteps leading out into the dark forest. Snow fluttered across the glass, trying to protect him from the crude truth of what happened to his friend.