For prisoners, hope is a dangerous flame—one which fills their days with a flickering light, even as it prepares a blinding darkness for their inevitable end.
A thick dampness permeated the air, the sort of stench one could only find deep underground. The rich earth which once occupied the area had long since been replaced with rusted metal and crumbling concrete. The vague outline of a once-organized system of tunnels and cells had faded, replaced by a sprawling city of broken walls and half-demolished pillars.
If one looked closely, they might notice the slight incline of the grimy floors, steep enough to lead to the surface, yet too shallow to be felt. Might notice the faint rays of light trickling through the dungeon—for that was what this was—evidence of an escape somewhere unseen. But no one looked too closely here—they were all far too smart for that.
The cells themselves, however, were a contradiction, spacious where the tunnels were narrow, with high ceilings and sturdy walls. Perfect for training.
It was impossible to walk through the sweltering tunnels without hearing the distinctive ringing of steel on steel, occasionally accompanied by cries of pain or exhaustion. Yet to not train meant a fate far worse, and so the prisoners bore the suffering with muted hatred.
Among the song of steel coursing through the tunnels hid a note sharper than the rest, which moved at a tempo faster than the droning monotony of the others. It could be traced back to a cell identical to the others, furnished with the same two stiff cots and tattered blankets. Yet the occupants were different, and it was hard to ignore it.
Perhaps you could find it in the sharpness of their eyes, a harsh contrast to the resigned defeat of the other prisoners. Perhaps it was in their movements, fluid and dangerous, a far cry from the stiff, clunky footsteps pervading the rest of the cells. Or perhaps it was in their smiles, wild and ferocious as they sparred, each testing each other to the limits of their ability, a dance which made others ashamed of their clumsy jabs and slashes.
These men moved with hope.
The first of them, a thickly corded man with thin grey streaks showing through his dark tangle of hair, was the first to pull away from the flurry of strikes. His opponent, a younger man with rich brown hair and pale green eyes—both distinctly uncommon for the region—didn’t attempt to press his advantage. He had been sparring with the other man for far too long to fall for his ploys, and this apparent retreat was certainly one of them.
The older man smiled knowingly, before quickly stepping forward and thrusting a jab at the youth’s midsection. Even as he dodged, the green-eyed man realized the trick, vainly trying to redirect his momentum away from the kick coming towards his unprotected side.
It connected a moment later, and he was sent sprawling along the rough surface of the stone floor. He sat up slowly, wiping a trickle of blood from the side of his mouth.
“I see old age doesn’t soften your kicks, at the very least,” he groaned, gingerly prodding his tender ribs as he accepted his opponent’s hand lifting him up.
“I would hope not—that would be very bad news for me indeed,” the other man replied, eyes twinkling, though the words were true enough. People didn’t tend to survive long enough to become old here.
Even now, the younger man could hear the distant roar of the crowd, undoubtedly cheering another death. Not for the first time, he cursed the luck that had turned him into this pitiful parody of a gladiator—the sort of sport only the uncivilized barbarians of the South could possibly enjoy.
He still dreamed of his farm at night, while the others snored. Dreamed of the green fields of the North, pocked with groves of trees and rolling bluffs.
Dreamed of his brother. Dreamed of his brother’s eyes, emeralds of green which put Alex’s own pale copies to shame. Dreamed of the mock-fights they used to have with wooden swords, where they pretended to be brave heroes, dueling over the future of fantastical kingdoms. Those dreams never failed to leave a bitter taste in his mouth, as if his current reality was just the universe mocking his pathetic childhood fantasies.
“Alex?”
The youth, Alexander Cassian, looked at the older man he had grown to regard as a mentor.
Nilus was a man of about 50—an anomaly in a prison filled with adolescents and fit youths—who never failed to remind Alex of a particularly resilient piece of aged leather. What Nilus may have lacked in speed or stamina, he tended to make up for in toughness and wits. Alex had come to that unfortunate realization countless times over the 4 months they had been cellmates, often painfully. Nilus had also proven an exception to the infamous reputation of the South, showing himself to be a man of exceptional patience and wisdom.
Beyond that however, Alex’s understanding of the older man ran woefully thin. He knew him to be a convict of some sort, as only the guilty found their ways to the dungeon, but he didn’t know the crime. He knew him to have had a family in the past, but couldn’t guess as to their size nor their current whereabouts. He hadn’t even learned Nilus’s last name.
That was the way of the tunnels—ignorance meant safety. Safety from the pain of loss, in a place where half the population died every month. Alex doubted any of the others had been there longer than the two of them, an impressive feat in itself. But that wasn’t nearly enough for Alex—his goal was above any of the petty victories that formed in this place.
“What are you thinking about?”
The question dragged Alex out of his musings, and he turned to face the other man.
“Why are you in here?” It sprang unbidden from Alex’s mouth, surprising himself as much as it did Nilus.
Nilus’s face, previously warm despite his obvious exhaustion, turned disapproving, with a hint of something darker.
“You know better than to ask that.”
“It’s been 4 months! We’re obviously not going anywhere anytime soon,” Alex argued, his voice pleading, betraying his youth.
Nilus sighed, sounding as ancient as the stone of the cell walls.
“Life is not fair, Alex, and death even less so. Never assume the best for tomorrow, especially in a place like this.”
The words struck Alex like a blow, though he couldn’t voice why, exactly. Before he could respond, footsteps echoed through the tunnel outside.
The two men immediately tensed into a low stance, though the iron bars of the cell stopped them from posing any real threat to the newcomers.
The footsteps obviously knew this, still beating at a leisurely rate as they gradually creeped closer. A few moments later a tall man appeared in front of the cell, flanked by guards armed with sleek swords, dwarfing the shoddy weapons of the cellmates in both size and craftsmanship.
The man in between them was not armed, but his eyes bore the most menace out of all of them, accompanied by sharp cheekbones and a hooked nose. Both features seemed to fit perfectly on his narrow face, expression pinched as if it couldn’t quite decide between pain and rage.
Alex’s whole body went stiff with barely restrained fury. Every muscle tensed with fatal potential. But the iron bars stood between them, indifferent to his anger. Uncaring of the rivalry between captor and prisoner. Even now, memories of the raid rose unbidden—streaks of fire and blood breeding crimson nightmares. His brother’s hand slipping loose of his as the man standing in front of him now hauled him to a different cart of captives.
Alex suddenly noticed the man was grinning in amusement, and quickly unclenched his hands, not letting him see the blood leaking from his palms where his nails had opened month-old wounds. He forced himself to smile back, as if he had just met an old friend.
The amusement receded slightly, and Alex found himself silently thanking Nilus for advising him on how to behave in front of the Warden—for that was what the monster called himself. Alex had only met the man once after the raid, and that was to discuss the deal that was undoubtedly the subject of the conversation today as well.
The Warden cleared his throat now, and Alex refocused his attention.
“Alexander, Nilus, I see you’re doing well. I’ve arranged fights for both of you tomorrow,” the Warden paused now, looking Alex in the eye with an evil glint. “I trust I don’t need to remind you how important this is for you, Alex. And for your brother.”
Alex swallowed his fury, every fiber of his being aching to retaliate. But he stood silent, simply nodding his head in acknowledgement. He was too close to risk failure now.
The Warden watched him closely for his reaction, frowning when he saw none. The sight did a bit to alleviate Alex’s mood. The frown disappeared with his next sentence however, a fact Alex didn’t like in the least.
“Alexander, you’ll be fighting a gladiator from a different dungeon, a bit younger than you, but bigger.” The Warden’s tone was amused, as if he knew something Alex didn’t. It didn’t matter—Alex was ready for every dirty trick the Warden might play.
Turning to the other man, the Warden smirked, an evil expression which sent chills down Alex’s spine, “Nilus, you’ll be fighting Tevin Olimanus.”
The name was unfamiliar to Alex, no more than another entry in the list of opponents Nilus had dispatched with shocking ease over the past months.
One look at Nilus’s face, however, was enough to prove it was significant in some way. He had momentarily paled at the words, before he covered it with a mask once more.
Nilus nodded once to the Warden, before turning and striding over to his cot, steps measured and pensive. Alex stared in confusion, before nodding as well and returning to his own small mattress.
Once the Warden’s receding footsteps disappeared from earshot, Alex turned, thinking to question Nilus about his reaction.
To his surprise, the other man was already staring at him, a hollow expression on his face.
“Don’t ask. Please.”
His voice was hoarse, eyes rimmed with red from unseen tears. Alex didn’t know how to react, the vulnerability a novel expression on Nilus’s weathered face.
Unfortunately, there was little less tempting than the promise of knowledge dangled in front of his eyes, and he couldn’t stop the question from escaping his mouth.
“Who is he?”
Nilus deflated in front of Alex’s eyes, a resigned sigh escaping as the years seemed to finally catch up to the man who had sprinted ahead of them for so long.
“I killed someone, Alex.”
They had both killed many people during their time here, lives lost to the whispers of the tunnels and roars of the crowds. But Alex knew that was not what he meant—Nilus was talking about the outside, where lives held value.
Alex found himself unsurprised at the revelation—it took a lot to get sent to the dungeon, and murder wasn’t even the worst on the list.
God forbid someone be a foreigner, though.
He shook off the cynical thought, wise enough to understand its futility.
No—the words were not what troubled him. The forced tone, lancing with pain and guilt, worried him far more.
Nilus continued, voice still trembling, “he didn’t deserve it—it was a terrible mistake on my part. Yet he died anyway. And now his son is here to claim justice.” His voice carried with it the dull memory of remorse and regret, emotions which often proved fatal in the tunnels.
Alex didn’t like it one bit.
“That doesn’t matter, Nilus. It was a mistake.”
Nilus gave a wan smile, not bothering to respond. Alex bulled forward despite the sinking feeling in his heart, willing his voice to stay strong and confident.
“Just because he’s motivated doesn’t mean he can beat you. Hell, I’ve never even seen someone so much as scratch you unless you wanted them to!”
The words, intended to be a rousing shock back to reality, instead simply seemed to slide off the man uselessly.
“I’m sure I could beat him,” Nilus chuckled humorlessly. “And yet, I doubt I will.”
Alex paused, his next protests dying down as he swallowed the implication.
“You mean the Warden will rig the fight?”
Nilus shook his head, “he won’t have to,” he smiled sadly. “I don’t intend to fight back.”
Alex had no response to that.
Nilus watched him with something bordering on pity, as though Alex were the one planning to walk to his own death instead. After a few moments of silence, Nilus turned and lay down on his dusty mattress, his breathing quickly falling into the slow rhythm of sleep.
The room felt distinctly empty as Alex sat frozen, staring at the bare back of the other man as he tried to process the words. It was only the knowledge that a lack of sleep could be fatal that allowed exhaustion to eventually overcome him as well, and he fell into a fitful sleep, his dreams just as burdensome and painful as reality.
And yet, morning still came far too soon, the harsh drums ringing through the tunnels the only indication of light returning to the world outside.
Alex rose to find Nilus already awake, painstakingly donning his elaborate armor. It was perhaps the only kindness offered to the prisoners—the same set of armor for everyone, covering most of the body, complete with a helmet obscuring their entire face. Alex supposed it made it easier for the audience to dehumanize them, to exult in their violent deaths. He hated them for it.
Nilus had never shared the sentiment. Perhaps Nilus’s loyalty to his homeland clouded his perspective, but Alex had always admired his ability to pity the crowds rather than hate them.
Every single one of them deserves to die more than he does.
Alex avoided the depressing thought. He looked in Nilus’s eyes now and saw only resolve. None of the self-pity or fear that other men would have while preparing for death. Just calm resignation. Alex knew, in some deep corner of his heart, that he couldn’t convince Nilus not to follow through now.
Instead, he walked over to Nilus silently, helping to adjust the straps and plates of the heavy armor. They waited in comfortable silence for the guards to come clanking down the tunnel, and Nilus rose with easy grace once they did. He calmly clasped his hands in front of him and allowed himself to be manacled as they opened the cell door.
His chin remained lifted, back straight with steeled dignity as he was jostled and roughly led down the hallway, disappearing from Alex’s eyes, not making a sound the entire time.
The second he was gone, Alex broke. He wept, tears freely falling down his scarred face.
Wept for the death of a man he never had the pleasure to truly know in life.
Yet, when the guards returned hours later, ready to drag another prisoner away for a gruesome fight, they found Alex already standing, clad in his armor. His face was a mask of cool confidence, eyes sharp and dangerous.
He clasped his hands together with a loud clap, making the guards flinch back in hastily masked fear. They scowled, harshly grabbing his wrists and wrenching the cuffs on, far tighter than normal.
Alex smiled inwardly, more than willing to bear the rougher treatment in exchange for the moment of joy their reactions had given him. As he was painfully led down the tunnels, he vaguely realized they weren’t heading in the direction of the arena, a journey which had been seared into his mind over the past months.
It wasn’t till he was shoved into a cold, dimly lit room, that he realized the Warden was waiting for him. The man stood in front of him, inspecting Alex in a way that made the hairs on his neck rise in warning. He forced down the fear, the anger, and all the other loud emotions threatening to distract him from his goal. He was pleasantly surprised to find that he was grinning at the Warden, an expression guaranteed to infuriate the man.
Unfortunately, the Warden only grinned back, apparently too excited at the looming prospect of Alex’s death to be suitably angered. There was something else in his expression too—something Alex didn’t like.
“Alexander, how are you? I’m so sorry about your cellmate, his performance was rather pathetic.” The grin never left, the man delighting in seeing the brief flash of anguish that Alex couldn’t stop from crossing his face.
Alex breathed in, forcing himself to ignore the Warden’s attempts to rattle him. He couldn’t afford to lose this fight.
The Warden continued, “You remember our deal? A dozen wins and you earn your brother’s freedom?”
Alex nodded, not trusting himself to speak yet.
“Well, considering this is your 12th fight, I brought in a special opponent from another dungeon. The Warden there assured me that he can defeat you, and I’m inclined to agree after seeing him spar.” The Warden smiled, looking positively gleeful at the thought.
Alex offered no reaction, causing the Warden to pout before continuing.
“I’ve also personally arranged for your brother to have front-row seats to this. After all, it’s not every day you get to watch your sibling die in front of your own eyes.”
Alex recognized the Warden’s ploy for what it was—an attempt to provoke Alex, fill his mind with the thought of dying in front of his brother, force him to feel the pressure of the bout.
Alex refused to bend.
He grinned at the Warden, feeling only joy at the thought of seeing his brother again after so long.
Still, the Warden kept his cool smile, despite Alex’s lack of anger. Alex knew he was planning something, some sort of dirty trick to ensure Alex died in the arena, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to care. The Warden couldn’t kill him outright, not with how famous he had quickly become, which meant he was restricted in what he could do.
But more importantly, Alex felt completely confident in his ability to win the fight regardless of whatever tricks the Warden might try to pull. His months with Nilus had not gone to waste, and his fury at his mentor’s death had ignited a storm within Alex, one which he was ready to turn on his opponent.
The Warden gestured for the guards to take Alex to the arena, apparently finished with his small game. As the guards led him up the winding tunnel, Alex began to sink into that familiar calm pool in his mind, the one Nilus had shown him so long ago. Except this time the water was churning, frothing with anger begging to be used. Alex planned to use it.
The dim roar of the crowd slowly rose in volume as he began to near the source of the faint rays of sunlight which lit the pathway. As Alex emerged from the heavily guarded opening—a narrow gash which split the face of a towering cliff of rust-colored rock—he faintly noticed that there had never been this many people at one of his fights before. The Warden must have spread the word, no doubt expecting Alex to finally be killed today.
Too bad.
He took no notice of the sweltering heat on his armor-cladded body, instead intensely searching the crowd for a glimpse of thick brown hair or sharp green eyes. The arena was built to seat as many people as possible, taking the form of a circle with overlapping rows of benches and railings. Unfortunately, it made it difficult to spot a single 20-year-old among the throngs of spectators.
As the announcer began to whip the crowd into a wild frenzy, Alex finally turned his gaze onto his opponent. He was pleased to note that his size and build had been exaggerated by the Warden, with the man’s physique instead being quite similar to Alex himself, if not a bit smaller.
But he moved with an obvious grace, steel sword twirling in his right hand with the ease of experience. Alex set his jaw at the sight, preparing himself for what would undoubtedly be a difficult fight.
The crowd was practically frothing at the mouth now, bloodthirsty excitement palpable in the violent screams and chants flying from their mouths. Alex tuned them out, recognizing the distractions for what they were. Yet even as he slowly circled his opponent, he couldn’t stop his eyes from flickering to the crowds behind, still furiously scanning for a glimpse of his brother.
Where was he?
As the noise in the arena finally reached a crescendo, the sharp ring of a bell crashed through the stadium, and his opponent was on him. All thoughts of his brother were immediately driven from Alex’s mind, his full concentration required in order to keep his limbs intact.
The swordsman was far better than he expected, with a couple of his early jabs and slashes landing on Alex amidst the flurry of strikes they exchanged. Luckily, his armor protected him from the worst of it, and when they disengaged, he was only left with a couple of bruises.
Normally, during a bout, Alex would let his gaze drift to his opponent’s eyes, delighting in the fear he often found in there. This time, he forced himself to watch the slowly circling tip of his opponent’s blade, not trusting himself to stay focused if he allowed his gaze to wander. Even now, he was desperately tempted to keep looking for his brother, but he knew that could ruin any chances of winning the fight and earning his brother’s freedom.
The thought was enough to keep his eyes trained on the steel of his opponent’s sword, and he was ready when it next flashed towards his body. He deftly batted it to the side, letting his opponent’s momentum expose his unprotected side, and thrust a jab towards the bare skin.
Before it could connect, the other fighter’s blade was there, almost too fast to see. Alex was caught off-guard, and barely deflected the retaliation from his opponent.
The next few minutes of fighting were filled with similar frustration for Alex, with his opponent often barely dodging or parrying a strike just before it could connect, as though he could read Alex’s moves before he did them. The only thing saving Alex was the fact that it didn’t seem to be a consistent art, with some of the combinations Nilus had taught him managing to land.
During one such exchange, Alex caught a glimpse of the Warden’s face from his elevated spot in the stands. The man looked happier than Alex had ever seen him, the fight seemingly going exactly how he wanted it to.
Was this his doing somehow?
Alex didn’t know of anything the Warden could have given his opponent that would let him predict Alex’s moves, but it seemed like the obvious answer to Alex. All the conniving smiles, the confidence, the taunting. The Warden had done something.
Alex just couldn’t figure out what.
His distraction cost him, with his opponent landing a slash on his arm. A thin line of red streaked from his elbow to wrist, and Alex watched crimson blood well up and drip down his skin like raindrops. But Nilus was a ruthless trainer, and Alex didn’t crumble like other men.
Instead, his focus was suddenly absolute, the pain sharpening his senses. His eyes firmly latched onto his opponent’s bloodied sword once more, and this time he picked up on the faintly lowered point and sagging wrist. He read the other man’s exhaustion in his heavier lunges and slower pivots.
And this time, when his opponent lunged, Alex swayed to the side just enough. Just enough to let the sword glance off his sturdy armor, numbing his opponent’s arm. Just enough to lash out with his own blade, wielded like a scalpel with scary efficiency.
Alex watched his opponent die to his strike. The collapse of the legs, suddenly unable to support his own weight. The limp hands, steel sword falling onto the sandy arena floor. The lifeless green eyes, empty emeralds devoid of light.
And Alex suddenly understood the wide smile of the Warden, gleeful even in the face of Alex’s victory.
He rushed to the body, collapsing on his knees as he scrabbled at the dark helm covering the face. The noise in the arena was deafening, yet Alex heard only a dull thudding in his ears as he finally managed to peel off the clunky metal.
Saw only a blinding darkness as he gazed into the glassy eyes of his dead brother.