The Only Cobra
The Gladiator
Such a farce. All of it. An imposing man with only the most basic of protection stood surrounded by the elite upon their ivory walls. They cheered at his plight; another opponent to take, another crowd to please. Today was his 50th battle, but the law now requires 100 to claim his freedom. I don’t need a mountain of coins or adoring fans. A wife and child would do nicely. A farm perhaps?
Another wave of excited cries permeated the whole arena as the opponent was announced. He didn’t bother learning the name; it wouldn’t matter. A few head of cattle… sheep, too, I should marry a seamstress. The crowd began chanting the opponent's name. Another wildman then? Where are they getting these people anyway? The warrior pointed his weapon to the unarmed gladiator and shouted something unremarkable. I’ve paid my dues nigh 50 times; I’m done entertaining these gluttons. Let's make this quick.
With the drums beating, the fight was on! The crowd was absolutely electric. The warrior from the wintry outlands charged towards the unmoved gladiator, roaring with his axe held high. In a blink, what was to be the fight of the year left the crowd in stunned silence. There was only one remaining in the sand, no longer a battleground, a butcher’s block. The gladiator painted with discarded flesh wordlessly exited the arena. No one dared break the silence, no one could avert their gaze. Only after the gate rises and falls once more for death does the crowd dare breathe.
“Killed? You killed him? Today was an exhibition! What story can I possibly tell now that you’ve cleaved your rival in two?” The arena master, Tavius, a portly man of more than modest wealth, was practically spitting with rage.
“Mm right.” The gladiator, still slick with red, nodded along with the tirade. The house will be at the foothills, with plenty of woods for the little ones. Away from-
“Listen to me!” the arena master pushed with words and body. His head tilted toward the ceiling to be met with a fierce glare.
“What has listening to you earned me? Falsehoods. Dreams empty. Bread crumbs.” I hate this… pig. Each instinctive step of Tavius towards escape is met with just as unconscious pursuit from the incensed pit fighter.
“Now let's not be f-foolish, I w-will not stand for this!” He fumbles for his whistle, ready to call for help.
“Then you will kneel.” With this utterance, the deathly warrior lunges straight for the throat before a shrill scream cuts through the hall. One of the orphans unfortunate enough to be housed here had seen the ordeal, and was shaking terribly. The man’s face softens at the sight, dropping Tavius unceremoniously. He wipes the drying blood away the best he can before approaching carefully.
“Are you alright, little one?” This one is breathing swiftly, where is her keeper? He asks himself. She shakes her head repeatedly, closing her eyes tight. He feels his heart sink at the sight, and asks her. “Do I frighten you?” There's hesitation, both in his voice, and her answer; a simple nod. She opens her eyes to a much calmer man than what was witnessed just seconds prior. “You are far too precious to be harmed, I won’t allow it. That goes for all of you small ones.” Despite the clear gore trailing behind him, and the smell of iron, it seems she believes him, if only a little bit. She nods her head politely and excuses herself. Leaving the two of them alone again.
Tavius had stood up, clearly anticipating the worst to come, but not daring to flee. The man who would decide his fate spoke. “I will say this only once.” The arena leader still had a hand on the whistle as he listened. “I will destroy everything it takes to achieve my goal. So long as you stay out of my way, you will not be amongst them. You will not postpone my freedom again.” With that, he returned to his cell, without a care for the now enraged Tavius.
In his cell, he took care to wash away the crimson from himself and his attire. Upon further examination, he finds something most perplexing. It appeared to be stenciled runes of scales surrounded by eldritch symbols. They were faint, but their presence was undeniable. It did not sting as a tattoo should, nor did it smear like pigment. “What could this be?” After studying them for a while longer, he decided it best to hide them for now. Luckily, he had plenty of spare wrappings for such needs.
It was another week before he was called to the arena again, another captured slave to be pitted against him it seems. Another to be sacrificed for his dream. The crowd almost sounded wounded, half hearted cheers by those ignorant did little to hide the harsh whispering of those who’ve witnessed. The now trapped prey finally enters his grave. “Yet another stray from the wilds,” scoffed the gladiator. He watches the stout spear wielder raise his weapon high to the fans, who scream with elation. Perhaps this one’s confidence has merit? Perhaps he will slay the monster of man. He begins to shout at the infamous gladiator with the glow of hubris in his eyes. “Hear me! M-” No more words could escape the lungs now filled with foreign flesh.
His voice, cold enough to freeze even the deepest ocean, erupted. “You are unworthy.” Somehow, his prey continued to struggle, clawing at his face while their lower half hangs limply. To that he raises his bleeding form to the sky before slamming him down, ripping his fist from the chest. “Tougher than the last, at the very least.” Once again the crowd acts as if enspelled to silence. Once again the nameless takes his leave. Once again there is blood to rinse. Once again a death stains him.
He swore the marks were bolder now…
Each week that passed, a small number of bodies were minced from his might, no amount of skill or experience could aid them against the fastest warrior of the realm. “The blink of death” some called these attempts for ‘fights’. Each week, what little pity he had was bled as he picked their corpses from his nails. Each month, humanity became increasingly foreign as a concept, as his form and mind strengthened little by little, kill by kill. Each day, the stench of blood followed him that snipped the threads of fate.
“Why don’t they free the beast? He scares off the patrons” a nervous woman asks one of the cleaners.
“Pride, I’d imagine” the jaded man offers while continuing his rounds.
“That can’t be enough, surely.”
“It's enough for them. He’s declared war y’know.. They won't let him leave here alive.”
“Hush. He’s coming.”
He enters the mess hall for what should be his final time. He had to double up his wrappings to properly hide the glow of what he now believes to be a source of power. It was gradual, yet unmistakable that these runes were emboldening over time. The master had begun using other champions rather than the weaklings scrounged from the empire’s skirmishes. These fighters would have put up a decent fight just months ago. However, with these fists they may as well be considered lambs for slaughter. Fools, now who will replace me? An idle thought more than true concern for these captors. He sits alone, his and all tables adjacent are clear. The guards all watch him diligently, yet keep their gaze low. Only one figure dared approach him, Tavius with two servants each with a platter of decadence announced himself.
“A farewell, before your final match.” He uncharacteristically bowed in reverence, “You will be missed.” The lone gladiator laughed darkly before responding.
“Lies of flattery today? You mustn’t worry… I have no intent to return to you.” He reveled in the fear the pig had for him, now he was receiving tribute akin to a cruel god.
“In either case, I do hope you enjoy your meal.” He and the servants left him to his feast, glazed meats with fine wine the like of which he’s only dreamed of. He hesitated for only a moment before his stomach settled the matter for him. Merrily he feasted, his joy more horrifying to the onlookers than any actions prior.
It was time for his tenure as executioner to come to an end, Just one more until he can pursue a happier destiny. The crowd sounds just as lively as it did his very first fight. The shift in atmosphere caught the soon-freed off guard. Must have advertised my departure. He rationalizes.
The gate opens quicker that it ever has before, the workers diving for escape as it’s raised. It had a maw of shredding teeth that drooled black spittle. Upon six legs each attached to wicked claws, it stood taller than him. As it dashed across the arena, its leathery body twisted and coiled unnaturally. It hissed a roar that strained all that heard it as it drew near. Cute, Thought the apex fighter as he shifted his weight to strike. Such thoughts were quickly replaced with confusion as he toppled forward, his legs refusing to obey direct orders. He catches the ground with both fists and launches himself back just in time. The impact glassing the sand between its teeth; glittering in the continuous slobber. I can’t feel my legs, what is the meaning of this? He hadn't the time to consider how, he had just a second to move again. In a panic, he rears back and lands a strike against its jaw, shoving it just a foot aside. The momentum carries to the earth, the shockwave rocketing him a dozen feet away. Despite this, the gladiator felt no pain; numbness crawling up his form ever slowly. Time is not my ally. He braced himself for what would come, a terrible retribution for the suffering he caused. He would either endure it, or perish as the rest; with gnashed teeth and sundered bones. “BRING IT ON!” His defiance drowned the crowd’s prayers for his demise.
Both starving beasts in their own right, only one would taste their desires.
The first stood on its rear legs, twisting as it fell atop the other one knelt before it, his fists raised in murderous rage. Darkness came for him, the rending barbs tugged at his flesh. The numbness provided a thick layer for his mind to hide in, to avoid the breaking pain that should consume him. However, it did not spare him the agonizing despair: that all was for nought. His sins that flooded the rivers of the soul watered salted fields, aspirations never to be reaped from the barren heartlands.
I refuse.
The consuming beast appeared satisfied for just a few precious moments before the reckoning came.
It writhed in delicious pain as it was being unmade from within, torn apart by a will stronger than it. A fist emerged from the now split flesh, a new star formed in the terrestrial realm, its light was a final testament to the nameless legacy. The predator becomes prey, a new hole ripped for the victor to crawl from. His legs were no longer useless, the pain comes as lightning to his already wounded psyche; it's simply too much to bear.
The truth has come to him now, he was poisoned, they had thought he would be felled by underhanded tactics such as this, and now they would pay the price.
The flayed warrior stole the heart from the arena master as his first act of vengeance, stomping the paltry whistle beneath his heel. It was not enough, his mind could not cease the screaming, it was all he could do to harmonize his torture to the terror of the attendants fated to haunt the coliseum.
Written by The Only Cobra
Only when he went below did the bloodrage finally cool. Only when the mortified children huddled in the darkest recesses cried at the sight of him did his soul reflect. He had lost himself.
Their keeper could not stop the shaking, not even in their words.
“T-t-these little ones d-did nothing to earnnn y-your wrath.” they shielded the young with their own body. For too long the only sounds between them came from the hearts and little breathes each took in suspense. It finally broke from the feral fighter’s words.
“Take them away from here. Tell all that dare ask, this is no longer a place for mortals as you.”
They nodded frantically as they began ushering the children past the warrior that dripped crimson. He kept his eyes closed, doing all possible to drown the murder from his mind. Until he felt a cool sensation wash over him that soothed his marred form. He opened his eyes to a lone child with shimmering eyes. Water flowed from the surroundings, and was guided by his little hands. He was washing the filth for him, cleaning the painful wounds as a caring human should. “Why?” he dared to ask this sweet boy.
“Hurt.” a small voice stated matter of fact. The man felt wetness seep from the eyes, and his knees weaken. Allowing himself to kneel beside the boy, he whispers his thanks. “All better?” asked the innocent one. Suddenly, he remembered how to smile.
“Ya… all better.”