The sound of cheering, the roars of the crowd as the gates creaked open before him. Sunlight blared out, temporarily blinding him as he stepped from the darkness of the bloodworks tunnel that led down to the aqueducts and gladiator barracks below. The air smelled of freshly spilled blood from the match before, which had touched bitter iron. Other slaves had come and brushed the sand across, to 'clean' up the mess so to speak, before the beginning of the next match. Dust clouds quickly drifted across it.
Agrian wore the bear armor of his rank, the blood-stained helmet of a serpent, covering his face and fangs coming down around his mouth. Little more than a pauldron covered his shoulder, strapped across his midsection and chest, with nothing more than a buckled plate at the center, but most of his flesh was exposed by and large. After all, the Arena was a place where two foes entered and only one emerged. There could only be one victor.
He emerged through the portcullis gate, sand crunching softly underneath his thin boots, sandaledin fashion, but thicker around the ankle and layered upon his shins, which were then covered by plated metal. As soon as he appeared more clearly to the rest of the crowd, the people cheered loudly, whooping, roaring, crying out at their pleasure to see one of their favored fighters coming to entertain them again.
Agrian looked up to the crowd, his eyes brooding in the minor shade brought about by his helm's brow, distinguishing between the undesirable in the worst seats, and gradually increasing in rank, from woment, to Merchants, their wives, their servants, their guardsmen, commoners, and richer men affording the shaded box seats towards the western edge of the arena. And underneath the greatest shade of all reserved for the most opulent, most grand of all guests was the seat for the Shah.
He found his gut twisting in disgust, but his expression was as hard as stone.
He walked further out into the sand, clutching the shield in one arm and watched the portcullis across from him grind metal on metal, slowly opening and he awaited his opening from the darkness beyond.
Her Grace, the God-Queen of the entire land of Essyrn, whom the people address as their Shah, now sat within the cool, silken shadows of her opulent booth; a section singled out within the Colosseum's high rising seats. Upon her head sat the tall capped crown of her people, with the dual headed snake goddess crested in it's center. Beneath the crown she wore a thick black wig that fanned around around her body and framed just around her shoulders. The wig itself had gold and turquoise beads strung throughout, and a few extra ones that framed her face and the bangs of the wig down the front. Her eyes were ornately painted in gold and turquoise colors to match, and kohl was used to adorn her eyes, giving her already exotic features a more slanting, catty look. And with lips, now coated in a kissably pink color, made the already beautiful Persea Ah'nikh dazzle, and caused others to exclaim and gape at her god like beauty.
She sat in a throne of gold, the chair in the shape of a lion, with legs like paws and the chair back supporting her, had the framing girth of the lion's face and mane. Her body was wrapped in translucent white clothe that barely hide the intricate gold and black paintings that clothed her body beneath. And other than the thick collar layered in gold, jewels and beads around her neck, and ones that cuffed her arms, she wore little else. Even the sandals hugging her legs did nothing to mask the god like beauty that, even at a distance, one could taste.
And that's how her job was handled, she- merely a face of her people, and one so many women now strived to become like- for she was the face of youth, beauty and grace; and held the blood lines of someone blessed directly by their God. And though it was so early in her rein, it seemed, for her beauty of what she represented: a pure blood line, a grand ruler, a grand God, she was already adored by her people.
The soft winds from the fans coming down from her slaves was most welcome, but the roar of the crowd seemed to irritate her, the only notion of this coming out from the cutting jewel color of her eyes. Blood and fanfare, it was all so barbaric, and perhaps, she figured, if she were a man, could indulge and revel in such things more quickly, but being as this was tradition in a world dominated by men, she had to keep her face of indifference, and remain as a perched figure head before the crowd.
When this new fighter, some... famous man an advisor whispered to her who had gone by The Sand Storm, she merely raised a single brow in recognition before peering down to where he waited on the battle field, with the sun bleating down on him with it's merciless rays. The man's stance, she observed, was one of confidence, but his helm, as they all were, was ridiculously pomp. She'd rather see the fighter's face, and wondered if she could make a new law for it, but steeled her tongue over the matter. She didn't want to sound incompitant. But she was born into vanity, and loved looking upon faces, even those less pretty than her own, so she could remind herself how she was perfection.
Though a man's face was never lost on her. She was surrounded by all sorts. But the kind she craved for was neither here nor there. Yes, she decided inwardly as she drew in a breath and raised her chin a bit higher when the gladiator turned her way, this arena fight would be much more interesting could she see the man's face. At least if he had a handsome face to match his body, she'd have someone to root for.
Malika knelt beside the throne of her Mistress, her attention, suitably, more on Mistress's needs than on the action below. Like Mistress, she found the Colosseum and its combats distasteful, and, although subject to less scrutiny, she had to be as cool and detached as Mistress rather than behaving so squeamishly it might embarrass the woman she served. Beneath the veil she wore, however, no one noticed the way her face paled or the quick aversion of her eyes as blood soaked the sands beneath...and she was grateful for that.
A slight shift forward from Mistress caught her attention, and she reflected, once again, on how kind Mistress was to visit the Colosseum, to treat her subjects to even a glimpse of her perfect visage, when only the previous evening Mistress had confessed, in the privacy of the bath, how she detested this place... Smoothly and gracefully, and without a word, Malika rose and plumped the pillow that had rested against Mistress's back so that, when she leaned back again, the pillow would cushion her like a soft cloud. There was little Mistress disliked as much as a saggy pillow...nor should she have to endure such discomfort. Once the pillow was set straight, she settled once again at Mistress's side; she was expected to be prepared, ready with food or drink should Mistress desire either...and prepared to read even the subtlest shift in expression or posture to indicate such desire.
Yasmin sauntered rather than walked out through the portcullis and into the arena, clad in light armor that protected her head and torso but left her arms and legs bare. At her hip, her weapon of choice, a scimitar, was sheathed, and in one hand she gripped a shield.
Smiling brightly, she waved at the crowd with her free hand and spin in a circle here and there so she could get each side of the crowd. The air was heavy with the scent of sand, sweat, and old blood, and her heart was beating wildly in her chest as it always did before a match--that familiar, sick combination of nerves, dread, and excitement--but she didn't let it show on her face. Instead, she stood straight and proud and greeted the "fans" cheering for her victory or blood as nobility might greet adoring subjects.
Inside, she wondered who had fought before her, what faces would be missing tonight--or what faces she would hardly recognize for their missing flesh.
Inside, she wondered who she would be facing now, who she might kill or be killed by, but she couldn't yet bring herself to look at the figure across the way. Instead, she scanned the audience--and her eyebrows rose when she saw none other than the Shah herself, seated in her special, safe booth--the best seat in the house!--upon her opulent throne.
She hadn't seen the woman before; Hakeshna knew, Yasmin was completely apathetic as far as the damned nobility went, and she hadn't even known that there was a new one, or that this new one was a woman. She only recognized her for her crown, and because that was the booth where the Shah typically sat, if they deigned to attend.
Her lip curled in disgust as she looked up at the woman, but she smoothed her expression just as quickly and replaced her snarl with a beaming grin. Pivoting on her heel to face the Shah's direction, she kissed her fingers and blew the woman a kiss, then bowed as she had seen foreign nobility do, sweeping her helmet off as she did. It might be hard to tell from such a distance, with her armor obscuring her figure and her hair cropped short, but her features were feminine and she wanted her to know that it was women that fought and died in this barbarous sport, too.
Still smiling, Yasmin donned her helmet again and, with a deep breath, finally turned to see who she was up against--and was relieved to find that she couldn't tell. His helmet covered too much of his face.
Good. That always made it easier.
Drawing her scimitar with a metallic hiss, Yasmin advanced, cautiously closing the distance between them. "Looks like some real big-wigs showed up today," she commented, more to herself than to him. "Hah. Literally. Get it? Because her big hair? And it's probably a wig? Hilarious. I could have written comedies for the Colosseum but here I am instead, wasting all that talent murdering people..."
Once his mind was turned away from the crowd, there wasn't much that could be done to pull it back in that direction. The gate had opened and the other fighter emerged from the other end of the pit. The sound of grinding iron echoed once again throughout the Colosseum that if it weren't for the helmet on his head, the sound likely would have grated on his ears.
But once his opponent stepped through the gates, he steeled himself to the battle that was to shortly come. He knew all eyes in the crowd were watching them, distracted only by the sound of chatter, coins, food and drink, all the comforts that came with spectator sports. Agrian held his weapon in his right hand and the great round shield ready in the other. It didn't take long for him to assume his battle-readiness. Except when...
His eyes widened in the shade of his helmet as he saw his opponent take off the helmet in the moment to greet the Shah in the royalty box. No, he thought to himself. The gods were cruel weren't they? He faced one or two acquaintances in the Arena before, people he had met and talked to, had come to know, and killed them in equal combat. But her. Yasmin, was a little more than a passing acquaintance and one he had hoped to never face in the midst of blood and sand.
Agrian frowned internally, but steeled himself for the show he knew the crowd would be most hungry for. He didn't hesitate and closed the distance between himself and the other gladiator, gripping his weapon tightly. When they were at least five feet apart, he gave a sudden charge, leaping into the air and jabbing his sword diagonally down at her.
Persea sunk back into the freshly fluffed pillow with a short sigh. She was trying not to fidget. Sitting with her head so high and shouders back was tiring work. And as she tried to remained comfortable and ethereal, she found her lips falling open at the sight of a woman. She somehow always knew there were female fighters, but it seemed so... so barbaric that anyone would dare fight a woman. Why, if she were a fighter, she supposed she wouldn't last long, but had she the skill, she supposed a woman could be lethal. Giving a subtle roll to her shoulders, she turned to Malika.
"So we watch a woman fight?"
Preposterous. If anything, she would have preferred two men shedding their blood. This made her a bit uneasy, but she stilled herself and returned to her regal figure in her chair and gave a waving Malika's way.
"Malika, some wine." She normally never drank so quickly at any event, but she wasn't about to be shrewd here, and though she sweat, she wasn't sure she wanted any water as her eyes remained locked upon the figures in the ring. A frown visibly sagged on her lips as she felt herself waiting tensely within her chair as the fight begun- and she had to wonder just which of these two combatants would win- and, if any of them would come out alive.
She had never witnessed death before- and the very idea was both thrilling and frightening. She wasn't entirely sure she was prepared for all of this. But it was tradition, and inwardly she had to wonder what more was there to expect? Holding out a hand, she yanked the gilded goblet her slave would offer to her and held it to her lips, hesitating only briefly before taking a quick sip and handing it back to her.
Malika found herself staring as well at the figure of a woman so far below. For an instant, she thought that, perhaps, her eyes deceived her, for it couldn't be a woman down there, preparing to fight and to die...
Mistress's words only confirmed that it was, indeed, a woman there, and she suppressed a bit of a shudder at the thought. What manner of a woman was she to participate in this sort of thing? And to make such a show of her entrance...she must enjoy it as much as the men. What a terrifying thought!
"Yes, Mistress." It was impossible to say if it was a response to the inquiry or to the request. In any case, Malika offered Persea the requested wine, then accepted the goblet back without a word further as even her eyes followed the combat below.
And it was showtime.
Yasmin was glad her opponent made the first strike, for she always felt like she had a slight advantage when they did. It meant she had a chance to read them before they read her, to get a sense of their style before they got a sense of hers, but--but in this case, she found it strangely unsettling. As the man charged her and leaped, a spark of alarm jolted through her, but she acted automatically, instinctively.
Ducking low, using her slightly smaller size to her advantage, Yasmin swung her sword up to block his strike, gritting her teeth as the shock went up her arm and into her shoulder, and acted fast because she wouldn't be able to hold him off like that long. With a grunt, she thrust her shield out and slammed it hard into the steel plate buckled to his midsection, putting the strength of her legs into it as she hoped to knock him off balance so she could follow up with an attack of her own.
And as she did, she tried hard to stay focused, tried hard not to think about anything but survival.
And definitely tried not to think about how familiar this warrior's style was.
All there was was the battle at hand. Agrian was focused, ready for her rebukes. The block was to be expected and the power behind his arm had the intended effect. But the ram against his midsection he did not expect and felt himself being thrown off balance. His feet were quick to keep themselves under him, backpeddling several paces and putting ground between himself and Yasmin.
He held his shield at the ready still, gauging her for several seconds longer, his heart pounding in his chest. As focused as he was on the battle, there was a measure of hesitation steadily growing with him. It was a fight to the death. Two gladiators entered into the Arena, fought for the pleasure of the Shah, the Princes, and the crowd for all to see. The blood spilled here for entertainment, for cheers.
The thought twisted into his gut in a morbid sickness. That he would spill the blood of someone he knew. Still he made no move to speak, to mention his name or that he knew her. Thousands of slaves died all the time in the dust and sand...why should it matter to him that he would kill her?
That thought had to take a second step before he knew his seconds of contemplation were up and he charged once more toward her. But he stopped short of her and slid his feet across the dirt, kicking it up toward her face. And once his footing had remained secured, he rammed forth with his shield.
Yasmin kicked out at her opponent's legs, but he was quicker and retreated before she could connect. Bouncing back to her feet, she got her shield in front of her and her sword up, sliding back into a defensive stance as she watched him like a hawk and began to circle him, looking for an opening.
No. It had to be a coincidence. Anyone could have that same style, right? It didn't mean it was him...just...someone who was his same height and skin tone...
Dammit! Focus! She shoved the thought away with a growl and was about ready to slide into the offensive when he charged first.
Doing the same thing twice and expecting different results? That seemed like a bad idea, and it instantly relieved her. No, it definitely couldn't be him. He was no fool. Gripping her scimitar tighter, Yasmin tensed in preparation, because this time she'd be quicker, and this time she'd take him down. No, Agrian would never do something so--
She didn't expect the sand.
Yasmin had no time to turn her head or shut her eyes as it flew up into her face, got in her eyes. In an instant she was blind--and in another instant, she was on her back as something struck her hard in the chest, driving the air from her lungs and knocking her down. She heard something skitter across the sand and realized with budding panic that she'd lost her scimitar in the fall--but she still had her shield.
The problem was that she couldn't see.
Her eyes watered from the irritation but she had no time to try and rub the sand away. She was down, and she was weaponless, and she was vulnerable; he might be readying another blow right now, and it could be the final one if she didn't move. Grasping her shield like her life depended on it--which it did--Yasmin thrust it out in front of her and scrambled blindly backwards before wobbling to her feet and tripping, still horribly disoriented and breathless. But she managed to get upright and as she backed up she wiped at her eyes, trying to clear out the sand, but her eyes wouldn't open.
Shit!
Her heart hammered in her chest as she retreated, trying to buy time, straining her ears to listen for where he was, but she couldn't hear anything over the roar of the crowd.
If given the choice, the youthful Shah would have loved to do anything but watch something so barbaric as this. Though she was trained to show enthusiasm for the sport of her people, inwardly she cringed. And something archaic had her eyes glued to the woman in battle, nearly bested by the man as her hands gripped the sides of her gilded chair tensely.
She moved forward, as if to stand, but remained seated, teeth grinding as she watched the fight transpire in the sands below. It seemed almost as if the woman were about to be killed- and so swiftly. And the roar of the crowd was deafening. She just hoped her own nerves were not so evident as she kept those green eye upon the fight, heart nearly in her throat. Would the woman live? Would this be the end of her? ANd would she have to watch something so gruesome?
But the crowd was roaring for blood, and the regal little Shah only let her hands grip more tensely into her chair. And she watched with morbid fascination. She couldn't look away. She had to tell herself she wasn't allowed.
She was the Shah. Her place was here- before her people. And for them, she would watch with honor.
Agrian did advance upon her, pressing the assault with gauged aggression, despite his better judgment and when the shield was thrust at him, he backpedaled again, nearly tripping over his own feet. In that brief time she had to get up, Agrain blinked away the salt of sweat that threatened to blind his vision. The roaring of the crowd only burst even louder, a bomb of sound, at the spectacle the two gladiators were giving them, thrashing each other.
As quickly as Agrian wanted this to be over, the decision of how it would end certainly lay heavy on his mind.
And he held his sword in his other shield hand and moved back toward her sword, kicking it up into the air and catching the blade. The crowd went wild at the move, and their appetites were whet with anticipation for the blood that would be shed. Agrian purposefully deepened his voice even gruffer than it was and approached the struggling other gladiator.
"Get up!" he growled and tapped the sound of a blade against his shield before throwing her weapon back at her. He took his own blade in hand. "Give them their show! Let's go!" And smashed his sword into her shield on purpose.
...What?
Yasmin startled at the sound of the other gladiator's voice, telling her to get up. Why would he...? But then came the sound of a sword on shield, and a second later, something landed at her feet. Ducking down, shield held up to guard herself, Yasmin snatched at the object--and was surprised to find her hand around the familiar grip of her scimitar.
Her heart raced, pulse pounding in her ears. Why would he help her? He'd had his chance!
Unless it wasn't that he was helping her at all, but that he wanted a challenge.
Whatever his motives, there was no time to analyze them! She twirled the sword in her hand to adjust her grip and gasped as his own sword smashed into her shield hard enough for her to feel it in her teeth--and yet, even still, he'd struck her shield when he could have drawn blood! Was he toying with her? She hung onto that notion, because at least then she could believe his help was malicious, could view him as a faceless enemy--and she could kill faceless enemies.
With a harsh grunt, she thrust her shield forward against his blade to try to throw him off balance, or at least create an opening, before she followed the motion and stepped inside, bringing her sword swinging around to try and get a hit in on his body. She still couldn't see--tears had washed away some of the sand so it was better than before, if still an irritated blur--so she could only guess as to where she was aiming, and hope her aim was true.
At the site of the male gladiator tossing the fallen weapon to the woman, the crowd began to chant and boo. It was here the Shah's face dropped as she blinked in confusion and motioned for Malika to come nearer.
"That man- that warrior, why did he throw her weapon back? Is the object here not to kill her?" Surely he could have been done with this barbaric sport quickly- or was it that these people were truly here to watch the torture be drawn out?
The blow indeed opened Agrian's blocking shield. The crowd roared at the display and egged them on. Too bad they can't always have their cake...and eat it too... he thought grimly as he rounded his blade around her swipe, clashing steel for steel and giving ground, enough ground to hopefully give him room to sidestep her on her left and cut her from there.
His sword swooped upward from below, cutting the air diagonally across at her side. Though he wanted her on her feet, he would give no reprieve and resumed his original aggression.
Malika had glanced away when she thought the slave about to deliver his killing blow, only to look back a moment later to learn, with some surprise, that he was, in fact, apparently helping her... It was, indeed, puzzling -- and, apparently, she was not the only one confused.
Malika thought over what she knew of the arena a moment before responding. It wasn't a great deal, unfortunately, but she had heard tales from the other slaves whose masters frequented the arena...
"Mistress, she did take off her helmet to pay you tribute. If he recognized her... It could be he is finding it difficult to kill her..."
The expression on Persea's face spoke volumes. Adjusting herself anxiously on her chair, she gestured now for a cup of water, and only.after her thirst was clenched she spoke.
"Gladiators aren't men," she said firmly. "And beasts certainly have no fear to kill." But still, the idea stuck with her as she watched, green eyes glued to the fight. This was their duty. Or she so presumed. And she tried to remind herself they were animals. It made the barbaric nature of this a bit easier to swallow.
It wasn't fear to kill that Malika assumed had driven the man down below to spare the woman's life for a precious few seconds more. She assumed it was something else: sympathy. She had heard tales of gladiators being forced to kill their friends -- even their own brothers...and, in spite what her Mistress said, she knew that those who fought and died below were human...at least, they began that way, as all slaves did.
But it was not her place to question Mistress; she simply bowed her head humbly and kept her thoughts to herself.
Malika always thought the best of people -- and if they behaved as beasts, they were to be pitied, not condemned for their behavior. And, so, she continued to watch the combat below with an expression of sympathy.
(OOC: Posting from tablet at work! Sorry for any weird errors! XD)
"Ah!" Yasmin's pained yelp was drowned out by the crowd's thundering applause as her opponent's blade struck true, and though she had seen the shadow of his blade through blurry vision, she hadn't seen it in time to fully avoid it. A quick sidestep saved her from getting split too deeply, but from the blood she felt seeping down her side and dripping on the ground, it was still problematic--and would be more so, if she didn't wrap this up fast.
Thank Hakeshna she was too pumped up to fully register the pain beyond a fiery ache yet. The pain always came later.
Retreating again, her bad vision still throwing her off (goddess, if the sand scratched her eyes, she was in trouble), Yasmin circled him, his shape just a vague thing to her. And then, because time was now an issue, she charged him--and did a reckless thing, a move that had saved her before but could also go badly.
She swung her shield at his face and then slid low, thrusting her sword at that point in his thigh she knew could bleed a man out.
Problem was, it left her back exposed. She was putting her faith in a killing blow, or him retreating in surprise.
Howls of exhilaration whooped and roared from the crowd when Agrian's blade was the first to taste blood, despite the minutes that had already progressed in the fight. It wasn't his intention however, but considering he'd blinded her with sand, he supposed it was just as well that she couldn't dodge everything that came at her. But he knew he couldn't make it too easy. The Shah was watching after all, in all her greatness.
And they had a show to give her after all.
Agrian didn't expect the shield ramming into his face however when Yasmin, in her desperation and blindness, ducked low and slashed her sword at his leg. The force of the shield was enough to make him lose his balance, and if it weren't for him falling, Agrian would have surely felt the point of that scimitar incising through his leg like fire melting through ice. His momentum threw him off to the side and the edge of that sword graced against the inside of his thigh, slashing the upper layer of skin, but not quite piercing that vital point.
He fell hard to the ground, gritting his teeth underneath his helmet and struggling to get to his feet. Hot blood slithered down beside his knee and down his calf. "What are you doing!?" he growled. "We're supposed to give them a show! Do you want to die, Yasmin!?" He had made the dangerous mistake of addressing her by her name, but he'd grown nervous at the notion that her blade came so close to his manhood. The nobles that had put money on him howled and booed loudly at the scene.
He'd had enough of the pussy-footing frankly, though he didn't want to hurt her more than he had to. She was even more dangerous blind than when she could see, he thought with a deep scowl. Agrian skirted around her as quickly as he could, limping as he went from the sharp pain in his leg, and rammed her as hard as he could with his shield, to get her on the ground, to stop the fight before it was too drawn out. He had no guarantee that she would not kill him in her desperation, but he knew now just how far he would draw his blade.
It was only a matter of time before the crowd wanted more blood than the few droplets that had been spilt.
The crowd was alive and in a roar of excitement, and when the female warrior cut the man, Persea found herself instinctively gripping onto Malika's nearby hand. Though she knew not to outwardly show her closeness to her slaves in public, it was a notion quickly forgotten by the fear of watching the fight.
Yasmin felt a laugh bubbling up in her chest at the man's question because no, she didn't want to die, and that was precisely why she was so desperate now, because she had to fight that much harder with her vision inhibited. Another time, and she was all about giving the crowd their show, for this was as much about surviving as it was performing, and popularity was as important as success. That time was not now.
But then he said her name, and her blood ran cold.
He knew her name.
And his voice didn't sound so deep and unfamiliar this time.
Agrian?
She only hesitated but a second, but it was a second that cost her.
She had time enough to twist and block her body with her own shield before his rammed into her, the force of his blow knocking her to the ground--which was perhaps better than the alternative of a shattered sword arm if she hadn't turned. She landed heavily on her injured left side and clenched her jaw to keep from crying out from the fresh, sharp wave of pain, but this time she'd managed to keep a firm hold on her sword. Why did he have to open his mouth? Why did he have to help her? Why did it have to be him, her mentor, the one person she had, foolishly, allowed in past the apathetic barrier she kept between herself and others?
Yasmin scrambled backwards and struggled to get up, real pain finally breaking through the exhilaration of combat and making her unsteady. She held her shield up to defend against his blows, and struck with her sword where she thought she heard his footsteps. "What are you doing?!" she called back.
Maybe it was blood loss; maybe her wound was worse than it felt, for she couldn't see it well enough to judge. But none of this made sense. Agrian knew only one person walked out of this arena, so why would he do this to her? Why would he identify himself? Why would he help her? He knew she hated to kill! So why would he make this harder for her?
If she didn't think, she could do it. She could go in accepting she had to kill, and accepting that she might die--and even though the thought scared her, she could steel herself to that inevitability.
But for him to identify himself? So she knew she might have to kill her mentor, or be killed by him?
Both options scared her in a way no previous matches had.
"I'm trying to save your life!" he growled again, this time making no effort to disguise his voice and his clear displeasure at having to fight her. "Stay on the ground, stay there!" He stepped around her and kept his distance where she sung her blade. He tried to find an opening where he could intervene, to sit on her or kick her sword away, or something, anything to keep her down.
Yasmin shook her head in disbelief. "What? No...you can't, you know you can't!"
Hakeshna, there was no doubt it was Agrian now, and out of everyone here, he was the one Yasmin trusted the most. Even so, that trust only extended so far in that it only existed outside of the arena. Slaves didn't just walk out of the arena alive; it was a battle to the last one standing, and mentor or not, she had seen brothers tear each other apart. There was no saving anyone!
At the same time, she didn't think he was lying, because he had no reason to--and because every action he'd taken in this battle so far supported his claim. He could have killed her if he'd wanted to.
Her head spun, every instinct screaming at her to get up and fight, that she would die if she didn't, that it was a trick (no matter how little sense it made!), but in trying to scramble upright again, she stumbled and fell backwards onto her bottom--and made her decision then. She stayed there. Her fingers tightened on her sword but she held still, body tense and trembling with the effort it took not to lash out and all too aware that putting her faith in him now might end with her body being dragged out of here.
No, he didn't have a reason to save her either. But perhaps one might assume that Agrian had had enough of killing of acquaintances and friendss in the sands of the Arena, and for once, he wanted to make a difference. That guess, truly, lingered in the back of his mind. Yet Agrian knew even he could not be so sympathetic. His actions here, surely, would have repercussions, whatever they may be. And something in him could not kill Yasmin, even if he wanted to.
When she failed stand, the crowd roared and half-gasp in astonishment, and raised themselves in their seat to watch as Agrian carefully stepped forward, gruffly kicking away Yasmin's scimitar and he thereby stepped over her, letting the steel of his blade run along the edge of his shield, letting it sing and held it before her, steadily.
"Don't worry. You'll be fine," Agrian said with certitude, though the way he stood over her, he was poised to kill her. Then he cut his eyes up to the Shah, looking at her challengingly, awaiting her order.
When the fight stopped, only then the Shah thought to breath and dropped her sudden hold on Malika's hand.
"What?" The crowd was frantic. "What is going on?" She turned to her guards for questioning, and also to Malika. "Why did he stop fighting? Is it over?" She could only hope so, it was extremely difficult for her to remain indifferent at the sight of blood and death.
Malika missed the hand in hers as soon as it was withdrawn, for she needed as much comfort than her mistress. Not pressing the matter, however, she peered down at the scene before them, with a mixture of fright and hope on her face.
"Mistress, I think he's looking at you," she murmured, tearing her gaze away from the gladiators to address Mistress as her heart sank and her stomach flip-flopped. "I think he wants you to give the command."
Oh, poor, gentle Mistress! Malika's thoughts flew to every conversation she had ever had or overheard about the sport, trying to think of a way to save the woman down below...and Mistress from having to make the decision to execute her...but if Mistress did save her, would her own Master simply kill her for her poor performance? And the other gladiator, too, would be punished...
Her lower lip trembled slightly as she lowered her eyes to the floor. This -- an execution -- was not something she wished to see...
The crowd was still stirring as Persea stared down in dismay. Oh, what she would not give to inquire to her High Priest now what she ought to do. But as it were, she was by herself here, and the only true person she trusted was the slave she should not. But Malika, a slave more like her sister, was still seen beneath her, and the Shah was meant to know, and make these decisions on her own. It was ingrained in her mind as was the proper way, but still she hesitated, staring down at the helmeted man in the sands below-
and it didn't take long for the death cries to begin to chant through the crowd. And the writhing serpent of people's voice hit her like a wall. She felt as if she were being squeezed, and once she found herself, placed back on her mask, she went to the only emotion she had ever seen her father hold so astutely before the masses- anger, for no one would defy a Shah who commanded under wrath, lest they themselves fall beneath it.
So in a gaze like her father's, she stood up proudly beneath the shade and stepped out into the sun light, only briefly enough that the gladiators, and all men and women of the arena could see- as the roars of death demands pounded inside her ears and shook the stadium. If she had learned anything from her father, and from the High Priest, it was to appease the masses- for none could be wrong in a group, and it was never wise to anger those around her.
But even as she might have hesitated before, she knew what her job entailed- and the idea of sentencing the female warrior to death made her fearful, as a sense of dread chilled her stomach-
But she wasn't in command here- not when her popularity depended on it- for losing face in front of her people so early in her reign when there was already talk about her gender working against her-
Well, that only cemented what she had to do-
and so with a gesture of her arm, she commanded the gladiator to kill.
And the crowd approved, as the call for blood rose higher and the stands, shaking as all men and women were stomping their heels.
The time between the moment he stood over Yasmin to the moment he waited for the Shah to respond to his motion seemed an eternity. The crowd's raucous cries gradually grew louder in volume and intensity. They wanted blood and they would have it one way or another. He heard his heart pounding in his ears, felt the blood steeping down his thigh and down into his sandal, dripping even onto the sand. He heard the droplet, sounding like the pounding of a drum.
And when the Shah looked down at him, after the eternity of consideration, he kept his sword pointed down toward Yasmin and looked at the Shah straight into the eyes, his own darkened by the shadows of his helmet. Then silence abruptly fell onto the crowd for the briefest moment when Agrian's blade soon pointed up at her stand, directly at the Shah, holding it there for several seconds.
He broke his gaze to the Shah, deliberately turned his back on her and began walking toward the opening portcullis on the other side of the Arena.
Don't worry? Don't worry? Yasmin stared up at him as he stood over her, poised to kill, and felt anything but fine. Her hand itched for her sword, but she dug her fingers into the sand instead and kept her eyes fixed on Agrian, blinking only because her eyes were still burning and watery. Her pulse pounded in her ears as the crowd's roar rose to a deafening pitch and she knew what came next, knew their frenzy meant that the Shah must have given her command. Her breath came now in fast, short bursts, sweat trickling down her brow, even though she tried to keep a brave face.
Agrian had a plan, right? He had something in mind, right? Otherwise he wouldn't do something so strange! But she couldn't make a guess as to what that was and felt like a bloody fool--a bloody dead fool!--for listening to him when they both knew there was no way out, and now she had no sword, no defense, and would die on in the dirt rather than on her feet.
When he lifted his sword, Yasmin hated herself for it, but she looked away and grit her teeth, prayed the blow would be clean.
The sword's strike never came.
And the crowd's excited roars turned to at first hushed silence, and then confused, outraged calamity.
Alarmed, Yasmin looked back up, only to find Agrian was gone, striding for the portcullis. Just like that. Her breath caught and for a moment she felt not relief but shocked numbness--because no one just walked out. No one did that.
He had just doomed them both, and made her an embarrassment.
After a few stunned moments of silence, Yasmin struggled to her feet, wobbling unsteadily at first, before she collected her sword and sheathed it. None of this felt real. It felt crazy. Clutching her bleeding side with her free hand to hold the wound closed s best as she could, she staggered after him.
"Have you lost your mind?" she shouted over the crowd's roar as gained ground behind him. "What are you doing?! You could have lived! NOW what? They're gonna kill us both now, Agrian!"
But stupidly, she followed him, because this went completely against the script, completely against everything she knew about fighting here. If he knew where to go from here, that was good, because right now she had no sense of direction--and that scared her almost as much as the certainty of death and killing. At least both those things were guaranteed with no surprises.
The sword, wait what!? Did he just point his sword at her? And what was this cold feeling in her gut? She swooned, and found herself leaning into her throne just in time to catch herself before she made a scene. She was dizzy, the moment had been intense- and both fighters were leaving the scene.
It took her a few minutes of blinking to realize what was going on, even if she herself did not fully digest it as the crowd was booing and roaring from the scene.
The fighters just left. They just left the arena. And they ignored her command.
The slaves ignored HER command. And with this new impotent rage, she fixed her seering gaze upon the two of them as they left.
"Get the names of those two slaves and bring them to me. This fight is over. We're going back to the palace."
Agrain walked resolutely, intent on leaving the rancorous cries of the crowd behind him, to face whatever it his was his actions would result in. It was more than likely he would die as a result of his defiance of his Shah's command, but something inside him told him he was more than ready. And Yasmin...if she would die, it would not be by his blade. Habib would be unhappy of course. The fat little Essyrni man he called his Master would not be happy at all.
He heard Yasmin running after him and he didn't turn to look at her, taking his helmet off only to give him some reprieve, and let his head cool from the heated sweat that coated his face. Beads of it lingered on his brow and the tip of his nose before it fell off in the coolness and safety behind the portcullis. "No," he said, with mild confidence. It projected more in his voice than he actually felt. But if he could abate her own fears, all the better. "They're not going to kill us. They'll punish us to be sure. But they won't kill us," he said softly. "At least right away. I wasn't going to let that...that..."
He had no words for the Shah, biting back his rage for the time, and sighing to cool his temper. "I wasn't going to kill you. Least of all her her orders. Don't think anymore on the matter. Go to infirmary and clean up your side before sand gets further in it. Then get some rest. Something tells me we'll need it."
As for him, he tried his best to push his anger aside, for he knew it was only a matter of time before Habib would come running into his cell and demanding to know what happened. He retired to his cell, having dressed his thigh himself and cleaning up. He slept quietly in his cot, or as quietly as he could sleep after what had just happened and just as he figured it, almost exactly on the dot, Habib hobbled in with two guards at his back and kicked up Agrian's door.
He sat up, looking at the man who had the very heart of a gale raging in his eyes. "What the hell was that!?"
"What was what?" Agrian said with exasperation.
"Don't give me that, you sweating pissant, bleeding like a stuck pig! WHAT WAS THAT.....THAT DEFIANCE OF THE SHAH!?"
"I was...trying to make a point."
"And what point was that? Trying to get you and me flayed before the entire city of Essyrn! Well, I'll tell you what was the result of your little point," Habib snapped. "You're going to put on your best rags, clean up, and get your ass to the Palace. That's right...the Shah wants you. And I'm going to give her your head on a platter."
Agrian was mildly surprised, but he tried not to let his face show it. He climbed out from the cot and grabbed a cloth to drench in the water basin beside it and dabbed his brow with sweat. "What for?" he asked dryly.
Habib looked like he was literally about to explode. No doubt the whip awaited Agrian upon their return to the Colosseum. After all the stout little pig could only take so much of Agrian's tongue before he snapped. "Now's not the time for being a smart ass. Now hurry. Ilvan, Ioris, help our 'gladiator' here pack his things nice and tidy. You're going to be respectful, Agrian, that's right. As hard as it might be for you. You're going to be respectful and polite, and show proper fealty where it is DUE! Oh, and don't think you're the only one going about this alone. Your little friend is going along too."
Malika glimpsed Mistress move up to the railing, and she knew she had given her sentence -- and, for a moment, there was only silence, and Mistress all-but stumbled back into her chair. Malika was on her feet in an instant with a glass of water in hand to refresh her mistress -- but it wasn't the heat that troubled her.
Malika outwardly gaped at the forms of the retreating gladiators. They had defied the order? They had refused Mistress's command? Malika was flabbergasted -- no one failed to obey Mistress!
There wasn't much time for thought, then, as the Shah announced more commands -- and these were to her personal slaves and servants, and they were meant to be obeyed. A cool chill of dread worked its way through her as the slaves vanished through the portcullis from whence they came. Mistress would not like that -- she would not like that at all.
In a quiet daze, Yasmin did as Agrian said, though she wasn't sure she believed him--and yet, they walked out of the arena and through the portcullis when she had been expecting it to seal shut again. It felt surreal, two gladiators just...walking out like that. No arrows in their back, no soldiers rushing in to stop them, even after Agrian had pulled that move before the Shah herself!
A move that she had been complicit in.
She couldn't believe it. She couldn't believe just leaving like this was even an option.
While Agrian headed one way, Yasmin went the other. At the infirmary, she annoyed the healers with her fidgeting because she expected at any moment for the world to explode. But they managed to clean and stitch her side and flush her eyes, and thank Hakeshna that there would be no lasting damage. The sand had given her a minor scratch on her left eye, but it would heal within a day or two.
When passing slaves tried to talk to her as she headed down the halls to her cell, stunned by the gossip spreading through the Colosseum, Yasmin could only shake her head. Quiet wasn't usual for Yasmin, but for once she had no words. She couldn't hear much beyond her own loud thoughts as she tried to process what had happened, as she realized Agrian really had saved her life, as guilt sank in at the fact that she would have never done the same, not even for him, even though it would crush her to kill him. She would have killed him, because killing and dying were the only two options she knew.
In her cell, she set her helmet, shield, and scimitar aside, stripped off her armor, and slipped into her robes. It was hard to get comfortable on her cot with her side aching, but that wasn't the reason she didn't sleep. She was exhausted enough for it, mentally and physically, but she could only lay there and stare at the ceiling, her heart drumming loud in her ears, her hands sweaty and shaky as they lay folded on her belly. It was too easy. It shouldn't be this easy. Agrian was right; they would be punished, and even though he'd claimed they wouldn't be killed, there were punishments that might make them wish they were.
She didn't know how long she had laid there before her cell door burst open and her master burst in, red-faced and flanked by two of his other slaves. "Get up!" he snarled. "Get up right now!"
When Yasmin only stared impassively at him, her dug his fingers into her short hair and hauled her upright, smacking her across the face with his other hand. She sucked in a breath but made no other sound. The man couldn't hurt her; you couldn't hurt someone who had little left to lose. But she? She could break him. He was a large man, strong, but he had never fought in the ring. Never fought more than petty thieves. She could break him in two blows, and knowing that hurt more than any beating he gave her--because she knew it, but still had to take it.
"How dare you defy me. How dare you defy me out there! What was that? No, don't answer, I'll tell you what that was! That was a fucking embarrassment!" he spat, shaking her once before shoving her back onto her cot. She clenched her jaw as she landed, pain radiating through her side. But still she remained quiet.
"What? You've got nothing for me for once? Did that fight take your tongue and your goddamn spine? Do you realize how much money I lost today, from you stumbling and crawling like it was your first fucking time? Get the fuck up, Yasmin!"
Deliberately slow in the face of his urgency, Yasmin climbed to her feet and straightened her robes. She glanced up at him.
"Are you in league with him?" the man demanded. "Was that planned?"
"No, sir."
"Oh, no? Because you don't fight like that, Yasmin, so that's sure as hell what it looks like to me. You better hope it didn't look like that to the Shah, but I don't see why else she would summon for you."
Yasmin's breath caught.
"That's right. She demanded you be brought to the palace. So get some clothes on! Your best ones!" he added when Yasmin glanced down at her robes. "Clean your face, for Hakeshna's sake. Make yourself presentable! Go on! Move your ass!"
This was it, what Agrian had mentioned. They were in deep shit, all right. But Yasmin washed her face and sifted through her meager belongings for something cleaner than what she had on, but found what she had on was the least stained. Fastening her slave veil, since they would be leaving the Colosseum and going out in public, she stood ready for her master's orders when she was done.
"Now pick up your things. Pack up."
That made Yasmin blink. "Why? This isn't a vacation, sir."
"Because," her master said through grit teeth, "if the Shah doesn't call for your head, you won't be coming back to me. You embarrassed me today, Yasmin. If the Shah doesn't kill you, I'm going to sell you. You had it good while you had me. I never gave you the whip or hot iron. Others? Others are not so forgiving."
It didn't take long to pack, and before long, they were on their way.
To the Shah's palace.