Chapter One is here!
YAY!!! Finally it's here! I wanted to post this earlier but couldn't. So here it is, the first chapter, I hope you like it. (Please review! aka comment ^_~) This chapter is also posted on my deviantART page here.
Title: (I'm... working on that. I usually come up with one when I finish a story and this is just the first draft ^_^;;)
Word count: 2,969 (wow, this seems so short in comparison to others)
Warnings: violence, implied sexuality
Summary: Rudolphus is a powerful man who lives in luxury. One of his luxuries is his slaves. This is a story about them and their struggle.
Chapter One
The man slumped in the arms of his captors as they released him from the whipping posts. Better to have them labor under his dead weight than to make their work easy. Since when did they whip those who prevailed in the ring? Didn’t they want to win? Perhaps they were just tired of seeing him win. He grinned at a woman as they dragged him past her cell. Tomorrow he would just have to give them all a show to die for.
The woman stared when the blue-eyed man flashed her a smile as he was dragged to his cell, back drenched in his own blood. She wondered how he could smile after such a thing had happened to him. Did he find it entertaining somehow? She shivered and huddled herself further into the corner of her cell. Something had set off Rudolphus, their master. No, she wouldn’t call him that. He may own her, but she would never call him master. She, like most of his slaves, hated him, and many had belonged to him since they were children. He was, for the most part, a generous man. She wore little, but what she did wear was made of the finest materials. She thought that might have shown a bit of a different side of him, but then again, it may just be his need to own the finest things. His women were the most beautiful and his men the most skilled, they always won or died trying. Which was why she was confused when Rudolphus punished them. She could understand it, if not agree with it, when he punished the losers, it would encourage them to fight harder and win, but to punish the winners? She didn’t know what had gotten into him. She thought again of the man with blue eyes, tried not to think of the fire in them. No one in Rudolphus’ keep had that zest for life, but that was another matter. If Rudolphus’ mood kept up, tomorrow would be an interesting day. If there even was a tomorrow.
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The man woke, and was about to stretch when he noticed he was lying on his stomach. Remembering the previous night, he sighed and sat up slowly, careful not to pull the now-closed wounds on his back. He brushed his dark hair out of his face and wondered who had put Rudolphus in such a foul mood that he would order his champion whipped, and even bother to come and watch. Typically Rudolphus only did that if he was the one who had angered the man, but that wasn’t the case last night. That woman he was with was not his favourite, no he had recognized her in the cell as he passed so he’d grinned to communicate that this mood would pass, as it always did. He would just have to be sure to win today’s match.
Someone knocked and he called, “enter,” absent-mindedly as he put on his shoes.
A petit blonde bounced into the room with a cheerful, “good morning,” and a twirl.
He couldn’t help but smile as he replied, “good morning, Jenna.”
Jenna plopped on the small, yet comfortable, bed draped with sheets he'd made himself from the women's cast-offs. He'd been told the forest green cumforter looked like it was professionally made, something he was extremely proud of. He didn't tell them he'd gotten the skill from stitching his own, and other's, wounds. Jenna gasped when he cringed as the bed bounced with her. “Oh,” she reached out with small, tentative fingers, “are you ok?”
He smiled and gave her a thumbs-up, “no problem,” last night wasn’t his first trip to the whipping post, far from it. He'd been one of the more troublesome youths around here when he was first brought in, but that was to be expected. He was one of the few slaves who had originally been born in a part of the world not ruled by Rudolphus. He caused trouble to display his small piece of freedom, one that he would never give up. His own mind and the power to make it up by himself. He tousled Jenna's hair playfully.
She made a face and he laughed as she fixed it. “So, Coran is fighting today, right,” she asked, examining his back but trying to look like she wasn’t.
He pretended not to notice, “yeah, against Trema.”
She stopped her examination, “ooh, he’s tough.” She didn’t have to voice the question left unsaid.
“Yeah, I’ll be fine.” He smiled to reassure her as he got up and slipped a black cotton dress shirt on. He took one cursory look around his room. It was plain and unaturally neat, he was told, for a man's room. He had always been very particular when it came to certain things. Part of his upbringing he assumed. The walls were a medium tannish colour and he had heavy black drapes over his one window as he usually slept through the early morning hours and didn't want the sun to wake him. He blew out the candle and led the way into the hallway.
She looked up at him, following him out of the room and down the corridor that was painted the same colour as Coran's own walls. The floor, like that in his room, was a polished hard wood floor and Jenna's shoes clicked along its surface as they walked to the women’s common. The room was large and had a high stone ceiling. There were many rooms branching off this one which the women stayed in and the doors were painted a canary yellow. A simple metal winding staircase led to the balcony where more rooms were situated. There were many couches, chairs, and pillows on the ground around a small but beautiful fountain in the centre of the room where the women sat. Some of the women turned to greet them as they entered, “but Coran," Jenna worried, "you’re hurt. Those wounds are fresh.”
He smiled encouragingly at her, “yeah, but I’ll still win,” his smile turned a bit cocky, “I always do.”
Instead of returning the smile she stopped and frowned. The look that filled her eyes then was anguish, “yeah, you always do.”
“Then what’s the look for,” he caressed a stray tear away from her face with a thumb and hooked the other in a belt loop of his jeans.
“Just that word, always. You always have and always will,” she sniffed as the tears flowed more frequently now, drawing the attention of more of the women, “we’ll never get out of here,” she whispered distraughtly.
He caressed her face and squeezed her shoulder, not daring to hug one of Rudolphus’ girls. That would mean almost certain death as he was so possessive of them. “Yes, we will.”
She looked up at him, shocked, “how can you say that? You’ve been here longer than I have. You know how impossible that is. So how-”
“Hope,” he said simply.
She gaped at him, “hope? How can you have that in a place like this?”
He shrugged and gave her a sad smile, “what else would I fight for? What else do we have?”
She stared blankly at him for a moment and then nodded.
He kissed her hand, saying softly, “since yours seems to have taken a vacation, I’ll win one for you,” and left.
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The crowd cheered excitedly on that hot afternoon. Coran and Trema were Rudolphus’ top fighters and thousands had gathered to see the event. Not that it was rare for them to fight, the men’s rivalry was the stuff of legends. So when Trema asked for another chance to defeat Coran, Rudolphus would gladly agree. It was an event even his slaves were invested in, and it greatly helped morale.
Rudolphus now looked down at the two competitors with the rest of the crowd. Trema was the larger of the two men and seemed to be all muscle. Coran was a bit slimmer but everyone knew he was more agile and more skilled, a real force to be reckoned with. That was what caught everyone’s interest. What would prevail, skill or sheer brute strength? So far the score was tied. The pair met in the centre of the ring and shook hands, each man sizing the other up, though they knew their competitor well by now.
Trema wore his token leather vest, the one he wore to every battle. It was marked in many places from old injuries. His black pants were tight so as not to give his opponent anything to use against him. His long bronze hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail.
Coran was more laid back in his apparel One could even call it cocky. He wore jeans that flared out a bit at the bottom and a black dress shirt that was open from the top to his breastbone, and the bottom an inch or two above his belt. His black hair fell to his chin and he wore an amulet that matched the colour of his eyes and fell between his collarbones.
As they shook hands Trema grinned, “How’s your back, kid?”
The animosity between the two men had started as a friendly rivalry between champion and the very skilled up-and-comer, Coran.
At first Trema had considered it luck, and challenged the then 18 year-old boy to help him improve. The year Coran defeated him and stole the championship title, however, was when everything changed.
Coran’s blue eyes glittered like the gem around his neck. “You planned this,” he growled, then smiled, “coward.”
The word prompted Trema to draw a knife with his left hand, still holding Coran’s right, and swipe at the other man’s throat. The crowd gasped as Coran tilted his head back the tiniest bit and the blade missed its target.
Coran shook his head and released Trema’s hand. “It’s been three years and you’re still bitter,” he said softly before both men turned, backs facing each other in the tradition of the duels. “The score is even now. Does that make this the final duel?”
“Yes,” Trema said in a tone much calmer than his previous action, “either way I’ll retire, but this has been coming for a long time.”
“Yes it has,” Coran whispered before adding in a normal tone, “may the best man win,” before pacing away.
Ten paces. That was how far apart they would be before they turned and the duel began. Ten paces accross the packed, rust-coloursed dirt and they turned, staring each other down and waiting for the signal.
Coran turned his head to look in Rudolphus’ direction. In his booth he saw Rudolphus’ favourite girl, the one he had grinned at last night, passing her cell. Tara, he thought her name was. She was beautiful with her long brown hair and emerald eyes. He could tell why she was the man’s favourite. Why he dressed her in a gold silk bikini, however, he could never guess. Wouldn’t a gown be more befitting a cherished woman? Rudolphus pulled on the gold chain attached to her wrist and she came and sat on the arm of his chair. Jenna wasn’t far from them, and to remind her that this battle was for hope and for her, he winked at her. He saw her smile slightly before the gong rang and it vanished.
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He turned back to see Trema running at him and he smiled, and as he did Tara wondered why.
“Oh come on, Trema,” Rudolphus growled, in answer, “how many times will you try that move before you realize the boy’s too fast?”
Tara turned back in time to see the smaller man jump just high enough so Trema’s attack missed and, with hands in his pockets, he kicked Trema under the chin. Trema staggered back a bit before trying again. Every move he tried the smaller man dodged and retaliated. Swipe, dodge, kick, and repeat.
Rudolphus laughed, a deep, disturbing sound, surprising Tara as she hadn’t expected to hear it from him after last night’s mood. “I’d forgotten how good Coran is at hand-to-hand combat,” he said, watching Trema become aggravated and a bit exhausted, “let’s make this more fun for poor Trema, shall we?”
He signaled the announcer, who shouted, “mayhem,” and the crowd cheered.
Tara dared a question, “what’s that?”
“Makeshift Mayhem,” he stated with a grin, watching Coran’s eyes widen as Trema went to retrieve a large log, “they are now allowed to use anything in the ring as a weapon.”
“I see,” she said softly, moving around to massage Rudolphus’s shoulders as she watched Coran pick up rocks and bind them into his fists with stray strips of cloth. He looked up every so often to keep track of Trema’s position, his hair falling into his eyes.
She was nervous when a grinning Trema swung for Coran’s head, but the smaller man ducked in time and punched Trema’s abdomen with a stone-enhanced fist before back-flipping out of reach or Trema’s retaliatory swing.
“Hmm, not bad, Coran,” Rudolphus said, before tilting his head back, grinning at Tara and asking, “Nervous, are we?”
She smiled and shook her head. She had seen many duels before, why was she so entranced by this one?
Rudolphus chuckled and, as if in answer to her thoughts, said, “he’s quite good, isn’t he, that Coran? He seems to fight with something the others are missing.”
“Hope,” Jenna whispered before clamping her mouth shut and paling as Rudolphus turned.
“Is that what it is? Well, maybe I shouldn’t have punished him,” he said, “or maybe it won’t matter. We’ll see.”
Coran had discarded the rocks, perhaps they weren’t working as well as he’d hoped. Hurting his hands more than the enemy, Tara presumed. Now he held a small wooden pole and was dodging and using it to hit Trema in some sensitive places. Suddenly they heard a crack and a thunk as Trema broke the pole with his log and caught Coran in the chest. The women gasped along with the crowd. Coran made no outcry though he was thrown a few feet and instantly fell to one knee as he landed, clutching his chest with both arms crossed over it.
“He’s not breathing,” Jenna breathed, clutching Tara’s arm in fear as both girls watched in horror.
Coran was hastily examined until he waved the medics off in annoyance and they came to Rudolphus to report.
“There’s your hope,” he said as the medics climbed the stairs, “how is he?”
“He has a broken rib, sir,” one medic replied, “and I believe it’s punctured a lung.” At this, Jenna whimpered and Tara felt the other woman’s tears fall on her arm. “But,” the medic continued, “He insists he wants to finish the fight.”
This comment was met with Rudolphus’ laughter. “Does he now? Well, this should be interesting,” he said, much cheered by the news, “very well, let his wish be fulfilled.”
After the fighters had a short rest the announcer’s voice called, “legend,” and the gong rang.
“Now they can use their trademark weapons which are typically their favourite,” Rudolphus explained in excitement. Tara, at his instruction, sat at his feet and Jenna in his lap.
Trema drew a large sword and Tara was surprised as Coran drew two long knives and stood as if nothing ailed him, though she could see from the way his chest heaved that he was still having trouble breathing. His eyes were closed as he took a deep breath and when he opened them they were filled with fiery determination.
Tara’s breath caught at that look, she had never seen it on a slave before. So how… “How?” How could he have it now?
“He’s special,” Jenna whispered in answer to the question Tara hadn’t realized she’d voiced, “somehow he still has hope, and it drives him.”
Coran was very good with those knives, so much so that he fought as if he was not whipped last night and the cuts were not bleeding, as if his rib was not broken and his lung was perfectly well. He dodged and swiped and made the battle seem like a beautiful dance. Trema swiped downward and Coran crossed his blades to block, catching Trema’s blade where his met. They struggled for a moment, and it seemed like Coran, on one knee, was about to lose when he thrust upwards with arms and legs, standing and sending a surprised Trema’s blade flying, and held one blade at the larger man’s throat. The crowd and Rudolphus cheered and the ladies sighed in relief.
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Coran and Trema stared at each other breathing hard and listening to the cheers of the crowd, Coran’s hand steady at the older man’s throat.
Unexpectedly, Trema laughed, “Well you are good, aren’t you?”
Coran smiled and lowered the blade as they turned to hear Rudolphus’ speech. Afterwards, they walked towards the exit together and Jenna was there, grinning ear to ear.
“Hope,” she offered.
“Hope,” he agreed, knowing hers had been restored. He could see it in her eyes. He slumped against the wall, one hand clutching his chest, his eyes feeling very heavy and sliding almost shut, it was so hard to breathe, so very hard…
He felt large hands gently grip him under the arms and keep him upright.
“You gave it your all, huh,” came Trema’s gravelly voice, “sorry I hit you so hard, kid,” he said softly.
Coran shook his head and breathed, “I deserved it,” grinning when he heard the other man laugh.
“You were aggravating, but only because you’re so good,” he admitted, “you fight like your life is on the line, every time. It’s really amazing.”
Coran smiled in thanks and promptly passed out.
Well, that's it. Hope you all liked it. Please leave a review, even if you do it anonymously. Thanks~