Guarded by waters [wriolette]

Chapter 25: Exhibition Match

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Bone cracks underneath his fist.

His fist draws back and lands it again across his opponent's face, and there's another sickening crunch. Blood spatters across his own visage, but he keeps going. Keeps driving his fist into his opponent again and again. Regardless if they are moving to protect themselves, or if they have gone limp with unconsciousness.

It's mindless violence. He's mindless with such violence. Lost in his ferality once more. It's simply a much safer state to be in in the middle of a fight. Mindless and wild. If you're not, they'll work to break you of your control anyway. And when you're not in the ring, they'll drug you to keep you quiet and pliable.

That itself is a slippery slope, letting yourself go and be their pawn like that down here. If you're feral enough to go all out in a fight, the sponsors enjoy that, so long as you win. Because the sponsors of this ring only tolerate a mindless beast so long as it's a profitable one.

An unprofitable and uncontrollable beast will be put down.

His fist only stops when the face below him is barely recognizable as a face. He pulls back then, breathing heavily, fist aching. Knuckles bruised and bleeding.

He's deaf to the cheer of the gathered crowd. Congratulations and angered ranting of bets lost or the pleas of one of the newer Alphas who are only just getting used to being used. He'd been no different when he was thrown to these wolves as a teenage pup. Pleading and crying out for the Mother and Father who damned him to this hell.

Even if they were monsters, they'd been the only parents he'd had. Parents are supposed to protect you, aren't they?

He looks down at the person underneath him and listens as they struggle for breath through their nose that he damaged, stomach turning in a rare moment of clarity. That had been someone's parent, maybe. Or a parent's child. Just someone to someone, up there.

They won't know they're down here. No closure will be had, only grief and loss and answers that will never be found. They won't know he's the one who beat them senselessly simply because they were unfortunate enough to be placed in front of the Champion of this ring. Feral and thinking of nothing else but his survival.

He roars his heartbreak and rage, but already there is the presence of another person entering into the ring. Their scent hits his nose over the iron scent of blood. His hackles rise at the scent, not because it is a stranger's and unfamiliar, but because it is all too familiar to him.

Petrichor and Romaritime flowers.

Fear cuts through him, and he turns to follow the scent to find his mate, a whine of distress building in his throat. He can't tell which distresses him more; That his mate is here, or his mate will see what he's done.

What he finds is much worse.

His mate, hair undone from the low bow he wears, it spread across the floor of the ring. The silver strands soaked in the red that pools underneath his prone form. He tries to go to him, his mate, his Omega. The Alpha in him rages that his mate is harmed.

But no matter how desperately he claws the ground and scrambles, he cannot make it up to reach his mate. No matter how much he cries out to the Omega, his mate doesn't stir.

Something catches on him, drags him back, and his nails scratch uselessly against the ring's floor as he tries to hold onto something, anything, just so he won't be dragged back into the dark.