TBATE-ONESHOTS

A Different Beginning After The End

Sweat was plastered to Arthur's skin, his medium-length auburn hair sticking to his forehead. He breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth, trying to keep his breathing in check as he continued his work. 

Arthur's eyes began to sting a little as some sweat got into his eyes, and he tried to blink the sting away, keeping his attention on what he was doing. He blinked rapidly, not wanting to miss a second of what he was doing. After all, what he was doing now could very well determine if he lives or dies. 

With a focused gaze, Arthur stared at the basic-looking sword he was holding in his hands. A loud scraping sound filled the small room he was in, which emanated from the grindstone he was currently using to sharpen the very blade he was holding. The low dancing flames from the smithing station illuminated the area, basking over Arthur's holding cell. 

The holding cell wasn't huge, but it was big enough to hold a smithing station, a small wooden bed, and the grinding stone Arthur was currently sitting at. Black stone made up the uneven floors and walls, except for the black metal bars that made up the door to exit the depressing room Arthur was in. Arthur had wished countless times to just open that very door and run away as fast as he could, but alas, he couldn't, since it was locked. 

Arthur's legs slowed, beginning to ache from using the grinding stone so much. Knowing that making himself faint from pure exhaustion would do him no good, he slowed his peddling until the grinding stone came to a stop. Taking a deep sigh, Arthur raised the sword he was holding, examining it. 

The sword wasn't anything to remember, as it was incredibly basic. Leather strips made up the hilt, with a rectangular steel pomel, a crossguard, and a blade that was slightly longer than Arthur's arm. Arthur rotated the sword, inspecting it, seeing that it was incredibly sharp. But he knew that no matter how sharp he made it, the sword was only as good as the one who wielded it. While Arthur was confident in his skills, after all, he was trained from a young age, he dreaded the fight to come, merely because he knew who his opponent was.

Lowering his sword, Arthur tilted his head back and sighed loudly as he gazed at the dull black stoned ceiling. 'I just had to insult and challenge that monstrous bastard.' 

Shaking his head, Arthur knew there was no point in regretting his decisions now, as it would get him nowhere. He groaned as he got to his feet, stumbling a little from how numb his legs felt. He stood straight, brushing his hair back with his fingers, as the orange glow from the flames bathed over his shirtless frame.

Walking toward the smithing station, Arthur looked down into the barrel of water, staring at his reflection. He noticed how tired he looked, which he knew was due to the lack of sleep from making his own sword. The orange light illuminated his features, showing the dirt covering his skin. Despite being locked in the cage for gods know how long, he still maintained his muscular stature, with his well-defined six-pack, chiseled chest, and muscular arms. All accomplished from his years of training.

Placing his sword down tip first, Arthur leaned it against the barrel before he let it go. He then leaned down and dunked his head into the water. The water itself was room temperature; however, it still felt refreshing. As he stood up, Arthur let the water stream down his frame, washing some of the dirt off him. 

'Rest.' 

Arthur looked toward his cot, a sad excuse of what he was used to. It was small, with its wooden frame old and rotten. Fur coats made up the sheets, which only made the warm room hotter when lying down. But at the moment, Arthur didn't care, as he wanted some rest. Especially since he didn't know when it would be his turn. He walked over to the bed and groaned as he lay down on his back, feeling his tense muscles begin to relax. With his feet dangling off the edge of the bed, Arthur closed his eyes, feeling the sweet comfort of sleep wash over him.