Fight to Die (Harry Styles)

Prologue

To kill. To take the life of another man.

That is his job. This is the job of a mighty gladiator. He is enslaved to fight to the death. Whether he be the man killed or be the killer, it does not matter. No one cares about these men, sacrificed for the sake of entertainment.

He rubs the dry sand between his strong, worn hands and watches it fall slowly into the wind. The sand covers his hands, blocking out any moisture from his skin to ensure that his grip on the Celtic sword would remain firm and sure. He looks up, disregarding the ravenous, blood-thirsty Roman mob surrounding him. They sit as spectators, there to watch the merciless killing of both man and animal. He knows what is expected of him and he knows what he must do in order to survive.

To kill.

The tall man takes the sword from his sheath; the weight of the heavy, metal weapon does not tire his arm as he holds it out in front of him towards the iron gates. He knows not what lies behind those gates, only that he must put an end to the life waiting behind them.

He wears sandals and a tunic, covering only his bottom-half and leaving his body without any means of defense. His chest is bare, tan skin covering the broad muscles beneath. The man is undoubtedly handsome, earning him the interest of all those obsessed with the vanity of this life. The sun shines down relentlessly on him, drawing out a few beads of sweat before the real work even begins.

He doesn't acknowledge the mob around him screaming, begging to attract the attention of the most well-known, young gladiator in all of the Roman Empire. The people, years ago, gave him the name, "The Son of the Games," seeing as he was raised as a young boy, in a Roman ludus, or gladiator school. Some call him this, but most call him "The Celt." He is originally from one of the Celtic tribes in Britannia, but has spent the last eight years of his life, moving from district to district, building up to the greatest arena the best gladiators seek to reach: the Colosseum in Rome.

It is the Celt's last fight before moving on to the great city of Rome. He does not fight because be wishes to achieve the honor of fighting in Rome. He does not fight for the entertainment of the mob. He does not fight for the rush of nearing death. He does not fight for the glory. He fights because it is what he must do to earn his freedom. After Rome, comes freedom and that is the only thing he desires.

He hates the feeling he gets after a fight, that feeling of complete and irreversible damnation. He hates to see the blood of another man washed from his body, knowing that he is the sole reason the other man had his life ripped away from him. He wishes he would meet his equal and just die, but the instinct to survive is too strongly engraved into his nature, leaving him incapable of embracing death. Fighting back is all he has ever known, and that is not about to change when he's so close to what he is striving for: freedom.

The gate before him opens and he's once again faced with death. The crowd never ceases to scream louder, encouraging him to make the first move, but in his years in the arena, the first advance had never been enacted by himself. It is a moral dilemma: is it wrong to kill if it is an act of self-defense?

He never wanted this life. It was chosen for him.

(So this a story that is coming soon!! I'm excited about it because I'm obsessed with the Roman culture. Anyway, I hope it sounds interesting to you guys! Maybe give me a vote and a comment? I love you guys and hope this story will be far more successful that any of the others! Love, Katelyn Xx)