All These Dying Things

She noticed that they were the same colour.

The dark, crimson substance flowing freely from the man’s neck, it matched the confident, swirling patterns lying almost carelessly on the ropes of her falling gown, their vibrant red now belonging to a memory of cruel death.

His breaths grew laboured, his body lay dying, and she saw the light finally fall from his eyes, diminished. She had never been one to shy away from the torment of the Coliseum, but at this particular display of unwavering brutality, she threw her eyes from the sight.

She found no comfort in the crowds, their hunger for sanguinary a most dictating sight.

“Does this not please you, my child?” Her father questioned, capturing her skin between his rough, calloused fingers. His eyes were as they had always been, cold and calculating, happiness a foreign concept.

She tried to stretch her lips forward in some kind of helpless smile.

She failed.

“I am fine, fath- Emperor.” She corrected quickly, forcing her eyes back onto the warriors locked in battle.

Battle? She found herself wanting to laugh. A sharp sound, a mockery. The way her father laughed. Because this was not battle- this was merely entertainment.

They caught in a grapple, the entertainers, tearing away at each other like predators over a kill.

The dark haired boy, (no, not boy, for he clearly was a man) the one whom Clarke had seen fight and kill all his opponents today, he threw the other boy (this one really was a boy, thin and frail, hair so blonde it could be kissed a winter white) down, over his shoulder and to floor so fast and so hard, the sound of his bones shaking and cracking echoed in her mind, imprinting on this savage memory.

He didn’t look like a beast, this dark haired boy – man. No, not a beast, she thought. But a broken toy, lost without purpose or matter.

A murderer, and he was broken.

What a sadistic little world this was.

She wanted to turn away again, repel from the sight, but suddenly he was looking at her, staringat her, with those dark brown eyes.

And he didn’t like her, that much was clear from the perpetual hatred that shone bright in his eyes, but something lay underneath that, something as innocent as a child’s curiosity, layered and hid with such an expert hand, she found herself both appalled and transfixed that she could peer inside a murderers eyes, teeter over the edge.

And the revulsion came again, quick and sticking to her like tar, when she found herself wanting to hurl her body over the edge, see deeper into those eyes.

No.

He tore away his gaze before she had a chance too, and she drew in a shaky breath, ignoring the pecking study of her father’s coal-eyed inspection.

She truly did turn her head again when her father plunged his thumb downward and the man delivered his next kill, and the roaring of the crowd tore away at the little purity left of her.

—-

“Come, daughter! Meet my favourite!” Her father beckoned, the arena empty, save the few gladiators scattered across the bloodied ground.

She fought a shiver.

She repulsed anyway.

She came to a standstill in front of the dark eyed man.

 The Emperor laughed heartily beside her, and Clarke was reminded of the tales she’d be told as a child to keep her from causing trouble- talks of man-eating bears, blood-thirsty beasts.

Perhaps her mother had sought inspiration from her father.

The dark haired boy fell to one knee in front of them, though Clarke noticed the stiffness in his movements, and that when he kissed her father’s hand, it looked as if though he wanted to sink his teeth inside it instead.

The Emperor smiled warmly, though the sadistic glint never left his eyes, gestured for the dark haired boy to stand.

“Clarke, my child, this is my finest gladiator. My strongest fighter.” Clarke recalled the way he had looked on prideful as the fighter had slain his opponents mercilessly, and fought down the choking bile.

The fighter looked at her once again, and his gaze consumed her. Not in the way of lovers, but in a passionate hostility, fraught with familiar specks of enquiry.

She gulped silently.

A crash sounded behind them, and the Emperor took off quickly, shouting and cursing obscenities, and leaving the two.

Alone.

Together.

It was silent for less than five seconds.

“Do you have a name, finest gladiator?” She asked, studying him as he did so to her.

His response was to raise an eyebrow in loud sarcastic question.

“I would not think the Emperors daughter would concern herself with such triviality, of a gladiator’s name.” He replied, his arms crossing over his chest in a glaring surprise.

“If you are favoured by the Emperor, it is a daughter’s duty to act in an acceptable manner, the Emperor, if he here, would order it so. Does my asking of a name displease you?” She explained herself quickly, and then added on, in curiosity.

His dark eyes betrayed no emotions, and locked away thoughts, his face remaining stoic under her scrutiny, unwilling to surrender anything but little speech and mocking words.

He scoffed lightly. “As if you would follow any orders told to you by a man.”

She was not expecting that.

“I’m afraid I do not understand.”

“Oh, I’m afraid you do.”

She took a step back now, unsure of how his attitude towards her has changed.

“Clip your tone, fighter. And speak not in riddles, when I’m sure simplicity would suit you far finer.”

He smirks now slightly at her rebuttal, seeing the flame spark beneath her words.

“Do I intrigue you, princess?” It’s a sudden question, and she sees he enjoys the game that he is playing with her.

“I can promise you do not.” She lies slightly, and it is only with slight, because his complexity only bothers her little.

She tells herself this, anyway.

He doesn’t believe it, anyway.

“Why do you lie princess? I will be truthful when I say you intrigue me so.”

She glares at him now, unsure of how the conversation had reached this point.

“Do the whores that fall into your bed intrigue you also?”

He is stunned for only a second, before his features fold back into a smirk, and he leans against her ear.

“No.” He whispers, his breath hot against the cold skin of her ear, and she remembers the spray of the blood in this gladiator’s hair.

She pulls away quickly, unnerved, and begins to walk away from him.

“Princess!” He calls, and she turns back only slightly, only seeing the raging curls atop his head, the dark focused eyes, and the lips stretched into a grin.

“Bellamy.” He says. “My name is Bellamy.”

She leaves very swiftly after that.