Fight Another Day

Chapter 1: New Arrival

The grace period. One more, one more and the grace period can begin again.

So tired.

He dropped his knee into soft flesh and dragged down his sword, piercing through a bright, blood stained eye. There was some satisfaction. Finally. Seeing this nuisance of a face finally lose that smug sneer, to feel their hands clutching desperately to his blood soaked sash, as if they were begging in a way.

This opponent has lasted too long. Three tournaments. Atlas couldn't stand it. But, the performance put the crowds on edge, as if there was even the slightest chance Atlas could be defeated. As long as the audience is happy and not bored.

Atlas dragged in ragged breaths, slowly lifting himself. He yanked out his sword, raised it high, then shot down, severing his opponent's head cleanly. This head, he grabbed like a sack by the greasy brown hair, and gandered the unpleasant, rectangular face.

"Smile now," Atlas hissed and pivoted, chucking the head into the air towards the guest side of the colosseum. Atlas grabbed a spear, and from his fingertips, blood orange light seeped into the wood. He threw the spear, it surged forth with eager sparks and met with the head.

The crowds, home or guest, roared as the head exploded and the spear pierced through the shield, just enough to stick there. It's sharp point threatened a pregnant woman's unborn child, as she sat on the stone, draped in silks under a glittering eaves.

The entire guest side not only booed, but roared with rage. The people of K'reche, however, were clawing at each other in both absolute glee and utter greed. Bets were won, bets were lost. Pleased faces in the K'reche crowd, but not in the Klepharic crowd, nor in the arena.

The uproar drowned into white noise with an ongoing, but small high pitched sound and Atlas's ears hurt less. He lifted his gaze to the afternoon sun and tasted the blood dripping from his face. His shoulders finally slackened. If no one has come at him, then the guest "team" must all be dead.

Atlas didn't care how many bodies were left standing on his side. Quite a handful this time, however. Master Rhys has been buying gladiators differently somehow.

Wiping away blood and flesh from his blade with his fingers, Atlas stepped over bodies indiscriminately, slowly, searching for his opponent's weapon.

"LORY!!" a voice cried out.

Atlas stopped and looked up, finding a lithe, limping man approach, his eyes wide, wild and wet. His tears left behind clean streaks on his otherwise blood ridden face.

"GET OFF OF HIM!" the man roared.

Turns out, his opponent's weapon was lodged in the head of the body beneath his feet. Atlas vaguely recognized the corpse and the man limping towards him. They were constantly together, sharing quiet intimacy through the nights.

Atlas stepped aside, crouched, and wove his fingers through the corpse's hair, below the spikes of the mace weapon. He grabbed the mace handle and slowly pulled it out, keeping the corpse's scalp intact.

"Get. Away. From him."

Atlas stood, meeting the unsteady blue gaze of the corpse's lover. He glanced at the mace in his hand, then held it out to the man before him.

The man bared his clenched teeth at the weapon, his breath leaving him shakily, eyes completely distorted from blobs of tears.

"Take it. Or I will," Atlas hissed.

The man looked away, claiming the mace and dropping to his knees before his slaughtered lover, whom he gathered into his arms, rocking back and forth.