Andrew Gaul
ꜱɴᴀᴋᴇ
A few days in solitude had given him time to think... Honestly he didn't know how long had passed since that fateful moment that continued to haunt his mind. It was a little hard to keep track between the skips of traumatic blur and not seeing the light of day, from inside his cell. Cheers he had once heard through Zimri's radio at the temple, now a dull thunderous roar beyond the walls of his prison. He had always dreamed of seeing the games, but never imagined his first would be his last, seeing them up close in person, as a participant. As a convict, sentenced to die in the gladiator arena.
Strangely, he wasn't afraid. After he had had some time to think and process it all. Rather a odd sense of calmness about it. Acceptance. Just another one of those circle of life things. "Unfair" never once crossed his mind, for someone indoctrinated to believe in the natural order of weak versus strong, god versus mortal. People died here all the time. Young, old, rich, poor, thieves to rebels to murderers, all would face Aeron's judgement at the command of the priests. And the priests were always right. They were right to toss him into the pit; Yasha had no qualms with that.
Empty and stripped of honor, the only reason he hadn't allowed himself to die at the hands of Asmus rather than suffer the arena was some small comfort that his last act had been to protect Odemyrii from one less monster in her midst, that he had fulfilled his duty. He hadn't reached out to the goddess at all since then, wanting to be alone, curled up and waiting, wanting to die, his mind closed off and withdrawn, dead and buried. He didn't want to think about her anymore. Nor the thought of Zimri taking his place as her Chosen. The only thing he needed now was peace, to numb himself for the final end. Tired and worn, there was little else to do but lie on his cot and stare at the ceiling, pondering how his fight in the arena would go down.
And yet, there was a stir of hope, as his mind drifted, dwelling on the mystery and miracle of it all, that he had survived a monster's grasp. So many factors... Perhaps if Asmus was younger, or taller, strength and size would have gained the advantage. Or perhaps the strength of his Rattataki ancestors would have won either way. Perhaps it was his practice with the blade, knowing where to aim, that hinged his success. Or if not for his lack of bisaata, having met up with Asmus before the morning tea, his reflexes might have been slower. That his aim had been swift, precise and sure, against a less powerful foe... What were the odds?
Luck had saved him from Asmus that day. Perhaps it would save him now, in the arena.
Strangely, he wasn't afraid. After he had had some time to think and process it all. Rather a odd sense of calmness about it. Acceptance. Just another one of those circle of life things. "Unfair" never once crossed his mind, for someone indoctrinated to believe in the natural order of weak versus strong, god versus mortal. People died here all the time. Young, old, rich, poor, thieves to rebels to murderers, all would face Aeron's judgement at the command of the priests. And the priests were always right. They were right to toss him into the pit; Yasha had no qualms with that.
Empty and stripped of honor, the only reason he hadn't allowed himself to die at the hands of Asmus rather than suffer the arena was some small comfort that his last act had been to protect Odemyrii from one less monster in her midst, that he had fulfilled his duty. He hadn't reached out to the goddess at all since then, wanting to be alone, curled up and waiting, wanting to die, his mind closed off and withdrawn, dead and buried. He didn't want to think about her anymore. Nor the thought of Zimri taking his place as her Chosen. The only thing he needed now was peace, to numb himself for the final end. Tired and worn, there was little else to do but lie on his cot and stare at the ceiling, pondering how his fight in the arena would go down.
And yet, there was a stir of hope, as his mind drifted, dwelling on the mystery and miracle of it all, that he had survived a monster's grasp. So many factors... Perhaps if Asmus was younger, or taller, strength and size would have gained the advantage. Or perhaps the strength of his Rattataki ancestors would have won either way. Perhaps it was his practice with the blade, knowing where to aim, that hinged his success. Or if not for his lack of bisaata, having met up with Asmus before the morning tea, his reflexes might have been slower. That his aim had been swift, precise and sure, against a less powerful foe... What were the odds?
Luck had saved him from Asmus that day. Perhaps it would save him now, in the arena.
