Chapter Text
He could taste the bitter copper of the blood that was slowly running down the back of his throat, the stench of it filled his nostrils. Do'amha wiped the trickle of crimson from his lip, letting it mix with the rest that had already soaked his hand wraps. Dingy cloth and orange fur tinted a deeper red from the blood of the Argonian beneath him.
He had long since forgotten the shock of how easy it is to kill with his bare hands. It had become like an instinct now. The body of the scaled man lay at his feet. The lifeless eyes staring up into some unseen afterlife, some profound freedom from pain. A freedom that Do'amha never believed that he would find. How could there be an afterlife when they were already in Oblivion?
Do'amha didn't stay for the announcer's flowery words, putting a playful twist to the brutality of what took place on the sand of the arena. He had no patience for long winded speeches. He had killed another slave. Took their life with his bare hands. That was plain truth of it. The spectators had all witnessed it and had been cheering him on. He remembered the naivety of his first matches as he entered the fighter pits. Five years ago, he never would have thought of taking the life of another but as a slave he had no choice in the matter. Either he did as he was told or he was whipped and starved as punishment. It took two years for them to reign in his rebellious nature.
Sitting down in his fighter cell, he took a deep breath to calm the adrenaline shakes that were coursing through his veins. His clawed hands clenched tightly even though they ached from the repeated blows to his former opponent. His green eyes casting a glance over the other fighters isolated in their own cells. Down in the pits it was nothing like the arena. Just the looks of the other slaves we so very different. When in the arena, they were filled with anger and hatred for someone that they had never met before. In the pits everyone just looked...tired. No one talked. What was the point? You were just going to have to kill one of them anyways.
There was only one person that Do'amha called friend. “Do'amha took a serious beating out there, yes,” a young Khajiit said kneeling down beside him. She began to rub her black furred hands together until they were wrapped in a bright golden glow, much like her eyes, and placed them on Do'amha's face. He could feel the healing energy seeping through his orange and black striped fur to the bruises hidden beneath. “You like being hit repeatedly?”
Do'amha chuckled as her hands pulled away from his newly healed features. “Perhaps it is the pain that I like more. Knowing that I am still alive and not lost in Oblivion,” he responded.
“Well Brother,” she chided, “if you enjoy it so much, perhaps I will not heal you the next time that an Argonian breaks your nose, yes?”
“That would not be wise,Vajrasha, ” a voice said, cutting through the silence like a knife. The pair looked up beyond the rusted bars to a golden skinned man with sharp, pointed ears. Dressed in elegant clothing and his green eyes looking over Do'amha and Vajrasha with an appraising glare. “I need my best slave ready for battle at every moment, is that clear?”
“Of…of course, Master Omeloren,” Vajrasha answered with a bow of her head.
“And you,” the man said turning his gaze to Do'amha. “That Argonian should not have been that difficult to defeat. I wonder if you are holding back once again.”
“The Argonian was much stronger than he appeared, Master Omeloren,” Do'amha growled back. “And his wraps were hiding iron plates in them.”
“Iron plates you say. I will have to have a chat with his former owner. Get rested. You have another fight tomorrow.”
“I know. I have a fight every night,” Do'amha said with a shake of his head.
“Are you talking back to me, slave?”
For a long moment Do'amha just stared at the elf that had been his master for the last five years. Master Erendur Omeloren. A plantation owner and financial supporter of the Aldmeri Dominion. As much as Do'amha would love to leap onto the elf and begin beating him to death with his bare hands, he couldn't. He might get two or three shots in before the guards stopped him, and he found his head severed from his neck. “No... Master Omeloren. Just stating what has been my life for the last few years,” he replied through clenched fangs.
“Good. I would hate to cancel the event because you were locked in The Box.”
Vajrasha flinched with Do'amha at the mention of The Box. Erendur turned on his heel and strode out of the pits with a superior air. “Gods, I wish I could rip his throat out,” Do'amha growled.
Another blood sport spectacle was called out in the ring. A cheer went out on the other side of the wall as another two slave competitors began killing each other. “I'm sure that you aren't the first to think that, Do'amha,” Vajrasha said quietly.
“The Divines have a plan for us,” an Argonian with frills said tightly clutching an amulet of Stendarr.
“Damn the Divines,” Do'amha growled back.
“You should not speak of them like that. “
“And why not? What punishment could they possibly give me that is worse than this? They don’t give a damn about us, so why should we care about them?”
“The Divines have their reasons for this trial.” The Argonian seemed to be trying to find some footing in his own beliefs.
“A reason. Okay let’s look at that. You have Mara, Goddess of Compassion, not really seeing that here. Then there’s Dibella. No, no beauty here. Akatosh? Julianos? Kynareth? They got nothing here that would interest them. Zenithar? Maybe he’s here, but as long as the coin is flowing why would he try to stop it? What about Stendarr, the one you seem so attached to,” Do’amha’s voice had raised slowly, drawing the attention of the slaves around them to the spectacle. “God of justice and mercy. Surely he would have something to do with this. But no. There is no justice in this place. The knife ears get rich off our pain, there is no justice. And the only mercy you will get is the death waiting for you in the sands of the arena. So tell me Argonian, where are your divines?”
The Argonian turned to him with an uncertain gaze. A gentle light that had once stood resilient against the darkness of this place suddenly snuffed out. Looking to his pendant one last time, he tore it from his neck and threw it into a small grate where the waste from the cages drained off into. A series of metal taps before a timid splash into the sewage.
As the Argonian sulked away Vajrasha gave Do'amha a stern look. “I know that you have no belief in the Divines but that doesn't mean that you have to take away the hope of others.”
“Hope will only get you killed here,” he responded as he heard the crowd filing out of the underground stadium. The final fight of the night had been concluded and the victor had returned clutching his broken hand.
The door at the far side of the room opened and two high elves made their way down the line of cages, passing out food to the fighters. When they reached Do'amha's cage, they reached into the cart and pulled out a tray of fresh food. It wasn't like the nearly rotten food scraps that the other fighters were given. That was the treatment that you got for being the favorite fighter.
Vajrasha received a piece of stale bread as her supper for the evening and she sighed, having gotten the last of the food available. “They always leave me for last,” she said sitting on the floor in front of Do'amha.
“You hardly starve, Sister,” Do'amha chuckled as he portioned half of his food for her to have. She was locked into his cage, a gift from Omeloren. He would periodically send him females. Rewards for having fought well. Vajrasha was the only one that he didn't send away. But he would not bed her. They had an arrangement. She would heal him after the matches, and he would keep her safe.
“Do’amha,” the khajiit in the cell beside him called. “This one will give you his rations if you let this one have a turn with your tramp.”
“Call Sister that again, and I will rip out your tongue,” Do’amha growled with a flash of his fangs. The Khajiit backpedaled quickly from the bars. Fearful of the champion slave’s wrath in that moment. Do’amha glared at him a moment more before huffing and turning his back on the nervous cat.
“I am going to sleep early,” he said as he stretched out onto the stones. He always let her have the bed of straw. It never felt right to make her sleep on the hard stone. An arm over his eyes to block out the dim like of the torches, he drifted off into a dreamless sleep. After all, what was there to dream about when his only memories were those behind the iron bars?