Chapter Text
Farrin’s Dream
Farrin breathed in the dark chamber.
Silently, he waited. The well worn pommel of the rusted sword in his hand felt heavy. He swung it neatly in a circle once, then twice, rotating his wrist tightly as he tried to keep his muscles from locking up. The flimsy wooden shield strapped to his arm with a fragmented piece of leather only offered the illusion of safety. He’d yet to decide if he’d be better of just throwing it down, but you never knew when you would need a good shield.
This was the worst part of gladiating—the waiting. The air was thick with the smell of sweat and desperation. How many times had he stood here, listening to the fights that went before him? Waiting to see which of his fellow captives lived or died? Wondering if today was the day he would fail, if he would not survive?
No…those thoughts were dangerous, a luxury he could not afford right now. He returned his focus to his breathing, shutting out the cheers of the crowd and the shouts of the pair battling on the other side of the doors in front of him. Sunlight was just a few feet from him, but Sarthe made sure its logistical areas were sealed up tight. Not a single sunbeam would reach him, not until the doors swung open and he made his grand dramatic entrance, ready to fight again.
A final shout rang out on the other side—a death cry, if Farrin had ever heard one. Internally he said a silent prayer for the fallen warrior, as well as the victor. Without knowing who the participants were, he had no way to tell if this was already normal for them. That thought brought up Farrin’s age old question about which was worse: to be a new participant, terrified, too young to die, or a veteran, deadened to pain and the blood on your hands. It happened to everyone eventually. It had to; there was no other way to survive the brutality of what they were doing.
The doors rumbled and began to creak open, and Farrin’s adrenaline kicked into gear. His bare feet shifted beneath him in the dirt and he swung his sword again, getting used to its weight. He hoped that today he faced a seasoned gladiator. The harsh fights were brutal, but they were better than the fights that went too fast, when Farrin was paired up against a new arrival, a victim never given the opportunity to catch up to him.
The cheers of the crowd roared in his ears as someone dragged away his predecessor’s body. Ah. Vinton. So it had been a veteran warrior. At least his challenges were over, freed from this life and into the next.
The drum beats grew louder as the crowd stomped along, cheering and jeering for the next fight. His heart pounded as the announcer’s voice rang out, calling his name. Mouth dry, he swallowed harshly as rough hands pushed him forward, shoving him into the arena.
For the briefest moment, he savored the warmth of the sunlight—
Then woke, gasping, in his bed.
The cool air of Verglas hit him as he sat up abruptly, a hand brushing away the hair plastered to his forehead.
It was just a dream—a nightmare, he reassured himself.
Glancing around the walls of his tent, he swung his legs over the side of his bed. It was just a cot, but it was still the best bed Farrin had ever had the pleasure to have.
And that’s why he was doing this—all of this—really. To make a better world for mages, so no one else ever had to end up like he did.
Stretching, he stood, the walls of the tent feeling too confining after the unsettling clarity of his nightmare. Throwing on a quick tunic and buckling his sword belt, he drew back the flaps of his commander’s tent, nodding to the guards who stood outside. Though it had been several years, he still had nightmares often enough that they had learned not to interfere anymore. They knew to just leave him be.
A brief walk will clear my head. The air is fresh and clean here, and the full moon is almost as good as sunlight.
Setting off along the perimeter of the camp he admired the way the light glistened across the snow. The sound of small animals scampering in the trees above him reminded him that life was moving on for the rest of the world. Verglas could be a bastion in its own right, if only he could convince their Princess to join him.
He was due to meet with her tomorrow. If she joined their side, Tenebris would have a rightful claim to at least one throne for his policies. Rakel, he had heard, had been trapped in her tower for a number of years. If anyone could understand a thirst for freedom, she would.
After half an hour of quiet walking, his heart had finally calmed enough to sleep again. He’d already run through his arguments to convince the Princess a hundred times. Compared to battle, that part should be easy.
Returning to his tent, he got settled for the evening. Stretched out upon his cot again he instructed himself to dream of happier things: a world safe for mages, with no Sarthe and no gladiating. As he pulled his woolen sheet around him, he was certain that the Kingdom of Verglas would be where everything started.