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Grian spat out a mouthful of blood onto the floor of his cell, slumping against the wall as he tried to regain his strength. His heart was still beating rapidly in his chest, his lungs aching from how hard he was breathing, but the sensations paled in comparison to the bruises and cuts that littered his body, stinging from their exposure to the air.
He went to wipe the blood away from his lips, but his hands were just as stained. He sighed, sliding down the wall to sit on the dusty floor. He pulled his knees up to his chest and folded his arms atop them, burying his head into them. He was so tired, but with his eyes closed, he could see the face of his last challenger clearly in his mind.
They had been young, younger than him at least, with long brown hair and a scared look in their brown eyes. It was probably their first fight. They had tried to claw at his skin, tried to pull out his hair, tried not to hurt him in a way that would kill. The crowd hadn't liked that. He had taken their head and slammed it into the dirt, once, twice, three times. They struggled the first two times. They stopped after the third time. Grian slammed their head against the ground a fourth time for good measure, and he felt their skull shatter under his hand. He didn't look at them after that, but judging by the roar of the crowd and the warm wetness on his hands, they were far from alive.
Grian pivoted his body, twisting so that he was kneeling, and vomited, his minimal lunch coming up with bile to join the blood on the dirt. He stayed hunched over there until they came to fetch him for another fight, maybe an hour or two later.
They didn't need to chain him or whip him or drag him to the arena, he was too broken for that. He just followed them through the now familiar tunnels until they stood on one side of the coliseum, the cheers of the bloodthirsty crowd echoing through the open space and in Grian's ears. They shoved him forward, harsher than necessary, and he stumbled into view, still stained with the blood of his last victim. His audience's chanting grew to a swell as an announcer declared some nonsense about a sponsor, but he paid them no attention. Instead, he focused his gaze onto his opponent. He didn't want to, didn't want to see them behind his eyelids whenever he closed his eyes, didn't want them to haunt him like all the others that he had killed, but he needed to analyze them. He needed to put together their skills and find their weaknesses before the fight began, otherwise he would be at a disadvantage.
They were taller than him, with dark brown hair, just like the last one. They were covered in more scars than the usual brand new gladiator, across their face and arms and legs. They carried themself with confidence that spoke of strength and agility, and there was a glint in their bright green eyes that told him that they knew something he didn't. Probably magical then. Maybe this would be his last fight. He wanted it to be quick, but he knew that the arena would never allow for that. It would be a long and painful death, like his last victim.
The announcer cheered, signalling the start of the fight, and Grian lunged. His opponent seemed surprised by the sudden speed, taking a few steps back. Grian took the opportunity to throw a punch, his fist colliding with their jaw. He didn't waste a second, dancing backwards, the sting in his knuckles familiar to him now. The crowd was a backdrop now, despite surrounding him on all sides. He couldn't afford to pay attention to them anymore.
The other gladiator turned to face him, wincing from his blow, but they didn't move to attack. They just stood there, watching, waiting. The crowd was getting antsy. It was never a good idea to let them get antsy. Grian charged back in, managing to land two punches to their ear and shoulder before kicking out at their knee. They dropped, but not before grabbing him and bringing him down with them. He fought in their grip, stabbing at their ribs with his elbows and using his knee to lever himself away.
“It's okay, it's okay, I'm not gonna hurt you, I'm not gonna fight you.” They spoke in his ear, barely audible over the shrieking crowd. Grian didn't believe them for a second, shoving out as hard as he could. He broke free of their grip, scrambling backwards and to his feet again. They were already standing by the time he was steady, but now he could see a weakness. They were favoring their knee, the one he had kicked. He could tell because of the way they had shifted their weight, leaning predominantly on their right leg rather than the injured left one.
Heart pounding, breath shaking, Grian rushed forward again, ducking his head and plowing into the right side of their chest, sending them to the ground again. His momentum dragged him down as well, but he was ready for that, was intending for it. He landed on top of his opponent, and he wrapped his hands around their throat, squeezing it between his fingers.
Now they fought back, grabbing his wrists and forcing them apart, stopping him from suffocating them. They pulled him down so that he lay flat against their chest, then wrapped their arms around him in a mimicry of a hug before rolling over and trapping him beneath them. He wheezed as his breath was driven out of his lungs, but he still thrashed and kicked desperately. He was stuck, he was trapped, he had no way to get out of this one.
“Don’t worry, help is coming. You're doing a great job at making this look convincing.” His opponent commented, still holding him down. “I’m sorry about this next part, but it's flashy and will only help us get you out of here.”
Grian snarled wordlessly and struggled harder, to no avail. He didn't brace himself, he didn't want to last any longer than the first blow, but he did want to go out fighting. He wouldn't die after giving up.
Instead of fists or teeth, a frigid breeze blew past his cheek. Blue magic swirled around them, and through the haze of panic, Grian could see that the other gladiator's eyes were no longer green, instead matching the icy color of the streaks dancing around them. They expanded, growing larger and larger, and as they did so, they darkened, until they were almost black.
Grian had no way of fighting what came next. The broad strokes hanging in the air threw themselves at the two fighters tangled on the arena floor, twisting around Grian's opponent and slamming into his skull. He was helpless as they forced their way inside of him, through his ears and nose and mouth, freezing his throat and dulling his mind. He fell limp against his will, his eyes shutting without prompting. His opponent rolled off of him, leaving him feeling weightless, almost like he was floating. Or maybe that was the magic's doing, causing his heart to slow and his breathing to fade away into nothing.
He was dying.
It was slow, but he could tell now, his heart was beating less and less and his breathing had ceased all together. He couldn't move, couldn't speak, couldn't do anything but lie there and wait for death to claim him.
The crowd was going wild, screaming and hollering over the display of magic they had just seen. Grian wanted to laugh bitterly, to say something dark and bleak about how his opponent would be their new champion, and that they would now be the one to see faces behind their eyelids whenever they tried to sleep. He could see his own victims now, dancing in the dark of his closed eyes, taunting him. He hoped they wouldn't be too angry with him when he joined them. After all, he'd only been trying to survive, the same way they had.
A new sound rocked the air, sounding almost like a firework, if a firework was dialed up several notches. The ground trembled from the force of it and a wave of heat washed over Grian's limp, dying form. Was this some kind of new special effect? Were they using new, more powerful fireworks? Judging by the cries of terror coming from the stands, he was willing to bet it was a no.
So then was this an escape attempt? How pathetic and sad was that? Grian had lasted all the way up until just before he could have escaped, then died to a fresh fighter in the ring. All those people he had killed, whose blood was on his hands, all for nothing. He hadn't made it out. He was dying slowly on the dusty floor that he had killed on, the last sounds he would ever hear being those of freedom. He wished he could cry.
A pair of hand grabbed him and lifted him from the ground, and suddenly, he was being held, cradled in a pair of strong arms. Who was clearing away his body, during all of the chaos surrounding them? Who was doing it with such tender care, when he had seen previous bodies dragged out by ankles and wrists, with no honor to the soul that had once resided within it?
“So sorry, I was kind of hoping it would happen before I had to do that, it'll wear off soon.” His opponent's voice spoke up, and Grian realized through the fog clouding his oxygen deprived brain that they were the one holding him. It made no sense, and yet here he was, being held by the person he'd tried to kill.
Distantly, he could feel them moving at a rapid pace, no doubt running. Of course, his opponent wouldn't want to miss their window of opportunity. They could escape now, get away with only the blood of one on their hands. Why were they weighing themself down with a soon-to-be corpse?
A breeze blew across his face, but he couldn't breathe in the fresh air, couldn't fill his lungs with oxygen that didn't taste like dust and sweat and blood. If he wanted to cry before, now he wanted to break down into sobs.
They were still moving, and at this point, Grian was vaguely surprised that he hadn't died yet. Or maybe he had, and this was just what death felt like. He hoped not, he didn't want to feel like this forever. It seemed like a fate worse than any hell preached about in churches or synagogues. They had slowed down, they weren't sprinting anymore, but they were still moving at a quick speed, getting further and further away.
“Scar! This way!” A new voice hissed, and they turned sharply. Grian's head slammed against the chest of the person holding him, and to his surprise, they apologized. Why were they apologizing to a corpse? Did they know he was dead?
The repetitive thump of feet against the ground melted into a blur, the distance passing like pudding through time. It wasn't until the footsteps slowed that he felt his heart slam against his ribs. It was still for a moment, then thumped again. Then again. His heart was beating. His heart was beating in his chest, he was alive, his heart was beating!
His lungs convulsed, and he drew in a broken, stuttering breath, tearing at his throat. The air was clean, fresh, nothing like what he had felt before, and he drank it in, desperately gasping for more. Tears spilled down his face involuntarily, but he didn't care. He was alive, he was breathing, his heart was beating. He was alive and he wasn't in the arena anymore.
“There we go, okay, keep breathing.” His opponent slowed even further, until they were holding still. “I know that was scary, being dead isn't fun, I'm sorry. I had no idea how long it would take for the explosives to go off.”
Grian let out a weak whine as his chest ached from the combined forces of his heart beating and his lungs expanding and contracting once again. He was trembling ever so slightly, and he knew his opponent could feel it. He needed to stop, he was showing weakness and he couldn't do that. But he also couldn't stop, he couldn't physically force himself to hold still, and so he shook and cried and breathed.
“Impulse?” His opponent called out. “Are we almost there? Our friend here could really use a lie down.”
“Yeah, it's just around the corner.” The voice from earlier remarked. “Are they okay?”
“We just pulled them from a murder arena.”
“Okay, fair point.” Impulse (was that his name?) replied. “Here, this way.”
They began to move again, this time at a walking pace, and after a minute or two, they moved downwards, like they were going down stairs. A worm of panic clawed its way down Grian's throat, stairs meant underground, underground meant tunnels and cells and painful memories that should be forgotten. His heart slammed painfully against his chest, and he whimpered softly.
“It's okay, you're safe now.” His opponent, his savior, whispered. “You won't ever have to fight again.”
The steps stopped, leveling out again, and they took a few turns before Grian heard a door open. Then he was being set down on something soft, so soft he felt like he would sink into it and suffocate inside of it, and he curled up into a ball, pressing a fist to his chest to feel his heart steadily beating beneath it. The soft thing shifted slightly, and a hand settled on his back, rubbing circles into it gently.
“You're doing amazing, keep breathing.”
Grian shivered, leaning back into the touch. It felt good, warm and safe, but at the same time, it sent spikes down his spine. He hadn't been touched like this since…he couldn't even remember.
“There you go.” His opponent murmured. “Get some rest, you're safe now.”
The soft thing beneath him shifted, and with a bolt of panic, Grian realized that they were leaving. They were leaving him alone. No no no, he couldn't be alone, alone was bad, he had been alone for so long, please–
He reached back and managed to snag some kind of cloth, pulling it weakly. The shifting stopped, and he held on to what he assumed was a sleeve even tighter.
“Hey, it's okay, what's wrong?”
Don't leave please, don't leave me alone, I can't be alone, please. Grian wanted to shout, but he couldn't get his voice to work. The words were too slippery, he couldn't say them.
“Okay, uh, do you need something?” They asked, and Grian hesitated before shaking his head. “Do…do you just want me to stay?”
Grian nodded frantically, more tears spilling over his face as he did so.
“Okay.” Their voice softened, and they settled down next to him again. “Do you want me to touch you, so you know I'm there?”
Grian nodded again, and a hand wrapped around his shaking fist, cradling it gently. He curled around it, pressing his face against their arm, holding it close to his chest.
“Can I hug you?” They asked, their voice barely more than a whisper. Grian nodded, and an arm wrapped around him, pulling him close and holding him gently against their chest. It was loose enough that Grian could squirm out of if he wanted to, and it was nothing like the holds he had been trapped in before during fights. It was so careful, so caring, and Grian shuddered, sinking into it.
“You're safe now.” They murmured into his hair, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “You're safe.”
For the first time in what felt like years, Grian fell asleep with the knowledge that he would survive the next day. It was the best sleep he ever had.