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“Fight like your life depends on it. Because it does” That had been what the guard had told Antinous half an hour ago. That no matter how many rules were implemented to prevent that outcome, ultimately, he would die if he did not win.
He was sat in a dingey little room which he had been given to ‘warm up’ in, not that there was any equipment for him to practise with, only a bench to sit on, his discarded t shirt in the corner and the wraps. Antinous flexed his hands; the wraps were old beat up but still his hands were mildly protected, something which he didn’t think the Trojans would give him at all given the fact they hadn’t even given him shoes. He hadn’t worn wraps since he had, unwillingly, come to Troy, three or so years ago now.
Putting them on hadn’t felt foreign though. He could never forget how they should feel around his hands, the slight exposure that you didn’t get with a glove, the thrill of it. Even in such a dismal room, even when everyone was certain he’d lose he found himself excited. Maybe he had finally gone mad, he wouldn’t be surprised, or maybe it was the feeling of coming home.
This was something he’s good at, something he’d trained in. In a way Antinous thought it was a way to take back his old life even if that meant dying for it.
A guard had escorted him to the ring, told him good luck with a laugh, that some scrawny nobody hostage would be lucky to last a minute. That he would finally be doing the country of Troy a service of entertainment after leeching of off it for so long. Antinous ignored him. The jeering of the crowd and commentator grated his ears but he tried to tune them out. He was uncertain whether they would fall away into the background like they usually did. He hoped they would.
Antinous took a steady breath and stepped into the ring; the crowd’s roar which had been so loud before dulled down to a background hum as he made eye contact with his supposed ender. He took one look at the guy, he was tall, muscly, ugly. His face was in a sneer and if looks could kill Antinous was sure he’d be dead ten times over, each probably in a more painful way than the last. But they couldn’t and from one simple glance Antinous knew exactly who he was fighting; he had fought this man a hundred times before, on the streets with Eurymachus, in the ring with Diomedes.
With one look he knew he’d win.
The announcer had finished whatever slew of insults he had thrown at Antinous and praise he had for Mr ugly face, any second now a whistle would blow and they’d start. Antinous rocked into his stance, it felt slightly distant with his frame not being as full as it had been the last time he had been in a fair fight but it still felt like an old friend coming to greet him and he was fully ready to embrace it. All he could hear now was his own controlled breaths and the regular thump of his heart.
The starting whistle went and Ugly Face dashed forward. It was simple work to avoid his strikes; the first one had clipped him but that was all he needed to go back to his dance. Antinous punched back straight for Ugly Face’s chest. It connected. He felt a surge of excitement as, for the first time since he had entered the room, the crowd went silent. This was it, he thought, this was as close to home as he was ever gonna get. This would be his small act of rebellion to get the Trojans to watch and know him. To understand that he wasn’t some scrawny meek nobody; that here he was king.
His second punch landed cleanly again, this time on the jaw. He couldn’t help but grin at Ugly’s stupid face. His mouth moved, probably yelling something, Antinous couldn’t hear; his whole body filled with the desire to hit this man again. Punch three to the nose, four the liver, five blocked. His wrist was grabbed and Ugly’s fist collided into his ribs; a blossom of pain sprang forth encircling his chest like some weed digging its roots as to not be removed.The crowd seemed to swell at his injury, preying on his downfall but that didn’t stop him for a second, he didn’t need a crowd to perform and besides being the underdog was always more fun.
His movements hurt now but they were no less fluid from years of practice. Punches six and seven barely missed the man’s head but Antinous knew that a couple of good connections would get him the knockout.
Ugly’s movements were sloppier, if that was possible. His nose had been broken by punch three and now crimson was painting both their hands and Ugly’s arms from where he’d tried to wipe it away. He couldn’t have been in much less pain than Antinous was, the difference was that Antinous had practically mocked him in two simple minutes on his home turf. Ugly must have been desperate for a way to win. Antinous knew he wouldn’t find any. He gave one last provoking grin to the man before stalking up to him like a leopard ready to feast.
His next punch hit in the gut; the man fell to his knees in pain. He could feel the sturdiness of bone as his next punch collided with the man’s temple. He was certain that Ugly wanted to fight back and prove a point but couldn’t. His fist hit again. And again. And Again.
The crowd was screaming; he wasn’t sure at which point they joined his side but he was pretty sure he was screaming with them. He wanted more than anything for this excuse of a fighter to fall by his hands and give up. To let the Trojans watch on in horror as a stupid Greek won against a man twice his stature.
He and the crowd only seemed to get more enthused with each punch that he threw, collision after collision. He wasn’t about to stop now, not when his calloused fist had only just broken skin, not when everybody clearly wanted him to carry on. He kept on going hitting Ugly even after he stopped trying to hit back and it felt so fucking good to have a release for… well everything really.
Hands were on him now, dragging him back but he wasn’t finished, hadn’t won, not yet. “Calm down someone told him” but his body ached with a hundred past hurts and here was a man who he could finally unleash it on so no he would not ‘calm down’. He was certain he was screaming now, yelling at the top of his lungs, his hand ached but not nearly enough and now the crowd seemed to want him to finish the job, booing the men who were dragging him further and further away. “Calm down or they’ll sedate you.” It was whispered in his ear as if he wasn’t supposed to know, like some great warning but it was ineffective. He was frenzied now, like a dog who had been starved for days and on its last legs who had found a scrap to eat. He would feast now on this small fortune he had been granted; he would not allow anyone to stop him.
He was pretty certain he was being held back by only a couple of men, he hadn’t stopped fighting back to check, and if he kept writhing he was certain he could break free of their grip. He had been held and assaulted by the Trojans before but he hadn’t fought back then, knowing there was nothing to gain. But this time.
Two sets of hands were pulling his arms backwards, perhaps in hope of eventually handcuffing him, he wouldn’t be surprised if a third joined them to pull back by the waist or to pin him to ground which he was only just realising was concrete instead of the usual material rings were made off. It was covered in the occasional maroon stain from previous fights and he vaguely wondered if it had taken anyone’s life.
The harsh light was aggravating him even more now, getting all in his fucking face, half blinding him and he was certain that Ugly was doing it. If he could just hurt him enough the ground would stop grating his feet, the lights stop blinding him, the fickle roar of the crowd would stop pushing him onwards.
One set of hands lost its grip and he was halfway towards freedom. His capturer tried to grab him again but he punched him in the head.
The crowd was almost as frenzied as he was.
He brought his fist down again on the other man’s hand and the instant contact was made Antinous’ arm was free. He was free.
He sprinted at Ugly, readying his fist to collide with his face. The ground went from coarse and hard to slick and deadly from Ugly’s blood. Antinous didn’t know a nose could bleed so much.
He was about a metre away when he really started to relish the idea of hurting Ugly and the aches which his body would have come morning. It all felt so surreal, like he wasn’t actually fighting. Perhaps his body was really a puppet that some greater power was controlling because it had never felt this easy to hurt another person.
His foot landed in another splatter of blood and he was acutely aware of his body now. How every movement cooled him, the sweat evaporating of off his bare chest, the way the fabric of his joggers fell around his legs and how his foot was sticky from semi dried blood. The pain in his ribs only served as a reminder of his reason to strike.
In slow motion he saw himself fall; Ugly slowly becoming eye level then the concrete became much less uniform, filled with air bubbles and slightly different tones of grey as his face became well acquainted with the ground. Then he saw all the colours of pain. Like some desolate urban city his body was reclaimed by the nature that he had so desired to be rid of. Sprouting at his cracks before crawling, spreading and flourishing all over. His face ached, he must have grazed it, his hands seemed to sprout flowers where before they had only been weeds. Legs, seemingly trapped by ivy, binding him to the floor and he knew he should have warmed up more but where the forest was thickest was at the site that ugly had punched earlier. He was certain he had fractured a rib or two but the flowers and trees kept on growing, routing themselves deeper and deeper and it was fucking agony.
Whatever had knocked him down was pressing him into the floor so that there was pressure on his ribs. His body wanted to cry out but all the air had been knocked out of him with his collision to the ground so instead he let out a half groan of pain.
Before he could find enough energy to think of getting up from his position where, now that the pain had withered slightly, he realised a knee was in between his shoulder blades. Someone else grabbed his hands. The crowd was still screaming but Antinous could physically feel the adrenaline leave his system. He hurt more now and his whole body was embraced by fatigue but most importantly his thoughts seemed logical again. And he cursed himself for losing his so carefully trained rhythm. Vaguely, he knew just how much he’d fucked up but he was certain he’d learn the specifics soon but first lady sleep would have him. She seemed oh so welcoming after the madness that had just seized hold of him so he welcomed the sleep forgetting the terror he should be feeling.