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She was blind and she didn't even know it.
He took her hand with warm and loving touches, pulling her into his side as they smile and laugh. She had survived and now she had a piece of his glory. She was a praetor and Father Jones was happy, so happy to have her with him on the top.
The first night she was taken to a shower to wash the red from her pale burnt frame. She was offered a cooked meal and a bed and blanket to sleep on. She was given more glass then she could hope for, in all different colors and sizes. She was given a handful of lower-class boys for them to do her bidding. She told them to leave her, already starting to feel the paranoia that power brought to the surface.
She was brought new clothes and food each morning, given fresh clean water to bathe in and then to throw out. When the sun rose so did they- the underclass- with their noise and fighting and sweat. She had risen from the bottom and she watched, looking for someone like her. There was no one like her.
She found the ones she knew before, showed them who she was now. A Boy Scout welcomed her with open arms and told her to be careful.
On the third day, Father Jones himself welcomed himself into her chambers and took her by the waist to the training grounds. "Congratulations Praetor Smalls."
"Thank you, sir. And thank you for giving me the opportunity to serve my people."
His laugh is warm and soothing, like rubbing silk against her face. "I am proud to have you stand by my side. I am here to show you what your power means now."
Below them stood the children who would one day soon fight for her and serve under her. They were learning the higher-class weapons: explosives. They clamor when they see Father Jones and their new Praetor approach, crying out for recognition and attention of their leaders. She smiles and waves at them, having been in their shoes, feeling for them, hoping they will survive. They are much smaller then she had been. Since she was entered in they lowered the entry age, they're taking toddlers now, and these kids are barely older. "Father Jones. Don't you think they're a little young for these weapons?"
He looks down at her with amusement. "Of course, Smalls. They're here for you." His smile is wide and his eyes narrow.
"For me?"
His grip on her hip tightens and he pulls her into him to whisper in her ear. "You are not done fighting. Someone is constantly after your spot of control. You need to spot threats and eliminate them if you wish to stay a Praetor."
"Of course, Father." She declares into his arm.
"These children are all training to be Praetors."
"Eliminate the threat." His laugh is cold and unnerving, like rubbing Velcro into a burn wound. He removes himself from her and leans over the training grounds, safe, on a balcony.
"Sir, I am afraid I don't know... what you mean." She gulps, understanding. The children threaten her power. She sees a little girl, a girl who looks just like the Boy Scout. Father Jones looks disappointed.
To the children below he calls, "in the box in front of you, you will find the weapons you have been working with. The first one to pull a pin and survive wins!" He throws his hands up like it is all for good fun, like no one is getting hurt. The children lunge for the box, pull the pins and scatter. She has just enough time to hold her breathe before they all go off, before they're all caught in the explosions, before they're sprayed all over the coliseum.
She covers her mouth as she fights back tears. Father Jones turns to her and stares. "You will never lead a group that anyone finds worthy with a will like yours. Shape up, Praetor. Or you will forever be Small."