Won't Back Down: Won't Back Down

by Unknown

  It took a few minutes, but Arn's step faltered. Hynna practically skipped to the side and, with a practiced ease, thrust his sword out, slicing into Arn's side.

  Bright, vermillion blood flew through the air, and the crowd applauded in appreciation. Arn let out a strangled cry and clutched his side, his eyes wide. Thrim gripped Rikkin's shirt tightly and waited for an end to the match. Generally, in an arena this small, they only fought to first blood, particularly when the first blood was such a vital wound. Tibbus couldn't afford to replace slaves unless it was absolutely necessary, but the master wasn't watching. His head was turned, and he had entered into a deep discussion with one of his attendants.

  Hynna stepped back, his eyes focused on Tibbus. Arn gasped for a few moments, then his whole body stiffened. He grasped his sword tightly, whirled around, and swung. Hynna only just managed to dodge the blow, surprise registering the first emotion Thrim had seen out of him in the entire match.

  "Is he out of his mind?" he hissed. From Thrim's perspective, the simple answer was yes. Arn lost his mind each time he fought, and unless someone was there to save him, he would fight until he died.

  Surprise spurred Hynna to fight more viciously, momentarily forgetting the need to preserve his opponent. He brought up his shield, knocking Arn upside the head. Arn reeled back, stunned, but only for a moment. Before Hynna had time to react, Arn lunged forward again, swinging wildly and cutting deep into his shield arm.

  Hynna let out a cry, his shield clattering to the ground, sending up puffs of dirt. Now he had been forced into offense. When Arn lunged at him next, Hynna didn't even hesitate. He sidestepped and lashed out, catching Arn across the back of one of his legs.

  Arn crashed to the ground.

  The audience burst into thunderous applause, enough to jar Tibbus from whatever affair had so distracted him. If he noticed the state of one of his gladiators on the ground, he did not show it. Thrim, who had been otherwise ambivalent toward their absent master, suddenly hated him for it.

  "Good show," he boomed, clapping loudly and signaling an end to the fight. "Good show. Let us have the next."

  Hynna bowed deeply and, sparing only a quick glance to Arn, rushed out of the arena. A pair of guards rushed out with a canvas stretcher not unlike their cots. Thrim feared that Arn might fight them in his madness, but he complied, shuffling until he was safe to be transported. When the guards lifted him and began to carry him off the field, there was another polite round of applause.

  Thrim's stomach churned. Suddenly, he didn't want to watch another match. He reached out to grip the hairs on Rikkin's neck. Rikkin nodded and rose, carrying Thrim away.

  *~*~*

  Arn didn't return to his cell for hours. Thrim paced back and forth across the cot, his stomach in knots. When Rikkin tried to collect him for supper, he refused, insisting he wasn't hungry. Rikkin gave him a sad, annoyingly knowing look but left him alone.

  It was just before lights out when Arn, hobbling awkwardly and clutching a thick walking stick, returned and collapsed onto the cot. Thrim let out an undignified noise and had to scramble out of the way. It must have been the noise that caught Arn's attention because he tried to sit up, glancing around wildly.

  "Gillespie? Are you there? I didn't—"

  "I'm fine," Thrim insisted, though his heart beat hard inside his chest. It had been a near thing. He padded up to the head of the cot, just within Arn's line of sight. It wasn't hard to miss how ashen his skin was, or the tight lines of pain across his face. "To be honest, I'm a little more worried about you."

  Arn sighed, his head thumping back onto the cot."You said armor over the shoulders only. It would have done little to protect me."

  Thrim eyed the bandage wrapped tightly around Arn's middle and leg. He wouldn't be walking any time soon. It was so unnecessary. True, in that case the armor wouldn't have helped, but Arn could have come out so much better. If he'd been more cautious, more defensive, it wouldn't have happened at all.

  He sat down, just above Arn's shoulder, and folded his hands in his chest. "I wish I had my book. I could heal you right here."

  "Can you not do so, sidhe?" Arn asked, but his tone teased. He didn't expect Thrim to be able to do so, any more than Thrim did. Yes, he was part sidhe. It was why he was able to study magic at all. But the predisposition did not necessarily mean the ability to cast spells independent of incantations or guidelines. Only a master was capable of that.

  Thrim would have dearly loved to do it all the same.

  "I wish you looked after yourself out there," he said. "You'll get yourself killed."

  "Is that not why we're here?" Arn rumbled. He stared blankly up at the ceiling. Thrim swallowed thickly. He wanted to ask if Arn was mourning his throne. If he had been forcibly removed, if his people still lived him, how he had come to be in a place like this, but Arn was in enough pain.

  "I rather thought the point of being here was surviving," Thrim said instead. "I know I find that easier when I have you around."

  "There are others who would look after you."

  Thrim winced a little at that, as he always did at the notion of being 'looked after'. One of these days he was going to find a way to return to his proper size, and he'd take his humiliation out of Jorin's flesh. One of these days. But now was not the time to give his own bitterness room to grow. He reached out and rested one hand against Arn's bare shoulder.

  "None of the others would be you."

  Arn's brows furrowed and he turned, peering at Thrim as though he were seeing him for the first time. Thrim's heart skipped a beat. His hands grew clammy and he retracted his touch. It had been a stupid thing to say. Rikkin had planted an idea in his mind and look where it got him.

  "I don't know what you think I could offer," Arn began, but Thrim cut him off.

  "I ask nothing of you but your company. And your health. That alone is good enough for me."

  "I am not a whole man."

  "Well then." Thrim rose, gesturing to his diminutive height. "I suppose that makes us kindred spirits."

  Arn stared at him for a long moment. Then his lips pulled wide to reveal his teeth, his eyes crinkling as he let out the first honest laugh Thrim had ever heard from him.

  *~*~*

  Arn healed slowly. At least, it was slow by Thrim's terms. At the Academy, a cut like that would have healed in days, but for poor Arn it took weeks. Arn didn't complain, though. He said he rather liked the guards bringing him his meals and getting to rest while the others trained, but it was nothing short of a lie. He was restless.

  So after the second day of his confinement to his cell, Thrim sat next to him and began to tell him about the Gillespie Mountains. The way the sun cut through the heavy mist each morning, the tough mountain grasses that used to tickle his bare feet, the cool, crisp air, and the stonemasons clinking away at their work each morning as he headed to class. He told him about the Academy. The half-mad alchemy professor, the kind headmaster, the bitter old curmudgeon of a rune master, and of course, Thrim's personal favorite, the strict but fair chief of the healers.

  He talked and talked until tears choked his words and every memory hurt. Without a breath of pity, Arn reached up and wrapped his large hand around Thrim's small body, as though he could somehow shield him from the world. This helped somewhat when Thrim found his voice shaking under the weight of the things he revealed to Arn without thought.

  "I never knew my grandmother," he said one night, curled up in Arn's hand, running his fingers along the rough calluses. "The sidhe. Nor did my mother. She was just dumped on my grandfather's doorstep with no explanation. She was bullied terribly until they moved towns, farther from the woods. The Academy ultimately took her in. Offered to teach her to use her sidhe magic. But she said no. The last thing she did before she died was enroll me in the Academy. She chose my curriculum for me that first term. Said I wasn't to learn anything wild. So I never did."

  "Are you ashamed?" Arn rumbled.

  Thrim shook his he
ad. "No. I never was bullied like she was. But I never did go looking. Sometimes I wonder what my life would be now if I'd gone and found out about it."

  When Thrim could no longer bring himself to speak of his home or his childhood, he told Arn stories. Folk tales the Gillespie had brought with them from the southern plains, myths woven by the sidhe and dispersed like treats among those travelers who did them kindness. He even tried making up a few of his own, but Thrim was no storyteller, and he could tell Arn was trying not to laugh when he did it.

  In the dark of the night, nearly halfway through his confinement, Arn rolled over, turning his massive back to Thrim. For a moment Thrim had thought he'd somehow been offensive in his retelling of 'The Maid and the Mince Pie'. Then Arn started to speak, his voice a low rumble.

  "There was once a proud people who roamed freely. They were called the Rou Dourea, and their ancestors had fled from the north generations ago. They had no home, but they had love of each other and the land itself, so they flourished all the same. In the winters they lived in the ancient ruins in the mountains. In the summers they hunted in the plains. They traded when they needed, took on passengers in their caravans when they needed money. They lived a good life.

  "Then they hit upon hard times. Harsh rains drove wicked beasts, both of and not of this world, into their winter homes. Many Rou died. Worse, their food was scarce. They were weak. Their minds were duller than they should have been. The Rou were dying when they were set upon by slavers." Arn's shoulders went stiff, his voice tightening. "The promise of enslavement was worse than death. So the king made a deal. He knew his royal blood made him more valuable than all the rest put together. So in return for sparing his people, the slavers accepted."

  Thrim waited for him to go on, but as the seconds slipped by, he had to accept that Arn would say no more. He'd already revealed more than he ever had. Swallowing, Thrim reached forward to place his hand against Arn's back. Arn probably couldn't even feel the touch.

  "Did the Rou survive?" he asked softly. Arn's neck jerked forward in a sharp, painful nod. "Then you do not suffer in vain, my friend."

  Arn shifted slowly, giving Thrim ample time to scramble out of the way before he rolled over and stared forward, his dark eyes glistening in the dim light of the cell. He reminded Thrim of a caged beast, too dangerous to go free, staring out from between its bars as the hope of freedom dimmed in its heart. He was a nomad, forced into a tiny cell where he saw the sun only when he was on his master's leash. At last, Thrim understood why Arn fought like a madman. This place was driving him mad.

  Arn swallowed thickly and reached out, cupping his hand around Thrim without quite touching. "Come," he croaked. "Tell me 'The Magic Tailor' again. That one lightens my heart."

  *~*~*

  Eventually, Arn emerged from his cell. His leg was stuff, and he walked with a slight, shuffling limp that made it a little more difficult for Thrim to hold on, but he managed all right. He was no longer willing to be separated from Arn's side, save for Arn's notably shorter sparring sessions. Even those were agony, waiting with Rikkin only until he could return to Arn's warm, rough hand.

  If the others noticed how Thrim pined, they said nothing. In fact, they all seemed positively thrilled to once again see their "dear little mascot". Even the other gladiators outside their little group took notice of the way Thrim stared after Arn, though they, too, said nothing. They knew, of course, but nobody wanted to cross Arn, even as weak as he was.

  Life in the pit went on. Jorin continued fuming because he failed to catch Rikkin alone. Rikkin continued to smile like he knew secrets but didn't want to share. And Thrim continued to sit with Arn in the corner, feeling comfortable and large and, in a private way he didn't dare share with anyone, even Arn, desired.

  Arn had a way of looking at him with those dark eyes, softened and warm in a manner unbefitting of a gladiator. He laughed for Thrim and only Thrim. He smiled, and all the troubles of the world melted away.

  Even though Arn was back on his feet, he was in no fit shape to fight. So life was particularly quiet in the pit. Matches commenced. Crowds cheered. Jorin was forced to swallow his grudge and, for a time at least, they had peace.

  Until the day Rikkin left.

  Thrim and Arn sat in the cell, idly conversing in hushed tones, enjoying the time alone before they had to go to supper. He leaned against Arn's strong arm, finding himself wondering, as he often did, what would happen if he kissed ARn. Odds were good Arn wouldn't even feel it, and if he did, he certainly couldn't kiss Thrim back. It did him no good to allow his thoughts to drift in that direction.

  A booming roar shattered the peaceful afternoon. It sounded like every gladiator in the pit was yelling or even cheering all at once. Arn sat up and, without saying a word, dropped his hand down to the cot to allow Thrim to scramble on.

  There was a crowd in the mess hall, most of them gladiators, but there were new faces in the sea of people as well. They were performers in rich, plum-colored costumes, laughing and roughhousing. One had an arm thrown around Rikkin, who looked dangerously close to weeping.

  "And Sessa," Rikkin asked, clutching at the front of the performer's plum tunic. "Is she well?"

  "She's fine. And missing you terribly. We thought it best to leave her and the other women be."

  "Yes … yes, that's best."

  "Rikkin!" Tarre called out. "How many pieces of silver did these good men have to pay for your sorry hide?"

  "Too many," one of the men in plum laughed. "He shall work to pay off his debt to the end of his days."

  Rikkin beamed and glanced over the crowd. In that moment, Thrim saw the actor in him. He was more energized, almost glowing under the attention he was being paid. His eyes roved over the crowd, then paused on Thrim and Arn.

  "My friends," he said. "I am sorry to leave you so soon. But I hope you understand that my home is the road. I wish you all the greatest luck."

  "NO!"

  Jorin let out an inhuman roar, barreling through the crowd, his eyes fixed on Rikkin. Arn stepped back immediately, one hand going up to shield Thrim. For just a moment, Thrim feared that here, in this last moment, Jorin would finally get his long sought payback. Rikkin squared his shoulders, narrowing his eyes. His fingers clenched as though he were in the arena preparing to fend off his opponent. He was prepared to take it just like that!

  Two of the guards rushed forward, grabbing Jorin's arms and physically restraining him. It was a near thing. Jorin swore and spat, trying to buck them off.

  "You son of a bitch!" he shrieked. "You think you can walk out of here just like that?"

  "Leave it!" one of the guards hissed. "It isn't worth it."

  The troupers surrounded Rikkin and rushed him out, their eyes wide. Clearly they hadn't anticipated this sort of departure. Well, with any luck this would earn Rikkin something of a badge of honor among his troupe. He deserved it. Thrim watched Rikkin slip through the exit. A few others tried to sneak away as part of the group, but the guards swiftly put an end to any such nonsense.

  "Goodbye, my friend," Thrim said longingly. Perhaps, if Rikkin's troupe found themselves in the Gillespie Mountains, he would pass on the news of Thrim. One of his professors might come for him. Why, if he was going to fantasize, he might as well imagine they'd come with heavy enough purses for Arn. A king, even a king of nomads, would fetch a costly fee, but the Academy had deep pockets.

  Arn grunted, his eyes fixed on the passage. "This place will certainly be a little dimmer without the likes of him."

  "I think he knew they were coming for him," Thrim said. "It's why he was never scared of Jorin."

  "Fat good it's done us. He could have at least had them bring a magician to set you right."

  "And then I'd have to fight," Thrim pointed out.

  Arn hummed deeply. "True enough. And I doubt I'd have known you otherwise."

  "Or stopped calling me Dirtwater."

  Arn tilted his head just so, ensuring some of his hair smacked Thrim in t
he face. "It isn't an insult."

  "Nor is it a compliment either."

  Thrim almost started to laugh, but a sudden sensation of unease made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He turned and saw that Jorin had stilled, though the guards dared not take their hands off of him. He watched the crowd numbly, as if unable to quite believe what he was seeing. Then he turned. The moment Jorin's eyes fell on him, Thrim felt a cold chill run down his spine. It was as though all his malice toward Rikkin had been magnified and redirected to Jorin's big regret: Thrim, the big risk he shouldn't have taken, and Arn, the mad gladiator who protected him.

  Thrim stiffened and gripped Arn's tunic more tightly. "I pity the man who must fight Jorin next."

  "Come," Arn said with a grimace. "The ruckus is over. We've no further reason to remain here. I don't care to remain under his eye."

  *~*~*

  True to Thrim's fear, Jorin went from a terror to an absolute nightmare in the arena. More often than not, his opponents needed a healer's care afterwards. Even Master Tibbus had to take notice and saw to it the entire population of the pit was given a lecture on the importance of giving a good show without limiting their ability to host later matches. But the damage was done. There were soon so few available gladiators that there was a serious chance Arn might have to fight him.

  Bell's Night fell upon them, postponing Arn's inevitable return to the arena, and what a blessing it was. While fine spirits and festivities were denied to the gladiators, they were nevertheless given watered wine and light strings of bells to banish evil spirits lest any of them be religious enough to revolt against this small superstition. The tradition of ringing bells against wickedness was strange to Thrim, but the enduring sameness of every day in the pit was almost cloying. So it was a relief when they were permitted to push the tables to the walls in the mess hall and sing—rather off pitch—a few traditional Bell's Night songs and partake in some harmless dance, if only to remind themselves that there was entertainment in this world that didn't involve bodily harm.