The roar of the crowd was deafening, the sand beneath his sandalled feet burning in the midday sun. His oiled tanned skin shone as his muscles tensed and his long blonde hair practically sparkled. This was where he was most alive, the blood pumping fast through his body. He pulled his blade from the neck of the beast, and took a moment to pose, one leg up on the beasts still twitching corpse and saluted the audience with a shattered blade, the roar growing louder. They were all here to see him, after all.

  He took a moment to look around the arena, and see how the rest were doing. He could see the Golden Triplets, back to back fighting off a small horde of weevil workers, their bladed lances spinning and twirling as they mowed down the diminutive creatures. Noble Jovis was face to face with a fleshmare, fending off its fleshy tendrils with rapier and dagger. He would keep. The Black Butcher was struggling with some great grey horned beast, his cleaver buried too deep in the thick hide to pull out. He’d always told the butcher that would be the end of him, he always burned through his Voice too early. As he watched the beast’s long neck swung around and caught the Butcher in the side, knocking him flat and making him cough a great red spray. He had barely landed when the thing reared up and brought both forelegs down on the Butcher, leaving a bloody mess imprinted in the sand with a still intact pair of legs leading into the newly made hole. As the crowd roared their approval, he released the shattered blade from the hilt and locked in a fresh from the belt on his waist. Just 2 blades left, he would finish up soon. For now, the crowd would love a quick revenge spot.

  He dashed at the creature, staying as low as he could. The crowd saw his intent and roared his name, chanting for The Phoenix to soar. He leapt over a crack of its long whip-like tail, an array of blades tied to it supposedly to make it more deadly slowing it down too much to be a proper threat. The neck was another story, unburdened it swung its head like a flail, the thick neck still bearing a splatter of blood from The Butcher. He bent his knees and slid under, the back of his head and long flowing hair trailing in the sand as the crowd cheered. He channeled a tiny portion of Voice into his jump and soared up onto the back of the creature, his feet and knees throbbing (he wouldn’t miss that, every time the pain was getting worse and took a little longer to fade) as he grabbed hold of the huge cleaver still buried in the thick, scaly hide. It seemed appropriate. The Butcher had been a prime asshole, but these days in the fighting pits anyone that wouldn’t shank your ankle before a big fight was as good a friend as you could hope for. He gave it a small twist and felt it move just slightly, the beast roaring its disapproval in a low bellow. He had enough movement to work with, a quick channel of Force into the weapon and it sprung free, the wound tearing itself open around the blade as the movement was given the power of a mighty blow.

  He allowed the shaking of the beast to toss him clear, rolling into a stand with the cleaver over his shoulder and his own blade hanging down. They’d be painting portraits of this moment. He stood still while the beast turned and bellowed, waiting for its next blow. The tail came first, and he used his own blade. He ducked below where it would strike and held his blade up, it wouldn’t even need empowerment. The blade slid between a pair of mounted axe heads and cut cleanly, sending the last half of the tail flying through the air, a string of crimson spraying behind it as it landed, still flailing, in the sand. The beast roared its displeasure, the remaining stump of the tail sending sprays of crimson blood as it whipped around. It turned to face him dead on, and swung the neck once more in a horizontal arc, easy to dodge. The creature was already growing sluggish, the life draining out of its tail stump. He needed a flashy finish, dodging until the thing keeled over wouldn’t do at all.

  The thing seemed to be getting frustrated at his easy dodging, and the crowd agreed. He could hear a few scattered boos in the cheering. He tried to ignore them and focused, waiting for his chance. Thankfully the beast obliged, swinging the head in a great downward strike. He met it with the cleaver and poured Force into it. His aim was good and caught the beast almost dead centre. The empowered blow ripped through its face and skull, cutting deep and splitting the head as the Word made the cleaver strike like a cannonball every second, the beasts flesh exploding in chunks as the momentum of the blow carried it further down. The cleaver broke apart at the last, unable to channel the Word any longer it exploded into metal shards. Most embedded themselves into the creatures neck, but he felt a few strike into his flesh, a last present from The Black Butcher. “A prick even in death” he thought to himself with a smile. The beast fell, its head and most of its neck split into a ragged grotesque Y shape. He wiped some of the gore from his face to clear his vision and saluted the roaring crowd with the cleaver handle before letting it fall.

  He turned again and took in the arena. The crowd grew silent except for an excited murmuring, they already knew what was next. From across the arena sands he saw Noble Jovis stab his rapier deep into the downed fleshmare one last time, stilling the flailing growths. The triplets were withdrawing, two of them supporting a third that had taken a nasty wound down one leg. He could never tell those three apart, but they weren’t important right now. He locked eyes with Jovis, and a great silence fell, broken only by the wind and a distant quiet moaning of some beast or fighter that hadn’t been ended properly. The Phoenix of the Sands and Noble Jovis, face to face for the last time. Standing record, 47 to 46 in the Phoenix’s favour. He’d probably be forced out of retirement for a tiebreaker if he lost today, he’d saved and planned too long to allow the bastards to keep any hold over him once he left.

  He allowed the silence to hold for a moment as they stared each other down. He swung his small shield off his back and released the binding, setting it on his off arm as he twirled his blade and pointed it at Jovis. Jovis returned the point with his rapier, and they allowed the silence to hold, hearing the murmurs build until the last moment. “That’s right you fancy asshole, wait for the moment.” They broke stance at the exact moment as the other, the crowd screaming themselves hoarse as they dashed at each other, Force empowered steps carrying them across the sands in an instant and leaving plumes of sand kicked up in their wake. His first blow was a wide swing at neck level, easily dodged, but it was about the show as much as settling the record. Jovis neatly dodged, a minimal back step sending the blade an inch or two short as his rapier struck out, deflected by the rounded shield which let out a bell-like gong as the Force moved through the rapier point, shaking his arm violently.

  They danced and struck, they knew each other too well to end quickly. Blade and shield moved like water, flowing from spot to spot to strike and guard every blow. The rapier and dagger struck like lightning, almost falling to Jovis’ side until he struck out with them again, the dagger flicking The Phoenix’s blade aside as the rapier hissed out. The pace couldn’t be held forever, and The Phoenix saw his chance. He allowed the dagger to strike the blade to deflect, but adjusted the blow. He saw Jovis’ eyes widen slightly as he realized, he’d done the same in their very first duel. He couldn’t have planned this better. The blade caught on the dagger, and the Force blew both blades into metal slivers, his blade halved into a ragged blunt edge halfway down its length and the dagger beyond ruin, Jovis’ hand bloodied and useless for now. The crowd was roaring for blood now, they took a moment to step back, he clicking in his last blade as Noble Jovis took up a stance to put his ruined hand behind him.

  The Phoenix wondered how the paintings would look, him in his leather gear, practically naked to display his sculpted body and flowing hair, and Noble Jovis concealed from the sun in black leather trousers and a ruffled white shirt. They both stood slightly apart, breathing hard. They were exhausted and almost drained of Voice. It would be over soon. They inched closer, blades before them, and gently allowed the tips to meet. “Onward to glory brother” The Phoenix said, too quiet for any but them to hear. “Forward with honour brother” returned Jovis with a small grin under his thin moustache. Jovis started with a kick of sand, throwing it up and forcing The Phoenix to turn his head slightly aside. The rapier came out of the cloud, the Force within parting a perfect circle in the cloud. He was going for a final blow right off. The Phoenix threw himself back, landing on the ground as the rapier point stood where his shoulder had been a moment ago. He kicked his own cloud of sand up at Jovis and struck up with his shield, his last trickle of Force sending him flying up. The flat of the shield met the rapier and sent it aside, carrying on and crushing Jovis’ hand between the shield and his face. The Phoenix was carried over the falling form of Jovis, and he spun as he landed, blade ready. But Jovis was down, unmoving but moaning quietly. He raised his blade in victory one last time as the crowd roared, and he was pelted with flowers by those that had bet on him, and warm beer by those that had not. He helped Jovis up and half-carried him to the centre of the arena, raising their arms in joint salute. “Think you knocked out some teeth prick” Jovis whispered to him, spitting some blood with some suspiciously white chunks. “Just wanted to make sure you’ll remember me asshole” he answered, and two shared a quiet laugh. They saluted the empty thrones of The Twin Ascendants, though he wasn’t surprised by their absence. It was part of why he was leaving.

  He walked Jovis down the steps into the fighter pits, and handed him off to the healers. He gripped The Phoenix’s hand for a few moments more before they moved him away, and that was the last he saw of Noble Jovis. He had a few wounds to tend to, nothing urgent, so he went to get a drink while he waited for a free set of hands. He watched them bring in the remains of The Butcher, a wooden wheelbarrow filled with a pile of red sand and a pair of legs and a pelvis piled on top. He’d go to the creature pits most likely, he wasn’t popular enough for a public funeral so why waste the meat. He looked down at his drink and tried to ignore it. He was finished at last, no need to cause a fuss now. Gods knew they’d be looking for any excuse to keep him here. No fights, no arguments, and he had made sure all his equipment was paid for and covered. He waited as a healer went at him with a pair of tweezers, gently removing shards of metal from his flesh and dabbing the wounds with something that stung slightly.

  He waited on The Demoness’ return, she was up right after him. Both had been booked for a grand royale as their final match, a final sendoff with some of their past opponents and a few beasts for good measure. She didn’t need to win, just come back alive, and they’d have enough to leave at last, though he smiled at the thought of her focusing on anything but winning. He tuned out the distant rumble of the crowd and rested as much as he could, trying to ignore the unfamiliar feelings of unease. He had never intended to fall in love, they had viewed each other as a night of distraction at first. But they had spent more and more time forced together, not unexpected as the top male and female gladiators, and eventually they had realized they saw something in each other, something that needed to be away from the pit and the arena. So they planned and worked with his manager, as good a man as any gladiator could hope for. They had almost saved enough to buy their freedom outright and never have to work again, if Sullimore was to be trusted. He trusted his manager literally with his life, but still he felt unease. He had never known proper freedom or trust, and this close to escape he only grew more and more uneasy.

  He and The Demoness had both been in the pits since either could remember, starting with the runners moving weapons where needed and fetching oil and drink for the fighters. The small, the sick, the unwanted children would find their way to the pits, sold by necessity or claimed after disaster. He had never left the arena without a coterie of guards to ensure he returned. After years of training he was a major investment for his owner after all. But now they were almost there. They had both placed all their savings on themselves, even with the odds favouring them they’d be free as long as she walked down those gates under her own power.

  He watched the female survivors enter the pit and held his breath. He knew she’d be last in, word had spread it was her last fight and she’d be working the crowd one last time. Still he tensed at every warrior that entered his sight, dreading that the gates would close before he saw her. Then he saw her, a long bloody gash down one arm that hung limply but walking proudly, her horned helm under one arm. Her revealing armour was scored in fresh gashes and cuts, and her long brown hair was stained with something foul, but else she looked fine. He sagged in relief against a wall, and they exchanged a quick nod. They were almost free, couldn’t give anything away now.

  They met with Sullimore that night, given the luxury of a small windowless private room to talk. He swore that the money was ready, and that they were good to go. He had arranged for a modest home to be built for them, far away from the city-arena of Conquest and any that would know them, as well as travel arrangements to get there. They had enough money to live the rest of their days, all ready in sacks and trunks. He had pleaded with them to use a bank but neither wanted any trace remaining that they could avoid. He trusted Sullimore, but he expected betrayal, a last moment knife in the dark as he left. But it was the Demoness that ambushed him, squeezing his hand as Sullimore finished.

  “We have a problem.” She said with a grave face. He looked at her silently until she continued.

  “I think the mourning herb didn’t work. I’ve had vomit several mornings now and my blood is missing.” He had needed the last part explained later, but he knew enough what the first part meant. His head swam and he felt like he’d taken a massive blow to the guts.

  “You’re…it’s mine?” he said, blinking heavily. She gave him a playful slap, with a rueful smile.

  “Of course it’s yours you horses ass. But, we both know what it means.”

  He did. Any child of a fighter legally belonged to their owner, and a child of two champions would be fought over by hungry bidders and doomed to the pits. If they left, they’d either have to send the child after birth, or more likely they’d refuse to let her leave until the child was born. A long time for them to find excuses to hold her longer, things to place on her as debt.

  “Well, there are…things we can do…” he had said with an unsure voice. Sullimore had grown pale, and his eyes darted back and forth between them.

  “No” she said. It was a quiet voice, unlike what he was used to. She always spoke in a commanding voice, even when alone together she was an explosion of energy and pride. Now, there was just a quiet firmness in her voice.

  “No” she repeated. “It’s mine. It’s ours.” She took his hand and gently moved it onto her belly, though she wasn’t showing yet. “But it doesn’t deserve to grow up here. No child does.” There were tears in her eyes. He blinked, and realized there were some in his too. He held her, not knowing that to do.

  “No child of a fighter can leave the pit.” He said quietly. It was one of the many rules governing their existence, though he never thought to give it much weight. The mourning herb was freely given. A pregnant fighter couldn’t enter the arena, and a fighter without an arena was a loss for an owner.

  “What if it wasn’t the child of a fighter?” said Sullimore in a small voice, behind tented hands. They turned to stare at him and he turned red under their gaze. “I mean, we can just…not tell people it’s yours…” he trailed off as he withered under their gaze. He was older than them, thirty and eight years to their shared twenty and six, but they both had 11 years of fighting behind them and he was a man of letters and numbers, chubby and slight.

  He shrank back in his chair, but kept talking nonetheless “I mean, we can announce that my wife is pregnant, and I’ve hired you both as bodyguards for the duration, a last favour to an old fr…manager? My estate is quite private, no one would see you until…after.” He looked like he wanted the wall behind him to open and swallow him.

  They shared a look, and a gentle squeeze in the hands. She quietly nodded at The Phoenix, but he turned back to Sullimore. “What about after the child is here? If anyone got word of it we’d have hunters dragging us back to check it wasn’t some owner’s property.” The three knew it was a valid concern. There were more than a few children who had been born after their parents freedom was won serving in the pits, the owner’s money allowing for some creative record keeping. The age of the child would give it away, it would always be under threat.

  “Like I said, we wouldn’t announce it as yours,” said Sullimore once more in a quiet voice “and after…it could…stay with me and my wife…” Sullimore yelped as the table was thrown to the side and the Phoenix lifted him by his pressed silk top, slamming him against the wall with a growl.

  “You’d send another child into the pits you waste of skin?!”

  Sullimore stammered and struggled to answer, his feet kicking against the wall behind him. The Demoness laid a hand on The Phoenix’s arm, and he slowly lowered Sullimore to the ground, though he kept hold of the shirt.

  “No! No…I’d never send a child here…” he looked ashamed, his eyes not meeting either of theirs. “We’ll raise the child as our own…tell no one it’s yours. They’ll never go to the pit, I swear it.” His eyes turned for the last words, meeting The Phoenix’s furious eyes with an unwavering stare he wasn’t used to seeing from Sullimore. He was always a nervous man, timid and cowardly, but he saw nothing but strength in Sullimore’s gaze. He let go of the shirt and stepped back, idly setting the table upright with one hand. They sat again, in silence for a minute.

  The Demoness spoke first. “You’d take the child and raise it?”

  Sullimore’s hands were shaking slightly. “Yes. It’s the only way I can think of to guarantee neither you nor the child would ever be at risk.”

  The Phoenix narrowed his eyes and squeezed the Demoness’ hand. “What do you get out of it?” He knew better than to take anything as a gift, in the pit there was a cost behind everything.

  Sullimore looked ashamed again, his face reddening as he studied the table intently. “W-well….you see…my wife and I…” he coughed awkwardly and picked at some threads in his sleeve. “We…wanted a child. But it…never happened. We went to the temple and everything, they said she seemed in perfect health. So…so there’s…probably something wrong with me.” He looked to be nearly in tears, and any anger The Phoenix had was stamped out. It was practically a magic of Sullimore, he was sometimes so pathetic you couldn’t hate the man.

  He left them alone for a time, and they sat in silence, a debate with no words held through gentle squeezes and motions. Eventually, she spoke.

  “I think it’s the only way. Sullimore could give it a better life than we ever could.”

  “But…it’s ours. We should be the ones to raise it…” he spoke with uncertainty, he knew they had nothing to truly offer a child. They were trained fighters, all they could teach a child was how to fight and kill and die.

  She leaned her forehead in against his, tears flowing openly now. “It’s best for everyone. We must let it go.” She sounded like she was trying to convince herself more than him. He held her close and gave silent agreement.

  Sullimore returned eventually, bearing some rolls of paper and a quill and ink. He looked at them from the far side of the table as he unrolled the paper, flattening them down at the corners with some small weights from his pockets. He sat in quiet silence, eventually coughed awkwardly, and asked “W-well? Have you come to a decision?”

  They looked at each other, and stood as one, Sullimore shrinking back. They each bit into their forearms, drawing a trickle of blood and Sullimore yelped. But he knew what it was. He held out a shaking hand and pulled back a sleeve, producing a small dagger to make a thin cut on his arm, joining 2 other scarred lines. He gave a little whine as he drew blood, and they laid their arms across each other’s, the thin trickles flowing down.

  “You swear to protect the child, never allow the pits to take him, to raise him as your own?” The Phoenix whispered. Sullimore nodded and replied “I do.”

  “You swear to raise him to be a good man, away from violence and blood?” The Phoenix added, and Sullimore replied with a firmer voice this time. “I do.”

  “Will the child be loved?” The Demoness whispered in a small voice. The Phoenix closed his eyes at the sound. Sullimore replied quietly, but with a resolve they didn’t know he had in him. “The child will be loved.”

  They held for a moment, and broke apart. Blood was all a pit fighter had to offer, an oath on spilled blood was the deepest of bindings. Sullimore respected it even if he wasn’t a fighter himself, the 2 marks on his arm a kept promise to each of them. So far at least.

  He left his sleeve up and dabbed at the cut every now and then with a small handkerchief, the fighters let it run freely until it stopped, they’d lick the dried stains off before they’d leave. He turned to the papers, more confident now in his own domain.

  “So, the big thing I came for today. These are all the deeds and contracts you’ll need to prove you’re both free and own the property I have for you. We just need your names.”

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  They both blinked at that, and sat staring silently as he looked at them expectantly. “I did mention this before…have you given any thought?”

  No one in the pits had a true name, they had titles. Even Jovis’ was but a fa?ade, a persona his owner had constructed for him and trained him to embody. They knew they had to choose real names for themselves, Sullimore had told them when they first began their plotting, but The Phoenix supposed they had feared naming themselves before time would curse them, doom them to failure.

  They looked at each other, childish grins forming on their faces.

  “We’ll have names…” he said to her, already the title ‘The Phoenix’ seemed so far away, belonging to someone else.

  “Our own names, real and proper” she replied, giddy as a girl half her age.

  They chattered back and forth for some time, until Sullimore interrupted them with a small cough. “I am sorry but we need to hurry if I’m to make the…arrangements…for the situation…” he said awkwardly, with a pointed look at her belly.

  They had practically forgotten all else in their excitement. They looked at each again, and slow grins spread on their faces. They knew lots of names, they had met plenty of nobles outside the pits, shown off along with the champion racehorses and acquired artwork. But they had settled on their own now.

  “My name is Felix” said Felix. He thought it was very clever how it sounded almost like Phoenix. Sullimore seemed to agree, he muttered “Felix the Phoenix” under his breath with a small smile, and wrote it down.

  “My name is Theresa” said Theresa. “I think it was my mother’s name. I remember it from a long time ago.” Her voice sounded almost like a small child’s, and Sullimore and Felix both looked at her for a moment. “What? Is it a bad name?” she asked, her cheeks reddening with unfamiliar shyness. “No, no, it’s a lovely name” said Sullimore, writing it down.

  “And just a family name then.” They had this one prepared, they had allowed themselves the risk of setting one name as a goal a promise to themselves. “Peace” they said together, with a small squeeze of their hands. Sullimore smiled.

  “Felix and Theresa Peace” he muttered with a smile, copying it across the spread documents. “I’ll have to teach you both how to write your own names at least, there may be things you need to sign after you leave.”

  He took some time to go over the documents, stowing each one in a metal tube, different colours to allow them to track which is which. Blue for proof they owned a home, gold for proof they were free. They held the tubes tight, as if afraid they might come flying free. He left them overnight as he made the final arrangements, taking the tubes with him with a promise they’d be waiting. They returned to the pits for the last time and tried to sleep, making sure not to allow their faces to betray anything. In the morning Felix looked around for the last time. It had been his whole world as long as he could remember. Close to 11 years as a fighter, a gladiator in the arena, and now it was over. He’d never have to fight or kill again. He couldn’t believe it, it seemed like at any moment one of the owners would arrive and throw him back onto the sands. But it was Sullimore who fetched him again, stepping over the sleeping and resting fighters as he entered the shared sleeping space. He gave a nod and a smile, and Felix stood to leave after him.

  He paused briefly at the entryway, looking back at the forms behind him. Some watched him go, but there were no waves or cheers. He looked up at the plaque over the door. An older fighter had told him the meaning when he was younger, “Onward to glory, forward with honour.” He couldn’t read it himself, but it was a nice motto he thought. He tapped it one final time and headed out, following Sullimore through the long stone corridor.

  They stood at the bottom of a set of steps, morning sunlight bleeding down. He wanted to run up, jump up each step, but Sullimore had stopped him with a gentle hand. “We need you to change, the gear is technically not your property and needs to be returned.” He looked down. He was still wearing the stained arena gear from the day before; a pair of belted sandals coming up to his knee, wrapped cloth around his waist and under his groin for modesty, a leather skirt of hanging belts, and a leather arm guard on his off arm. His only possession was the hilt he wore in its special belt, a gift from an early patron that had made a small fortune betting on him. The small man had pressed it into his hands some years ago and whispered 2 things into his ears. First was the simple instructions for its use and care, second were the words “This is yours, and no one else’s.” He had clung to that, this small metal device painted red, the leather covering the handle replaced many times now. It was his and no one else’s, he had nearly been struck down by his owner for refusing to hand it over. But his owner had relented, seeing the unfamiliar fire in his eyes and allowed him to keep it with a mocking gentleness.

  Sullimore handed him a bundle of clothes, the long covering ones he would sometimes be offered when doing a tour. A plain shirt, some knee boots and some fine trousers. He started removing his gear in the hall but was shown into a small room instead, and he changed, carrying the bundle of arena gear under one arm as he exited. He stood with Sullimore for a while, as he indicated a second room with a closed door. “She’s still finishing, women’s clothing takes a bit more time than ours you know.” As Sullimore spoke, the door opened and Theresa came out, carrying her own arena gear in a pile. She was wearing a long blue dress cut more modestly than he had seen before. He had seen her in dresses before, normally tight short things cut to show off her body. Now her legs were hidden under a long skirt, sleeves all the way down the wrists, and even the cut of the dress showing her bosom was more modest than he had ever seen. She looked more beautiful than he had ever seen, and she gave him a smile radiating with joy. They were looking for where to leave the gear when they heard an all too familiar voice at the top of the steps, a voice that made them cower back against a wall and freeze.

  “Leaving without even a goodbye darlings? And after everything I’ve done for you.” The clink of a cane announced their owner’s descent. He was a massive fat man, almost spherical with thin arms, his bulky legs hidden under the swell of his belly. He was wrapped in fine silk clothing a long fur coat despite the morning heat, his pale skin covered in a sheen of sweat with stains of wine at the corner of his mouth. He was followed as always by a trio of servants; a wine carrier, a bodyguard and one to hold his coat off the ground while outside. He made it to the bottom of the steps with a heavy breath and approached Felix, the corridor barely wide enough to allow them both. He reached out and grasped Felix’s chin, making him meet his eyes.

  “Can’t stay long darlings, have the next big thing to meet, you’d be amazed. Give him a year and no one will even remember you two” he said with his ever-present smirk. Neither Felix nor Theresa said anything, even if they were technically free he could find ways to drag them back in if they gave him an opening. “Just wanted to wave you both off, and of course let you both know the pits are always waiting when your little experiment fails.” He patted Felix on the face, slapping him with a slight force, never enough to leave a mark as always. He turned to Theresa, who cowered against the wall. He adjusted her dress, groping her chest freely as he did so. “Oh you both look so handsome sweet things.” He looked back at Felix as his hands stayed on Theresa, who mouthed a silent no to him and shook her head slightly. Felix bit down the urge, and said nothing to the open provocation. The owner looked annoyed when he saw Felix remain still, but removed his hands from Theresa. “Well we all have places to be, do make sure to clear the corridor soon as you can.” He strode past them, the bulk of his belly rolling over them as he did. “Oh and you can keep the gear sweet things, it’s so important to remember where you come from isn’t it?” He strode off into the dark with not a look back, the 3 servants following behind. All these years and they had never known his name. He had struck Felix violently once when he had asked, and he had simply been Owner or Master ever since.

  They watched the dark for a long few minutes, half expecting him to come back with some loophole to tighten around their necks. Their terror was interrupted by Sullimore coughing. “We had better be going then.” They had followed him up, glancing back. They carried their arena gear without thinking on it, stowing them in a sack in the carriage that awaited them.

  The carriage carried them outside the city, more than a day’s travel. They slept in their seats, arms clinging to each other. They had no interest looking outside, they knew the surroundings of the city well enough. They awoke the next day and sat in a silence with Sullimore, them looking off into space and him studying a pair of small leather bound ledgers. Eventually they arrived at Sullimore’s estate, and they jumped out, happy to stretch their limbs. They had been escorted to larger estates in the past, but this was the first time they had freedom to look around. They were introduced to Sullimore’s wife, a short plump woman who greeted them each with a curtsy and took them inside like old friends. There was much discussion to be had, she would not be aware of the arrangement in place.

  It proved to be a long discussion between the Sullimore’s, so Felix and Theresa took their time to walk around the grounds. They had never had the chance to take their time outside before, and they marveled at the well-kept gardens and spent a full hour staring at a small patch of grass, marveling at the insects they saw crawling through and the birds flying overhead. They had seen them before of course, but they now luxuriated in the freedom to simply watch at their leisure, no one calling them to their next appearance or fight. Eventually they were called back in by Sullimore, and met his wife (now red in the cheeks and eyes as if she had been crying) in a small parlour room. They sat and discussed the future.

  They would not leave the grounds until the child had arrived. As discussed the story would be that they were acting as bodyguards for their manager before they left. Sullimore was reasonably well connected and had many in line for his well-paid position, it was a believable story. In the meantime, they had much to learn.

  Over the next 9 months they learned the things they would need, basic tasks that they had once done as children but never for the materials they would now wear. Cleaning leather and the simple cloth undergarments in the great copper basins under the arena was a different animal than cleaning the delicate fabrics of Theresa’s new dresses (a gift from the Madam Sullimore, she had insisted with a force of will they could not resist). There were so many tasks they needed to take care of, how to heat a home and tend the fire, shopping and dealing with merchants, a seemingly endless list of chores that they dove into with wonder and delight. As champions everything they did had been managed, even their food had been carefully selected and prepared to keep them fit and looking proper for the arena. They learned how to cook and found a delight in sharing their simple dishes with each other, eating their fill rather than strictly controlled portions, and were taught what they needed to eat to avoid sickness and ill-health. They learned how to sign their own names, and beamed proudly at each other when Sullimore pronounced their signatures perfect for their needs. And always, Theresa’s belly swelled and grew.

  The night the baby arrived was a quiet and calm one, barely a cloud in the sky. She had collapsed while carrying dirty dishes to the kitchen (they still insisted on washing their own, the novelty of the small freedom still new), Felix catching her as plates shattered. The doctor had been sent for, it was earlier than expected. Felix and Sullimore had been sent outside, only the madam, Theresa and the doctor allowed inside except for the maids ferrying fresh cloths and boiled water. Felix nearly kicked the doors in at the screams, and had only stopped when a maid had come out carrying a heavy armful of blood stained cloths, her face pale and a pitying look in her eye. Hours had passed, silence and screams in turn over and over, before the doctor emerged, wiping sweat off his brow. His sleeves were rolled up, bloody to the elbow even as he wiped them with a cloth, but he gave a tired smile. “Touch and go for a while, it was quite rough on her. But both are well. He’s a fine boy, quite big.”

  Sullimore and Felix had gripped each other for support, both pairs of legs turning to jelly. The doctor smiled and stepped aside. “You can see her briefly, but she’ll need lots of rest.”

  They had slowly entered, and Felix tried not to look at the maids still clearing away bloody cloth and pails of water, red and foamy. Theresa sat in the middle of the bed with fresh sheets laid over her to the waist, her nightgown stained with sweat. One arm was held by Madam Sullimore, who beamed proudly at her, and the other held a small bundle to her small chest.

  “He woke up hungry. He’s going to be a fine big man” she said, her voice strained with fatigue. Felix looked down at the small bundle, a tiny red misshapen head suckling at Theresa’s breast, and passed out.

  They spent a few days recovering, Felix spending every moment in the small bedroom. The doctor stayed for a few days before proclaiming that Theresa and the baby were fine, though she was not to exert herself for a week or two more. Sullimore, Theresa and Felix had talked about the doctor, they feared he might spread word back. But Sullimore assured him he could be trusted.

  “That particular doctor serves half the noble families in the area, and believe me there are many indiscretions and diseases they do not want to be known. If he ever spoke a word about any patient the others would have him buried in 3 separate holes before the day was over.”

  They had not named the child, Theresa had insisted on that with no explanation. Barely a few days after the birth, she had called in the Sullimore’s and Felix and announced it was time for them both to leave. They were surprised, but she would accept no argument nor offer reason, simply stating over and over that they needed to leave. Felix kept silent, he knew her well enough to know the reason, and mostly agreed with her.

  A wet-nurse had been arranged and a carriage called for. It would carry the Peace pair all the way to their new home, a solid 2 weeks travel away and practically another world for them. As the carriage was loaded with clothes and items they had purchased or been gifted, Felix stood by Sullimore, watching the trunks being loaded up.

  “You are of course welcome to visit anytime” said Sullimore.

  “We might try” replied Felix, knowing they would never.

  Sullimore passed a small engraved metal plate into Felix’s hand, not one of the iron plates used as currency. It was small, plain and polished bronze. “This is my address,” Sullimore had explained “there’s a village not far from the house, you can ask them to write a letter and send it to this address if you ever have need for it. I won’t send a letter unless you request it, I worry some may still be watching for you.” Felix had nodded, and placed the plate in his pocket. Once the carriage was loaded, Theresa emerged, carrying the baby bundled up. The 2 pairs stood facing each other awkwardly for a few moments, before Theresa stood forward and passed the baby to the madam.

  “Remember your oath Sullimore. Take care of him.” She had stepped forward then, gently kissing the head of the small sleeping form and turning to climb into the carriage with no hesitation. The Sullimore’s had looked shocked, but withered at Felix’s glare. “Raise him well” Felix had said, and gently caressed the fine hair, blonde like his father’s. He had slowly turned, looking back, and climbed into the carriage which headed out shortly after.

  They were a few hours into the first day when Theresa opened the small hatch and asked the driver to stop where he could. He obliged, and she and Felix stepped out, looking around at the sparse woods. Theresa walked off with a “we won’t be long” and no look back, Felix having to half jog to keep up with her rapid steps. He stopped when she did, and when he went to grab her hands he felt how deeply her nails dug into the palms, and saw the blood trickling. She stood still and upright for a moment before throwing her had back and wailing, a nearly mad wail of despair and hatred and longing. They had collapsed into each other and wept.

  The coachman had surely heard, but had the good sense not to say anything. Their journey passed in peace, travelling from dawn to dusk and resting at night, either huddled in the carriage on the benches that folded out to a reasonably comfort bed, the driver on a tent under the body of the wagon, twice at small outposts. They avoided all others, barely speaking to each other. They passed the time looking out the window as the woodlands turned to plains and a mountain range rose up to their west, their route taking them into the foothills where they could see the white snow above them. The mountains fell behind them as they skirted around the range, and they carried on as the landscape became dominated by woods once more.

  They rode through a small village, seeing a few faces watch their travel and arrived at their new home an hour later. It was as Sullimore had promised, a modest but reasonably sized home, perfect for the pair. They had helped the coachman take down the trunks, and gone in to explore. It would need a good dusting and they had but some dried meat and water flasks for the night, but they collapsed into the bare bed together and laid in each other’s arms.

  “Do you think he’ll miss us?” Theresa had asked with a tremble in her voice.

  “For his sake, I hope he never knows of us.” Said Felix, his voice broken with tears.

  It took them a while to settle in proper, but they made the house a proper home before long. They would walk to the village and buy what they needed with dollar plates from the large steel trunk they kept in the cellar, never needing the story they had concocted to explain their presence. The people there simply accepting that they were here now. He would occasionally fell trees when it grew colder, she learned how to preserve food, their cellar filled with jams and pickles and dried reserves. They had people they considered friends, they would occasionally make the trip into drink with the others and attend celebrations. They attended one of the yearly schools and learned their numbers and letters proper. He was quite proud of his letters now, he had even purchased a few books to read for pleasure. They lived quiet lives, and most who knew them would describe them as wanting for nothing. But there was a quiet shadow with them always they had learned to not speak of, and despite their efforts never again did Theresa miss her blood.

  Many years since they had settled, Felix had been looking for a fallen dollar plate when he found a box stored under their bed. He saw the blue wool thread sticking out and assumed it was Theresa’s latest project, she had taken quite a liking to knitting quietly in the evenings and he had a fine scarf and hat to prove it. He had opened the box and looked at the item inside, and saw the tiny knitted body suit with arms and legs, barely bigger than his head. He had stared for a few moments, then replaced it carefully, replacing the box so she wouldn’t notice anything when she returned from town. He never mentioned it to her, and she never to him.

  It was the 29th year of their life in the woods when Theresa took ill. It started with a weakness in her arms, somedays she could barely lift a small pot of soup. Early nights and often naps during the day became the norm for her. He had returned from cutting firewood one autumn morning, massaging his aching hands when he found her collapsed in the kitchen.

  He had ran to the village with her in his arms, panic and concern carrying him like a man half his age with a speed he would feel for a week after. He had screamed for help as he approached, and been met by a crowd, thankfully the local doctor among them. She had lingered but briefly, just long enough for a last exchange of “I love you” and a small squeeze of the hand. He had leaned in, she had whispered in his ear “Thank you for this life”, and she had gone still. He had screamed her name in futile desperation as her hand went limp in his.

  A good crowd followed him back to the house for the burial. It was the only place he would accept to lay her to rest. They dug a grave under her favourite tree, where she would have often sat and read or knitted or simply enjoyed the breeze, and gently lowered her coffin (fine polished mahogany, made free of charge by a friend of theirs) into the ground under a plain but simple headstone he had carved himself. He couldn’t watch as they placed the dirt on the box, and sat inside and drank quietly (she hated when he would drink more than 2 bottles at a time but he felt she would forgive him today) as the crowd milled around offering condolences he could barely hear. When the crowd had trickled out and he was alone, he went out with a blanket and sat by the fresh soil, sleeping under the tree with her.

  The next few days were a haze to him. He rose and ate and slept with no thought, he could barely account for his actions in between. He stood before her grave once more and looked back at the house he had shared with her. It seemed foreign now, no longer his home. He hated it there, every corner had something that was hers or brought her to mind. He thought he would go mad, he expected to see her around every corner inside. He had to leave, but he had no idea where. Perhaps it was better to just lay down beside her until his end, but it was not in him. She could practically hear her telling him not to be a damn fool at that thought. Then like a bolt, the shadow he had long ignored struck him.

  “I have a son.”

  He was not alone. His son was still out there, under Sullimore’s name. He had raced back to the house, his legs sore in the cold. He fetched a small box from under the bed, a few records they had kept. He had long ago discarded the copper plate with the address, but there had been a later letter many years after, the only one they had received. He held it delicately, the paper breaking apart and most of the ink faded. He squinted to read, but made out enough. “…leaving the estate for Xrantha, address belo…” he could make out, the rest too damaged to read. He had a destination, surely the name would be easy to track no matter how big the city.

  He had made his preparations. The dollar plates in the trunk were almost spent, seemed there was too often something unexpected to pay for, but he had never needed to work for more than favours or friendship. There had been some small income once he started brewing his own whiskey in an old copper barrel, the small batches selling quickly in the nearby village, but always more went out than came in. He prepped some preserves in a backpack, and went digging in the cellar. In a long discarded trunk he found his hilt and a single blade along with his shield, carefully wrapped these long years to preserve them. Nonetheless he cleaned and wiped everything, polishing and sharpening the blade with skills long dormant and bringing the small bronzed shield to a near mirror shine. With a grim satisfaction he noted some things had not left him. He picked up the hilt, and filled the small reservoir with oil meant for a lamp. He had always been told almost anything would do as lubricant, and it seemed to. The tang of the blade slid in with little resistance, the small click of the mechanism locking sounding like an old friend. He tried the release, and was surprised how stiff it was. He had once been able to release a blade with one hand without thinking about it, now he had to brace it against his leg and squeeze with good effort to get it to release, the blade sliding out. He hoped it would loosen up if he needed it again. The hilt would accept a good wide range of blades, hidden mechanisms snapping shut on any shape to hold it in place. Long buried memories of shattered blades surfaced and he smiled.

  He saw his old arena gear in the trunk, and carried it upstairs. He went to put it on, and stopped in front of the mirror. It had been Theresa’s wish for one soon after they had moved in, she delighted in the dresses Madam Sullimore had given her. It was dirty now, as they aged some chores fell by the wayside. He looked at himself and saw a stranger. His hair was short now, his head naked on top and sparse on the sides and back. He had lost some height, the skirt that once sat well above his knees now dangled below them, and his belly protruded like he had a round stone tucked under his shirt and jacket. The darkness of his skin had faded, his paleness surprising him. There were wrinkles everywhere, his skin sagging like soggy blankets. He looked down at the arena gear and sighed, he was already cold enough inside.

  In the end he settled for a pair of knee boots, furred inside, a thick pair of trousers and a long leather jacket over his cotton shirt and leather vest. He took out anything that would spoil, and walked a small distance before throwing it to the woods. He locked the door, and stuffed the key into a pocket. The autumn air already was too cold for his liking. He went and stood by Theresa’s grave for a moment, bidding a silent goodbye. He turned with a tear in his eyes, a quiet voice saying “I promise to be back love.”

  As he started on the path, he swore he heard her voice and nearly fell to the ground in shock. Just old habits he told himself, how many times did you hear the exact same thing? But he did as the memory bid, and returned home briefly. He opened the locked door and fetched his gloves, hat and scarf, all knitted by Theresa in his favourite shade of green, warm and toasty even in the dead of winter.

  He locked the door again and swung his bag onto his back, his naked blade in the hilt at his waist and the small shield strapped to his off arm. He would have to stop at the village, there were some last arrangements to be made. He wondered if any would try stop him. But he had a purpose, and he was already feeling better moving away from the memory haunted place. Some supplies and some directions, and he would be well on his way to Xrantha.