Chapter 1: Prolouge
"Ten minutes!" The guard roared as he paced the chamber.
"Then, you know the drill." He pointed over his shoulder towards a large gate. "That gate will open, your cells will unlock, and you will exit into the arena once pronounced."
From around the hall came seven murmurs or agreement.
The guard lugged himself from cell to cell, examining the fighters within. Most were attending wounds they had received in the previous bouts. What ones weren't hastily slapping bandages together were considering swords, spears, and other assorted weapons from the weapon racks lining the wall.
The guard paused when he got to the most populous cell. Inside, four men were going about their preparations. One man was notably sitting on the ground in front of their bench. His legs were crossed over each other and his hands were pressed into each other, with both thumbs resting underneath their chins. Deep in prayer, the man ignored the guard.
Confirming assent from the other men, the guard continued on.
"I am aware that this last bout is an unexpected shock, to say the least. But, I hope that you will, nonetheless, perform to the expectations of the crowd, the arena, and our lord. And, if you are to die here, may you do so with honor and dignity. Nines's blessings upon you."
From behind him, he heard murmurs of thanks, agreement, and acceptance. Ahead, of him he only saw dim light painted across shadows on the ground in front of him. The guard stepped forward into the silence to peer into the last cell.
The last cell was exactly like the others. The far wall was a gate that opened to the arena. The light that filled the room entered through the small air grate near the corner. The left side of the cell contained a mounted weapon rack. And, on the right was an empty bench built into the stone of the cell. The only movement came from flakes of dust dancing in the exposed rays of light. The room appeared to be empty.
The guard's brow furrowed. He inched closed to the doors of the cell and looked towards the edges of the room, searching for its missing inhabitant. Still not spotting him, the guard beat his fist hard on the door. He heard a small yelp from inside the room and a puff of dust flood into the light from the right corner.
"I…I'm here." A voice squeaked.
"Did you hear me?" The guard ordered.
"I did. Ten minutes. Then, gate comes up. Same as before."
The guard strained himself trying to spot the sound of the voice. "Come on out. I can't see you."
At the guard's command, a slender figure emerged from the shadow and sat on the bench. "Is this better, sir?" Jareth worried.
The guard nodded to himself. This was the kid who'd won the fourth match of the day. Probably the most controversial. The guard felt his lip turn as he remembered the match. The kid hadn't done anything wrong, but still it had left a bad taste in the guard's mouth.
The guard slid his hands up the bars of the cell. "Hey, kid. I got a question. Why'd you just leave your partner like that?"
The figure shuffled on the bench, exposing himself to the light. He couldn't have been more than 15 or 16. The boy then sat back, placing his feet on the bench, tucking in his knees, resting his arms on top of them.
"He told me not to help him." He said grimly, hiding his face in his arms.
"He was practically begging for your help in the end."
Jareth tensed, squeezing his legs between his elbows. "If I'd helped him, it would have dishonored my master."
The guard scoffed. "I'm pretty sure your master would prefer to have two fighters going in there instead of just you."
Still, the kid was good. After his partner had fallen, the kid stepped in almost without missing a beat. The guard spat. It was true that gladiators often negotiated individual bouts mid match. It was considered dishonorable for three or more fighters to gang up on another. And sometimes, the gladiator would want to pander to the crowd. At its worst, a gladiator may find himself in a doomed situation, but can at least die proudly fighting one on one.
The guard shook his head. "Well, whatever. Your loss." He said, walking away.
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Jareth listened as the sounds of the guards footsteps disappeared into the distance. He breathed in deeply, trying to steady his heartbeat.
About five minutes now.
In five minutes, the horns would blare, signaling the beginning of the final match. He looked up at the weapons rack across the room, eyes falling first on a giant battleaxe. He wondered for a moment what kind of fighter could use something so unwieldy like that successfully. Then, his eyes ran down the rack, past the trident and net, past the greatsword, to the empty notch on the wall. It used to hold a longsword. Jareth dully assumed that they would return the sword from Kade's corpse after the battle. Little good that did him.
Four minutes.
The guard's visit brought his mind back to the previous bout. Jareth remembered the sounds of the crowd booing. Remembered Kade scrambling, bloody and frantic, towards him. Him begging for help.
Jareth roughly ran his hands through his hair, grabbing at the back of his head. This wasn't helping. He clapped his hands back on his knees and took a harsh deep breath. It was less than helpful.
Three minutes.
He looked back again at the weapons rack, focusing on the end of the display. There, two shortswords lay hanging peacefully with the others. The only thing that marked these weapons as different was the blood dripping from the blade of the sword.
He had been absentmindedly tracking the blood since he had returned. Blood is much thicker than water, so it doesn't pool and drip away as quickly. It had taken some time, but now, there was barely enough blood on the sword for it to form a droplet. He hadn't planned on having to use the swords again. Jareth sighed, wondering to himself if the sword was as upset about the circumstances as he was.
As he studied the sword, something strange happened. From behind the sword, a small ball of light bobbed forth. Jareth rubbed at his eyes, trying to wipe the illusion away, but when he looked again, the ball floated up toward the ceiling of the cell.
Hardly believing his own eyes, Jareth carefully unfurled himself. The ball continued rising until it ran into the ceiling. It bounced down, arcing in a circle lazily, becore rising up to the ceiling again. This time, when the ball of light hit the ceiling, instead of bouncing off, the spot where the light touched illuminated the wall and the light disappeared into it.
"Wait" Jareth said into the silence.
But the light in the ceiling dimmed, Jareth knew that the light had gone. Jareth stood on the bench, trying to feel at the spot where the light had disappeared. The spot on the wall was warm, like the stone had been bathed in sunlight. Even though it was impossible. Jareth sat back down and buried his hands in his face. Now, he was imagining things.
One minute.
Jareth laced his fingers together and closed his eyes, shutting out the light of the world entirely. Deep breaths, he told himself. Just deep breaths until the horns sound. It wouldn't be long now.
Jareth focused on the darkness of the back of his eyelids. He breathed pointedly, in and out, feeling each exhale bring him deeper into himself. As he felt himself sink, his breathing eased and he felt his tension begin to fade away. Suddenly, he felt something land on his shoulder. His hand immediately shot up in response, looking to crush the offender.
The hand hit his shoulder hard, before he realized what it must have been. He peeled his hand slowly, careful not to damage the small creature underneath anymore than he already had. When his hand was gone, there was nothing underneath but a reddening handprint still stinging beneath his skin.
Jareth's eyes moved from his hand to his shoulder and back again. But, before he could do anything else, he heard the blaring of horns outside his cell.
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