The Bull of the Arena: The Beast's Bounty

Prompt: 122 Arena

Word Count: 610

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The crowd jeered at Calix as he stepped out of the shadows and into the pit, as was his usual fanfare. This was something he had gotten used to over the years. The audience was here for him, but only to see him brought down like the monster they saw him as. He did not care for them. Instead, Calix turned his attention to the opposite gate as the announcer boomed over the crowd.

“And your champion, ladies and gentlemen!”

From the shadows emerged a man wearing a helm with decoration like a splashing fish’s tail. His silhouette was bulked out by a large and curved rectangular shield. An amused snort left Calix’s nose as he adjusted the net cast over his shoulder.

“Will this secutor triumph over The Beast of the Maze?”

The secutor in question approached the middle of the arena, taking his time to revel in the crowd’s cheers. He waved his armored right hand in a sweeping motion to the crowd, then in an exaggerated motion brought his hand to his mouth and blew a kiss to a random spot among the gathered people. Calix rolled his eyes.

“Loyal fans may recognize our challenger! He’s one of our very own gladiators!”

Calix pulled the net over his shoulder and folded it neatly in his right hand. His trident was gripped in his left, prongs pointed down to avoid snagging his primary weapon. As the other gladiator got close , Calix could see their scar littered torso and his heart began to drum to a fearful beat.

“In a crowd favorite match up-”

The scars matched. No, of course they do. They’re gladiators. They face all the same wounds.

“The secutor challenged one of his own-”

Same height, same build. Of course that’s the case. He’s a pretty average man.

“Maybe his insight will give him the edge he needs-”

He’s walking the same. Maybe it’s the armor? The shield?

“To finally kill Calix and claim his bounty!”

“Atticus…?” his voice should have been too quiet to hear over the roaring crowd. But still, the challenger tensed and dropped into a fighting position.

“Make it a good one, friend.”

 

If Calix had been any slower, any less agile, the arena would have been fed twice. Calix held his friend’s head to his shoulder as Atticus’s open wounds spilled onto the blood-thirsty sand. A jab into his leg that split open his artery had killed Atticus early in the fight. But he was determined to bring Calix down with him, and fought with a wild frenzy Calix had only seen out of fugitives.

Overwhelmed with emotions that he couldn’t even begin to process, Calix clutched Atticus closer to his body. Muscles trembled and tears mixed with sweat and blood. Unable to keep himself together, Calix bellowed with all of the rage, sorrow, and confusion that stirred in heart like a torrent over stormy seas. Any spectacle gained from watching two dear friends fight to the death was lost, or kept quiet in fear of directing the beast’s rage. 

The days, weeks, months- his lifetime afterwards, Calix’s life felt a little more empty. A little more quiet. And significantly more conflicting. The days ran together in a blur. He could never tell if he was thinking too much or not at all. Every happy memory he made, he felt himself yearning that Atticus was by his side to experience it with him. In sorrow, he wished for his friend’s comforting arm to wrap around his shoulder. When those moments of comfortable silence came, Calix found himself thinking it’d be all the better if he had Atticus to share it with.