Vladimir Arsenievich Zhikharev ჯ Troilus (apromisedglory) wrote in mythologs, @ 2012-05-25 01:05:00 |
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Entry tags: | !event #020, rosier, troilus |
[completed/closed]
Characters: Rosier (loveisthedrug_) & Troilus (apromisedglory)
Date/Time: May 25th, afternoon
Location: The Arena, Ancient Rome
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Violence and death
Summary: A fallen angel, unknown to all, versus a Trojan.
It's been two days since the beginning of the games and the day was bright, almost cheerful in a way. But the roar of the crowd removed any pleasant thoughts, the muttering of the guards with their expectations of the battle and the knowledge that he might die and Polyxena may witness it also aiding in dampening the mood.
There was only one reason for his heart to beat so hard beneath the basic armour he had on: anticipation. The hopes for glory and the need for his blood to burn as he rushed toward his opponent with intent to disarm, injure and finally kill. It wasn't war but it was close enough.
He was out in the open them, the sun warming him, his pale eyes looking out at his opponent. He was a good-sized man, someone who looked like he took care of himself and wouldn't be easy to take down. That was good. He didn't want some fool or weakling. That would have been a fucking insult to someone like him.
Words were spoken by the dominus but he heard none of them. The battle was going to begin as soon as the man announced it. Troilus took a breath and readied his blade, shield up.
Confident. That's the way he felt. Even when it came to this, even when he was faced with memories of things before, no one could make him feel any way he didn't want. He knew his strengths and weaknesses and he was sure that he'd learn his opponent's. Death didn't shake him. Not the deaths of people he didn't know. He almost smiled as he looked over at the other man. Good. He wouldn't be fighting someone worthless. It was a pity he didn't have wings but it would be a little like cheating.
He wasn't focused on the words being said or anything outside of his body and where his opponent was. He knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, that Leyla was watching but that wasn't all that important. Not now. After he was done. His fingers tightened around his sword and his shield moved into position.
She would be somewhere in the stands as Polyxena was surely up where the dominus and domina were, watching down at their property battle to the death. Troilus sneered a moment but it disappeared the moment the man he loathed to call master gave the go ahead.
And so he moved in, intending to move fast and as agilely as he could without his special abilities. His sword was raised, to land an attack against his opponent's shoulder. A cry left him as he did so, sparking interest and cheer from the crowd.
He moved to deflect the attack. It wasn't until the start that it really registered that it was real. Now that it had registered, he was focused entirely.
As they fought, Rosier was careful to learn things about his opponent: where he would strike and what his weaknesses were. The other man had gotten a good shot on his arm and Rosier could feel the sting of it, but he wasn't going to back down easily and he could handle the pain for now. A slight smile moved across his lips, disappearing shortly after as he made a few strikes.
Blood would colour his skin, his own and the other man's, but that only spurred him onward until he could only calculate where to thrust, where to slam his sword and how to evade. He wasn't always lucky and in fact he knew that the way he had treated his body over half his life hadn't helped in ways. He'd started smoking in his mid-teens but it had only gotten worse in the past few years. The drinking, the junk food, the insomnia and then the lack of food. He managed to pass his physical but he knew his doctor scolded him frequently.
Nothing to be done about it now.
Troilus swore he saw the briefest hints of a smile as he felt his blood drawn again and he couldn't help but smile faintly in return. The other man was putting his all into this. That was good, he decided and the battle spiraled forth on, the crowd going nuts with their names (Erol, his opponent was Erol, he dimly acknowledged), urging them to destroy one another for the sake of entertainment.
Rosier was glad for the things that kept him in shape. A natural desire for people and their desire for him made him a little vain, yes, but it also made him take care of himself. He would remember this for later and keep it up. He felt his muscles working, aware of every movement. It was good, it felt good. He was pleased with the battle as it progressed even if he would feel it later.
The possibility of his own death had crossed his mind, but at this point, he'd refused the idea. He would be the one alive after this. That didn't mean he needed to take risks, it just meant he had to prove himself right. The crowd roared around them, but he didn't focus on it enough to figure out his name. It all melded together to make some loud, incomprehensible noise. The message was clear enough: kill kill kill. He'd do his best. He was just waiting for the best opportunity.
Training and sparing himself any drink had helped but he still felt an ache in him from the exertion that was unlike what he faced day-to-day in New York City. The clash of steel, the sound of his own heavy breathing, his thoughts rapidly flittering about - it consumed him and made him want to go for something that would truly bring this to an end.
And there it was, an opening brought about by Troilus' certainty that he would get the man in the next blow. No matter how talented he had been (how much he was) he'd always been a man, the stories of Apollo being his father just that: stories.
He saw the opening, the opportunity. It was like Christmas had come early. Perhaps he shouldn't have taken such joy in this little fact. Maybe he should have considered the fact that someone out there would feel this. There were a lot of 'maybes' that were floating around, but he wasn't an overly emotional person and so it was easy to push aside these issues.
Confidence wasn't an issue for most. Overconfidence, however...
Eyes lighting up, he took full advantage of this moment of overconfidence. His fingers tightened and he plunged his sword through the other man's chest. He didn't look away, didn't close his eyes against death. Instead, he kept his gaze trained on his opponent's face. Such pale eyes and strong features. It was a pity to have to kill such an attractive person, but he refused to die to save someone else and he had a feeling it would have been insulting anyway.
What a familiar feeling. Like every life before this, he felt a pain that he could grudgingly call an old friend. Perhaps, as Hector said, he would return and this would not be a true death but they couldn't know that for sure. Who knew what that Greek bitch would do to them?
But would the crowds forever remember his name? Would this man? Would his family (would she)? Yes, he thought dizzily (happily). He was Troilus of Troy. He would be remembered but he would break a heart he never wanted to even bruise.
His lips moved as blood bubbled up upon them, a name lost beneath the red before lurched forward, the sword sinking more deeply into himself. It didn't matter, he thought, because stepping back would mean nothing. But he didn't want to fall, lie at someone's feet as he died, and he reached for the other, sword fallen to the sand under their feet. The name was repeated again, given no voice still as he closed his eyes as he felt himself sink against the other man, forehead pressed almost intimate to his shoulder.
What he gave voice to was the beginning of his final words. "The Trojans..." Oh, the terrible sensation of having to speak through what was happening to him. "Tell them I bear you no ill will. You were...honourable about this." A breath was painfully dragged in as he spoke his last. "Thank you."
Then there was no more.