Chapter Text
The people cheered as loud as ever at his win, their roar swallowing the arena like a storm shaking the very earth under his feet. They were ecstatic over the way his sword had sliced through the beast as though he was cutting through a thin piece of cloth instead of a Titankin in captivity, a fierce beast corrupted by the black tide. The Titankin simply roam the earth and cause terror to travellers and happen to encounter it by chance in the wilderness. These creatures don´t seek out humans, since all the people in Amphoreus worship any of the titans and will be under their protection. This particular one, along with the countless many he has brutally killed in the past, all for cheap entertainment, had the horrible misfortune of encountering people who weren´t scared of it. Its body slowly disintegrated into dust, all that was left in front of his eyes were the blue cloth, now dirtied, before it also became one with the ground. If he could, he would pay his respects to the fallen beast, the mighty creature of the black tide. However, to do so, he would have to sacrifice his own life, and that wasn´t something he could bring himself to do just yet.
The Deliverer raises his great sword toward the skies, as though he has claimed the sun for this city. His flawless face split into a wide grin, sharp enough that the very back of the arena could see its shine. White hair matted down with dust, but still shining vibrantly, since some of the dust had been washed out be the sweat. Chrystal blue eyes filled with triumph for the people. His occupied hand trembles under the weight of his weapon, and his unoccupied hand trembles of weakness. His legs feel as though they could collapse at any given moment, and he is quite sure that a mere untrained child could beat him in battle at his state. Perhaps he would fall even without the child raising a hand at him. The wind could be enough to spell his falling. But the people cannot know of this, could not know how the Great Deliverer is merely a weak, weak man, unable to hold up himself right now.
No, the show must go on. He lowers his weapon and deeply bows to everyone. The arena is filled to the brim with people, hundreds of people gathered together to watch the show. Men, women, children, families with infants, the poor in the standing seats further away, the middleclass sitting in the seats closer towards the ground and the wealthiest sitting in a box. He bows towards each direction, though each time hurts more than the last. His knees buckle and tremble uncontrollably, his cheeks hurt from the wide grin he holds. Wide, but not his own. He forgot how he looked when the smile reached his eyes. He distinctly hears the announcement, how the Deliverer has done it again, and delivered a victory others can only dream of. He hears only bits and pieces, his own breath and heartbeat too loud to hear anything else.
He will have food tonight and can sleep peacefully. It was one of his biggest wins to date, 30 captured Titankin against one man. In reality, it should have been a simple task for him. Or rather, it should have been, had not his sword been a rather blunt and excessively heavy one and had he been allowed the privilege of sleep the last two nights. The deliverer wasn´t bragging, nor was he exaggerating, but a mere thirty Titankin is nothing at his prime. However, last time he had looked too "weak" and couldn´t eat for the next two days. He has gone without food before, almost a week and a half without, but it really took its toll on him this time.
But he would have that tonight, for he was victorious today in the arena, and pleased the crowd. Once the announcement was complete, met with more cheering, donations for the arena pouring in, as well as people offering to pay for whatever “entertainment” was happening next time, the Deliverer was finally allowed to retreat to his cell.
Two guards met him near the gates at the very edge of the arena, armed with sharp spears that glinted in the hot sun, shiny armour suited perfectly to their bodies and helmets covering everything but eyes and nose. The kind of thing someone fighting two and a half dozen Titankin needs, not guards who march, do drills and drink should. And yet the Deliverer was dressed in a simple knee-length chiton and a cloak, along with two leather belts. All in a dirty, sandy white, of course. He gets new clothes during festival time once a year, and those were his clothes for the rest of it. He was allowed baths once a week, but he had exactly one quint to bathe, clean residual injuries, wash his clothes, make himself as neat and warrior-like as possible, polish his sword, fix his sandals and lastly, ask for medicine should he need any. The last one almost never happened, and his requests were denied until Thanatos himself stood outside his cell. After all, they couldn’t let their favourite fighter die.
The deliverer was taken to his cell, a small room with enough dust to suffocate and a single hard kline. The bars were opened, the deliverer went in, and the bars closed once more. He had not the faintest clue where the keys to his prison were taken to after locking him up, and in his 20 years of being in the arena, he has not had a chance to find out.
He remembered the time before, yes, despite being very young at the time. He remembered running in a wheat field, eating his mother´s pastries under the elk-tree with Cyrene and his dog Snowy. His father, making him a wooden sword, one that saved his life later. His memories of home were there, even though he had no idea where “home” even was. He knew that he was in a city called Chorosopolis. He was the only one here from “home”. He was stuck being a gladiatorial slave until death.
Sleep came easy for the weary. After all, it was the only time his body could be without the feel or sound of steel against steel.
He awoke to the sound of steel. Something was tapping on the bars. The prisoner glanced towards the bars and saw that something. A slip of a figure, perhaps only a shadow, until his eyes adjusted to the dark. A young face, the face that should have held innocence, yet did not. the girl stood outside his cell, and she had a key in her small hands. He had only ever seen the guards handle the key. had this child perhaps snuck in? Her face was clean and full enough for him to know that she wasn´t a fellow fighter. He was much more malnourished when he was younger. The child opened the gates, doing it in a way that so slow, as though she knew exactly how much they creaked if opened any faster. The gladiator, the Deliverer himself, sat on his kline, utterly baffled. Should he laugh, strike or kneel before her, he couldn’t answer. She only tilted her head towards the corridors, her brown eyes carrying a weight that only someone on a death row could carry. She knew. She knew that she could be punished with death for this, but she opened the gates anyway.
“Come,” she whispered.
“Before they notice”
He followed like the child was a lifeline. She didn´t look at his face, either with shame, fear or disgust. Not fear, she walked too confidently to be ashamed. a fast, sure pace, like she knew exactly where she is going and nothing could stop her. The Deliverer ambled behind like a dead man awoken. His body protested with every step he took, while hers were steady, the way someone in power would. The child takes him through narrow corridors lit up with torches on the walls, allowing him to vaguely see more of her appearance. She must´ve been around twelve summers old, with short choppy black hair and a long weapon sheathed on her back. The child held a dagger in her hand as well. The deliverer couldn’t tell what the weapon on her back was, the lights spat and flickered too much. She did not ask questions, and he followed her example. He had a feeling that the questions wouldn’t be answered anyway.
They turned corner after corner, after the girl carefully checked each one to make sure no guards were there. Suddenly, she spoke up.
“You fight for them,” she whispered, more statement than accusation.
“I survive for them.” He muttered back. His voice was hoarser than what he remembered.
“Would you like to start living for yourself instead?” Was her first question.
The man didn’t answer.
They continued walking through the labyrinth of stone corridors, stopping a few times, rushing full speed at times and sneaking like Zagreus´s thieves in front of doors. Water dripped from the ceiling and the man could hear rats scuttering about. It smelled old, dusty and faintly of booze. Eventually, they stopped in front of another gate. The stone had crumbled around it and the iron gate was somewhat rusted. Beyond it, so close he could taste it, was the cool and sweet smell of open night air. His heart knocked on his ribs so hard they could break. A lifetime of fighting, and freedom was a dozen paces away. He honestly didn´t know what to feel. The prospect of doing what he wanted instead of fighting for entertainment.
But then, voices. From the left passage came the sound of boots, clinking armour and faint speech. The deliverer couldn’t hear what they said, but he caught faint traces of the words prince and mad. And fight and moving. The child had frozen in anticipation, waiting for the final blow. Her hands were still outstretched, like she was frozen in ice. Her eyes were wide, and the deliverer could finally discern some fear in them. But to their luck, the voices turned, fading back to the left passage. They both let out a breath he wasn’t aware they were holding. She motioned him to follow again.
Once led through the rusted gate, the first breath struck him like wine. He staggered, drunk on the smell of freedom, after two decades of captivity. For once, the night sky wasn’t a ceiling of stone. He could smell grass, petrichor and something sweet. He prefered it much more than sweat, rot and mould. He could still hear guards talking, but now the wind rustling through his ears covered it. Before he could fall to his knees and weep in joy, she had captured his arm and held it firmly.
“Not yet, Deliverer. You need to work just a little bit more for freedom, they can still find you. Head west, and in a few days’ time you will reach Castrum Kremnos. Once you reach there, do not, under any circumstances, connect yourself with this city, got it? You will be captured if anyone finds out, and the next show you put on will be your last one, understood?”
The Deliverer hesitated, but spoke: “What should I introduce myself as?”
Perhaps there were more important questions, but the deliverer felt this one thrum in his chest, what is his identity? He had long forgotten his name, and had only ever been called Deliverer by people here. She looked at him, studied his face as though to commit it to memory. Even now, her face was almost impassive, but he could see just a sliver of relief. This child had yet to master the art of showing nothing. He hadn´t either, so he much prefered facades instead.
“All I know of your past is that you hail from a village called Aedes Elysiae. It got destroyed during the time you were taken, and you were the only survivor I know of. Perhaps you could choose a name for yourself on your way there? Castrum Kremnos appreciates warriors from anywhere, as long as they can fight decently. You would fit there perfectly. Once it moves again, nobody here will be able to find you, and it is scheduled to move in a week and a half. I´ve hidden weapons and food near the hill directly on the west, under a horn beam tree, so you can take those?” Her voice lilted upwards, as though she was unsure he would appreciate her help, as if he was in any position to refuse.
The deliverer asks one final question: who his saviour really was.
“Nobody important, I simply did not approve of people treated as entertainment, and here we are.” Silence settles, but then- “shouldn´t you be off to Castrum Kremnos now, delivever? Someone might find you should you stay any longer here."
And so, the deliverer took of in what was freedom, knowing that no matter what happened in Castrum Kremnos, he would endure it, just so he wouldn’t end up right back in the Arena again. He took off slightly jogging towards the hill the young girl and pointed at, turning around to wave goodbye. She had taken off somewhere, never to be seen again by him.
And the story of The Great Deliverer started.