Red on White Stone Floors

Early in the day, while he was having breakfast in the Church mess hall, a courier arrived with a letter for James. Thanking the courier and giving them a tip, he looked at it. The outside was addressed to James, Church of Lucetius. Not wanting to hurry, he finished his breakfast before opening the letter.
 
“Be at the Wayward Traveler no later than 5pm. Bring your fighting clothes. You will board a blacked out carriage and be taken to a patrons estate. There you will fight, spill and draw blood, and do your absolute best to make sure the money they’re spending to rent you is money well spent. Congratulations, your fight with Kagun is paying off even more. Pray to whatever gods you want that this continues. Because these fights make us money, and when we make money, your debt goes down. Who knows, if you live through enough of them you might actually be free. If you live. But as far as tonight is concerned, you will live, one way or another. Here’s the most important part. Follow these instructions exactly, and tell no one of them or what’s happening. This is a private event, invite only. If you tell anyone, there will be consequences, and they will be severe. For you, and for them. I hope that’s clear enough for you.
-M”
 
James suddenly wished he’d skipped breakfast. Phantom claws of memory tore at him, and the voices of conversation around him became a leonin’s roar, and the cheering of a bloodthirsty crowd. It takes several hard minutes for him to pull himself out of it, and for the memory of the pits to resolve to the reality of the mess hall. As the utterly black chains of fear slowly fell from his body, something else took its place. Determination. Determination and even a bit of joy. An old joy, almost manic in glee, at testing oneself, and seeing the blood of his opponent splashing around him.
 
James didn’t like that part of himself. Didn’t like that it hadn’t stayed buried and asleep, as it had been for almost two decades. It would be so easy to let it wake up. He could slip into it like an old favorite coat, and he knew it would fit perfectly even now. “No,” he says to himself. “No, I won’t let you get any more than this. I can enjoy the fight, but I refuse to revel in the blood and pain. Never again.”
 
Taking his plates to the kitchen, James cleaned them, and then picked up a large pitcher of ice water. For the next several hours he is in his academy, practicing. Letting muscles warm up, in preparation for extreme abuse later that night. When the pitcher was empty he was done. He cleaned himself up, and dressed, not well, but well enough. And following instructions, makes sure to pack a bag of his fighting clothes.
 
Ten minutes before the instructed time, James arrives at the Wayward Traveler. Parked nearby is a very nondescript carriage, with all windows covered. The driver stood near, and opened the door for him, having clearly been told what James looked like. No words were said as the door was closed and the carriage pulled away. For what seemed like over an hour, they traveled. The only changes were the smells, going from the strong scent of water, to those of the city, eventually to the countryside. Coming to a halt, the driver came around and opened the door.
 
Taking a quick look around James can see they’re at the back of an immense manor house. Something only one of the old money could afford, as it was likely passed down for a long time through the family. The driver led him in through what was obviously the servants entrance. Inside he was quickly handed off to another of the household staff. They looked at him with a mixture of absolute terror, and extreme disdain. Like one does to a wild animal that lives its life in the muck of a swamp, while also being a beast that could rampage at any moment.
 
The tense journey ended quickly as he was led to a room, and shut inside it. It was a very well appointed, but clearly simple thing. However it was still well beyond anything he’d ever stayed in. Refreshments were provided, as well as some food. It was simple fare for the household, but still good. “At least they don’t want me starving before I perform like the good trained beast I am.” He speaks quietly and sits down, enjoying more water and a small bit of the food.
 
James lost track of time in the room, having started to look at all the books on shelves. He could read the spines of a few of them, and identify the languages of many others. A knock sounded at the door before a well dressed, older manservant walked in. “You are to make yourself ready. You will be presented soon, and then the show can begin.” He stated curtly, but with that scornful civility that only those brought up among the nobility can muster. After saying his peace the manservant turned and left, closing the door behind him. For the briefest of moments, James considered trying to run, to escape. But it would be pointless. He’d be caught and found, and that’s only if he could get out of the manor and surrounding grounds without getting stopped. And then, even if the Syndicate didn’t, or couldn’t track him with that damned vial of blood, he’d be leaving everything behind. And for the first time, truly, facing this, he realized that he couldn’t. He’d started to put roots down here, not around things, but around people. And he couldn’t bear to part with them now.
 
Sighing for but a brief moment, James stripped and redressed in his fighting clothes. Clothes that left most of his body bare. If he’d known that he was being watched, maybe he’d have done something different. If he’d known it was a few of the serving women and men and others who were taking a peek at this monster, this beast in their house, maybe he’d have hidden from their gaze. But then again, probably not.
 
This time the knock was followed by a well dressed guard. She was professional in everything she did, and the weapons at her hip had no doubt seen much use in practice. And maybe even some on live flesh. “It’s time. Come with me.” He hesitated for a moment, not sure what to do about his other clothes. “Leave them here. They’ll be returned to you when you leave.” Her tone was almost ice cold. No feeling, no emotions toward him. James complied, and followed.
 
The halls were richly decorated, portraits hung on many of the walls, along with exquisite paintings and tapestries from ages past. He heard the buzz of conversation before he saw them. He was stopped in a small alcove, all but completely hidden from anyone, yet he could see all of them. Dozens and dozens of masked guests, all in clothes and decorated in jewelry that could see every member of the Warrens eat well for several years. Disgust boiled up in him. None of these people knew, but worse, none of them cared. He’d stolen gold, but these creatures, they’d stolen people's lives. Because they saw it as the natural order of things. That people like him, and Nel, and so many others, are simply there to do what they say. To be ground to dust at their whim, because it amuses them for a moment, or gives them a small chance to game a rival. They’d brought him here for blood, and they were going to get blood, oh yes. He was going to do what he’d been told, like a good little slave. But he was going to take what little petty revenge he could. He would see how many of those dresses that could buy a house, and those suits that could feed a family he could splatter with blood. His, or his opponents.
 
“Good gentle folk, please pray attend.” Into the center of this room, this bright white room stood a figure. They stood out, but James could not guess anything about them, not their age, nor how they presented themselves. However, he could tell that they commanded power, for the energy of the room shifted immediately as they spoke, all eyes focusing on them. “Tonight, I bring you a spectacle from the old world. In the hallowed days of yore, Emperors, Kings, Dukes, Counts, Barons and all the rest enjoyed an entertainment which has not been enjoyed by those like us in generations.”
 
They were a fantastic speaker. They knew exactly how to pitch their voice, and how to structure their speech to command the greatest amount of anticipation. Even James couldn’t help but be captivated, even as he thought of how his blood was going to stand out on the white canvas of the floors and decorations of this room.
 
“Tonight, I give to you something which, if you find it pleasing, I hope to rekindle in this country. Tonight, I give to you, the Munera!” Delighted, but proper cheering went up from the assembled crowd. Clapping and hungry smiles containing bits of lust at the coming event could be heard and seen on nearly all the gathered. “Some of you were there when our first Champion took to a sadly, disreputable place. I’m pleased to say that we have rescued him from the depravity of his former life, to be exalted here. Good gentles, I present to you, the Crashing Wave!”
 
The speaker pointed a hand to where James stood, and with a small shove, his guard pushed him into the light, and sight of all those gathered. He stood tall, proud. If they wanted a beast, then they would not get a cowering prey animal. He felt their gazes upon him as he walked toward the speaker. He’d been looked at before, appreciated, admired, even lusted after. But this. This was that but with a horrific feeling of violation with it. Even the erotic longing he saw on the faces of some as they looked at him, all of him, made his insides recoil. He then remembered those looks, or at least ones close enough. Like a poltergeist rising, the memory of long ago, of his second ship, of the Captain and officers. Yes, yes he knew those looks. Only this time he didn’t have a crew to mutiny with him to put these animals down. He didn’t feel the need for a shower, he felt the need to almost peel his skin off so that he wouldn’t have a part on him that’d been touched by their eyes.
 
But none of this showed on his face. His eyes were hard, hunting, a predator's eyes among those who thought themselves above, safe, from a hunting shark. The speaker gestured to a spot next to him, and James stood there, in his relaxed ready posture. He did his best to look at everyone, without truly looking. He wanted to remember them, to know them, to be able to find them when the time came. He knew it was almost futile, but it kept him occupied, and less bothered by the penetrating gazes.
 
“Our next champion hails from the east, beyond the Iron Curtain. He has stood against impossible hardships, and they only made him stronger. No man or beast has ever bested him, and a trail of the broken and bloodied have been left in his wake. Good gentles, I present to you, the Iron Wolf!” From the opposite side of the room where James had stood comes a Half-Orc. He was dressed in as little clothing as James, and scars told the story of his life across his dull green skin. If the sight of James had caused this crowd arousal, the Half-Orc practically caused climax.
 
The smirk on the Half-Orcs face could have said a dozen things, but James couldn’t figure out exactly what it was. However a spark was kindled then. That old excitement of battle, of testing yourself against someone, with victory being assured only one way. He was here, what was going to happen would happen no matter his feelings about it. But he had control, he had the ability to influence the outcome. So he would enjoy this, or at least he’d try.
 
“Feast your eyes upon your Champions. Revel in the knowledge that you will be the last to see them as they are. For after tonight, new scars will stitch across their skin, and a new canvas will be made. And as for the brushes our artists will wield to paint a masterpiece, I present to you, these.” The manservant from before steps forward, carrying a beautiful box of polished black ebony. He approaches the speaker and opens the case, then turns around, showing the contents to those assembled. Inside are two pairs of black leather gloves. And on top of where the knuckles would be, are sets of viscous looking bronze stars.
 
James had seen things like it before, but never for something like this. The stars looked beautiful, but were designed to tear flesh and cause bleeding with every strike. They weren’t deadly, merely destructive. They would rip and tear with every hit, but only cutting shallow gashes. Until they started to warp and deform under powerful blows. Then they could slash with the best of blades. He’d stood up to the claws of an enraged Leonin, nearly determined to kill him and peel every strip of skin from his body. This would be better, and worse.
 
The speaker took the box, and turned to the Half-Orc first. He took out one of the pairs and slipped them on, securing them in place around his wrist. As the speaker presented the box to James, he picked the remaining pair up. For a brief moment, he admired the craftsmanship of them, before sliding them on and feeling the padding behind the brass caps settling into place perfectly on his knuckles. Securing and testing them, James stood ready.
 
“Good gentles, it is time for our artists to begin their works. But first, let us prepare the studio for them.” With a few dramatic gestures, the room began to shift and change. Some features sunk into the floor, while others rose. What had been slick white marble took on a texture that allowed for more grip, but the color didn’t shift. A circle appeared on the floor, merely a line of black color, showing the outline of the ring they were to fight in. The assembled people backed up till they were just outside of it. A hush pregnant with raw desire filled the room. The speaker bowed to James and the Half-Orc before walking away to join the crowd.
 
He turned back with a flourish. “Champions, fight well, and show us what artists you are. Begin!” With a gesture the sound of a bell rang through the room, the time of crimson had come.
 
There was no touching of gloves. That was for a different kind of fight, a kinder fight. This was the fighting of the desperate, of animals, of spectacle and show. But it was still a fight. James squared off against the Iron Wolf and he against James. Circling each other as two predators, watching, learning. A few punches thrown here and there, testing defenses, testing reactions. Agonizing seconds dragged on, and then a sudden flurry of violence. Amid a series of blows and blocks, one finds purchase. James feels his knuckles connect against the stomach of the Iron Wolf. Then the strange sensation of those bronze stars biting into flesh, and tearing. Pulling back out of range he sees the results of a blow well struck. A ragged line of torn flesh, and blood welling up inside it.
 
The Iron Wolf grinned. Not an evil one, or one that enjoyed this spectacle, but one that admired an opponent of skill. Again the two came together, and again James landed a strike against the stomach of his opponent. As he tried to pull away the Iron Wolf stepped forward, requiring a hasty defense, causing the blow to land on James’s shoulder, instead of against his head. Biting, pinching, grabbing, and then tearing. Those feelings ran through his nerves as they pulled away from each other. A pain, dulled by adrenaline burned in his shoulder. He knew it was only the first of many to come.
 
On and on they fought, trading blows, leaving marks in each other. As the wounds increased, and places were struck multiple times, the blood flowed more freely, no longer welling up, but spilling out, running down their bodies as tiny crimson waterfalls. The pure white stone around them became splattered with streaks of red. A canvas colored with the most precious of paints. All around the circle they moved, striking every chance they got. Along the floor, and lines stitched up dresses and across porcelain masks, did the crimson color fly. Whenever they came close to the edge of the circle, hands reached out, touching them, caressing them, as if from the most wanton lover, begging for another intimate stroke to bring ecstasy.
 
Through continued violence, defiled skin was torn off, shirts of blood being worn instead. Hands reached, hands touched, hands became coated in crimson gloves, which then turned to touch dresses, masks, hidden flesh under opened clothing. The noises from the gathered were a riotous combination of cheering, celebrating, and lustful moaning. If from the sight of the two fighters or the hands of those around them seeking sensual places, he did not know, nor care. The fight continued, with neither giving ground, but giving blood to the profane rite of this moment.
 
Bronze moved, bent, shifted and broke under the titanic forces unleashed by the two, against the two. Nerves of both were on fire, their bodies enveloped in a blanket of pain, and exhaustion from exertion that seemed beyond mortal ability, and the loss of so much of that precious, vital fluid, was taking its toll. The end was coming, and both knew it. Even in pain, and feeling his strength evaporating, a part of James was happy, almost ecstatic. Here was something pure, something simple, something he knew well. But he still would not let himself fall into that trap, for a trap it was. A trap of the past, of a person long dead and left behind.
 
The final blow came at last. A furious exchange, little skill and more raw determination to use what tiny bit remained to finish the other and be the one remaining standing. James landed his blow, it was perfectly aimed, but his strength bled from him too fast, and it hit with little force. The return blow from the Iron Wolf sealed it. The fist caught him on the left side of the face, and the stars, now mangled beyond imagining, slashed a line from ear nearly to his lips, and almost deep enough to have fully separated the tissue.
 
James felt the blow, knew it for what it was, and he felt the strip of fire along his cheek for but a brief moment, before blessed darkness claimed him. Around the room, there was little cheering, for all the guests appeared to be caught up in furious coupling. The violence of combat had led to a manic orgy. Bodies writhing against each other as climax after climax came to them, seemingly without end. All having given themselves over to the frenzy.
 
James woke into a world of aching pain, and almost no light. All over he hurt. Muscles from having been used far beyond their ability, and new skin feeling too sensitive in his clothes. He realized then that he was dressed in his regular clothes. And nothing had that distinct unpleasant pull of dried blood against fabric, which he knew meant he’d been healed. But his cheek, that felt different. Slowly sitting up in the swaying carriage, he reached up and touched. There was a furrow from the start of his ear, disappearing into his beard, and stopping mere millimeters from his lips. A new scar. A reminder of what had just happened. A memento to look back upon and realize that what had happened wasn’t a terrible nightmare that would fade with the dawn light. A gift, delivered by the Iron Wolf, but given by the speaker.
 
He wanted to be angry, but that was barely a spark against his exhaustion. Same with his tears. Simply existing while conscious was almost more than his faculties could handle. Soon after the carriage stopped, and the door opened. Exiting the vehicle, James found himself not at the Wayward Traveler, but at the church of Lucetius. Almost too grateful for words, for if he’d had to walk back, surely he would have collapsed in an alley for the remainder of the night. James began his slow trudge through the yard of the Church. Soon he heard the sound of hooves against cobble stone as the carriage pulled away.
 
It was late, very late, and most should be asleep at this time. But one wasn’t. One blessed person wasn’t. Having heard a carriage arrive, Koren, who had been unable to sleep and decided to practice in the academy room, quickly closed up and headed out to the yard. Seeing James shaking, and stumbling they ran over, panic and fear coursing through them. “Maestro, Maestro! Are you okay?” They came up, great concern in their voice. James laughed, saying a silent prayer of thanks to the Storm Father for having kept this one up.
 
“What did I say Koren. You can call me James unless I’m trying to thrash you in that room over there.” James tried to laugh, but it came out more as a cough instead. “And no, I’m not okay. But it’s nothing anyone can fix right now. If you’re willing, help me to my room. Also, when we’re there, and I ask you forgiveness for this, can you help me undress and get into my bed. I’m afraid I’d be unable to do either, unassisted, at the moment.”
 
Korens eyes glistened in concern and worry for James. They slipped under his right arm, taking a load of his weight onto them, and they started to walk. “Slow and steady Mae…James. Slow and steady. We’ll get you there. And yes, I’ll help you.” It took what felt like hours to walk into the Church, and up the several flights of stairs to the room James occupied. Dull orange light filled the room as they entered. And as they crossed the threshold, nearly all of his strength was gone. With a mighty effort, the small Leonin moved him to the bed and got him down.
 
This man, who’d seemed this pillar of vitality, even at his age. This stone monument that nothing could best, now sat on his bed, bent like a willow, and practically withered like overripe fruit. Koren knelt down, and carefully pulled off his boots, then his jacket. As they helped James with his shirt was when they noticed the furrow of the scar struck in his cheek. Koren winced, but did not ask. Not yet anyway. Next came the more difficult part, and the one that could stretch the boundaries of propriety, if they truly cared about that thing, especially in this case. Undoing the buttons they carefully assisted James out of their pants, and then undid their garters and removed the stockings.
 
“Water, please before I sleep, water.” James cried softly. Koren filled a cup and brought it to him, helping him to drink. After he finished, they helped him lay back in bed and draped the blankets over him. They then took their time carefully gathering and folding everything, and neatly stacking it near the dresser. A noise alerted them. A tiny whine of someone descending into a bad dream came from James. Koren moved back over to him, and saw he was shaking, shivering. Putting a hand to him, they felt how cold he was.
 
Desire to comfort their Maestro, their friend, overcoming any shame, and knowing that shivering under that many blankets was never a good sign, Koren also stripped down, though not as much as James. Gesturing at the lights they winked out, and they crawled under the covers with him, helping to warm him with their own body heat and fur. James stiffened at the touch, and then relaxed. Koren lay close to him, worry still in their heart, but now feeling they’re helping at least a little. “Sleep well James. Let the Master of Waves take you far away from the storms in your heart and mind.” They whispered to him.
 
And with that, they relaxed against him, and fell asleep.