Unwilling Sacrifice

Through a hole in a door there was an eye. An eye that betrayed raw fear; fear that smothered the senses and quickly infiltrated the very core of your being. The eye belonged to a young man clad in scarred, hacked armor. The heavy metal plates tear at his quivering muscles and cut like sandpaper into his sweating skin. His numb hands clench the short sword he carries; the object feels foreign in his farmers' hands. Every salty droplet of sweat that slicks his hair and rivulets into his eyes threatens to blind him. His heart hammers dizzyingly at his chest, so loud it seems the whole world can hear it. And over the sound of his blood pumping in his ears comes the roar of the crowd massed in the arena. Thousands of careless men and women eager to see this young, untested man face his worst fears in the Pit. Like vultures around a dying beast, eager and impatient for the feast to begin.


Wild, useless thoughts of escape swim through the boys mind. His hyperventilating pant is blocked from his ear's as he is drawn into a memory of a better time, as if in desperation his mind is seeking to escape and return to his peaceful youth. A spicy aroma wafts beneath his nostrils and he sucks it deep into his lungs, enjoying a scent he remembers well. The essence of the spices that grew on the small farm of his childhood. And now he can see his mother, running through the spice trees, laughing and sweeping him up in her arms. His father is grinding a plowing blade in the shed and the happy cries of his brothers and sisters at play echo in his ears. If he only knew what had become of them after the raiders had come...

The nostalgic memory is torn away as a brutish guard shoves him roughly in the back and barks hoarsely;
"You're up son. Give 'em hell."
The last words ever spoken to him. Without warning the gate is wrenched open and glaring sunlight pierces the dark cell. The clash of sword on shield and the guttural roar of lions wash against the two of them. The young man with no name lurches into the hot sands of the arena. As if to drink in every last detail of the small remainder of his life, he becomes acutely aware of everything around him. The faint play of the wind on his neck, cooling his sweat. The harsh grinding sand biting at his toes. And from some distant place, perhaps his memories, the scent of spice.
The guard heaves the door closed on the boy, sealing his fate. He forces himself to avert his gaze from the desperate eyes of the unwilling gladiator. He doesn't want to see the fear and hopelessness, maybe he think he will sleep better if he ignores it.