Sand.
It was the thing he was most familiar with. The feel of it slipping through his toes. The way it tasted in his mouth and crunched between his teeth. The sting as it entered his wounds and the way it stuck to his skin as it mixed with his blood. The way it burned the soles of his feet after a particularly scorching day. The itch as it was flung into his eyes in an effort to blind him. He could feel how it shifted beneath him, how it flexed as his feet traveled upon it. A lifetime of training had perfected his movements upon such surface to the point where he no longer slipped or wavered as others did when things got tense. It became another tool for his arsenal, just like the sword he was wielding at the moment.
The steel blade was a comfortable weight in his hand, and one that he rarely went a day without. It responded to his every command without hesitation, twisting and turning through the air in graceful arcs, yet harboring deadly intent. Ingrained into him since the first day he could remember, he had learned to revere its sacred edge, just as he had learned to worship the sand at his feet. The instrument of death had become an extension of himself and would strike without mercy should the young man's master ask of it, which he often did. A simple hand gesture was often all it took to bring the sword down, bringing fame and fortune to his master. It also brought about cries, both of agony and blood-driven excitement. His name was often chanted loudly and in mass as he delivered the swift sentence without hesitation or feeling because in this world of his, the sun only shined upon the victor. Defeat was the most detestable of crimes and it could only be washed away in the loser's own blood.
This was why he could never lose. To fail after such rigorous training, to fail after having been so carefully molded by his master, would mean a shame that not even death could cleanse. That was why the orc before him had to die, why he was going to die. He would be sacrificed to the hallowed ground beneath them, an offering to the only way of life the young man had ever known. His opponent resisted, just as every living creature struggles against its demise, but his efforts were rudimentary at best. The young man reacted to every swing and slash as easily as taking his next breath and he could see the desperation on his opponent's face as none of them connected. A hot breeze ruffled his blond hair as he dodged a deadly thrust and there was a metallic crash as both swords connected violently, drawing a deafening roar from the crowd.
Blood is what they cried for, and blood was what they received. A red stream trickled down onto the sand as his opponent stumbled back, sporting a fresh gash across his chest. The wounded orc locked eyes with him, searching their blue depths for any sense of weakness, and finding none. He instead found the gaze of a predator, one that would devour any prey set before him when given the order. Fear spread across his face as the young man faked a lunge, only to transition into a leg sweep that sent him face first into the searing sand below. With a roll he dodged a thrust intended for his back but a foot caught him in the stomach as he tried to rise, knocking the breath out of him and sending him rolling a few feet away. Frosty eyes tracked his tumble across the sand and soon the orc spotted the shadow of his opponent as he came to finish him off.
Desperate, wounded, and angry, the creature let out a primal roar before rising to meet the threat head on. His rush, though brave, proved to be his undoing. The young man ducked under a slash aimed for his head and leaned back to avoid his return strike before delivering a precise cut inside the orc's thigh, dropping him to one knee. The human's fist connected with his chin and he crumpled to the ground, his sword pinned to the sands by a worn out sandal. Shouts echoed around them as the young man stood above him, his face projecting a strange sense of normalcy in an otherwise insane setting.
The orc stole a breath as the blade was pointed at his throat and they both looked up to the main podium holding several men dressed in fancy wares. There were four in total, each seated with a drink in hand, and three of them focused on a particular red-haired man dressed in an all black tux. The human caught his gaze and his master smiled before handing his drink to one of the nearby stewards and standing up. The collective voices of the crowd bellowed a single word as the sharply dressed man held out a fist, his eyes scanning the stands.
"Kill! Kill! Kill! Kill!"
The orc watched in dreadful anticipation as his fate hanged in the balance and his heart leapt as the pale man's thumb extended outward, a toothy and demonic smile spreading across his lips. It was a silent gesture, but to the condemned orc it might as well have been Death's voice calling out to him. His thumb shot downward and the wounded creature looked up at the human to find him absolutely still, only the barest rise and fall of his chest visible. There was a split-second of hope, a split-second of perfect denial in which he thought that he would be spared but those frosty eyes soon settled on his and he knew his time had come.
Finn had received his order and would follow through because this world of blood demanded it. There was no room for hesitation in a reality where life could be extinguished at any day and it was his duty, and honor, to help quench the insatiable thirst of the sands he fought upon. He centered the tip of his sword with the creature's heart and took a breath before plunging the sword into his chest, drawing a final gasp from his adversary. The masses called his name as he withdrew his blade, fresh blood dripping down the tip, and he raised his weapon triumphantly before releasing a mighty roar, igniting the crowd. The sun shone brightly upon the victor as Finn finally departed, having once again left his offering to the gods of the arena.
A/N
Just a little something I couldn't get out of my head for a while. Hope you enjoyed it!