Author's Notes:
No affiliation with TES series, Bethesda Softworks, etc… Hetalia, OC, intellectual property of Kliban Katz. Italics represent a current thought.
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Chapter Summary:
Hetalia, a Breton girl from Bravil, finds herself outside of the Imperial Prison with the king's amulet. In order to deliver this amulet to the Priory, she tries her luck in the Arena to raise funds for her journey west.
I was a daughter of Bravil- born and raised. Our town was full of colorful folk. City-Swimmer in her earlier days was especially a riot. We held a tiny apartment on the "waterfront", or as I should really say, overlooking the sewers. It was all that could be afforded. Mother was a tavern wench, put plainly, and although she had a rather steady arrangement going with a man of the Bravil militia, he would never formally divorce his wife. Every so often he would throw a few coin our way for fresh fish from the market. Anything was better than stick fishing in the murky stream of human waste and insects out back.
Now I would welcome the smell of stagnant water and filth compared to the stench of bile that clung to me. As I stood on the other side of the metal grate which covered the tunnel to the Imperial sewers, I held the shiny trinket in my hand. After making sure I was alone, I marveled at it. The Amulet of Kings. Its ruby-colored stone was unmarred by time, and the metal shone like it had been freshly polished. I was sure that it must have been enchanted.
I squinted in the bright light of day. Which way to go? Over the rolling hills I could see a stone wall. There! The city must be just beyond those walls. It was just my luck that the only prison of any size was located in the Imperial City. How was I ever going to get home to Bravil? Furthermore, where was I going to get the gold to make my way to Chorrol to deliver this rock? It was quite the walk. By The Nine, my first holy quest and just my luck that all of the coffers in Cyrodill that might finance me are empty.
I approached the massive wooden reinforced doors that blocked my path, and slowly they gave way, creating my entry into a cobblestone paved world of bounty. It was nothing at all like the streets of Bravil. We had just always assumed that everyone in Cyrodill lived like we did. Except for the people in Leyawiin—they were all rich. Surely these people must have been living above their means. Everyone was chattering in the streets, bustling about the statue of Talos that was poised in the centre of the square. Dear me! Never, in all of my years of serving The Nine, had I ever seen or heard of anything so grand! And around the statue, like little children around the altar, men and mer of all sizes! If I had ever doubted my faith, it would have then been restored. With a final gaze, I, at first with little success, fought my way through the crowd to the door to the next district.
I was discontented in that it was my first time in the Imperial City, and perhaps my only visit, and all I would allow myself to think about was the quickest route out of the city. Before I could even attempt going west, I needed a means to pay for my travel expenses, and in hopes of saving my poor feet, a steed. If there was anywhere that an odd job could be gotten, it was this city. I could beg for it, but how the streets were already littered with beggars! Not to mention that even the beggars were better attired than I. I was not high enough in social class to beg it seemed, and as such, I turned my attention elsewhere. A whore? Not a good fit for financing a holy quest. I heard that the Mages' Guild was recruiting, and I was skilled enough in magic, being Breton, but upon further inquiry, I found that there was no chapter here in the city, save the Arcane University, which did not have the proper papers for me to join through them.
Then, I saw it.
In the Arena district the air reeked of blood and grass, but the loud cheering and the sounds of clinking swords drew me in. Men got rich from betting and competing in the Arena all of the time. Men also lost their fortunes here. However, the key word here was "men." Well, it was nobler than turning tricks, but the thought of battling to the death turned my stomach sour. Would the gods allow it? However, I was frankly running out of options, and this seemed the most feasible. The attendant directed me to the bloodworks.
He was laughing at me. Really. He was laughing!
"Sir, I fear I don't understand your amusement."
"Y-you.. want to join the Arena? Hah! Lady, are you serious? You are so slight of frame that your bones look to be hollow! And YOU want to compete in the arena?" Owyn's entire body shook with laughter. He was so loud that an Orc, who was training, stopped his sparring to stare in my direction to see what was so entertaining.
"I need this job. If you believe I truly am so foolhardy in trying my hand in battle than I believe you and the good people of Cyrodill will get the last laugh. Either way, it works out in your favor, so I am afraid I don't see the problem here." I was mildly annoyed, but I still tried to appeal to his business sense.
"Hahah! It's fine by me, lady, just as long as I'm not the one who has to mop your pretty face off of the pit floor. Your name?"
"Hetalia."
"Very nice, but doesn't quite have the same ring to it as 'Pit Dog.' Speaking of which, here is your blue team raiment, short list of the regulations of the Arena, and when or IF you decide that you're ready for your first match, speak to me, Pit Dog! Now find someone else to bother."
"Owyn, I'd very much like to begin now, if I might."
"Without even having read the rules? That's insulting."
"I'll be sure to study them on my way up, sir. After I get changed, of course." I tried a smile.
"Moxie. Off you go then; it's only your funeral."
I could hear the clanking of a gate opening, and after exiting the small alcove in which Owyn was standing, surveying the combatants, I could see that what he had called his "Red Room" was little more than a bloody mess. The stench was overwhelming and I felt suddenly faint. I took a deep breath of diseased air and carefully picked my way up the curve to the Arena door, avoiding the globs of carnage that lay like banana peels on the slick floor.
I went down on one knee. Bloodied before I even made it into the pit. This was a bad sign, I'd say. What had I slipped on? I looked down and saw what looked like it used to be an ear. I gasped and found myself dry-heaving inches above the moist floor. This would be the death of me already. I rushed to the door, longing for fresh air. I couldn't do this. I'd seen many men and mer brawl or be killed in the streets, but I had never participated myself. It was a frightening prospect, but I couldn't turn away now. Maybe I would die. Gee, perhaps I'd be a martyr?
I threw the door open and I was behind another gate. I heard a booming man's voice from overhead. What magic did he used to make his voice so loud? There was no way he could shout over the crowds cheering and still be heard by all.
I would be fighting a "Pit Dog" as well. What was this? A dog fight? I felt insulted. At the very least I was a lady. Out came my rusty dagger. It smelt of mudcrabs.
The gates lifted and I felt a sudden rush of adrenaline. Before I could exit the gate a Bosmer came rushing at me, screaming. I needed to reduce his accuracy. I shoved my palm forward and the spell connected as he continued to barrel towards me. All I could do was try to sidestep and hope that his accuracy had been hindered enough so that I could try to form a plan of attack. I could see the shininess of his blade and I panicked, cornering myself somehow in hopes of avoiding it. I was successful. At this close range I could use a flare spell to buy time while I ran out of the corner. I shoved my glowing palm in his face, gritting my teeth in the bitter spirit of self-preservation. I sprinted into the open area, before he could recover. I readied my dagger. He would be angry and charge at me again. I could only run for so long. Someone would have to make a death blow. I had a feeling it wouldn't be me.
He scrambled to his feet, tiny red scratches on his exposed joints, and a few conspicuous burn marks on his cheeks. He cried out, screeched as a matter of fact, before he threw both of his arms up into the air, one holding his blade, and made a beeline to the center of the pit, where I was standing. I felt like I could see death; the Nine preserve me! My eyes shut tight and I thrust my dagger forward in the empty air.
I felt a recoil. My eyes opened. There he was: the Bosmer, impaled on the rusty iron spike I held. His face was that of surprise. Perhaps it simply mirrored my own. My grip loosened, and he fell to the floor with a thud, the dagger buried in his chest. The scent of blood wafted up from the man—the body. It was so very, very frightening. I wailed on the pit floor, shocked at my own fear, shocked at my own survival, shocked that I had taken a life. Surely the gods would understand—I did this for them. To finance the holy quest I had been sent out to complete by the emperor. Er…, the…late…emperor. The booming voice told me to rest in the bloodworks, that I had earned it. I felt dirty. I felt sick. If I had eaten lunch, I thought I would surely have lost it. I yanked at the door at the far end of the Arena, but it wouldn't budge. What was this cruel trick? Would they send out another combatant to finish me off? My arm had a nasty stab wound that I hadn't noticed before. I guess that was the true power of adrenaline. And I guess that's how Redguards died in battle. They didn't realize they were bleeding out until it was too late. But why wasn't the door opening? Oh, this was the yellow team's bloodworks… It'd be best if I stayed out of there, I suppose.
I stumbled back to the blue team's door, embarrassed, confused, and nauseated. Not again to the room of blood…
It stunk just as much as it had twenty minutes ago. It wasn't that I had expected it to change, but perhaps that I would grow a bit more used to it. However, something was different. There was a font in the middle of the room, stained with blood still, but the water was still and clear. I reached in to clean the blood spatter from my hands and face, and I felt a cool aura wash over me. My arm seemed to suddenly hurt less. I actually felt substantially better than I had a moment ago. But my mind had not calmed. I was still a mess, shaking violently in the fingers and chewing a near hole in my lip to keep from crying. I would tell Owyn I quit. He was right. This wasn't for me.
"Owyn, I cannot."
"Can't what? You won, Pit Dog! You think I'd let you quit? You can quit after you advance, if you live that long. Fifty gold for this match. C'mon, don't turn yellow on me now."
"Owyn, I cannot. I don't even have a weapon." I resorted to the obvious reasons. "I left it out there in the Arena. I cannot fight. Anyway, this isn't for me. I feel sick, I have to go—" I turned to leave, but with an outstretched arm, he stopped me.
"Come on sweetheart, even if you don't want to fight…" To him my fear seemed appealing, having not seen it before. Sick man. "I'm sure we could find some odd job for you around here for you to make a few extra coin…"
"Let her go now, Blademaster." A throatier voice interjected, congenial but convincing, moving his pale green body onto the scene. "No need to trouble the lady further. Made a mistake was all." It was the Orc that had been listening before the match.
"Sir…" I murmured. I was surprised. Owyn withdrew his hand. "My deepest apologies for havin' troubled ye." I skirted out of the bloodworks, trying not to slip on the pools of blood on the floor that leaked from the ceiling.