Author's Note: Yeah, I know this update took forever. I got caught up in
other things. Sorry. I promise the next update will be faster... but
whether I'll keep that promise is another thing entirely. So far I've had
TWO goddamn floppies screw up and delete my data. I lost all the stuff for
the next chapter of Rebirth, which means it'll be even longer for that
update too... grr.
Anyway, I decided to put Zieg where he had something resembling freedom for a while, but then he gets thrown into brutal treatment. I think it builds his resentment towards Winglies. After all, if he hadn't been exposed to that, he wouldn't have the motivation to lead an army for a revolution. At least, I don't think so. So that's what I decided to do.
Chapter 2
I was nearing the end of the last leg of the dash around the arena. It was the final day of the three-week training course. My legs churned and pumped, and my stomach began to roll and squirm in protest. I ignored it, for the finish line was in my sight. I passed the line in a final heave, and gradually slowed to a stop. I bent over with my hands on my knees, exhausted.
The training course was supposedly meant to whip us into shape, but we all knew what it was really for. The true purpose of the series of grueling physical tests was to weed out the slaves who had been sent to the arena for the sole purpose of having no other place to go. Those of us who had kept in good condition from hard labor on some pigheaded Wingly bastard's estate did fine, despite at the end of each day you felt totally spent and that your organs felt like they were about to shrivel up and implode. But the course was technically optional; the people who didn't show up simply didn't get fed. So the weak or sickly ones either refused to come and wasted away from starvation, or pushed their bodies beyond their physical limits and died from overexertion. Sometimes it was a combination of the two, but in any case it achieved what the masters wanted. There were always a few ones that slipped through by training a few days out of the course and starving themselves for the rest, but they were usually so weakened that they were killed in their first bout.
We were dismissed, and I began the walk down one of the cracked stone quarters towards my cell, or 'personal living space', as they were also known. The room I lived in was simple, a bed against one wall, big enough for me, but not by much, with a thin mattress and a thinner blanket. This was actually not a problem, for because Aglis was so high in the air, it got a great deal of sunlight. Often the strong winds so far up maintained decent temperature, but in midsummer the weather could be truly brutal. A crudely constructed table and stool sat in another corner, with a single candle in an old, tarnished brass holder. A large wooden trunk contained all of the personal possessions, if any, we had brought with us.
But this time, there was an assortment of armor laid out on my unmade bed. I lit the candle and stared at it in puzzlement. Could someone have left their equipment in my room by mistake? I had no particular desire to be accused of stealing, for the usual punishment for thievery was the amputation of an extremity, usually the off hand, unless you used a large weapon. I had better get to the bottom of this before things turned ugly.
I turned to one of my fellow fighters, nicknamed Rock for his extraordinary ability to take a great deal of physical punishment. He was dark-skinned, with brown eyes and black hair, and I assumed he must come from the plains. Almost all of us had nicknames, because nobody ever told anyone their true name unless they were absolutely certain they had a worthy ally. For some reason I could never quite fathom, a person's true name was regarded as a precious secret. I had no idea where such a superstition came from, but I decided it would be best to play along anyway. Rock's cell was near mine, and we had become as close to friends as two people could be in this place.
"Hey, someone left their stuff on my bed."
"No, that's your stuff. Equipment was issued today."
I berated myself mentally for not thinking of that before. The first matches the new fighters would be participating in started tomorrow; we had to get our armor somewhere. Rock took a peek into my cell, glancing at the equipment on the bed. He gave out a low whistle of appreciation. "Not bad, considering what some of the other guys are going out there in. I guess they think you'll look better in armor."
"I don't know, that's a lot of extra weight, and it must be damn hot in all that metal in summertime."
"Probably worth it, though. At least you got more than a loincloth."
I grimaced. I certainly was grateful for that much. "Why, did you get that?"
"No, but I know a few guys that did. I don't envy them."
"Yeah."
"Listen, they've got the next week's matchups posted. Want to go check it out?"
"Sure, I'll be there in a minute. I want to look at this stuff more closely."
"Right."
He left, and I walked over to the bed to get a better look at what I had received. Plate chest mail, which was heavier than chain, but was almost impossible to penetrate unless someone aimed specifically for the weak points. A pair of chain mail shorts, which covered the groin and upper legs, it chafed a bit, but nothing intolerable, and certainly preferable to nothing. A pair of leather gloves, to prevent against blisters until calluses formed, and an identical pair of boots, to protect the feet from the sand that covered the floor of the arena, which could heat up to almost unbearable temperatures during the midday bouts which had the highest turnouts. Four knives were lined up next to the chest armor. These had a special purpose, for they were to be hidden in concealed places in the costume for use if one lost a weapon or simply if it were to give them an edge in the battle. The crowd loved underhanded tactics, even more so if they worked correctly. Every warrior had at least three of these daggers hidden on them at any point in time; some had as many as six, while a select few could have up to a dozen stowed away. They were mismatched, and I had a suspicion that they were probably bought in mass quantities from the Wingly police's confiscated weapons.
Then, I came upon a true godsend; a pair of polished steel greaves, securable to the back of the legs by a pair of leather straps and buckles. These would protect from my shin to my ankle, and they even had a tip that extended upward to protect my kneecap. I was glad for this, for I had heard of fighters who took shots at their opponent's knees when they believed they were losing, crippling the other gladiator and giving the former underdog a easy, if ill-earned victory. That was the last of it, and I was pleased at what I had gotten. My arms would be bare, but I wasn't sure that it would have been worth the extra weight anyway. In the arena, the ability to move quickly was the most important thing of all, and if you lost that, then you were either defeated or dead. No helmet either, but I hated those anyway; the accursed things cut off most of your vision.
They had brought me no weapon, but that was because I had told them otherwise. I picked up the candle off of the table and opened the lid of the large oaken chest, revealing the sole content, the only thing I saw fit to bring with me. A sword, my sword, lay inside, gleaming in the faint light of the candle I held in my hand. It was a bastard sword, forged specially so that I could use it with one or both hands without discomfort. I had made it myself when I was seventeen, with some help from Osath, my father's former comrade and my guardian for thirteen years of my life. It was a hardly something to be sold on the grand bazaars of Kadessa for thousands of gold pieces, but I believed that I had done a better job on it than anything I would obtain in this place.
I was no stranger to the sword, either. I had naturally had a great deal of training when I lived in Osath's home, most of it from Osath himself, a great swordsman in his own right. When he died, I had to practice on my own, in secret, usually during the night. During the first two years I was never caught, mostly because I was never in one place long enough for anyone to pick up on the habit. When I was sold to Halmon, however, I was discovered several times. I was always taken aside and given a whipping, but my weapon was never taken away, and of course a beating had never discouraged me from anything. I had always wondered why he had not ordered the blade taken from me, and now that I was here I began to think that he intended to sell me to the coliseum all along.
I placed the blade back in the chest, and carefully laid the armor and knives along with it. Dropping the lid with a hollow thud, I turned and walked out of the cell. I headed back down the corridor, headed for the hub of the lower levels of the arena. The lower levers, where all the 'living spaces' were situated, was designed like a wheel. There where eight identical corridors, each lined with cells, that led to the outer ring, where the rest of the warriors boarded. The center of the wheel was where all the schedules were posted, and the stairway that led to the upper levels, and the stage itself, was placed there as well.
I met up with Rock halfway down the closet corridor to our cells. He had apparently been waiting for me to catch up. We continued down the long stone hallway until we reached the so-called 'hub' of the wheel. It was a large circular chamber, which perpetually stank of sweat, for all the fighters returned to this room before making their way back to their cells after their battles. Today the room was even more crowded than usual, as the schedule for the next week was tacked to the bulletin board on one wall. The plainsman and I waded through the tide of bodies to where we could get a better glimpse. Rock, who was taller than I, was able to find his name first.
"I'm not up for another three days, sometime in the afternoon. I don't recognize the number of my opponent, though."
Rock prided himself on his memory of the numerical identities of the other gladiators in our course. I saw the nervousness on his face, and rolled my eyes. Occasionally some of the more promising new fighters were pitted against experienced veterans, and of course they were almost doomed to failure or worse. "Oh please, like anyone can remember everybody's number. You'll be fine."
"Yeah, I suppose."
I saw an opening in the crowd, and quickly squeezed my way into the space before somebody else could box me out. I scanned the sheets of parchment, searching for the number that had been given to me when I had been assigned a 'living space' upon entering the arena. I eventually found 194C, and grimaced slightly as I saw the time. "Tomorrow, midday."
The midday bouts were not only staged in the hottest part of the day, but they also attracted the largest crowds, which meant that it was a very bad time to screw up. This also meant greater fame if you were to pull off something spectacular, but a new gladiator's most pressing concern was to get out of your first match as unnoticed as possible. Rising in the favor of the public, and more importantly, the masters, came second, although it still cut a prominent figure in everyone's minds. Those who fell out of the good graces of those in charge often found themselves in a match against one of the best warriors in the coliseum, with half of their equipment conveniently 'misplaced' the night before.
This time Rock's whistle dipped down in pitch, taking on a low lilt filled with sympathy. "Ouch."
"Yeah. Who's 327F?"
Rock frowned. "That's Bear."
"Wonderful. Tomorrow at noon, and I'm against Bear. What else could go wrong?"
"Well, I have to say that's not a setup I would fancy much."
I was not a short person, but Bear stood a half foot taller than I did, which led to his nickname. There were many, myself among them, who suspected him of having Giganto blood. Bear himself had never disputed this claim, and nobody had ever heard him speak, which lead some to doubt that he could even talk at all. But nevertheless, he was one of the favorite pupils during the training course, and he was given an enormous two-handed broadsword. I did not look forward to facing him in combat before a ravenous crowd of Winglies. My spirits sinking more by the minute, like a heavy stone dropped in a deep lake, I motioned to Rock and we left.
On the way back, I attempted to feign nonchalance. "Where do they come up with these nicknames anyway? Rock and Bear. You think that they could be a little more creative."
Rock chuckled softly. "You have to remember, most of the guys here can't read or write. In this place, a slave is considered gifted if he can scratch his name in the sand. You're like a genius to them."
I had been blessed with literacy during my early years on Osath's estate. I had even learned the language of the Winglies, which was considered an untouchable subject meant for the race above we lowly human scum. I guess that I had taken the knowledge for granted. But I often felt surprise when one of my fellows could not understand a shout from the crowd, or when I found someone unable to decipher the spidery script on the occasional sign held up aloft from the sea of silver-haired bodies or on one of the musters that seemed eternally fastened to the overseer's hand. The overseer himself was a human, a grizzled middle aged man who had once been a gladiator himself, but was fancied so much by the masters that he was elevated to the position of making sure that all the slaves knew what they were required to know. He was taught the language by a Wingly scholar, and received a monthly salary, something almost unheard of for a human.
"Did you ever learn to read or write, Rock?"
The plainsman looked up towards the stone ceiling, as if fascinated by its need for repair. "I learned to read some, but never to write. Where I grew up, a person's not even supposed to learn that sort of thing until they come of age. I was tossed in this dump before I got a chance to pick up any more."
"What are you in for, anyway?"
Rock snorted. "I was on a hunt, and shot something I thought was an elk. Turned out it was a Wingly lord dressed in leather with his hair hidden to blend in with his surroundings. He was on a 'wildlife expedition' or some crock of bullshit like that. The idiot should have thought of hunters, but I got thrown in here anyway."
"Ah."
"They actually made me a slave first, but I didn't take too well to that idea, and ended up punching the lights out of some Wingly, I think it was my owner's son. The look on his face before he was knocked out cold was just priceless, though." The dark-skinned plainsman laughed grimly at the bittersweet memory.
We reached the end of the corridor and headed for our bunks, which happened to be adjacent. Bear happened to walk by at this point, flashing me a scowl that accentuated the red painted bear's claw on his broad right cheek, another factor that added to the origin of his nickname. I wasn't sure if he was trying to intimidate me in preparation for tomorrow's fight, or if he was just being bad-tempered in general. I dimly wondered what time it was, when the overseer clomped his way towards our cells, making his way around the outer wheel of the catacombs. "Get some sleep, you miserable sacks of pond scum. You'll need it for tomorrow. Tired fighters don't put on a good show, and you all know what that means."
We did indeed. Entertaining the crowd was the biggest thing in the arena, everything else took back seat. It didn't matter if you were the best swordsman on the planet, if you didn't work up the masses, you were expendable, and nobody wanted to be expendable in this place. Rock and I lapsed into silence, and after a few moments we turned and trudged into our respective cells. I flopped onto the bed, trying to take my mind off of my growing anxiety over tomorrow's duel. My mind sped along haphazardly for a while, then gradually subsided into reluctant sleep.
Author's Note: Yes, I know it took me way too long for this update, but it's longer than most of my chapters, and I had to rewrite it three times. *still angry about the floppy episode* Anyway, next chapter will be the big fight. I'll try to get it up faster. By the way, you may have noticed by the lookups for Crimson Wings and this story that I have dubbed them the Feld series. Which would lead you to make the logical assumption that there will be a third part. That is a correct assumption, and there might even be a fourth, I haven't decided yet. I'll probably finish Rebirth before I start one of them. There will either be a fic describing Dart's life from Neet to just before the game, or a post-game Dart fic. Maybe both. Just thought I'd let you all know.
Anyway, I decided to put Zieg where he had something resembling freedom for a while, but then he gets thrown into brutal treatment. I think it builds his resentment towards Winglies. After all, if he hadn't been exposed to that, he wouldn't have the motivation to lead an army for a revolution. At least, I don't think so. So that's what I decided to do.
Chapter 2
I was nearing the end of the last leg of the dash around the arena. It was the final day of the three-week training course. My legs churned and pumped, and my stomach began to roll and squirm in protest. I ignored it, for the finish line was in my sight. I passed the line in a final heave, and gradually slowed to a stop. I bent over with my hands on my knees, exhausted.
The training course was supposedly meant to whip us into shape, but we all knew what it was really for. The true purpose of the series of grueling physical tests was to weed out the slaves who had been sent to the arena for the sole purpose of having no other place to go. Those of us who had kept in good condition from hard labor on some pigheaded Wingly bastard's estate did fine, despite at the end of each day you felt totally spent and that your organs felt like they were about to shrivel up and implode. But the course was technically optional; the people who didn't show up simply didn't get fed. So the weak or sickly ones either refused to come and wasted away from starvation, or pushed their bodies beyond their physical limits and died from overexertion. Sometimes it was a combination of the two, but in any case it achieved what the masters wanted. There were always a few ones that slipped through by training a few days out of the course and starving themselves for the rest, but they were usually so weakened that they were killed in their first bout.
We were dismissed, and I began the walk down one of the cracked stone quarters towards my cell, or 'personal living space', as they were also known. The room I lived in was simple, a bed against one wall, big enough for me, but not by much, with a thin mattress and a thinner blanket. This was actually not a problem, for because Aglis was so high in the air, it got a great deal of sunlight. Often the strong winds so far up maintained decent temperature, but in midsummer the weather could be truly brutal. A crudely constructed table and stool sat in another corner, with a single candle in an old, tarnished brass holder. A large wooden trunk contained all of the personal possessions, if any, we had brought with us.
But this time, there was an assortment of armor laid out on my unmade bed. I lit the candle and stared at it in puzzlement. Could someone have left their equipment in my room by mistake? I had no particular desire to be accused of stealing, for the usual punishment for thievery was the amputation of an extremity, usually the off hand, unless you used a large weapon. I had better get to the bottom of this before things turned ugly.
I turned to one of my fellow fighters, nicknamed Rock for his extraordinary ability to take a great deal of physical punishment. He was dark-skinned, with brown eyes and black hair, and I assumed he must come from the plains. Almost all of us had nicknames, because nobody ever told anyone their true name unless they were absolutely certain they had a worthy ally. For some reason I could never quite fathom, a person's true name was regarded as a precious secret. I had no idea where such a superstition came from, but I decided it would be best to play along anyway. Rock's cell was near mine, and we had become as close to friends as two people could be in this place.
"Hey, someone left their stuff on my bed."
"No, that's your stuff. Equipment was issued today."
I berated myself mentally for not thinking of that before. The first matches the new fighters would be participating in started tomorrow; we had to get our armor somewhere. Rock took a peek into my cell, glancing at the equipment on the bed. He gave out a low whistle of appreciation. "Not bad, considering what some of the other guys are going out there in. I guess they think you'll look better in armor."
"I don't know, that's a lot of extra weight, and it must be damn hot in all that metal in summertime."
"Probably worth it, though. At least you got more than a loincloth."
I grimaced. I certainly was grateful for that much. "Why, did you get that?"
"No, but I know a few guys that did. I don't envy them."
"Yeah."
"Listen, they've got the next week's matchups posted. Want to go check it out?"
"Sure, I'll be there in a minute. I want to look at this stuff more closely."
"Right."
He left, and I walked over to the bed to get a better look at what I had received. Plate chest mail, which was heavier than chain, but was almost impossible to penetrate unless someone aimed specifically for the weak points. A pair of chain mail shorts, which covered the groin and upper legs, it chafed a bit, but nothing intolerable, and certainly preferable to nothing. A pair of leather gloves, to prevent against blisters until calluses formed, and an identical pair of boots, to protect the feet from the sand that covered the floor of the arena, which could heat up to almost unbearable temperatures during the midday bouts which had the highest turnouts. Four knives were lined up next to the chest armor. These had a special purpose, for they were to be hidden in concealed places in the costume for use if one lost a weapon or simply if it were to give them an edge in the battle. The crowd loved underhanded tactics, even more so if they worked correctly. Every warrior had at least three of these daggers hidden on them at any point in time; some had as many as six, while a select few could have up to a dozen stowed away. They were mismatched, and I had a suspicion that they were probably bought in mass quantities from the Wingly police's confiscated weapons.
Then, I came upon a true godsend; a pair of polished steel greaves, securable to the back of the legs by a pair of leather straps and buckles. These would protect from my shin to my ankle, and they even had a tip that extended upward to protect my kneecap. I was glad for this, for I had heard of fighters who took shots at their opponent's knees when they believed they were losing, crippling the other gladiator and giving the former underdog a easy, if ill-earned victory. That was the last of it, and I was pleased at what I had gotten. My arms would be bare, but I wasn't sure that it would have been worth the extra weight anyway. In the arena, the ability to move quickly was the most important thing of all, and if you lost that, then you were either defeated or dead. No helmet either, but I hated those anyway; the accursed things cut off most of your vision.
They had brought me no weapon, but that was because I had told them otherwise. I picked up the candle off of the table and opened the lid of the large oaken chest, revealing the sole content, the only thing I saw fit to bring with me. A sword, my sword, lay inside, gleaming in the faint light of the candle I held in my hand. It was a bastard sword, forged specially so that I could use it with one or both hands without discomfort. I had made it myself when I was seventeen, with some help from Osath, my father's former comrade and my guardian for thirteen years of my life. It was a hardly something to be sold on the grand bazaars of Kadessa for thousands of gold pieces, but I believed that I had done a better job on it than anything I would obtain in this place.
I was no stranger to the sword, either. I had naturally had a great deal of training when I lived in Osath's home, most of it from Osath himself, a great swordsman in his own right. When he died, I had to practice on my own, in secret, usually during the night. During the first two years I was never caught, mostly because I was never in one place long enough for anyone to pick up on the habit. When I was sold to Halmon, however, I was discovered several times. I was always taken aside and given a whipping, but my weapon was never taken away, and of course a beating had never discouraged me from anything. I had always wondered why he had not ordered the blade taken from me, and now that I was here I began to think that he intended to sell me to the coliseum all along.
I placed the blade back in the chest, and carefully laid the armor and knives along with it. Dropping the lid with a hollow thud, I turned and walked out of the cell. I headed back down the corridor, headed for the hub of the lower levels of the arena. The lower levers, where all the 'living spaces' were situated, was designed like a wheel. There where eight identical corridors, each lined with cells, that led to the outer ring, where the rest of the warriors boarded. The center of the wheel was where all the schedules were posted, and the stairway that led to the upper levels, and the stage itself, was placed there as well.
I met up with Rock halfway down the closet corridor to our cells. He had apparently been waiting for me to catch up. We continued down the long stone hallway until we reached the so-called 'hub' of the wheel. It was a large circular chamber, which perpetually stank of sweat, for all the fighters returned to this room before making their way back to their cells after their battles. Today the room was even more crowded than usual, as the schedule for the next week was tacked to the bulletin board on one wall. The plainsman and I waded through the tide of bodies to where we could get a better glimpse. Rock, who was taller than I, was able to find his name first.
"I'm not up for another three days, sometime in the afternoon. I don't recognize the number of my opponent, though."
Rock prided himself on his memory of the numerical identities of the other gladiators in our course. I saw the nervousness on his face, and rolled my eyes. Occasionally some of the more promising new fighters were pitted against experienced veterans, and of course they were almost doomed to failure or worse. "Oh please, like anyone can remember everybody's number. You'll be fine."
"Yeah, I suppose."
I saw an opening in the crowd, and quickly squeezed my way into the space before somebody else could box me out. I scanned the sheets of parchment, searching for the number that had been given to me when I had been assigned a 'living space' upon entering the arena. I eventually found 194C, and grimaced slightly as I saw the time. "Tomorrow, midday."
The midday bouts were not only staged in the hottest part of the day, but they also attracted the largest crowds, which meant that it was a very bad time to screw up. This also meant greater fame if you were to pull off something spectacular, but a new gladiator's most pressing concern was to get out of your first match as unnoticed as possible. Rising in the favor of the public, and more importantly, the masters, came second, although it still cut a prominent figure in everyone's minds. Those who fell out of the good graces of those in charge often found themselves in a match against one of the best warriors in the coliseum, with half of their equipment conveniently 'misplaced' the night before.
This time Rock's whistle dipped down in pitch, taking on a low lilt filled with sympathy. "Ouch."
"Yeah. Who's 327F?"
Rock frowned. "That's Bear."
"Wonderful. Tomorrow at noon, and I'm against Bear. What else could go wrong?"
"Well, I have to say that's not a setup I would fancy much."
I was not a short person, but Bear stood a half foot taller than I did, which led to his nickname. There were many, myself among them, who suspected him of having Giganto blood. Bear himself had never disputed this claim, and nobody had ever heard him speak, which lead some to doubt that he could even talk at all. But nevertheless, he was one of the favorite pupils during the training course, and he was given an enormous two-handed broadsword. I did not look forward to facing him in combat before a ravenous crowd of Winglies. My spirits sinking more by the minute, like a heavy stone dropped in a deep lake, I motioned to Rock and we left.
On the way back, I attempted to feign nonchalance. "Where do they come up with these nicknames anyway? Rock and Bear. You think that they could be a little more creative."
Rock chuckled softly. "You have to remember, most of the guys here can't read or write. In this place, a slave is considered gifted if he can scratch his name in the sand. You're like a genius to them."
I had been blessed with literacy during my early years on Osath's estate. I had even learned the language of the Winglies, which was considered an untouchable subject meant for the race above we lowly human scum. I guess that I had taken the knowledge for granted. But I often felt surprise when one of my fellows could not understand a shout from the crowd, or when I found someone unable to decipher the spidery script on the occasional sign held up aloft from the sea of silver-haired bodies or on one of the musters that seemed eternally fastened to the overseer's hand. The overseer himself was a human, a grizzled middle aged man who had once been a gladiator himself, but was fancied so much by the masters that he was elevated to the position of making sure that all the slaves knew what they were required to know. He was taught the language by a Wingly scholar, and received a monthly salary, something almost unheard of for a human.
"Did you ever learn to read or write, Rock?"
The plainsman looked up towards the stone ceiling, as if fascinated by its need for repair. "I learned to read some, but never to write. Where I grew up, a person's not even supposed to learn that sort of thing until they come of age. I was tossed in this dump before I got a chance to pick up any more."
"What are you in for, anyway?"
Rock snorted. "I was on a hunt, and shot something I thought was an elk. Turned out it was a Wingly lord dressed in leather with his hair hidden to blend in with his surroundings. He was on a 'wildlife expedition' or some crock of bullshit like that. The idiot should have thought of hunters, but I got thrown in here anyway."
"Ah."
"They actually made me a slave first, but I didn't take too well to that idea, and ended up punching the lights out of some Wingly, I think it was my owner's son. The look on his face before he was knocked out cold was just priceless, though." The dark-skinned plainsman laughed grimly at the bittersweet memory.
We reached the end of the corridor and headed for our bunks, which happened to be adjacent. Bear happened to walk by at this point, flashing me a scowl that accentuated the red painted bear's claw on his broad right cheek, another factor that added to the origin of his nickname. I wasn't sure if he was trying to intimidate me in preparation for tomorrow's fight, or if he was just being bad-tempered in general. I dimly wondered what time it was, when the overseer clomped his way towards our cells, making his way around the outer wheel of the catacombs. "Get some sleep, you miserable sacks of pond scum. You'll need it for tomorrow. Tired fighters don't put on a good show, and you all know what that means."
We did indeed. Entertaining the crowd was the biggest thing in the arena, everything else took back seat. It didn't matter if you were the best swordsman on the planet, if you didn't work up the masses, you were expendable, and nobody wanted to be expendable in this place. Rock and I lapsed into silence, and after a few moments we turned and trudged into our respective cells. I flopped onto the bed, trying to take my mind off of my growing anxiety over tomorrow's duel. My mind sped along haphazardly for a while, then gradually subsided into reluctant sleep.
Author's Note: Yes, I know it took me way too long for this update, but it's longer than most of my chapters, and I had to rewrite it three times. *still angry about the floppy episode* Anyway, next chapter will be the big fight. I'll try to get it up faster. By the way, you may have noticed by the lookups for Crimson Wings and this story that I have dubbed them the Feld series. Which would lead you to make the logical assumption that there will be a third part. That is a correct assumption, and there might even be a fourth, I haven't decided yet. I'll probably finish Rebirth before I start one of them. There will either be a fic describing Dart's life from Neet to just before the game, or a post-game Dart fic. Maybe both. Just thought I'd let you all know.
