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"Look who's here again for more!" Cortez was doing his shtick again. Aeren was standing beside him, ignoring the clamor and looking tired. He hadn't slept all that well. He had dreamed of Orthan, reliving their fight over and over again: cutting his throat, him lying there, looking like he couldn't understand the fate that hat befallen him. Aeren had been sick once, too. But Sabato, expecting that had had placed a bucket next to the cot Aeren had spent the night on. And now he was here, back in this nightmare, where peace and order had no place. He looked down into the pit. The dark stain where Orthan had met his end was still there.

"Why, it's young master Mallory, freshly blooded only yesterday! And already, he hungers for life again!" Whistles and cheers. But then there was a single voice, disturbing the exuberance like an unexpected bucket of cold water. "Cortez! Here, I'll fight him." Aeren looked for the source, and saw Otho, already making his way down through the stands. Throne, thought the boy. He is out for vengeance. Cortez pointed to him. "And we have a new volunteer already. Give it up for Otho!" The people obliged. When Otho reached them, he regarded Aeren with an odd look. Not so much anger, but… desperation? He must have been around forty, a thin man, hair cropped short. Aeren thought he didn't look all that dangerous.

"O.k. both of you know the drill," Cortez said. "Aeren gets to choose the weapon."

"Knife." said the boy, drawing his weapon and holding it at arm's length. Otho nodded, pulling out his own blade. It's the same one Orthan used, thought Aeren. He is really taking this personal.

Cortez nodded decisively. "All right. Now for the last words." Otho took his time, collecting his thoughts, his eyes fixed on Aeren. "When my boy challenged you, I was so proud. I thought he was going to become a man. But when you killed him, my pride turned to ash."

"It was his choice," Aeren said. "He knew what was at stake." Otho nodded. "Yes, and it was a worthy death. He is in the realm of Khorne now. But I'm thinking, he must be so alone in the other world." Otho turned his head to the side for a second, then looked back to Aeren. His eyes were filling with tears, but he was smiling at the same time. "I need to send you to him; so he has a companion to walk with him over the broken plains to the brass citadel, where Khorne gathers his champions around him. I hope you can accept that." Otho wiped his tears away. "I guess what I'm trying to say is, don't hate me for this." Aeren frowned. "You could still lose, you know." Otho shook his head. "I cannot lose. I must not lose. I must do this, for my son." Well he's gone off the deep end, Aeren thought.

"O. k., that was… something," said Cortez, trying to prevent any further digressions. He turned to the boy. "Aeren?" A shaken head was his only answer.

They stood in the pit, facing each other. To Aeren, the whole situation felt surreal; the impression of the previous fight still fresh in his mind, he was having a major déjà vu. And now he was to fight this man, the father, who had obviously gone mad with grief. What am I doing here? He thought. Later. Concentrate on surviving first.

When Cortez gave the signal, Otho attacked him at once; Aeren dodged. The older man pressed the attack, pushing Aeren back, who found himself in the defense. The father was slower than his son, but he had greater skill with a knife, and his attacks had the higher reach; Aeren had definitely found his match. He found he couldn't close in. So he did the next best thing: focusing on his enemy's knife hand. Ducking under a wide swing, he caught the inside of Otho's forearm, putting as much strength into the cut as he could.

Otho gasped. With his tendons severed and his veins opened, he could no longer hold his knife. It fell onto the sand, which was already becoming stained by his blood. Aeren, having lost his balance after leaning into his attack, was hurrying to get back on his feed. He felt triumph. This had turned the fight in his favor. Now he would simply have to… Otho's left fist hit him in the side of the head, and his light's went out.

When he came to, he was lying on the back; Otho was over him, pinning the boy's arms down with his knees. He was pale, and breathing heavily, and seemed to have difficulties keeping his eyes open. He had tried to dress his arm with his shirt, but it was already soaked through. In his left, he held Aeren's knife.

"Awake now?" He breathed, a serene smile on his face. "Good. It will be over soon." He inhaled, gathering his strength, and, putting his head back and spreading his arms he screamed "KHORNE! Take this boy to your side!" Aeren, confronted with his immanent death, felt his last reserves of strength flooding through him. He raised his legs and, wrapping them around Otho's head from behind, pulled the unwelcome weight away from him.

Otho was completely taken by surprise and lost his balance; Aeren, struggling to hold him down, grabbed the knife Otho had dropped earlier, and that a quick glance revealed to be close to his right hand. With all his might, he stabbed Otho in the groin, and was rewarded with a scream of pain. Kicking and struggling, he moved out from under him and got onto his feet; Otho remained on the ground, groaning and pulling himself into a fetal position while holding his red-stained crotch. Aeren was shaking with exhaustion and the weight of really becoming aware for the first time how close to death he was coming by stepping into the pit. Knife ready and his eyes fixed on his enemy, he carefully lowered himself to pick up his own weapon.

Now what? Otho was still alive, but made no move to continue the fight. He opened his eyes, fixating Aeren and breathing slowly; he looked very tired, but smiled none the less. "Well fought, young warrior. You've honored me. Looks like I will be the one who joins my son on the other side, for now. We will wait for you." And with that, his breath faded, and his eyes lost focus.

Aeren, utterly spent, let himself be dragged upwards.

As Endymion walked him back to his room, he felt as if he would fall asleep while on his feet.

"It's ridiculous, you know," he slurred. "How many fights do you think I'm gonna last? These guys are stronger, they have the longer reach and more fighting experience. I just got lucky the first two times is all." Endymion had no pity for him, for once. "If you don't make it, then you obviously weren't Astartes material to begin with. You see, to become one of us, it's not enough to be good; you have to be exceptional. You've proven that you can handle yourself; now, you must impress us." Once again, Aeren felt despair rise up in him, and bitter tears filled his eyes. "But I'm just a kid." When the Astartes answered, his voice was softer than before. "I'm afraid, nobody will give a shit about that; least of all the old man." They walked a few meters in silence. "You were warned that the path would be hard. Now you must see if you have the strength to walk it to the end."

Aeren sniffled. "What about that Khorne guy?" Endymion shook his head. "That isn't explained in five minutes, and besides, I think Errake will want to be the one to tell you about all that stuff." They had arrived at Aeren's room, and Endymion put a hand on his shoulder, looking down to him with a friendly smile. "Rest. There'll be another fight waiting for you tomorrow, and the world looks brighter after a good night's sleep." Aeren frowned. "That sounds like a load of bullshit to me." And with that, he went into his room, leaving behind the flabbergasted marine.

The next morning, Aeren woke with a great emptiness in him. Is this what I want? I want to help people, but if I have to kill dozens of them before I even get to the point where I can help them, what good is that? This is bullshit. He sat up. But what is the alternative? Do nothing. Lie down. Someone else will become an Astartes in my stead. Perhaps someone who doesn't give a shit at all. Wouldn't that be even worse? So, where does that leave me? Am I willing to sacrifice these people on my way? That is the question, isn't it.

He took his knife out of the scabbard. The blade was covered with patches of dried blood almost down to the guard; only half of the eagle could be seen. He took it to the sink and cleaned it as best as he could. Gonna have to ask for a whetstone and oil. Soon, the steel was shining again, but dark spots still clang to the hard to reach places. There is a way out, it seemed to say.

You know how to kill with a knife. You could apply that knowledge to yourself. Leave all this shit behind. Let others stake out their miserable lives in this rotten world as they see fit; it's of no concern to you. Aeren shook his head. He wouldn't kill himself. Not right now, anyway. That way would still be open to him, after all, if everything else failed. And besides, the ones I have killed so far did step into the pit by their own free will. Because they think this Khorne guy would reward them or something. It's not my fault they lost. So, as long as these idiots keep throwing themselves on my knife, why should I feel bad about that? Aeren nodded, decisively. So I guess for the time being, my goal remains untainted. I can continue on the path, at least for a while longer.

In the evening, he found himself back in the tumult of the arena, frowning and with crossed arms, waiting who would challenge him that night. He was well aware that this might turn out to be his last fight; as he had said to Endymion, it was only a matter of time before he met someone who ended his streak of luck. But that was, after all, a part of what he had committed to. "Here, I'll fight him!" Someone cried.

"No let me! I'll stick him good!" Another one. There was some commotion; well, more than usual, anyway. Someone made their way through the throng, cuffing and pushing people left and right. When the person made their way to the front, Aeren saw that it was a woman; lean and muscular, covered as in as many scars as anybody around her.

Cortez whistled lowly. "You better watch yourself, kid. She's tough." Aeren watched her, as she moved slowly towards them. Her black hair was cut short, messily. She did it herself, Aeren thought. There was something odd about her face though, some strange quality that the boy couldn't pinpoint. Whatever it was, Cortez didn't seem to notice; or to care. He welcomed her with an inviting gesture.

"Look, people, who joins us tonight after a long absence from the pit: the one, the only, the great Liz Cordeau!" The crowd ooed, and someone cried: "Oh yeah, you're in trouble now, kid!" Liz took her place on Cortez's right side, sneering at Aeren. "Ready to die, boy?" Aeren shrugged. "What about you?"

"Oh, I don't worry too much."

"Ok, ok, there'll be plenty of time to diss each other later," Cortez intervened. "Or maybe there won't! Anyway, Aeren, what are you two going to fight with tonight?" Aeren took out his knife and flicked his finger against the blade. Liz took out her own as well, and, opening her mouth to a snarl, drew the edge over the tip of her tongue.

"Oh, will you look at this crazy bitch!" Cortez shouted. "I think we're in for a real treat, people! Now, make your last words!" Liz spat blood on the floor.

"I'll gut you, you little shit!"

Aeren gave himself dismissive. "Bring it on." Once again, the people were hooting; Liz and Aeren hopped into the pit.

"Begin!" Cortez shouted. Aeren started to move towards Liz, who made no moves to assume a defensive stance; instead, she continued to sneer at her opponent. Even when Aeren was really close, she just stood there, grinning. "Come at me, boy!"

Aeren tilted his head. "Ok, let's see what you got." He lunged at her, swinging at her side; but with lightning speed, she actually moved close to him, inside the range of his attack. For a split second, her face hovered close to him, and it seemed to him he wasn't looking at the woman anymore; rather, he felt he was looking into her, or through her, and saw something else. A twisted mockery of a face, with a huge mouth full of thin, needle-like teeth and eyes that pierced him, like coals burning with an icy, white light.

And then, he felt the tip of her knife enter his mouth, and it scraped over his teeth when she cut through it's corner, and on through his cheek. While Aeren was still realizing the white hot pain, she headbutted him, breaking his nose and sending him to the ground.

Aeren, set alight by adrenaline, struggled away from her; she didn't follow. A metallic tang filled his mouth as blood poured into it, the halves of his severed cheek flapping around limply. A groan of horror left his throat. "Whad the Fwuck?" he croaked. The ghastly vision was gone however; now it was Liz again who stood there, mocking him. "What's the problem boy? Don't like being on the other side of the knife?"

Aeren didn't answer, but got on his feet, spitting out blood all the while. The knife was shaking in his hand when he held it before him, a naive and purely instinctive gesture of protection. Liz raised an eyebrow.

"Well at least you got the balls to get up again. We'll have much fun, you and I. I can tell."

And this time, she attacked. She sped forward with a scream, little more than a blur. Aeren desperately stabbed in her general direction, but she spun around to his left side and stabbed his far hand, the blade piercing through it, back to palm. Standing to his left now, and pushing down with her knife's edge, she forced Aeren onto his knees. While going down, he turned to her and stabbed again. She caught his wrist in a vice like grip. Now he was kneeling in front of her, both hands arrested. Tears of pain in his eyes, he looked up to her, blood filling his mouth. Liz twisted the knife stuck in his left, eliciting another groan. Then she bowed down to him and smiled. "Hurts, doesn't it?"

Aeren spat the blood in her face; it jerked back, her hand releasing his. Pulling his impaled hand from her blade, he threw himself backwards; but while he retreated, he aimed a vicious strike at her thigh, giving her a long cut on the outside.

She screamed, loud and high; but while he was still jumping, the sound she emitted changed, became a hiss, deep and gurgling. And again, her face changed, and this time, Aeren was sure it was real: a distorted version of herself, somehow overlapping her other face. Her eyes, black holes in which embers of ice burned with baneful fire; her mouth, a cave filled with curved fangs. A deathly cold radiated from her, and Aeren was hit by a wave of sheer, absolute horror.

Before he could do anything, she rushed him again, black, shiny claws sprouting from her fingertips. With a snarl, she attacked his face. The boy, too slow to react even if he hadn't been frozen stiff by the most profound fear he had ever known, felt her claws raking through muscle, bone and sinew; by pure instinct, he pulled back then, trying to turn his face away from the pain that dug into his head like shards of ice. At the edge of his vision, he saw a giant figure slamming into the thing from above: Errake. That was the last thing he saw, before darkness took him.

AN: Well folks, that is it. Story is over. I hoped you liked it!

Naah, I'm just messing with you. Aeren lives, but he won't be glad about it when he wakes up. Again I had some troubles with the fight scenes. Hope they work for
you nonetheless.

Reviews!

drSpliff: Thanks mate, that is very much appreciated! It really made my day.

Guest: Glad you enjoy the story. I like that the added realism is a free bonus when I keep the fight scenes short because I find them hard to write, lol.

As always, let me know what you think, and thanks for reading.