The shaft whistled along the blowing whiffs, the falling leafs fluttered in the air pushed by the moving looking as if they were afraid of being torn by that dashing light trespassing the distance unhindered until the tip pierced its destination precisely. The target lying in front of the bronze eyes was an old round shield, so frayed it was easily penetrated by anything unlike the target residing in the thrower's mind; those unshaken green eyes, cold and indifferent, dull yet piecing, dead yet eye - catching.
The lancer sighed as he stared at his unwavering precision, not thrilled by the satisfactory achievement. After all, it is was natural, the spear had to hit the target. Though he had lost everything for now, he was not keen on losing confidence in his talent and skill. Suddenly, an enthusiastic clapping pulled Diarmuid from his gloomy thoughts. He turned at the sound and saw the arena's owner, Sextus, wearing a large smile, looking elated by his new found star, to which the lancer turned his back and walked away to retrieve the hanging spear. Indeed, he was treated in this house with much grace and care, as if he was an important visitor not a human merchandise, brought for entertainment and sold out of boredom or vengeance. But here, since the moment he completely recovered, Sextus prevented anyone from disturbing the lancer's training or even irritating him by domestic demands. He still had not transferred him to the arena with the other gladiators, a fact the Celtic was pretty much thankful for and wished it would not change although he could not be very optimistic, feigning sings of discomfort and need for longer recovery whenever he appeared in complete shape and health. But Sextus was no fool, and the Celtic felt the man was merely amusing his new toy, even thinking of how to strike some bond or deal with him instead of using his authority, either of fear of meeting the same fate of the lancer's previous owner, or out of some strategic thinking Diarmuid did not care to think about or seek its goal. Instead, he took advantage of the owner's leaniency with him, strolling around the house at this late hour when everyone was asleep, when a slave shouldn't be wandering on his as he pleases then headed to the backyard and picked up a random spear just for the sudden urge to throw something and vent his frustration and once again, the man who supposedly owned him was not annoyed in the slightest, watching with a pleased expression that did not falter or turn insulted by the clear ignorance the lancer greeted his presence with.
""I have to say you have astonished me at the arena…"
The man started talking casually as the Celtic was busy extracting the lance and returning it to its place, pondering for a second if he should yield to his desire and stab the smiling man with it, only controlling himself by the thoughts of the kindness and tolerance Sextus had shown him, and as the latter had still not revealed any foul intentions, the Celtic felt a little gratitude which he could not allow himself to be drowned in it. In the end and since before this ordeal, he was a knight and a knight should not betray the good hospitality of anyone, even under these infuriating circumstances.
"I have never experienced anything similar to that battle! You easily managed to seize victory and capture the hearts of the entire audience! Not only the audience, you have impressed the governor with your skills… he granted you, a murderous slave, a remission!"
The speaking man's excitement grew with every word he added, shaking his head in a mixture of amazement and disbelief as he recalled the events of that day while searching for the right choice of words, as if he had witnessed an abnormal phenomena that confuted all his theories and expectations. He was expressing his astonishment, looking like an intoxicated fool by the spectacular and unforeseen finale to that fight, all while the spear was still held in the lancer's hand, or according to his own words, in the murderous slave's hand, a fact the new owner apparently had failed to take notice of.
"I will make something out of you, Celtic!"
Sextus concluded his admiration speech, gazing intensely at the lancer and nodding in an act of reassurance to himself and the new to be star of his games and shows. Diarmuid was not interested in the man's intentions and dreams in the least bit, taking it upon himself to focus his energy and thinking on how to find Oscar's whereabouts and save him. Picking out the warrior's disinterest, Sextu's face finally displayed displeasure for the first time since the two's encounter. His inebriated smile fell into a disgruntled frown. But despite this, he did not give up yet. He had not risen from poverty into a proud renowned arena's owner entertaining the governors and nobles by giving up. So he approached the robust warrior in front of him, eyeing him from head to toe, his smile returning to his face but through a mocking sneer.
"Oh, I have not realized that the mighty Diarmuid wants to spend the rest of his life washing dishes and dusting the carpets!"
The mocked man raised an eyebrow, the golden orbs burning through the night veil now burning the deriding man invading their vision field. The lancer's grip tightened around the spear he had just retrieved, ready to release it at the first impulsive thought to cross his mind, but Sextus once again paid no attention and kept walking toward to the warrior with confident steps and tantalizing voice.
"I personally will be devastated to see such vigor and beauty wither without reaching its promise…"
"You don't know what you're talking about."
Diarmuid answered through gritted teeth, his voice rasp yet thirsty at the same time for shedding blood. The promise for saving Oscar, the promise to return to Grainne always dwelled in the longing corners of his mind, undisputed, inextinguishable, unforgotten, always blazing like a lighthouse guiding the wrecked ship his thoughts had become.
"You may have been a renowned warrior in your tribe but tell me, how many were there? How many know of Diarmuid the valiant lancer?"
The Celtic's expression turned to one of questioning now. Seeing he had managed to get the lancer's interest, Sextus beckoned to the man to follow him in a friendly gesture. Diarmuid threw the spear to the ground and walked with his new "master" who sat at the table in the yard and started pouring the two of them a drink. The lancer accepted the invitation, parched for a delicious numbing taste but while Sextus' rambling did not take from the drink its taste, it sadly prevented the lancer's brain from falling to a restful break.
"I dare estimate and say that the audience at the execution day outnumbers ten tribes of your kin assembled, and the numbers who will come to attend you fighting and raging from now on shall be even greater!"
"Just what do you think I fight for?"
Came the answer to the offer, freezing cold compared to the fiery gaze accompanying
it, along a loud thud as the lancer slammed his cup down the table. His disdain was directly given as if the two men's positions were reversed.
"Currently, for your life and freedom."
The owner shrugged unthreatened by the dangerous tone of the man sitting next to him, and he did not reprehend any of the gestures or acts of contempt his slave was showing him. Without doubt, he could force the man to fight, he had the power and the authority to do so but that wouldn't serve his intentions as he knew that fighting forcefully without a reason was nothing but a dull act suitable to a third - rate theater, an easy yet ambitionless dream. He wanted to impress the people and the governor with an artsy play of life and death, he craved to parade this beautiful god of death around the nobles and commoners, inspiring admiration and fear in both hearts. In the end, what was the worth of beauty and strength if not surrounded by impediments making them all the more alluring to feel yet impossible to reach? Cruel slaughters were necessary to quell the ignorant people's imagination, but when executed elegantly and passionately they were ought to impress the second group of nobles and the governor himself, even win him over and gain endless repute and favors that would engrave his name forever on the walls of fame.
Sextus waited patiently as the lancer's eyes narrowed, pondering over the spilled wine on the table.
"To protect my life?"
Naturally.
"To win my freedom?"
The Celtic's mind still had not accepted the fact that he had been enslaved to the
enemy in the first place.
When Diarmuid did not answer Sextus, the latter went on, asking this time rather than stating facts to the lancer whose eyes gleamed for a second, as he gazed into Sextus' dark eyes.
"For greatness?"
"Greatness?"
He was the first knight of his tribe, one of the elite. Maybe not "great" in the wide sense of the word, but he was someone indeed.
"Here you can be great in the true sense of the word."
Like a candle quavering briefly under a sudden breeze, the change in the Celtic's expression proved the owner had finally struck the mark he was aiming for successfully.
"Imagine; ten thousands of people, certainly more, all watching every movement you do, expecting every advance you will make, nervous by the silence that proceeds your strikes and swaying along the uproar that follows them… eyes filled with adoration, lips chanting your name and equating it to that of gods'! No… I believe you will strike fear and raise praise more than gods do in the people's hearts for people admire and fear the power they experience firsthand and witness by their bare eyes! It is where legends and sonatas spring from!"
The eyes of the owner wandered the sky as he spoke, travelling to the highest point his aging sight could reach. The greatness his hands couldn't grasp, his eyes saw for certain, no longer a mirage designed by the weak thirsting mind of a dreamer. Witnessing the ecstasy on his face, one would believe the man was at the midst of the image he was describing, holding within his hand the distant wish he had always sought.
The man sighed for long, as if he had just finished an exhausting job or returned from a tiring long travel. He brushed his hair aside and turned at the man who was watching him, a shade of pity humbling his defiant eyes. At that moment, Diarmuid truly thought that the arena's owner was not worth killing. In the lancer's eyes he was already dead, his soul long taken out of his body and seized by desperate dreams.
"Do you not desire this too, Celtic? Did the roaring hails and applauds not enchant your ears? Did the admiration on the people's faces not satisfy your eyes? I bet you've never been celebrated with such affection your entire life! Now you have the chance to taste what true greatness means! We will be known across the entire empire, I can see this outcome as certain as the sunrise of today! Our names will reach Rome, our vigor will flame people's mind everywhere, echoing beyond the walls of this city and of the empire! You will become an inspiration… people will look up to you… your courage and flair will stir their hearts with envy and desire! People will idolize you, they will respect you… you will conquer their minds and hearts! You will become a celebrated idol of courage that defies fate, just as you have done at your execution day!"
Diarmuid listened silently, his wine cup long forgotten on the table. His throat was scorched, but not by the sting of the drink. At one time, before eloping with his king's fiancé, his name had surely spurred the envy of many enemies and the admiration of many friends and lovers. Maybe he was not equated to gods' names, but he was an indisputable symbol of a knight, honorable and courageous. Hearing of his name flamed hopes in the hearts of the needy and painted a bond of trust only the cruel fate of a star – crossed lovers could taint and twist.
Back at his homeland his name was tarnished, his code of honor was defiled, and the trust his name flared turned into a mocking reminder, all in the name of love and for the sake of love.
But he had never despised this turn of event, for as long as he was by Grainne side, he could always look forward a new day, a new pure sunrise that would wash away the shame hunting their eloping but that sunrise never came, and when the tribes untied to face the invading foreigners he was still not forgiven. The dawn of that day did not bring him redemption, instead it tossed him into a whole new fate and world, neither less cruel or shameful.
"Win the governor and you have won his favor. Win the crowd, and you have won your freedom!"
Diarmuid turned his face away wishing to escape Sextus persuasive spell. He was firmly convinced that the arena had nothing but shame and death to offer him, but gliding with Sextus' words, it extended what he did not imagine he would get once again, pronounced a traitor at his home. It offered him a new chance, one to shine and clear his name… but what was a knight without his king, without his friend, without his beloved? His existence since his capture resounded deafly like a lost prayer, but now the arena was offering an answer, a new gate from which he can reclaim his glory and fulfill his promises to save his friend and return home victorious, conquering another dim fate that had befallen him once again.
If he were to win the love and approbation and this freedom by becoming a gladiator entertaining the masses for a noble cause, finding and gaining his younger friend's freedom as well and this seemed the most obtainable and quick method, then he might take this card fate had dealt him. But there was still something tugging at his heart. Sextus' words were glimmering with appealing promises of glory and victory, but can these tempting offers be held within captive hands?
"What greatness could a chained knight obtain?"
That was not a question, it was a fact that rendered the former knight's heartbroken as he sighed these words to be carried with the traveling wind.
"It is because of these chains that greatness lies in the actions fulfilled in spite of them."
A slender figure approached the two men, bare foot floating the cold ground as if walking on the air itself. A white dress blinded the darkness surrounding the place as if it was raveling from the moon, the sole lamp illuminating the starless tapestry is glided across. These words belonged to a solemn face that suited the silence of that night with eyes that matched the coldness of the blowing whiffs.
A hand pale as snow plucked the heavy spear from the ground and threw it back to the lancer who caught it without even looking at the direction it came from, his eyes solely fixed on the intruding figure of the morning guest who was apparently spending the night in this house.
"So, challenge these chains you detest, fight though shackled by them, win though hindered by them, perhaps only then can your spear shatter them."
A challenge, the woman was challenging him.
Their third encounter was no different than the previous two; expressionless faces exchanging emotionless stares but this time, the woman's lips had parted to deliver challenge, a long a smile that spread across them like a thorn growing out of a rose.
Declining that challenge was out of the question.