It wasn’t long, though, until the answer, the way out of this, came to him, albeit accidentally. Whether it be by sheer luck, coincidence or some act of the gods, his heel found the rock that Leta had previously been using offensively. He stumbled backwards, determined to keep himself upright, but when the knife came flying at him again, he chose the ground over having his neck cut open. That last dodge lead him to tumble backwards, landing with a heavy, painful thump on the dirty ring floor.

As his assailant descended upon him, he only had a split second after impact to realize what the span was trying to tell him: gravity was a friend.

Just as the man came in with one final, decisive stab aimed at his chest, Fiearius wildly kicked out both his legs, hoping for fateful contact that would cause his opponent to lose his footing and go tumbling right over him. The contact, he got. Unfortunately, he landed right on top.

Instantly, Fiearius’ memory reminded him of what Leta had said earlier and his knee responded with a quick jolt right where it hurt most. As the man rolled away in writhing pain, dropping the knife on the ground as he did, Fiearius took the opportunity to kick it out of reach and roll right on top of him, each knee clamped on either side of the man’s neck.

He’d been here before, something in the back of his head told him. It was a strange deja vu. This had already happened and there was nothing he could do to stop it from happening again. Without even hesitating, without even thinking, his hips twisted, his knees locked and he let go.

It took a moment afterwards to even realize what had happened. He’d just broken the man’s neck out of pure instinct. Just as he’d broken Pieter Roland’s twelve years ago. It had disturbed him then just as it disturbed him now, seeing dead eyes staring off into the distance between his legs, even if both men had deserved so very much to die.

Deserving or not, he felt like vomiting.

Shakily, he forced himself up, stumbling backwards a few steps and staring down at the dead man in shock.

He hadn’t thought he’d had that kind of thing in him anymore. Apparently, it was something that didn’t just go away.

It took several seconds after he’d collected himself to even remember where he was as the noise of the crowd filtered back in. He had stopped hearing it. But it wasn’t the crowd he was concerned about. Ignoring everything else, he turned around, still swaying slightly, stunned, and stalked back across the ring towards Leta.

She was still on the ground, slumped against the wall, her vacant eyes looking past him toward the dead man in the center of the ring.

“Are you alright?” he yelled, over the noise.

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

Leta hadn’t answered. She hadn’t breathed a single word when he approached her after the kill, nor when the guards seized them both, nor when they dragged them out of the ring back toward the cells. She was silent, her eyes distant and staring and glancing everywhere but at him.

She wasn’t the only one. The guards assigned to pull him back into the cells looked afraid to stand near him: after all, he was the maniac who killed a man with both hands tied behind his back …

Their fear did have it uses, at least. When one guard attempted to bind Leta’s wrists again, Fiearius had shot him a look of such pure crazed menace that the ropes actually fell out of his hands in shock.

But, to the relief of the guards, Fiearius didn’t put up any more fight. He felt exhaustion straight down to his bones and he was too worried at the sight of blood pouring down Leta’s leg. She could barely walk without the guards holding her up, and he got the feeling that no one intended to treat it.

So he followed after her, intending to just do it himself. He wasn’t sure they wanted to put him in the same cell as Leta, but he didn’t exactly give them a choice when he walked right into it.

Once inside the cell, Leta staggered away from him at once and slowly sank down onto the ground against the wall, wincing as she pulled her leg up to her side to examine the wound.

“Let me see it,” Fiearius said, moving to crouch to the ground in front of her, though she flinched away from him at once and hissed, “Don’t. Don’t touch me.”

Her voice was sharp, fearful and it cut through the air in the room. He couldn’t fault her for it: this whole mess was his fault. He’d nearly gotten her killed; she’d just been attacked by a stranger who wanted to end her for sport. And then she saw him like that in the ring … raw, violent … of course she shrank away.

“We need to stop the bleeding,” he told her, calming his voice in spite of his impatience. He didn’t even have the energy left to be annoyed. “Let me see it,” he said again quietly, and waited.

Finally, glaring at him through glassy eyes, she gingerly unfolded her leg. Crouched down on his feet, Fiearius got his first real look at the knife wound, the jagged gash down her leg. It was thick as a pencil, at least six inches long, and flowing blood freely down her flesh. The palms of her hands, he noticed, were already soaked red.

Fiearius regarded the wound for a moment, but when he tried to reach to it, of course, he could not. The ropes still dug into his hands. With a note of irritation, his eyes flicked back up to Leta meaningfully.

She met his stare emptily, her eyes bloodshot. Silent tears were pouring down her cheeks, creating streaks in the dirt on her face. Finally, with trembling fingers, she reached to untie his bindings. He held still, watching her fingers deftly unknot the rope, wondering what was going through her head. He’d never seen her show weakness before — surely, she wouldn’t have let him see her vulnerable — and it was not, as he thought before this night, satisfying or funny or validating in the slightest.

The ropes fell to the ground between them. Working quickly, Fiearius reached back and slid his shirt off his shoulders and over his head.

As he leaned in again, Leta pointed out quietly, “You don’t even know how to treat this,” with the smallest hint of her normal combative self. “You’re not the doctor here.”

Fiearius smirked, holding a corner of the fabric in his teeth as he started to rip it into a makeshift bandage. “Oh yeah? Wonder how you think we survived before you then, eh?” he asked, and then released the shredded clothing from his mouth and rolled the leg of her pants out of the way. “Although,” he added, beginning to wrap the cloth around her leg, “For once, please feel free to correct me if I’m doing this wrong.”

To his surprise, a watery laugh fell out of her, and as he glanced to her face, Fiearius was met with the bizarre sight of a woman laughing and crying at the same time. And for perhaps the first time, Leta had no criticisms to give. Instead, she bowed her head, her chin touching the top of her chest as she managed, “Right. Thanks, I think … ”

In silence he finished knotting the blood-soaked fabric around her leg, the only sounds coming from the tug and pull of the fabric, and the hiss of her pained breath when he brushed the open wound too closely.

Finally, as he tied off the last knot with a tug, Leta asked quietly, “So how long are they going to keep us here?” which was a question he did not want to consider.

Fiearius didn’t fight the men who marched in through the cell door, seized his arms and pulled him down the hallway after Leta. Nor did he fight them when they shoved him into a chair on the side of the ring, laughed heartily and sat next to him, their guns at the ready in case he decided to make a bolt for it. But there was no reason to bolt. Not yet anyway. Even if he could get past all these people, he’d be leaving the doctor in the ring to fight for her life.

He didn’t much like Leta. But she didn’t deserve this. No one deserved this.

So he sat there calmly and glanced around, like they were all out to eat together at a casual restaurant. Admittedly, Traze had a rather impressive set-up going on down here and just for a moment, Fiearius had the strangest sensation that it was twelve years ago and he was home again, about to watch a good boxing match.

That is, until his eyes came across the large mass of man that Leta was supposed to be fighting and the flashback disappeared. The sight of him caused his breath to abandon his lungs in shock. There was a big difference between twelve years ago and tonight. In the boxing matches on Satieri, they tended not to kill one another.

No one was watching, but even if they had been, he couldn’t hold back the expression of horror. Him? Against her? He hadn’t expected these people to be fair, but this was more than just a criminal pairing. It was ludicrous. What was even the point?

She really had been sent to her death.

He looked around hastily for a way to help before this began, but it seemed useless. There were two loaded guns on either side of him and the binds on his wrists weren’t exactly lending themselves to assistance. For the moment, he was stuck. She was on her own, at least until an opportunity presented itself. He looked up at the skinny, shaky figure standing on the edge of the ring. All he could hope was that she’d last until then.

Fiearius could hardly watch as her opponent made that first barreling run towards her, his fist raised. He was fairly sure this would be done before it even began, but to his surprise and relief, Leta ducked out of the way and continued to do so through the next few attacks. He had to admit that she did rather well at the start of the fight. Leta was quick on her feet. Sharp. Determined. A natural even, especially against this man who turned out to be too big and too slow to keep up with her quick movements.

But of course that could only last for so long. His eyes followed the two of them back and forth across the ring, his heart hammering in anticipation for that one lucky swipe that would end it. When he took her by the throat and the whole crowd roared its approval, he was sure that was it.

Just like the man next to him, enthralled in the action, Fiearius came to his feet as her head was slammed against the wall, though for different reasons. He had to get in there. He had to stop this. She was going to be killed and these people would just cheer it on. He needed to stop this and he needed to stop this now.

In his panic, he started to push forward into the crowd, desperate to just get closer and do…something. Anything. But while one of his guards was distracted, the other was bored.

“Get down!” he shouted over the cheers, seizing Fiearius’ arm and forcing him back into his seat. But he didn’t have time for this shit. Leta didn’t have time for this shit.

Suddenly, just as his watchdog turned back to the ring, Fiearius lifted his bound arms as much as he could and swung them towards the man. His elbow landed in a solid blow to the man’s cheek and without hesitation, Fiearius used the momentum to launch himself from his chair and into the crowd.

As he pushed through the wall of people, his shoulders colliding with anyone his way, he could no longer see what was going on in the ring, but he could hear and feel the reactions from those around him. And that was enough. The shifts from ‘oohs’ to ‘awws’ and back again told him just how close this thing was to its climax.

Panicked that it may have been too late — he could not imagine, did not want to imagine, the sight of Leta lifeless on the ground — he slammed against the side of the ring and scrambled over the edges. In one motion he landed in the spotlighted center stage, right across from that son of a bitch dragging a knife through his doctor’s leg.

The crowd silenced as all eyes turned onto him, the intruder. A few of Traze’s men began to go after him, pull him out of the ring, but somewhere across the room, they were called off. Slowly, the silence shifted toward anticipation and excitement.

But Fiearius heard or registered none of it. All he heard was Leta’s cry of pain that sent icy streaks down his spine. And then, something in him switched on.

Hot, roiling anger and adrenaline shot through his veins and before Leta’s assailant even realized why his audience had quieted, Fiearius — his hands still tied together at his back — ran straight at him. Absent the use of his fists to throw a punch as he was, he did the next best thing: rammed right into him with the full force of his body.

However, while Fiearius was a staggering 6’3″, he had never been particularly robust. The full force of his body against this guy wasn’t substantial. It was enough to knock the beast of a man off balance for a moment and enough to get his attention away from the wounded woman at his feet, but it wasn’t enough to actually injure him. And as Fiearius stumbled backwards, probably feeling more pain from that slam than his opponent did, and looked up into the man’s furious eyes, he got the distinct feeling that he wasn’t much more prepared for this than Leta had been.

Well this was going to be be fun, he thought wildly in the one last calm moment before the chaos.

Spitting madly in anger, the man reared for what looked like a full-force slam of his own, knife still in hand. Fiearius stared patiently at him, forcing himself entirely still as a vengeful fist raged towards him, only ducking quickly out of the way at the very last second, the blade barely missing his ear as it swept across the empty air. It would have been a great time to return a strike of his own straight to the abdomen. Instinctually, he tried, but when the rope around his wrists held him back, he was forced to improvise.

Before his opponent had the chance to regain his composure, stumbling forward from the failed hit, Fiearius tucked one leg in and jabbed the other knee right into his stomach. Immediately, the man was bent double until that same knee swung upward and knocked him in the chin.

As the man reeled from the double strike, shaking his head and flailing his fists uselessly, Fiearius leaned back and then rammed his forehead into his opponent’s, knocking him backwards a few steps and accelerating the blood dripping from the corners of his mouth. Unfortunately, that was where Fiearius’ advantage ended: with him out of reach and himself out of limbs to employ.

Now fueled by a vicious rage and embarrassment , the opponent rushed forward, swinging the knife before him in grand, rapid sweeps, hoping to catch a bit of misplaced flesh. It only took one shallow slash across his shoulder for Fiearius to realize the tables had turned. Fortunately, he had always been very good at running away backwards.

He danced a few steps away, narrowly avoiding another swipe aimed at his eyes. The man advanced more rapidly, throwing more and more energy into each swing, but Fiearius continued to elude him. But he could only do this for so long. Without the means to block, all he could do was throw himself out of the way over and over and over. Which got tiring quickly.

He remembered this sort of thing being much easier when he was younger.

He barked a laugh, then sighed out contentedly. “So just make yourselves comfortable until the fights,” he offered blithely, as if they were in a four-star resort, and not a cage with a dirt floor. “And speaking of fights, the winners, they can stay and work for me. Get enough people to bet on you and I’ll even let you go free afterwards. Losers,” he added thoughtfully, “if they survive, well, we keep those.” His eyes flashed in Leta’s direction before he eased backwards from the cell and walked off with his men, still wearing that grin.

Once Traze disappeared, a heavy silence descended upon the chamber. Leta stared after his retreating back, her mind buzzing as if she had insects in her ears. Then she looked to Fiearius in wild, uncontrollable alarm.

“Combat ring,” were the first words she said, breathing out a quick exhale as she tried to grasp the situation. “Combat ring? Where people fight one another. For entertainment? And people bet on it?”

Fiearius looked like he did not particularly want to answer her, but he muttered, “Sounds about right.”

“These things are illegal across the span — they were outlawed like ten years ago — ”

“So was smuggling,” Fiearius muttered, raising his eyebrows pointedly. “But lo and behold … “

His shoulders lifted in a shrug and he turned to the back of the cell, beginning to pace in thought. “I’ve heard of this kinda shit. This lanky creep,” he lifted a shoulder in the direction Traze had gone, “owns the arena, sets up the matches and Goddora provides…eh…participants.” He grimaced uncomfortably and shook his head. “It’s a pretty frowned-upon practice even amongst frowned-upon people.” He cocked a brow knowingly at her, his features marred with disgust. “Call me what you will, but I ain’t got nothin’ on these sick bastards.”

Leta’s stomach gave a nauseous twist. It was just as barbaric as she’d feared. Combat rings were completely archaic. She’d never heard of such a thing happening on Vescent — people solved their problems with money on Vescent.

And now she was supposed to enter that ring and fight for her life.

Leta stopped in place and regarded herself, almost against her will. She was tall, nearly five-foot-nine, but decidedly … scrawny. Now she wished more than ever she’d taken care of herself better after Ren’s capture and actually eaten three meals a day; then maybe she’d be broader than a broomstick. It wasn’t something she’d spent much time thinking about, generally. The hospital had needed her to be quick on her feet, that was the only real physical requirement.

Fiearius seemed to be thinking along the same lines.

“You ever been in a fight before?” he ventured, sounding as skeptical as he looked.

Did he really even have to ask? The most physical action she’d seen occurred in the last month aboard his ship. And in all those altercations, she had a gun. And her hands weren’t bound with rope. And she had the help of pirates. And …

“I punched a girl in the face when I was in high school,” she provided flatly. “For making fun of my dead mom. Other than that … ”

Fiearius rolled his eyes, apparently accepting her inevitable slaughter. “Perfect…”

Leta met his eyes, then turned away from him sharply and started to search the floor for something useful on the ground. A rock, a piece of brick, anything with a sharp edge. But when she kicked around only dirt, she stopped and looked up once more.

“I can’t win this,” she said finally, watching Fiearius closely. “We both know that. I’ll probably be killed.” To her relief, her voice sounded conversational.

“Relax,” Fiearius replied instantly, his tone flippant. “Cy’ll notice we didn’t come back soon enough and come find us. Just gotta hold out ‘til then.”

A beat of silence passed through the chamber, full of doubt.

“Right,” said Leta. “Right. Cyrus will notice we’re missing and come storming in here and free us before the fights tonight. Okay. So let’s say that doesn’t happen,” she began, “and I just, you know, die. Or have to stay here.”

That latter possibility was much more horrifying, actually, but she did her best to keep her expression muted, despite the visceral lurch in her stomach. She ignored it in favor of staring evenly at him, like they were discussing business. Well, perhaps they were.

“Let’s say that happens,” she continued, turning toward him so her shoulders were pressed against the wall. Her body slanted slightly against the brick, but her stare never left his face. “I don’t make it out, and you do. You have to still go after Ren, Fiearius. Promise me you will.”

Fiearius met her eyes calmly, saying nothing. After a heavy silence, he finally replied, sounding entirely careless, “Nope,” and turned away from her to keep pacing the room.

At once, Leta felt shock in her chest — shock and hurt. Then she remembered why she was stuck in this cell in the first place, and whose fault that really was. At that realization, her features darkened, her hurt shifting toward fresh anger.

“No? What do you mean, no?” she demanded.

“I mean no, I’m not gonna risk my crew and my resources to save your boyfriend if you’re dead,” he clarified, though it didn’t help — what she’d said was not really a request, after all.

“How can you even say that?” she said, her voice straining. “How? He needs help, we’ve come this far, you know exactly where he is. And you told me you would do it,” she reminded him bitterly. “Out on the ramp that night.”

“Yeah, I told you I’d do it,” he replied dully, sounding more and more apathetic by the moment. “And I will do it. But not if you’re dead. How d’you think he’s gonna feel when I show up to rescue him bearing the great news that his girl’s been killed on my watch?” He grimaced, pained. “Conversation I’d rather not have if ya don’t mind.”

Leta advanced toward him. “Yes, I mind! They tortured him, Fiearius! They probably still are!”

“And how’s that my problem? Tons of poor saps are getting tortured everyday, but don’t see me rushing to their aid, do ya?” he muttered. Before Leta could open her mouth again, he talked over her brashly, “I’ll save your boyfriend. But don’t ever think I’m saving him for his sake. I’m saving him for yours,” which stopped Leta in shock. His eyes glinted oddly in the low light of the cell. “You want him saved, then … you best keep yourself alive.”

Tense silence filled the cell, like thick smoke. In painfully equal measures, Leta had the urge to yell and shove him hard and the urge sink to the ground in defeat.

She did neither.

“Fine,” she finally said coldly. “Fine. You think there’s some way I can survive this, then teach me.”

Fiearius opened his mouth, then hesitated. “Teach you?” he repeated curiously.

She looked through the bars toward the rusty metal door down the hallway. Somehow, she knew it was the entrance to the arena. Then she looked sharply back to Fiearius. “Yes. Teach me to how to fight.”

One moment she’d been standing at the counter. The next, she was struggling against the grip around her middle, screaming against the hand that had been clasped over her mouth, panicked, breathless. In her periphery she’d seen Fiearius put up a fight — he’d gotten in one forceful punch to a man’s jaw, who crashed into a shelf — before they were overpowered. They were shoved towards the door, sacks were thrown over their heads and then, as they were forced to walk forward, she saw nothing.

Until now. It seemed that the men had led them inside some sort of warehouse. The room was quiet, draped in shadows, and full of rusty crates and equipment.

Leta had no idea why they’d been brought there. Nor, it seemed, did Fiearius.

“Well ain’t this the coziest hovel this side of Synechdan,” said Fiearius at her side, cracking his neck casually as if they were about to take a daytrip to the zoo. One of the men held a gun to the small of his back. “Very impressive. I feel right at home.” He glanced over his shoulder at the man directly behind him. “And just where is home again?”

“Traze’s place,” muttered the man above Leta’s ear, far too close for her liking.

After a short, blank pause, Leta couldn’t help herself any longer, and she burst out like an anxious, angry teenager, “Who the fuck is that?” to both Fiearius and her captor.

A second later she got her answer.

“Ooh, there you are. Finally!” cried a voice above their heads. It was positively gleeful, almost boyish, and it made the hair on Leta’s neck stand up before she even saw who it belonged to.

The man called Traze came traipsing down a set of stairs, adjusting the fit of his sleeves, few more armed men in his wake. Lean and white-haired, Traze wore a gray fine suit, not unlike the kind Leta’s father’s colleagues wore. But he was clearly no ordinary businessman, and when he approached and smiled broadly at them, Leta had a powerful, overwhelming sense of fear that this man was — off, and even though he appeared unarmed, somehow more dangerous than any gunman present.

What the hell were they in for now?

Bouncing on the balls of his feet, Traze clapped his hands together and pointed them both at Fiearius. “Fiearius Solivere. I’ve been waiting a long time for this. Of course,” he laughed gently, “you’re probably wondering why you’re here.”

“Because I’m so devilishly handsome that people can’t resist kidnapping me?” Fiearius suggested. “The real question’s why’s she here?” His head jerked toward Leta, who chose to remain quiet during this exchange.

Traze seemed to think this was funny, because his booming laughter echoed through the room as he said, “Well I couldn’t very well leave her out of the show! She’s our opening act!” while jabbing his thumb toward her. Leta spared an urgent sideways look toward Fiearius, wondering if his antics were going to get them out of this or simply get them killed even sooner.

“No, no,” Traze went on, sighing as his smile dimmed. “I want both of the people who managed to end Solon Goddora and his right hand man.”

So that’s what this was about, thought Leta. They were about to be punished for their misdeeds from a month ago. Leta wasn’t sorry Goddora was dead, and well, she reasoned logically, it made sense. Goddora probably had a whole network of people who wanted him alive. She’d just been hoping to never meet those people …

“Well that’s unfair,” Fiearius barked, sounding indignant. “She barely did anything. Let’s not go handing out credit where credit’s not due.”

For the first time in her life, Leta was grateful to be slighted for her own work. She watched as Traze brought his hands together, almost in prayer, and smirked. “Oh I’ve heard otherwise. Besides, it’s not often we have women join the party, is it?” he mused to the men around him.

Traze sighed, and started to walk in a circle around them.  “Goddora was a business partner. And a dear friend of mine. Did you really believe you could end his life without consequence?”

Fiearius pretended to consider the question, squinting up at the ceiling, before admitting, “Yes.” He smiled, full of innocence. “Yes I did.”

Traze watched Fiearius for a moment longer, beaming back at him. Then looked around at all of his men, as if they were sharing a joke.

“Even more foolish than I thought,” he said with a happy sigh, then clapped his hands together, suddenly business-like. “Well! You’re here now, about to face those consequences, and I’m going to enjoy every second! But first, some time in the cells I think, please, Persika?” he said briskly toward the nearest gunman. “Before the show starts. Then, tonight, to the ring.”

“Ooh, we’re going to a ring?” Fiearius asked, mocking excitement as the gunman grabbed him by the arm roughly and started walking him forward. “I love rings. What kind of ring? A circus ring? A self-help ring? An engagement ring? Oh honey, if you wanted to get married, you should have just asked.” He grinned. “I would have said no, but at least we could be civil about it.”

Traze only smiled coolly as he watched Fiearius being led away. “Oh — before I forget. Check them again for weapons. And bind their hands.”

Leta did some very quick thinking. Running would have been difficult. Fighting would have been useless. Before she could act, she felt a pair of hands padding down her hips and thighs, making her jolt and instinctively jab her elbow back.

“Hey,” she snapped, her voice cracking hard as a whip. “Watch it.”

After a shocked pause, the gunhand on her recovered with a grin. Grabbing for Leta’s wrists, he forced them together and wound a rope around them, as someone else did the same to Fiearius. “Oh, this’ll be the least of your worries,” said the man, sharply tugging the rope tighter, digging into her wrists. “When you’re tonight’s entertainment.”

Entertainment.

With that, Leta’s stomach plunged. She could not imagine — she did not want to imagine — what that could possibly mean for her. Quickly, she tried to make herself as rigid and immobile as possible, even as the gunhand seized her upper-arm to march her forward toward the back of the warehouse. Once she was thrown aside Fiearius, she murmured, “Fiear. Entertainment. What does that mean?”

When she looked at him sideways, she realized he was no longer grinning. His confident smirk was gone, blown out like a candle. His expression had hardened, and he spared her the briefest glance that told her she had every right to fear the absolute worst.

Swallowing hard in her throat, Leta looked forward: they were being led down a long, narrow hallway with cells on either side. Her hands were bound in front of her with rope, hard and painful, and she couldn’t see how they were going to get out of this one.

Traze walked ahead and opened the very last bar metal door. In one rough motion, Leta was thrown inside, Fiearius after her. As the rusty door banged closed, Traze leaned in, his hands closing around the bars casually, watching his captives with interest.

“You a betting man, Solivere?” he mused after a conversational beat.

“Betting you ain’t gonna shut your mouth even if I say no,” Fiearius replied impatiently, standing tall opposite Traze. He showed only the slightest crack to his swaggering demeanor.

“You know, normally, I’d gut you for talking like that,”  said Traze, his slow, sickening smirk coming back to his face as he stepped back. “But I don’t need to get my hands dirty. I’d rather watch someone else do it. You see, I am, in fact, a gambling man,” he explained easily. “And so is half the city. They all come to bet on my ring — “

“Your engagement ring?” Fiearius interrupted.

“My combat ring,” Traze corrected. He twitched in annoyance, then went on, forcing another smooth smile. “I’m expecting an excellent show tonight. After a good warm-up, of course,” he said, gesturing casually toward Leta. “You’ll go first. I’ve got someone in mind that I think you’ll enjoy facing in my arena.”