In my story I will illustrate the tale of a girl who was
captured as a slave in a foreign country. She is sent to the Coliseum where
she is pitted against fellow slaves. In the first part of the story you get a
glimpse of the person she is, however after the time skip she is changed by her
experiences in the area.
A Change of Heart
The voices of thousands roared above her head. The scent of
blood and wine mixing together created a pungent stench so thick she gagged. The
crowd was wild, high on excitement as they watched men and women fight for
their lives; it was horror. Sitting in the small cell she now called home, she
waited for her turn in the Coliseum. The man in the cell next to her had been
taken. It was only a short time before the woman across her had followed. She
sat stoically at the center of the room too afraid to move. She remembered her
family who were worlds away. Would they ever see her again? Would they ever
know how she died? A slave forced to fight other captives for the pleasure of
the corrupt noblemen? No… they would never know. She swallowed, trying to force
down the lump in her throat but to no avail. She tried to calm herself down. To
remember the old woman— her name had been Myrai— had who cared for her, before
she had died. She had been too old, too weak for the games. They only take the strong ones she
smiled grimly at the thought. Of all people to choose, they picked her. She was horrified they had, she
expected to die on the block or be enslaved like the others. No, she was worthy of the honor they told
her. She looked at her tag, tattooed on the underside of her wrist. 46. She was
a number, not worthy enough of a name. Not human enough to gain respect. Another tag was scorched into the base of her
neck, the letter M surrounded by runes; Macula.
She gritted her teeth together, the anger within her welling
up. She would return to her family, but first she needed to survive. She stirred
at the rhythmic footsteps approaching. The doors to the cell block swung open, banging
loudly against the damp stone wall. Then the marching resumed, drawing closer
and closer. She stood up. The footsteps were almost upon her. The gate to her
cell flew open and several guards entered. They pushed her out of the cell and
down the corridor. Her face paled as she peered into the once full cell blocks,
all of which were empty.
They stopped at a pair of large wooden doors, each
intricately carved with the Tree of Life and the Waters of Death. One of the
guards offered her an old gladius that was beaten and bent out of shape; no doubt
it had been pried from the cold fingers of the slave before her. She
uncertainly clasped the sword in her right hand and another guard strapped a
shield onto her left arm before retreating to the side. Slowly the doors begun
to open, her heart thumped wildly in her chest as the roar of the crowd
surrounded her. She closed her eyes and released a long breath before she took
a step. Tack… tack...tack…
The blood pumped through her veins, her heart rapidly
beating. She was cheered on by scores of people all chanting for death. She
looked to the imperial box where her sovereign stood. His hand was clenched
into a fist, his thumb lying horizontally. It hovered in the air for a minute,
and then curved down. She turned back to her victim, eyes wide pleading for
life, begging her mercy. Her eyes softened and she lowered her sword. She
reached out and offered her hand to the slave. A trembling hand slipped into
hers and she lifted the slave off its feet. Thank
you, the slave gasped taking a step towards her. A look of relief donned
the slaves face; she frowned and swung her sword in a wide arc decapitating its
head in one swift slice. Blood splattered across her face and her once light
hair was drenched in a dark maroon. Her eyes slid down to the wrist of the slave,
its tag stamped in bold black runes. 48. She grinned.
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