HOME | DD

Description
Cold stone against his cheek; that was the first feeling. Hard, steel-cold stone. There's something that feels wrong, about stone. The absence of life, a feeling of despair that is so easily associated with greyness… It permeates the air. It's very presence suggests to the inner eye that everything is wrong, somehow. So as he lay there, sprawled against the stone, that's what he felt. Despair.

It washed over him without mercy, or sympathy – unfeeling and uncaring. It wasn't the kind of feeling that lifted, it was the kind that pressed. Pressed him hard down into the ground, pressing his arms to his sides, making his muscles leaden, his thoughts sink, sink, sink.. sink into nothing. Nothing but the painful knowledge that this was it, this was where it all ended.

The second feeling was the somehow chilling warmth of blood, leaking away over his skin. Draining from him. He was becoming emptier by the second – life was moving on without him with every lost moment. Slowly, slowly, the blood on his clothes was cooling, becoming sticky, before hardening into a dark scab, all over his skin. It was like being wrapped in stone – stiff, cold stone, coloured the deep red that could only be linked to something dark, demonic… evil.

With a weak cough, he rolled onto his back. For a few difficult heartbeats, the pain of movement swamped him, placed black dots before his eye, and set his heavy head to spinning. The next intake of breath was hard – it caught in his throat as though armed with barbs, catching all the way down against the vulnerable flesh.

He stared upwards, and saw the other man was looking down on him. There was no smile on his face, no shine of victory in those eyes – death was never pretty, or heroic. Death was harsh, real, and frightening. But somehow, not so much for the dying. Only for the spectator. Those condemned to death – imminent death, that is – feel a gathering acceptance. A realisation of the inevitable. It was only those who refused to believe that were frightened.

His mother had named him 'Hero'. A stupid name. It always had been. But for a few years, as a young man, he had felt proud of it. He had earned his name, fought his way through life to achieve it. But lying there, having lost, he realised the stupidity of it once more. It was a reality he had discovered as a child, the first time he had fallen into a river, and felt the helplessness that all people feel as death begins to circle. But as years had passed, he'd buried that memory, that secret reality. He had pretended for such a long time that he deserved to be Hero, he deserved to be the saviour, the winner.

But, here was the truth. There could be no such thing as a hero among men, because a hero, a real one, needed to be invincible. A hero could not be defeated – not even by death.

He tested out a smile, "That, my friend, was very well played." It took most of his quickly depleting store of strength to keep his voice strong, the words fluent.

"Thank you."

The man above him knelt.

"I'll miss you."

Hero flashed his teeth, more a grimace than a smile.

"I'll miss you too, I imagine. "

The friend nodded.

"Of course."

.

The man stood as the final vestiges of life crept away, furtive in their abandonment of a body they had sustained for so many years. He had been a friend. They had both known this day would come, that this moment would one day arrive. Heroes needed to be replaced – they could not be allowed to age. An old hero was worth nothing to the people.

But still, they had allowed themselves to become as close as they could, whilst knowing that one day, the younger would have to kill the older. It was just how things were.

He, too, was named 'Hero' by his mother. It was a selfishness in the mothers, to name their children as such. They knew the rules, knew what had to happen. But they wanted a life of riches, of empty glory as their sons grew into fame. It was all for nothing, this young Hero knew. One day, maybe ten years from now, he would be lying in the stone arena, staring up at his younger replacement.

But still, he would not forget his duty. His duty, was to kill.

Bringing a forced grin to his face, he lifted his bloodied hands to the air, and a roar of pleasure erupted from the people of the arena.

Description
Cold stone against his cheek; that was the first feeling. Hard, steel-cold stone. There's something that feels wrong, about stone. The absence of life, a feeling of despair that is so easily associated with greyness… It permeates the air. It's very presence suggests to the inner eye that everything is wrong, somehow. So as he lay there, sprawled against the stone, that's what he felt. Despair.

It washed over him without mercy, or sympathy – unfeeling and uncaring. It wasn't the kind of feeling that lifted, it was the kind that pressed. Pressed him hard down into the ground, pressing his arms to his sides, making his muscles leaden, his thoughts sink, sink, sink.. sink into nothing. Nothing but the painful knowledge that this was it, this was where it all ended.

The second feeling was the somehow chilling warmth of blood, leaking away over his skin. Draining from him. He was becoming emptier by the second – life was moving on without him with every lost moment. Slowly, slowly, the blood on his clothes was cooling, becoming sticky, before hardening into a dark scab, all over his skin. It was like being wrapped in stone – stiff, cold stone, coloured the deep red that could only be linked to something dark, demonic… evil.

With a weak cough, he rolled onto his back. For a few difficult heartbeats, the pain of movement swamped him, placed black dots before his eye, and set his heavy head to spinning. The next intake of breath was hard – it caught in his throat as though armed with barbs, catching all the way down against the vulnerable flesh.

He stared upwards, and saw the other man was looking down on him. There was no smile on his face, no shine of victory in those eyes – death was never pretty, or heroic. Death was harsh, real, and frightening. But somehow, not so much for the dying. Only for the spectator. Those condemned to death – imminent death, that is – feel a gathering acceptance. A realisation of the inevitable. It was only those who refused to believe that were frightened.

His mother had named him 'Hero'. A stupid name. It always had been. But for a few years, as a young man, he had felt proud of it. He had earned his name, fought his way through life to achieve it. But lying there, having lost, he realised the stupidity of it once more. It was a reality he had discovered as a child, the first time he had fallen into a river, and felt the helplessness that all people feel as death begins to circle. But as years had passed, he'd buried that memory, that secret reality. He had pretended for such a long time that he deserved to be Hero, he deserved to be the saviour, the winner.

But, here was the truth. There could be no such thing as a hero among men, because a hero, a real one, needed to be invincible. A hero could not be defeated – not even by death.

He tested out a smile, "That, my friend, was very well played." It took most of his quickly depleting store of strength to keep his voice strong, the words fluent.

"Thank you."

The man above him knelt.

"I'll miss you."

Hero flashed his teeth, more a grimace than a smile.

"I'll miss you too, I imagine. "

The friend nodded.

"Of course."

.

The man stood as the final vestiges of life crept away, furtive in their abandonment of a body they had sustained for so many years. He had been a friend. They had both known this day would come, that this moment would one day arrive. Heroes needed to be replaced – they could not be allowed to age. An old hero was worth nothing to the people.

But still, they had allowed themselves to become as close as they could, whilst knowing that one day, the younger would have to kill the older. It was just how things were.

He, too, was named 'Hero' by his mother. It was a selfishness in the mothers, to name their children as such. They knew the rules, knew what had to happen. But they wanted a life of riches, of empty glory as their sons grew into fame. It was all for nothing, this young Hero knew. One day, maybe ten years from now, he would be lying in the stone arena, staring up at his younger replacement.

But still, he would not forget his duty. His duty, was to kill.

Bringing a forced grin to his face, he lifted his bloodied hands to the air, and a roar of pleasure erupted from the people of the arena.