Spartacus

It is not the road of the arena. It does not tremble underfoot, there are no pillars to shake, no editor to grant award. Neither is the battlefield - he is accompanied by no brave companion, possessed of no noble cause. There is nothing glorious or memorable about this, nothing about which he can be proud.

More than anything, it reminds him of the pits. Brutal, raucous, dark, and he can practically hear the ring of coin as it changes hands. There will be no death and he fights for no master but himself; at the end of the night he will receive his own payment. But he takes no satisfaction in that.

The feel of his body moving, responding. The force of blows and the ensuing pain. These things, while there is no satisfaction, provide a twisted kind of comfort. Tonight, regardless of his payment, he will sleep well.

He feels his opponent's septum crunch under his fist and knows that it's over before the man even falls. He stands under the hot lights, his head tilted back, listening to the crowd. There might be no death here, but underneath everything it's still death that they all want.

So he barely acknowledges the crowd as he leaves the arena, palming sweat and blood away from his face. in a brief moment of quiet and solitude in the room he and the others had been given to prepare in, he leans forward and peers into a dirty mirror, examining the superficial wounds on his face.

This can't be all that he is, at the end of everything.

But he has lost everything else.