Blood Brothers
Flash Fiction: Alor has become the top gladiator. A killing artist. A national hero. But today he faces his greatest challenge in the arena. Can he do what needs to be done to save his country?
This flash fiction piece was written for the Soaring Twenties Social Club (STSC) Symposium. The STSC is a small, exclusive online speakeasy where a dauntless band of raconteurs, writers, artists, philosophers, flaneurs, musicians, idlers, and bohemians share ideas and companionship. Occasionally, STSC members create something around a set theme. This time the theme was “regret.” If you are a writer, I encourage you to consider joining us, I’ve included details at the bottom of this post. Lastly, you can find all my past symposium pieces by clicking here.
Alor stared at his reflection in the looking glass and thought about how strange it felt to have transformed from a frightened, skinny farm boy into a finely honed killing artist in less than four years. He smiled.
The best part, or worst part - he wasn’t sure which - was that he enjoyed it. Did that make him a bad person?
He shook his head. That was a moral question for another day.
Turning back to the mirror, Alor realized that he hardly recognized himself anymore.
He now stood over six feet tall, his sun-kissed skin had darkened into the perfect tan. Each muscle stood out as if chiseled of marble. He wore only a gladiator skirt and his helmet, his torso bare except for a leather pauldron covering his left shoulder and arm. He was no longer that weak boy. He had become a killer - a merciless executioner. He had mastered something to which he could devote his life.
“Time to go, Alor,” said Trax, poking his head around the doorway. Trax was an older, though still formidable, retired gladiator, and his trainer.
“Okay.”
Alor shook his head to clear any doubts.
It is what it is. If being a killer makes me a bad person, so be it.
He shrugged his shoulders, and started the long jog down down the tunnel to the Alborian arena.
As he jogged, he brought his knees high to get his blood pumping. He noted that Trax jogged silently next to him, knowing better than to interrupt his pre-game concentration and he appreciated the older man’s respect as he started to enter a meditative state in which his thoughts disappeared except for one point of concentration: kill.
As they approached the end of the tunnel, he heard the boos of the crowd. His rival had entered the arena.
Today he fought for the honor of Albor and the White Army against Shaden’s Black Army champion. After years of devastating war, and unsustainable losses on both sides, the two countries had agreed to decide it in the arena. Albor had won the coin toss, which meant that he, thankfully, fought on his home turf. Alor appreciated any advantage the gods choose to bestow upon him because he had heard that the black army champion, Goran, had personally stood against a hundred men and had slain them all. The enemy gladiator had a reputation for unrivaled brutalism.
I can’t afford any mistakes today. I’m brutal too. I will crush him.
“Are you ready?,” Trax asked.
Alor simply nodded and jogged through The Gate of Life into the sunlight. He vowed to flatten the so called, “Black Champion.”
The crowd started cheering, the roar deafening. The Alborian people loved him. They stood up and cheered, showing him their respect. The women threw roses as he grinned and waved, enjoying a moment of levity before soaking up the power and energy they sent him. Then he stopped and put on his game face. He had reached his starting point halfway to the center of the arena. He turned, planted his feet shoulder width apart and faced his enemy with a stoney gaze.
Goran’s helmet was open and he could see the man’s face. He too appeared chiseled of of stone and his face was a stoic mask of death.
They stood staring at each other for a moment and suddenly Goran’s eyes widened.
What had he seen?
Alor looked closely at the man’s face. It looked…..familiar. Did they know each other?
Suddenly, Alor’s eyes also widened. Could it be?
Yes! It was Willan, his best friend from his childhood on the farm, before the war, before they had both been lost at sea. Willan must have taken the name Goran as his gladiator name, just as he, Liam, had taken the name Alor.
They stared at each other, lost in memories of their shared childhood: playing down by the river...laying in the fields after sunset, staring up at the stars, laughing and dreaming of their future…cutting their palms, tying their hands together, and swearing upon the name of the Great Divine to be best friends, and blood brothers, forever.
He saw a tear of regret leak from Willan’s right eye, and felt the moisture of regret on his own face.
The crowd cheered again, bringing him back to reality. He saw Goran’s face harden and realized their reality. This changed nothing. They were different people now and the fate of two countries rested upon their shoulders. Liam and Willan were dead. Alor and Goran had a job to do.
His own face hardened and he gave Goran a nod of respect. Goran returned the nod. He understood.
They each turned to face their respective kings.
“Hail Albor!,” Alor shouted.
“Hail Shaden!,” Goran shouted.
They turned back to face one another, each saluting the other with his sword. They both hesitated, for just a moment, and then, with swords raised, each fighter issued a battle scream and charged to meet his brother in blood.
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I liked this. What do you think would have happened if one of them was more merciful than the other? Or do you think it's possible one of them would have let the other win?