Applejack wept, but she didn’t even know why anymore. All it did was make her feel like even more of a coward than she was. She lay on a leather mat, cold and shivering, bitter air violating her. She missed everything, even the troubled times. But she tried to forget them, because if she thought this was as good as it gets, it might just be easier.
They had forced away her clothes, and allowed her only to wear an old, and faded cloth that covered her torso. They spoke to her in their language, a language she knew nothing about. They fed her the scraps the others would not, or could not eat.
And come tomorrow they expected her to kill.
They didn’t even train her. She decided this was because they expected her to die more than kill. That was probably what was going to happen. She knew it, they knew it, and anyone who hadn’t had their sense beaten out of them yet knew it.
Someone kicked Applejack, waking her from a forced slumber. She looked up to see the bearded man, looking at her with a snarl. Like always he only pointed where she needed to go while barking orders she didn’t understand.
She walked towards a black metal gate that was locked, keeping her from where she would eventually be forced to go. A small hallway to the the arena. And apparently this hallway was where visitors came to see about their bets.
She looked through it, and she saw just the man she wanted to see. The young man who had escorted, and tricked her. “You,” She said, pointing at him, “you bastard, I’m going to-”
“Nothing. You can’t do anything to me, not as long as you’re here, and I’m just about anywhere else.”
Applejack was silent, she didn’t want to say anything to the man in front of her.
“Look, I figured you would want to die with that hat you always wear.” Her produced a worn stetson, and pushed it through the bars.
Applejack snatched it away, and put it on her head. She never took her eyes off of him.
“You’re welcome, yokel.” He walked away, leaving her to her fate.
For the next few hours Applejack took up space, avoiding anything that might warrant an abuse of some sort. The image of the man beaten to death the previous morning stayed with her. She found a spot on the floor, under a pillar where she decided to keep herself warm, and stay out of the way of the other slaves, who either trained on dummies, and targets, or someone they decided no one liked. The only problem was how cold it was against her bare ass.
All around there were weapon racks, and tables of some kind of armor on it. Applejack assumed they were to be worn only for fights. The weapons on the other hand were used freely in training, and every sort of practice. There were swords, and maces, chains, spears, whips, nets, scythes, clubs, even a few guns. Applejack couldn’t think of the kind of person who could come up with these things, and she hoped she never met them. Then she realized she had met them, and they were all around her.
They were the many men and women around her forced to fight for their lives, and whether or not they knew it, it was molding them into animals that no kind of god could create. Turning them into people who enjoyed the some of the sickest of things. Making them reprehensible against their own will.
Applejack tried to feel sorry for them, but she wouldn’t lie to herself. She didn’t care a thing about them, and she knew it. She just hoped she could make it out and see Applebloom once more. That would make her life complete.
The scarred man approached Applejack as she sat. He kicked her shin, and she felt jealous of his sandals before looking up at him.
This time he pointed at a trio of slaves at a table grabbing weapons, and armor. She knew what this meant, and suddenly there was a terrible empty feeling all through out her.
She stood, and walked to where they were. Her knees were weak with fear, and for a moment she thought of her horrible fate. But she pushed that to the side. She needed to survive, and focusing on dread was no way to go about that.
At the table there was a single sleeve of armor, coming up to a bronze pauldron. She took it, and put it on, slowly. Next to it was a pair of schynbalds. They looked to made of iron, and they were rusted, but they looked like they would fit. She strapped them to her shins. She tried to get used to the weights, and movement of her armor. It was difficult at first, but eventually, she got the hang of it. Then, she went on to browse for some sort of weapon.
It still seemed twisted to her, that people could think of these things. She had never used anything other than a pistol, but before her was anything but.
On the rack was a sword, between two others. It was different, by far. The sword was for two handed use, clearly. But instead of ending in a point, it ended in a squared off edge. As the blade went on, it went from a steely grey, to an iridescent black. She had never seen anything like it. She picked it up, and tested its weight. It was heavy, even to this brawny woman.
It was hers, she decided. She walked to the other three fighters, and she stood outside the gate, waiting to die.
Next to her was a timid young man, his hair was black, and streaked with grey, though he looked hardly old enough to know how to fight. He twitched, and he spazzed. He had never fought before, and she could tell. He glanced at her, and she held herself from giving a curt wave. She didn’t know anything about him, other than that he was young, but she couldn’t kill him. If it came down to it, she would have to, but she wouldn’t like herself for it.
The other two looked like they were equally weak, but seemed so much less innocent, like this was their punishment for some heinous act. One was obviously scared, but ready to fight. The other was repeating some words in his language, like a prayer to mystical beings that might protect him.
The bearded man came over to them, and he looked them all over. He said something in his language, and then spat on the ground. With a bent key, he unlocked the gate, and the four walked out, and stood on the sandstone floor of the hallway, before the first of them stepped into the sand.
The rest followed.
There was an eery silence, like there was a noise that they needed to hear, but they couldn’t. The arena was in the shape of a rectangle, spectators filled every seat. They watched as the four stepped out, and four more from the opposite side of the arena. They looked experienced, with years of slaughter to their names.
Then, as she stepped onto the scorching sands of the dead, Applejack realized this was a screening. The other three in her group were just as weak as her, and whoever organized these fights knew that. They were going to slay the weak, so that only the strong will remain. She wasn’t going to fight those beside her, she was to face those far ahead.
The other group wasted no time, they knew that they were going to live, and they charged like feral beasts.
The two men in Applejack’s group charged, too, then Applejack, then the boy.
When they met, Applejack brought her sword down in the head of whoever she faced. The snap of bone would have made her sick, if she had the time. She heard a whimper next to her, she looked, and the boy was covering his head with a shield, as a man built like a god raised an ax high above them both.
Applejack prepared herself, closed her eyes, and swung her sword like a bat.
In the same instant that the man fell, her sword embedded into him two thirds of the way, his ax fell on the boy, landing on his thigh. He shrieked, and yelled, while clutching his leg, rolling onto his side.
Applejack left her sword in the man’s body, and came to his aid. She didn’t know what to do, but any help seemed like a good idea. As she yanked the ax from his, now useless, leg a shadow fell on them.
The woman looked behind her, and she saw a man with a great hammer, about to swing. She stumbled out of the way, quick as she could, dropping her hat in the process. The hammer came down on the boys knee, and he screamed again, his face contorting into a look of despair, agony, and hopelessness, that no one should have to bare.
Applejack looked at him, and almost hated herself, before her attention was stolen by the brute about to kill her. She bolted to her feet, and lept over the crying boy, and grabbed her sword, still stuck in the dead man from earlier. She pulled, and tugged, and just as he was about to crush her like a bug, it came free, connecting with the handle of his hammer, its head coming off, leaving only a glorified stick.
The man registered this quickly, and jabbed her in the face with its stub. She faltered, and fell back, holding her cheek. He proceeded to beat her like an abusive husband, all about her body. She tried to raise her weapon in some defense, but the man stepped on the hilt, pressing her hand into the ground.
He focused on her arm now. She could see a twisted smile behind his chainmail mask, whenever she opened her eyes. The man saw her on her side, and then slammed his weapon into her face like a golf club, forcing her onto her back.
For the first time she heard the crowd. She wasn’t sure if they had been quiet, or she just wasn’t paying attention until now. But she was sure that they were more brutal than this. Yes, this pain was brutal, cruel, and inhuman, but those people were worse. They were the ones who watched this mess, these tortured souls, and wanted more. They were the sick, they were the criminals.
The man continued to beat her stomach, as she curled into a ball. She opened her eyes again, and through her fading vision, she saw the boy, his leg limp and, hanging by a tendon. He slid his shield, the very one he thought would save him earlier. It slid across the sand in the direction of Applejack. It glided across the sand like a messenger from the gods, and she clutched it like it was weapon of the gods.
She found it’s grip, and just as the man was to deliver one final blow, she hit him the side of his knee with it, forcing him to fall like a king driven from power.
He held his knee, grunting in agony. Applejack rose, still holding the most painful of her wounds, a broken rib, and limped over to him.
His knee was bleeding, like something more horrendous than a shield bash ailed him. He reached for his weapon, and Applejack stopped him, stepping on his hand.
He looked up at her, as if she were his mother. Applejack was going to ram her shield into his brain, but she abstained from destroying him for a moment. She saw the boy mere feet away. Then she looked at the man about to die, and grimaced.
She brought the shield into his temple, killing him, losing him forever.
She stepped over him, and limped to her hat, just past the boy. She picked it up, and she put it atop her head, almost mimicking a monarch.
Looking over the boy, she felt the worst kind of regret, the kind that comes with losing someone you thought you could protect.
She stood over him, looking down at him, and she saw pain in his eyes. She pulled raised her sword high, a line in the sand had followed her from where it dragged. “I-I,” she choked out, “I’m so-sorry.”
She brought the blade down in a sweeping motion, taking his head off, and giving her so many feelings all at once.
And then, she fainted.
Applejack reflected on her first fight in the arena. That had been almost a month ago. Since then she had fought almost every day, more than once a day. And she had not known agony until she had been forced to kill others. She could only put on a face of determination, and hope that she would prevail. And somehow, she always did.
Her armor had become beaten, and worn. Her skin had become just as flawed, with so many scars, and reminders to her shortcomings. But for all those shortcomings, she still won out in the end. She practiced all day, when she wasn’t fighting. But that could not be the source of her victories. She didn’t know how she won, and she didn’t care. They told her this was her last fight, and she knew she’d win. She’d won every other fight, so why not this one?
She stepped into the brief hallway before the sand of the arena, and stopped at the gate. It was like this before every fight. She stood there, holding a sword as tall as herself, as an announcer spoke gibberish in a language she couldn’t understand.
And then, the gate dropped.
She stepped into the arena, and walked, never would she charge, to the center. From the other side, a woman stepped out. Her feet were wrapped in rags, and her torn, old tunic was stained with blood she had drawn. Wings bound to her body tight by chains enchanted by some evil sorcery were useless to her at the moment.They were a pale blue, and seemed almost sickly.
But despite all that, what struck Applejack the most was her hair. Her hair was dirty, messy, unruly even, but it was colored in the same colors of a rainbow. Plenty of people had hair that was multicolored, but Applejack had never seen a person with hair like that.
She wielded an axe, and she knew how to use it. She charged, running like she was riding a lightning bolt. Applejack focused one her, and she raised her sword, ready to strike.
The other woman was within range, and Applejack almost swung her sword, but spun, and slammed the heel of her foot into the other’s jaw. Now, Applejack would use her sword. She raised it high, like an executioner, but dropped her sword, doubling over in pain.
The woman had kicked her, right in the stomach. She stood, rubbing her jaw, and spit. Then she picked up her hatchet, and prepared to plant it in the other.
She swung, but just as she did, the other fell to her knees, and pulled the Rainbow haired woman’s feet out from under her. Applejack straddled her, proceeding to beat her, until a hand darted up grab her by the throat.
This rainbow haired woman hit Applejack in the face, one, two, three times, before she got the upper hand and rolled over on top of her. She started to choke Applejack.
Grasping for anything she could, Applejack scooped a handful of sand in her hand, then slammed it into the other woman’s eye.
The woman reeled back in pain, holding her eye. Applejack punched her in the nose, then pushed her off of her, before she stood up, and started kicking the woman. Once she reasoned the woman to be subdued she backed away, picked up her sword, and just as she was about to bring it down, she felt a deep burning pain in her side.
She dropped her sword, and her hands quickly darted to the spot on her side where the pain radiated. She looked down, and she saw red rapids flowing from her. Not from her eyes, but from her body. She fell to her knees, in agonizing pain, clenching the wound, tight.
Things started going black. He vision faded in and out as blood began to pool around her. The last thing she saw before it ended was the other woman swinging her own sword. The one she’d made her own. She didn’t feel a thing.
Up above the arches, and statues, and the crowd, atop the roof of the arena the shadow pulled the bolt of the rifle back, ejecting the spent casing. She watched as her beloved finished off the blonde with a sickening execution. Blood sprayed. A single tear rolled down the shadow’s cheek as she lay the telescoped rifle to the side.
As the crowd below her roared, and cheered it’s symphony of over zealous debauchery, she slunk away.