spoliarium | sol + cilla

She's no fool.

There is this guy in the training center; she’s watching him right now, her eyes were the only thing watching what he does. They were the only thing that trailed him at every twist and turn. It was probably the quizzical, perhaps even a perplexed raise of the eyebrow that gave her thoughts away. You could not mistake it for anything else; she was watching him. Leaning up against the boards behind her, one leg bent, following the path of comfortableness, it is also resting against the wood. Her arms have moved across her chest and she folds them tightly together, and she looks at him, an eyebrow slightly raised, lips momentarily parting as she sucks in a sharp mouthful of air.

She closes them, but opens them once more, allowing for another sharp intake as the dummies limbs are shattered. There is no rhythm, no technique, and no sequence to each of his movements. It’s all anger; it’s all frustration, rage and helplessness. It looks a lot like the way she often feels, all those emotions – guilt, pain, suffering, hurt, anger – being performed in front of her. At first she had simply grinned, eyes flickering past him, raising her own practice weapon to strike at a target.

People often came here and did things like that, growled and howled and screamed at targets, blaming their parents for this cruel life. As though the training was all their parents fault and she supposed she had to agree with them. She hated her mother for being so ill; she hated her mother for using that illness as a bargaining trip, wriggling that seed of guilt so far into Cilla’s soul that she had no choice. And she often hated her father for watering it, letting it sprout and eat her all up. But she had never taken it out on some poor, unfortunate dummy, as she had seen other children do. So she had assumed the same anger had taken ahold of the boy standing in front of the dummies.

But she was wrong.

It wasn’t until she had thrown the third knife that she had realized that his movement weren’t all in anger. She had become awfully good at sensing such things since her brother had gone ill in the head (well that was what father said – just because he had an imaginary friend didn’t mean he was a lost cause, but father said an eighteen year old boy shouldn’t be that way) she had learnt how to read people more then ask them. Her brother tended to show how he felt rather then say it, he tended to turn all questions onto her, manipulating the conversation so that he could make her feel even worse. Not intentionally, though. It was how she had begun to look at him, then to look at father and then to look at mother, watching their eyes, and their movements. It was how she had figured out that father was simply using guilt to get what he wanted.

The sincerity in his words had faded long ago, and now it was just desperation to please his wife. Get into the arena, sacrifice your life, die child, die. There pleads for her to become their little victor sounded more like a chant for her to die.

After the first dummy falls, a mutilated pile of nothing she moves. She takes up a staff of her own on the way to the boy. When she reaches him she stares, generally it was just a matter of yelling and getting your way in, but she felt that this was not the way to handle it. And in all honesty she didn’t know the best way to get his attention to her.

”Oi! Kid!” She said, shouting each word, sharp and clear. She wasn’t sure if that would get the response she required, so she raised her stick and in one sweep hit the boy in the legs, taking them out from underneath him. ”Dude come on.” She sighs, wiping a hand through her hair, and squats so she is level with him. ”I don’t know what kind of pain you are in, but mutilating that poor dummy won’t help.” Biting her lip she glances away, and then with a quick grin she turns back to him, eyes sparkling, ”Come on, fight me, take it all out on me, I can fight back.”

And then she straightens up and grins.

This was not one of the greatest ideas she had ever had. In fact she would have written it down in the top five worst mistakes, coming in at number three, just above her decision to try bleaching her feet white and coming in just under the choice to train in the training center seven days a week until she was eighteen or dead. But then sometimes they bad decisions you make can turn into the best ones. Not all of them lead to misfortune and terror. He seems shocked, if not stunned by the fact that he was no longer in the air, but on the ground. It was then that she noticed his hands – just a glimpse, but they were clearly cut, red and bleeding.

Sheesh this guy was in a bad mood, if he was angry enough to do that to his hands and not even think about it, who knew what was running through that mind of his. And then all at once he was a feral animal; there was some kind of light in the depth of those eyes. It glowed, engulfed them and then he was on his feet, that staff swinging at her. There was something beautiful about the way he moved, there was elegance and grace and as it moved she was almost too surprised to react. All at once those motions had changed from angry, uncoordinated and ungraceful, they’d taken a sharp turn into something she couldn’t keep up with.

The first strike she blocked and her left foot slipped back, oh shit, he was good. He was strong and he was completely comfortable with the staff. Her instincts were all screwed up with this weapon, she could wield it well enough, she had trained and practiced using it, but her choice of weapon was the bow and arrow, or the half length twin samurai swords. So when it came down to using one weapon she was the ungraceful one.

It felt odd gripping the staff in two hands, she fumbled over the staff, trying to gain some kind of rhythm, but as her fingers slipped she knew what was going to happen. The boy moved like lightning, the staff an extension of his arm, it moved fluidly, so much unlike what she had seen just moments ago that her eyes widened in surprise and wonderment, there was a flash of movement and then there was pain. The staff collided heavily with her chest and she stumbled backwards, the air being slapped out of her lungs in one great big hit.

Father had always told her she was built for ranged weapons, it was why she had chosen the bow and arrow as her primary weapon, after she had mastered that weapon she decided she wanted something else, she wanted a weapon she could use to fight with in close quarters, she tried the sword, the spear, the axe, the staff, but not fit. It was after she had held a half-length blade in her non-dominant hand she decided she liked the feel of it, it was then that she learned she was ambidextrous. She decided shed use the half-length twin samurai swords.

Her hands slide over the staff, she grabbed it with her left and then her right. Unsure of which hand to use, she wasn’t given a chance to decide.

She wasn’t even given a chance to catch her breath, before he was spinning once more, staff moving out, and there was no time to react once more. Again there was pain and she grunted, her leg collapsing under the weight of the blow that was delivered. A gasp escapes her lips and she moves, this time it was just instinct that saved her from another smack to whatever he was planning on hitting. The staff moved upwards, and his met hers with a loud clack.

Cilla grinned at him, ignoring the sting on her leg and chest. This was enjoyable, not at all what she had expected. He was tougher, stronger and better then she had thought he would be. He wielded the staff like an expert and she knew it was his choice of weapon. It was not hers, so she was swimming out and away from her comfort zone where no one was going to save her. Oh if father could see her now he’d growl at her. If mother could see her she’d tell her she was useless. She was supposed to be making the family proud.

She let out a small laugh, holding the staff tight; fighting against the pressure he put on it. This was the kind of pressure she liked, not the one her mother drowned her in.

She raised an eyebrow, challenging the boy to do better.

She would never say she was the best at using the bow, she had immense power, strength and skill and could hit any target she aimed at, but she would never claim she was the best. The bow had come easily to her, the knocking of the arrow, pulling of the drawstring; it had all felt so natural in her hands. When she sucked in her breath, held for a fraction of a second – the tip of the arrow resting against her lip – before firing. There was so many reasons why she preferred that weapon. There was power in the way you used it, the feeling of firing something, rather then striking. It was ever bit as graceful and magical as using a sword. Her parents didn’t agree with the weapon choice, however, they said a bow was a coward’s weapon, to be used by someone who wanted to run, who didn’t want to fight, but rather flee.

She did not see it the same way. The bow was a weapon that required just as much skill as any other, and it seemed that it was the weapon she cared for the most. It felt right in her hand, the arrows felt comfortable over her shoulder. It was the weapon she had wanted to use, but her parents had been ever so persistent. When mother got sick she used that to her advantage and she pleaded with their daughter. Cilla tried not to fall for it, but her father soon started to join in and before she knew it she was being manipulated, warped and told it was the only way to make her mother proud. That to change weapon, to stop being a coward and be better was the dying wish of her mother.

And she fell for it.

Not once did she stop using the bow, but she was forced to find another weapon. It was how the twin half-swords came around. And it was why she was struggling in her fight with this boy – her struggles even worse, aside from the fact that she was heavily out-matched, more so because every weapon she used required to hands. Her hands did different things every time and to unify her movements into one solid strike felt odd.

He grunts with the block, but he doesn’t remain blocked for more then a few seconds. Once more her eyes widen with evident surprise and awe has he disentangles himself in one smooth movement. He moves, twisting the staff, and Cilla is given no time to move before the staff collides with her back, her cry of surprise is cut off as once more the air is torn from her lungs before she can stop it. There was no way in hell the staff could be anything other then this boy’s weapon of choice. He used it so well, and she was greatly inclined to ask him to teach her, but she bit back anything she was willing to say, after all they were fighting, not chatting.

It was his intensity, the way he moved, all taut and serious that shook her out of early need to joke and muck around. Instead she tried to match his intensity, but no matter what she did, she’d never equal his strength. However she is given an opportunity to get in, under that defense and she takes it. Stepping forwards, lightly on the balls of her feet she moves the end of the staff, letting her body do the work, her mind reacting to her limbs after they moved. She struck his collarbone and a triumphant grin flickered onto her face, fuck yes! She had finally dealt a blow, Cilla was certain it would be the only one she would give him.

The triumphant grin quickly disappeared as he moved; he barely reacted to the blow she had given him. He danced backwards before moving in once more, a deadly animal, fully aware of everything happening in this battle, but nothing around him. He feinted, aiming low for her legs, she stepped backwards, and raising her staff, not realizing it was a faint until it was too late. The movements switched all at once and her exposed arm suffered from her stupidity. He struck hard and brutal, hitting her forearm.

The hit was so hard she felt the pain; she felt the skin split underneath the movement and she gasped. She could feel the blood, and the numbness that quickly pulled the pain away and adrenaline took control.

Cilla looked once more at the boy, she could feel the pressure in her hands, the rubbing of the staff was already leaving marks, but she was not going to give up, the circumstances told her that she was going to lose, but hopefully not just yet. Oddly enough she as finding being beaten rather enjoyable.

Shit.

That fucking hurt. The staff sliced across her left arm, splitting the skin, and once more blood flowed. That fucking hurt. But she couldn’t even be upset with him, she couldn’t even stop and get angry, all she could do is watch and react as best as she could. But she was more or less watching the way he moved then anything else. He was rather distracting, the anger and frustration and pain in each of his movements couldn’t even hide the beauty, because it was beautiful. He danced with that stick; it was a deadly dance of movements, when he moved there was purpose behind it. It was like the way she moved with the half-length swords, spinning, flourishing, and using each as a separate entity and as a combined unit.

She loved watching people fight, she loved fighting, the way she could watch a body react, the way people hesitated, or responded, their muscles, the movement of the legs and body as they twisted and turned, brandishing their weapons. It was like a sunset, every person a different array of colours and styles, no one was the same. It was any wonder people who trained as much as she did weren’t professional dancers as well, she had watched people dance, and she loved it herself, but when she didn’t have a weapon she had no drive, it felt as though the sense of purpose was gone. Half her being was missing. Most people assumed that the bow wasn’t a graceful weapon, but the drawing and knocking of the arrow had to be fluid, not clumsy. You could spin, duck and weave, flip dance and move just as much, just like any weapon.

Cilla did not speak when she fought, she let her actions talk for her, and today they screamed about her inability to match the strength before her. But she didn’t mind their cries; she was far too swept up in what she was watching. It was easy enough to ignore the pain in her chest, legs and arms; it was easy to ignore the blood that dripped down both her wrists, to her elbows and onto the floor.

Then all at once the dance changed, the tempo shifted, she felt it – sensed it all at once. This was the end point and she’d have been lying if she said that was disappointing. The boy moved, the staff lightly tapping her shoulder, too light of a movement to fool her, it wasn’t strong enough, it didn’t bruise, nor did it hurt. That was when she knew that he still had more to come, which was nothing but a trick. She tried to react this time, and draw herself away, but he was faster, the staff moved, slamming into her waist and then he spun, and suddenly he was behind her staff under her chin, pressing against her throat.

She held her breath, head tilted upwards with the pressure of the staff. She seemed to freeze, knowing this was the killing blow, with one movement of the staff he could snap her neck, end it all. She had seen it happen before, careers taking it too far, ending another’s life simply because they could. But she didn’t feel fear, even as the seconds ticked on, and the span of time lengthened she did not feel afraid.

Cilla wasn’t angry she had been beaten, she wasn’t upset at her loss, and in fact she was pleased. She had witnessed something remarkable. So she waited, blood-turning directions as her hands hung downwards, staff on the floor where she had dropped it. It pooled at the tips of her fingers and the cuts stung. She felt the staff tighten around her neck and she raised an eyebrow.

”Easy there. Settle down cowboy.”

It was then that she decided enough time had passed, in one quick movement she spun around, the staff rubbing painfully against her throat and pushing her face almost into his chest, but she tilted her head upwards, pushing her arms in to give herself some more space. The back of her neck was still pushed up against the staff and the muscles ached from the strain, but she didn’t mind. Cilla eyed the boy, a small grin stretching across her lips.

”I know I’m good looking and all, but if you really wanted to get up this close and personal you just had to ask.” She teased.

She wonders what is going through that head of his. Why he was acting that way, what on earth must have happened to have him mutilate all those dummies. And why he had said not a single thing. There must be a million thoughts racing through his mind, or there was one big ball of pain and anguish, preventing him from doing more then reveal it through his actions. She knew what that felt like, but she had never had the strength to let it all out in one big intense game of beat the dummy. She’d always had to do it slowly, an outburst here, a punch to the wall there. Pent up anger seemed to boil through every one of her limbs, but it never wanted to leave all that quickly either. Cilla was good at resenting others, at hating; it was so simple to hate then love another.

People said hating required more energy then loving, but from what she had observed loving required your entire being. And placing your life and everything you had into one person seemed to be a lot more exhausting then hating and avoiding. It was why she was probably just one big giant ball of hate and aggression. Tiny little cracks here and there where she showed a flicker of that emotion once every now and then. But her parents would always say something or do something and the bottled would be filled once more. She’d tried to let it all out, hitting things and throwing things, but after a minute or so she’d feel foolish, as though it was a useless attempt to soothe a burning soul, like butting would on a fire to kill it instead of water.

Perhaps it was because she just hadn’t found her release yet.

This boy clearly had found one. It was evident, the bits and pieces of dummy lying everywhere. From the way he had fought her to his actions before, it was clear that acts of violence helped soothe whatever pain he was in. Well, maybe he believed that they helped, when they didn’t, because he didn’t look any better, in her opinion.

The way he looks at her isn’t the kind of glance you’d receive from someone who thought of you as little more then prey. He looks like he still wants to go through with it, to kill her, but she knows he won’t. Then all at once he stumbles backwards and the pressure is released. The unexpected movement sends Cilla stumbling herself, the sudden release in pressure around her neck causing a sharp, unwelcomed spike of pain to flare in her head. She glares at him, rubbing a blood-covered hand across her neck, soothing the ache that persistently jabbed at her skin.

The staff slips from his fingers and her glare softens into a look of worry, he stumbles and then sits, landing heavily on the ground. His eyes seem glued to his hands and Cilla moves forwards, she had glimpsed them early so she wasn’t at all surprised at what she saw. Her own hands were red and saw, but his were in a state of mess. There were lacerations, blood and wounds everywhere. Blusters had formed and popped and sprouted blood. It seemed that the adrenaline of the fight had allowed his mind to not notice what was happening to his hands, but now with it over there would be pain.

She moved away, to one of the first-aid kits that lay around the place. They were required, seeing as it was extremely common that people lost fingers, received deep wounds and lacerations. She grabbed a bunch of bandages and some cream, and then she moved back to the boy, he now sat staring at the ground, hands hanging in his lap. He looked lost, he looked so sad and hopeless and she yearned to ask him what was wrong. But she didn’t.

She sat down beside him and didn’t hesitate to grab one of his hands. ”You know you should take more care of your hands.” She spoke softly, the words barely more then a whisper and she wasn’t even sure if they were heard. She rubbed the cream on the skin, knowing fully well it would sting like a bitch, but she didn’t stop. After that she began to wrap a bandage around his hand, a small frown forming on her face as she concentrated. His blood covered her hands, and mixed with her own. Her hands were already bloodied from her own wounds, but she ignored them in favour of tending to his.

He’s like a feral animal (wide-eyed, snarling, foaming and all, like those mangy cats that walk in the shadows, searching for their next bit of prey, like the dogs that sulk where no one can touch them, but growl and snap when you try to aid them), clawing at the cage he has been thrust in, because he doesn’t understand why he is there, he doesn’t understand how to deal with what is happening so the only thing he can do is fight. And fighting is what he does, he claws, snarls and growls and using up everything he has got in one futile attempt at freedom from whatever plagues his soul. He’s trying to fight what is good for him, simply because he fears it. But she’s not sure whatever he fears about it, or if he fears it at all.

For whatever reason it is he does not like my help, when she touch his hand he pulls away, but she does not. However she is as stubborn as a rock, the only thing that could pull her away would be a ten-meter tall wave. So she keeps bandaging them, fingers steady, arms taut and strong every time he tries to get away. Cilla will not let him hurt himself even more, she will not let these wounds get infected and fester. If they did that would be on her soul, if they got worse she would wear that guilt for a long time. She had seen what had happened and for her to do nothing about it would be a sin, and she would suffer it. She cannot let him walk away, not after me being part of the cause of such wounds.

Cilla can’t say mother instilled such things into her heart, because she didn’t. She was as rough as sand grating against her skin. She was never gentle nor kind, she was demanding and somehow Cilla mistook that for the love and attention that she needed. So when mother yelled she got happy, because those outbursts were the closest things to affection she ever received from her.

She can not say she got my gentleness from her father either, he only had a heart for mother, only had warm hands for her own, when he looked at her brother and Cilla there was a few sparks of interest, but never really love. He only ever took an interest in them after their mother got ill, what she wanted he gave, so when she asked for their children to be victors he was sure as hell going to give her that.

The boy finally seems to react differently, instead of trying to pull himself away and instead of trying to be little more then a nuisance he does something else. For a moment she hesitates, eyeing him wearily as he picks up a Band-Aid. He removes it from the packaging and then places it on her arm. She follows his movements, inwardly wincing at the wound, it wasn’t that deep, but it was there, and it hurt and this guy was putting a Band-Aid on it. As much as she didn’t like the idea of having to pull it off later she accepted his help, knowing that this was the first bit of interaction he had given her aside from coldness. Cilla guessed it was an improvement.

Besides she’d treat her wounds at home, at least it meant that her father would not talk to her and mother would be delighted. After all she was bleeding, which meant she was practicing, which meant she was trying to fulfill her parents dreams.

The boy pressed a finger against the Band-aid making sure it was securely on and she looked at him, offering him a smile, but it seemed that such a tough act of putting a put of plastic on an arm was enough for the guy, because he didn’t look at her, but returned to his original position of staring straight ahead. Trying her best to push down that little lump of annoyance that rose in her chest she grabbed his other hand. The bandages were tight, but not too tight and by the time she was finished they were already glistening with his blood.

She was ready to leave, but he was still sitting there, with those sad, dead eyes. Reaching forwards she gently touched the top of his bandaged hand, ”look I’m here every day so if you need someone to talk to or anything come find me.” She doubted he would, but the offer was still there. She grinned at him, drawing her hand away, ”dude, you have totally got to show me how to use the staff, though. You’re amazing at it.” A response was hardly expected, and she wasn’t disappointed when he said nothing.

She couldn't say she understood him, but she got it in a way that it made sense. As though she knew what he was going through, even if her experience was different.