The Bronze Throne
Story by RyanMcBear on SoFurry
I wrote this short story as a writing exercise but I liked it enough to post, so enjoy this alternate take on my characters Grey and Oliver.
The sensation of stepping into the arena is like nothing else. The roar of the crowd is as deafening as the sun is blinding. The scent of blood and dirt blends together into something foul beneath your feet, and yet the audience cheers for more. Never satisfied, always hungry. The ground has turned red in their bloodlust.
A warrior is nothing before he steps foot into the arena. There are no cheers for him, no call for his blade to meet flesh. He must prove himself to the screaming masses before they even waste a breath in his name. Until he spills the blood of another, he is only more blood to be spilled.
One such nameless fighter approaches now. He is a wolf, gray and white. His torso is mostly bare. A single leather pauldron covers one of his broad shoulders, with a leather strap that crosses the massive mounds of his giant pectorals. A tattered cape hangs loosely to his waist, though he will soon discard it so that the masses can see the deep grooves and valleys of his well-defined back.
The people will cheer for his muscular body, the bulging biceps and shredded abs, but not in awe of his strength. They will cheer for his demise. He is a challenger in these walls, one who threatens the proven heroes the aristocrats have sponsored.
And yet he stands defiant. He is half-naked and without a weapon. And yet his sharp eyes do not falter. These are the kinds of warriors the audience loves to see fall.
He is the fourth to enter the arena. The second and third were nameless like him. The first was a hero. He is a bull, a giant compared to the wolf. His armor is nearly pristine under the smatterings of red. He had earned it from his sponsor. And he will earn himself a sharp new blade for striking down the wolf before him.
They are upon each other in an instant. The bull swings first, but his blade never meets flesh. The wolf moves nimbly, and delivers a low kick to his opponent's leg. The bull is brought down on one knee. His foe now brought down to his level, the wolf strikes the bull in the jaw with his fist, and the mighty beast falls.
For a single, fleeting moment, the arena falls silent. But it is only for a moment. Their screams return, drowning out the pained groans of the fallen warrior. But he is not done just yet. The warrior takes his stand once again, his eyes wide with anger.
Red stains his teeth and travels down his lip. His grip on his sword is like vice. In his rage, he flails his weapon at the wolf. The attacks are wild and fast, masking a lack of technique with pure strength. It does not take much effort for the wolf to avoid them. The bull swings a little too harshly, and he is thrown off balance.
The wolf steps aside, and the bull stumbles past him. In one quick movement, the wolf brings his elbow down on the bull's back, and the warrior falls once again. The crowd does not grow quieter this time. They have already turned on the bull. And yet he stands once again, desperate to regain their favor.
He lashes out again, this time too quickly for the wolf to react. His fist collides with the wolf's snout. The wolf stumbles backward, the smell of copper overwhelming his nose. He catches a glimpse of his advancing opponent just before steel connects with his abdomen. If he had not shifted his body, the sword would have pierced his gut. The wound in his side is still deep, but it will not be fatal.
A gasp escapes his lips, though he has no time to assess the injury. The wolf leaps backward, but the bull closes the distance between them. Another wild sword swing comes for the wolf's skin, but he has already anticipated such an attack.
He drops low and the steel arcs over his head. The wolf swings his entire body around and throws out his leg. His heel digs into the bull's snout in a powerful roundhouse kick. As soon as the warrior hits the ground, the wolf is on top of him.
The first punch draws blood, and every hit after covers the bull's face in more of it. When the wolf finally stops, the bull does not move.
The gash in his side suddenly burns like hot iron against his skin. The sight of the bruised and bloodied bull beneath him is suddenly grotesque. The twisted snout and purple skin are his doing, and the warrior cannot help but pull his eyes away from what he's done. The wolf cups his hand over the cut in his side. The blood pouring from his wound coats his bloodied knuckles. It all mixes together as it pools in the dirt.
This is how it has to be. All the warrior knows is violence. It is all he can do to survive. But he refuses to revel in it. He will not appease the crowds with cries of victory or triumph, but he must do something.
The wolf's eyes drift upward to the arena walls. Chairs made of silver line the lowest balcony, and above them stands the king's throne of gold. He sits in his box above the other nobles, watching the wolf intently. The wolf must dedicate his victory. Most nameless warriors would choose a noble to dedicate their victory to, a potential sponsor that would pluck them out of poverty and name them a hero.
The nobles cheer and clap for his victory. Their fickle voices called for his defeat only moments earlier. They stand lined up against the balcony wall, beckoning the warrior to choose them. But one does not stand.
He sits beside the king in a smaller seat. Unlike the others, his mouth stays closed, his lips pursed. There is sadness in his dark brown eyes, and why would there not be?
Although laurels of gold top his dark hair, he is seated in a throne of bronze. The prince has been called many things, none of them flattering. He is not a warrior nor a politician, and thus the upper crust disregards him. They see his round face and soft body and think nothing more of him.
Even now, he sits forgotten among the standing nobles. He will be married off to a princess in a few months time, and the bronze throne will be empty. No one will bat an eye.
And so, the wolf raises his arm to the lower balcony. The nobles inch ever closer, hanging over the wall in hopes that their lavish clothes and flashy jewelry would entice the wolf to pick the wealthiest among them. They shout and call for him, their voices indistinguishable from one another amongst the rest of the audience. But when the wolf extends his finger, he points at none of them.
The wolf dedicates his victory to the prince in the bronze throne.