From the Pit (pt 2)

Despair proves a crushing erosion, summed by accumulating the lesser of compared losses and costs.

All of his energy was channeled toward base rage. So if only to cling to some fading instinct.

One particularly cold dusk he was presented with a stout opponent. This one did not plea, even though drawn with fresh wounds.

He remained. Neither moved.

A blade fell near his foe. So familiar a routine, one almost comforting. To face unarmed one branding steel focused the mind to purpose. Such battles had been some of his most formidable teachers.

Yet now.

He closed his eyes. Peaced the impending mind.

The tension of a bow, like leather wrenching wood.

Under his own vision of darkness he outstretched palms, drawing in the air two broken circles, directed at his heart.

Not even an overhead passing of wind. Breathless throughout. He cursed the fates. Cursed this pit.

Footsteps padded in the muck. Sideward, then retracing the same path. No approach.

These hesitated but then drew forth, to within the influence of a blade. He heard the expected twang.

A curve upon his lips. Uncountably rare. Eager.

But the desired pain did not pierce through him. It stopped, if near his envisioned mark.

His opening eyes captured a bust in spewing throes, neck grossly opened by an arrow, the shafthead running through into his own shoulder.

He caught his falling opponent with unexpected reflex. Wood splintered, ripping a gouge. Both toppled to the muck. His limb began twitching uncontrollably.

The other gurgled to silence.

He shook through arduous pain. Clutching rendered flesh, raising slowly a condemning gaze.

The archer already held aloft a tight fist. That hooded stare locked to his. Fury as palpable as a nightmare bearing naught but mangled teeth from shadowed corners.

There were no corners. Circled around him the pit. The archer leveled judgment, aimed directly at him.

Several opponents — feral by appearance and manner, before even spotting rough collars at neck — leapt down the ledge and charged with broken ferocity.

Those gazes were vacant. Beasts on the faces of men. Proving as savage to one another as they were to him. Yet they wreaked mercilessly on his swelling and cracking flesh.

Shepherded toward the brutal delivery of death, they stopped just before inflicting his. Ascending the chain dropped only when the archer once again rose a fist.

The morning passed, as did the day. And several more.

Bleeding. Without.

From the distance came the unusual chirping of birds.