by Unknown
Thrim sat in the corner atop Arn's shoulder working to carefully twine delicate braids in Arn's dark hair. It was a Gillespie tradition meant to show affection. He really didn't have any other significant way of doing so, and being that Arn had once been a Rou, he was bound to know what it meant.
"Have you tangled it again, little Gillespie?" Arn rumbled. His voice was almost lost under the jangle of bells as many of the other gladiators danced in circles, laughing and celebrating this rare holiday. Thrim grumbled and tried to smooth out Arn's hair.
"Don't make fun of me, Arn. I doubt you could do any better."
Arn chuckled and rang a bell as big as Thrim's head right in front of his face. The ringing was so loud it seemed to shake his very bonesy. Thrim stumbled, shaking his head and blinking. "Stop that," he scolded. "It's a lot louder for me, you know."
Arn sobered instantly. "I apologize."
Thrim smiled and gave Arn's hair a light tug before he started on the braid again. A new song started up, the gladiators growing careless more out of their own desire to feel drunk than out of any effect from the weak wine. Of course, there was one notable absence.
"Jorin's been keeping low," Thrim mused anxiously. "After the fit he threw, I thought he'd be stalking around more."
Arn turned his head slightly, the braid shifting in Thrim's hand. "Are you concerned?"
Thrim considered it very carefully. "I think he regrets wasting his one chance on me to test the spell out. If he'd just used it on Rikkin, mindless of whether or not it would work, he'd have been satisfied. But he knows I'm the one who warned Rikkin. Now he's just angry, and anger acts without sense."
"He won't get near to you," Arn promised, a smile softening his features. It made Thrim's insides go a little gooey, which almost distracted him from his point. He suspected Arn was aware of the effect he had and used it to his full advantage.
"Arn, he's dangerous. And he might try and go through you to get to me."
"Then you'll protect me." He said it so easily, so matter-of-factly, that Thrim nearly slipped off his shoulder. Him? Protect Arn? Thrim was a hand's span in height.
He clutched the half-finished braid and righted himself, shaking his head. "I think you've had too much wine, Arn." Of course, Arn had not. He'd barely touched the stuff and had absolutely forbade Thrim, for fear that even the smallest amount might be too much for him in his current state.
Arn chuckled. "You're part sidhe. You should have inherent magic, shouldn't you?"
"It doesn't work that way and you know it."
"Well, why shouldn't it?"
There were times like this that Thrim strongly suspected Arn acted purposefully dense just to wind him up.
"I need a spell book," Thrim insisted stubbornly. "You can't just … will magic to happen. You have to actually be a sidhe for that to work, and somehow I get the feeling you wouldn't like me very much if I were purple skinned and wanted to eat your eyeballs."
Arn rolled his eyes. "You underestimate yourself. I'm sure you've been hiding a craving for my eyes all this time. But fine. If you must have your book, you should simply find it."
"Oh? Shall I sprout wings and fly off to Tibbus's chateau?"
"Tibbus doesn't have your book."
Thrim froze, his hands tangled in the braid. "That's ridiculous. Of course he does."
Arn's lips twisted in a wry grin. "If he had your book, don't you think we'd have seen a few more changes around here? Why not shrink us all down to save on the cost of food? Why not use quicker healing to get us on our feet faster?"
"I … well, maybe he just doesn't know how to use it."
"Neither did Jorin." Arn arched a brow. "Do you think the guards would really let slip that the book existed? Tibbus probably doesn't even remember buying you. He doesn't remember you going missing. So he never looked into it."
"If that were the case, Jorin would have been able to catch Rikkin ages ago."
"Not if the guards took it from him for fear he would do just that. They're all his friends, but they have jobs." Arn nodded almost imperceptibly, just enough for someone as close as Thrim to notice at all. Thrim turned to see some of the guards standing near the singular exit out of the pit. Down that hall were the guards' quarters. Thrim's stomach flipped at the possibility that his book might just be there. After all this time, it was within his grasp.
"This is mad," he rasped.
Arn chuckled. "Perhaps. But I should like to get to know you at your proper size."
That sent Thrim's stomach flipping in a completely different way, and for just a moment, he thought about what it would be like for Arn to hold him in his arms.
"You wish for me to steal it back and buy our freedom with it." Thrim sniffed. "No amount of sweet talk will change that." But even as he scoffed, Thrim felt that desire pooling deep in his belly. Breathing free air. Seeing stars. Grabbing Arn's face and kissing him like mad. He couldn't put it from his mind, even after the gladiators were inevitably herded back to their cells and the holiday wound to a close.
*~*~*
Thrim padded along the dirty floor, his heart in his throat. Today was Arn's first fight since his injury, and strictly speaking, he didn't know that Thrim was doing this. As it turned out, suggesting Thrim sneak out and try to locate his book was not the same as actually wanting him to do it.
"I thought you'd go to one of the others," Arn had insisted. "One of Rikkin's friends. You could get yourself killed going off alone!"
Thrim agreed wholeheartedly. Yes, it was dangerous. Yes, he was too small to do something this crazy. Yes, he should bide his time, come up with a better plan, and enlist help.
That was why Thrim waited until Arn was thoroughly distracted before sneaking out. He couldn't ask any of the lightweight gladiators for help. The odds were good they'd just attract unwanted attention. If he could confirm the book was, in fact, in the guards' quarters, he could tell Arn later.
It was mad, and he knew it. But the possibility that his book was still in his grasp woke a familiar hunger inside of Thrim. He would do anything for it. Dance naked in the snow. Shed his own blood. Anything. Like a drunk begging for his next bottle, Thrim needed to touch those familiar vellum pages, read those words, and perhaps use them to secure both his and Arn's freedom.
The mess hall was deserted, most of the guards having gone to watch the gladiators, who either fought in the arena, watched in their makeshift stands, or loitered in their cells, sick to death of the fighting day after day. Thrim shuffled past the table legs, careful to scamper from one cover to the next. He had become Arn's pet in the eyes of every man in the pit, which suited him well enough. The second one of them saw him alone, though, they might remember that he was a man himself, with independent motivations. He wasn't much of a threat, but it could be enough to make them suspicious.
He was lucky. No guard watched he exit leading to the guards' quarters. Clearly even they were fixated on the match. Thrim's stomach squirmed. He hoped Arn hadn't gone out yet. Much as he hated to watch Arn fight, he doubly hated the idea that he might suffer another injury without Thrim there to at least see what went wrong. That was another reason to find his book. He could study the healing spells that didn't require poultices or potions; the ones he'd always ignored, simply assuming he'd never be forced anywhere without his bag.
Thrim ducked down behind the rough leg of one of the tables. The coast was clear. Quick as a snake, he bolted down the exit, his heart in his throat. It was this easy for him to simply walk out of here. For one brief, horrible moment, he was tempted to just keep walking right out into the sunlight. He could hitch rides on wagons, hide in haystacks, make his way slowly home, where he would meet his professors again and laugh and tell his tale … but he would do so without Arn.
It was a stupid idea, anyway. He'd probably be run over by a wagon the second he set foot out in that vineyard. No, he needed to stick to the plan. Quick reconnaissance, then he'd form a better plan.
The hall yielded three
doors hewn into the rough stone. One was open, and a cursory glance revealed it was nothing more than a linen closet. Rough gladiator tunics, smoother ones for the guards, blankets, and spare boots lined the shelves. No room for a book. Thrim dropped to his belly and crawled under the second door. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, and when they did … he sighed. Another supply closet, this one bearing pots, cots, and other miscellany needed for daily life. It was gratifying to know that at least it wasn't full of weapons. It would have been disturbing to learn there was an armory this close to the gladiators' cells, particularly gladiators like Jorin.
He crawled back under the door and, without hesitating, went straight to the third door. This had to be the guards' temporary quarters, for those who either chose to sleep there rather than make the long trek home between their working days, or those who had no home to go to. If there was any place they would have hidden his book, it was here.
Thrim shimmied across the floor, the bottom of the door scraping against his back. He was going to be absolutely filthy when this was done, but it would be worth it if he could so much as look at it again. Thrim straightened and froze.
The room was not empty. A single guard lay in a cot, his hands and feet bound, a dirty rag stuffed in his mouth.
Without really thinking, Thrim rushed forward and scrambled up the rough wooden legs onto the bunk. His limbs burned with the sudden effort of climbing, making Thrim starkly aware of how accustomed he'd grown to simply being carried everywhere.
The guard's eyes nearly bugged out of his head when he saw Thrim, all of a hand's span in height, hurrying up to him. Thrim grabbed the rag in the guard's mouth and started yanking roughly. It wasn't easy. The rag probably weighed as much as he did, but he managed to pull it out in the end. The guard coughed and spat onto the floor, not looking away from Thrim.
"Mercy's balls," he swore. "I forgot about you." Thrim recognized that voice. It was the guard who had restrained Jorin the day Rikkin left.
"People tend to," Thrim said, a little startled. "What happened here?" But he knew the guard's answer before he spoke.
"Jorin. He's gone mad." The guard started struggling, and Thrim hurried back behind him to yank at hiss bonds. It looked to be nothing more than a ripped blanket, not terribly strong, and with enough nudging in the right direction, easy to undo. The guard continued talking even as Thrim freed him. "He wanted that blasted book back. Said he just needed one spell, but after what he did to you, we didn't want him near it again."
"Did he take the book?" Thrim demanded. The possibility that he had come so close to holding it again was so devastating it superseded even the knowledge that Jorin had it again. The guard rose and went to work on the bonds around his ankles.
"No. Though at this point I wish we'd just burned it. It's witchcraft there, but he just wanted the one spell." He yanked the rope from around his ankles and gestured carelessly. And there it was, tossed haphazardly on another cot. Thrim's beloved book. He took a step forward, his heart beating fast in his chest, but then paused.
"What spell?"
"I don't know. Probably something to help him with the match. Thinks he might not win and he can't stand to lose." The guard shook his head and rubbed the back of his neck, muttering to himself. "It's just a stupid game. Can't he see that?"
It felt like ripping out a piece of his very heart. His book was so near, close enough to touch, and yet he found he hadn't the time to flip through its pages, not even to find the counter spell. "Who is he fighting today?"
The guard shrugged. "That damned gypsy. Actually, can't blame Jorin wanting a little help. The man's a demon."
And just like that, the book flew from Thrim's mind. His whole world narrowed down into the sudden realization that Jorin was going to use magic on Arn—and Arn's match had already started. "You have to take me to him!" Thrim shouted.
The guard turned to him, aghast. "A-are you out of your mind?" he sputtered. Thrim balled his hand into fists and puffed out his chest.
"Do you realize that book belonged to me before you took it?" Thrim growled. "Do you want to find out what sort of witch craft I know?"
*~*~*
Thrim was grateful for the superstition of southerners. Otherwise he might have actually had some trouble getting to the arena. It was strangely exhilarating, flinging about threats to someone who actually believed them. Of course, just at the edge of the fighting field, the guard up and decided to be competent, which was a little troublesome.
"I can't let you go out there, they'll step on you."
"I'm a great and powerful witch, remember?" Thrim muttered, but his gut clenched. What was he honestly going to do?
The guard shifted from foot to foot, but he didn't lower his hand to set Thrim on the ground. Thrim peered into the bright glare of sunlight, willing himself to see Arn. Yells and cheers echoed out from the arena, but he couldn't tell who the cheers were for.
"If you die, it's on my conscience," the guard muttered.
"The gypsy's death will be on your conscience," Thrim snapped. "It's your fault Jorin developed the taste for fighting dirty in the first place, and if you don't let me go, I will see to it that you suffer his fate in equal measure."
The guard visibly blanched. Did he truly believe Thrim could hurt him when Thrim couldn't even help himself? It made no matter. The guard set him on the ground so swiftly Thrim had to stumble to catch his footing.
"Then you go to it willingly," the guard said before backing up and disappearing back into the pit. Thrim scowled, sucked in a deep breath, and stepped out into the arena.
It was different, being out when there were spectators in the stands: the roar of the crowd, the wash of their energy, the heat of the day. It all bled together to create a heady sort of haze. Thrim staggered for a moment, feeling as though he'd had lightning shot directly into his veins. He took a drunken step forward, gazing in awe at the full stands. For just that moment, he felt like the most powerful creature in the world.
There was a roar of pain, and Thrim's vision cleared. Arn lay on the ground, his face bloody, trying to move, but all he could do was twitch his legs. Lax limb. Another prank spell, potentially lethal in this environment. Jorin grinned and walked around, his arms in the air, drinking in the cheers of the crowd, occasionally pausing to give Arn a swift kick. How was this permitted? Thrim glanced wildly up at Master Tibbus's box. It was empty. The rat bastard. Was he just tired of Jorin and Arn's unpredictable matches? Did he want to see at least one of his volatile gladiators done with at last?
"A-haugh!" Arn cried out again, clawing at the dirt. Thrim charged forward, fast as his small legs could carry him. Jorin took another triumphant stroll around the arena, laughing loudly.
"Who among you heard that I would lose to the mad gypsy king?" he crowed. "Who among you believed such a thing was possible?"
Thrim skidded to a halt just in front of Arn's face. Up close, he could see that one eye was swelling shut. His nose was broken; his lip was split. With the way Jorin was going about it, he might not make it to the end of this match.
"Arn, please you have to fight it," Thrim begged, pressing his hands against Arn's bloodied skin. "This is a simple one. Just relax. Imagine you have a band of leather around your legs. Just pretend it's coming undone."
Arn let out a groan and blinked uncertainly. "Thrim?" he rasped.
"You?"
Thrim's stomach plummeted. He whirled around to see Jorin staring at him, his wild face twisted in fury. The situation might have been comical for the spectators in the arena. To see the victorious gladiator driven to a fit of rage by the unexpected appearance of a man so tiny he could fit in a child's hand. Or the pleasure with which he raised his boot, intent on squashing the little man.
Thrim only saw his imminent doom.
A sound rose up from the audience. Perhaps laughter, or jeers at Jorin's poor form. But all at once, he felt that same rush like lightning, like his whole body was burning with energy. Instinctively, Thr
im threw up his hands to shield himself as the shadow of Jorin's boot fell upon him.
The boot never fell.
There was a loud cry, a unified gasp of awe from the audience, and the shadow left. Thrim blinked and stared dumbly forward as Jorin flew through the air, crashing to the ground. What in the name of the good sweet sky above them had just happened?
Jorin scrambled to his feet with an enraged snarl, swinging his blade frantically. It wasn't going to be a very effective weapon against someone Thrim's size, but a cut from that blade could slice him clean in half. Thrim ran, determined to draw Jorin away from Arn, at least until Tibbus returned and called an end to the fight. Of course, running from a man whose footstep could outspan twenty of his own was hardly the best of plans. Jorin thundered after him.
Thrim felt it first, a sharp pain in the small of his back as a Jorin kicked out. He flew through the air and crashed into the dirt. He tried to move, but the slightest twitch sent agony shooting through his entire body. Had he broken his back?
"I've had about enough of you," Jorin rumbled. Thrim gasped and tried to roll over, determined to at least face his doom, but it never came. He heard a sound like a butcher's knife cutting through ham, felt a spray of something hot upon his back, and saw the bloodied head of Jorin fall to the ground. The crowd went absolutely insane, but Thrim could scarcely hear them.
He was alive. Jorin was dead.
"Thrim, are you all right?" Arn gasped, sinking down to the ground next to him. With his dark hair sticking to the blood on his bruised face, he looked horrible, but Arn seemed unaware of his own injury. "Little Gillespie, please."
Thrim forced himself to smile, and though it pulled horribly at his aching back, he reached out. A great smile of relief stretched across Arn's face and he offered Thrim his knuckle to touch. He would live. Arn would live. They would both be all right. At least, he told himself that much until the guards came rushing into the arena.
