battle cry

Heat, heat and cheering and loud heartbeat in her ears. Atronia is standing on the floor of the Colosseum, limbs trembling, paws dancing nervous waltzes in the dust. What do I do here? Voices echo in her mind, the sharp snap of the trainer’s whip, the disappointed sighing from Marlin. The inner betrayal of the weight of the armor on her back, making her sweat in the gentle autumn sun.

I can’t lose. I can’t leave this ring today without a win under my belt.
To lose means giving into the fear that saddles her, to lose means being nothing to Marlin - her owner, but also her companion. Looking up at him in the stands, she reflects on everything they've been through together. Then Atronia shakes herself back to the present moment, the buzzing nervousness between her ears growing like a hive, building as she becomes more and more aware of the chain-strands of armor covering her.

A loud bugling call, and in front of her the gate rises, pulling itself into the wall just enough to reveal another Nemeion. Her stance is brave, proud, regal. A barley colored coat ripples against the sunlight, and she wears her armor like it weighs nothing.

Four fangs sprout from her mouth, a detail Attie only notices as she launches herself suddenly to the forefront of the ring, just slow enough for Atronia to scrabble backwards away from the pouncing lion, and towards the wall. A voice booms from somewhere unseen.

“Today’s match! The Cunning Bennhildr, and a newcomer, Atronia!”

The other Nemeion - Bennhildr, her long neck fur dipping into the dust - turns to face Atronia, sly smile and a smart look sitting proud on her face. “Welcome to the ring, little one,” she murmurs, and the tone of her voice is almost enough to put Atronia at ease.

Clever. Her voice drips with saccharine kindness, and she stalks forward, sure on her feet. “If I were you, little one,” Bennhildr stops for a moment, lifting a paw to groom it nonchalantly, “I'd start creating some distance.”

Attie takes the advice and quickly moves away, just in time for Bennhildr to draw her lips up in a snarl and pounce. It's a quick blow-for-blow situation, the two Nemeion trading clawed swipes and growls.

Out of breath, Atronia presses herself into the most shadowed corner of the arena, trembling. Little pieces of fur detatch themselves and float to the ground. Like shockwaves, fear flows through her system, helpless as she watches Bennhildr close in.

Atronia dares a look at Marlin - an instant of fear and despair and anger - how could you put me in here? - transfers itself in an instant. He shakes his head and turns away, and Attie receives a stinging blow to the side of her face, her opponent’s claws sheathed. “You have to pay more attention if you ever hope to win,” Bennhildr teases, dancing away, claws out again. “Can’t go looking for someone else to save you, not now that you’re in here!”

Everything seems to slow in the next few moments. Atronia breathes in; but it hardly feels like her chest move at all. The world darkens, clouds, and suddenly the younger Nemeion is launching herself at her enemy, all teeth and claws. Her armor catches the light, and with a loud WHUMFP, she comes down on top of Bennhildr, tufts of fur from the other lions’ mane in her mouth, panting hard. “Don’t say that,” Attie growls, stubby fangs bared. “Don’t you ever say that to me.”

Attie puts her heavy paw down on Bennhildr’s throat, feeling so angry that for a split second, she worries about crushing the other lion. “He'd never abandon me, I'll always be by his side. You're wrong.” She spits the last word into her opponent's face, anger making it so the little pang of fear and worry - that Bennhildr was right, that Marlin would abandon her after today - is drowned. All Atronia can feel is the heat of the sun, the righteous, misplaced fury, and the fast thrum of Bennhildr’s heartbeat beneath her fur.

It’s a moment that lasts for a long time, the crowd watching holding their collective breath, waiting for one of the Nemeion to move, to strike, to finish the match.

Instead, Atronia steps away. She walks backwards from Bennhildr’s prone form, and allows her to get up. Bennhildr gives Attie a sly, knowing grin - making the other wonder just what she knew that Atronia wasn’t privy to - and bows, conceding.

It’s a thrown match - there are groans and boos from the stadium, loud hisses and jeering. Atronia - pulling herself away from the arena and into the holding pens, where Marlin is standing - is relieved. She looks to him, short tail wagging, happy to see him again after leaving the ring.

I hope he’s happy with me, she thinks, walking up to him and pressing her huge head into his side, a friendly greeting. The man doesn’t deign to look down at his lion, ignoring her. He calls over another man, whispers into his ear, and gestures at Attie.

Turning, he finally looks down at her, giving her a single succinct pat on the head, before pivoting on his heel and walking away. Atronia stares at his retreating back, before she feels a rough hand on her scruff, escorting her from the arena.

The hand tosses her out on the street, where dusk has come upon the world. Atronia sits, waits, hoping - and when the moon rises and bathes the streets in a cold lunar wash, she knows that Bennhildr was right.

She knows she’s been abandoned.