CRADLE IN A CASKET
—MARISOL—
The underground arena was filled with the scent of copper.
Blood and sweat.
While Lavander Festival flowed on above ground, the hoodlums of Mid-Quarter gathered in a frenzy below. Marisol watched as Reese threw a swift jab to his opponent, knocking him to the ground. The crowd roared with hunger.
There were no lavender pins here.
"FINISH HIM!" the crowd chanted.
There was no particular bias, the crowd cheered for whoever had the upper hand. Losers and the underestimated were torn apart by the audience, spat on and shoved away. The thought worried Marisol, for her own fight.
Reese pinned his opponent to the mat within the war ring and delivered a fist to his mouth. Blue blood flew and the crowd continued their ear-splitting commentary. Reese had multiple cuts on his nose and knuckles—cherry red—but they'd heal later. Before Jaak could see them.
The boy was with Helena in their tin hut. Safe and warm, away from the disorderly sway of the crowd. Marisol was up close to the ring, where half the fighters were designated. The other half were on the opposite side of the ring, either watching Reese or putting in some final training.
Reese had offered her an elixir—he'd said it was something to keep her focused—and she'd accepted. As she felt a churning in her stomach, she wondered if accepting the drink was a sound idea after all, for she felt as if the ground was rocking beneath her.
Colors swirled and faces contorted in odd fashions. Perhaps it wasn't the elixir, it could have merely been her plain nerves. Out of her peripheral vision, she saw a man of a bulky build scour her with a lustful gaze.
Enemy opponent? No, it couldn't of been. He would've been closer to the ring.
She turned her head to take in his full form. He resembled a large pig, one without manners. Earlier, Marisol had seen him defile a displeased younger woman at entrance.
Oh, he was no man.
She smiled sweetly, and the man ran his tongue across his lips, eyes never leaving her. She waved him over, in the midst of the roaring crowd.
The man seemed like he didn't need further convincing. As he approached, she maneuvered out of Reese's line of sight, because if he saw them, she knew he'd grow concerned.
Their rent money relied on his win, she would not jeopardize that. However, that didn't mean she couldn't toy with the scummiest of men.
Anger simmered on the surface of her face as the man grabbed her by the waist, without any invitation to do so. "What's a gem like you doing here?," he grunted, tightening his grip. "It's a scary place for a pretty face."
Marisol looked into his black eyes and saw dullness, a blade that had not been sharpened in decades. Blood began to trickle out of those dreary eyes. Blood that looked black.
Marisol scrunched her brows together and released a sound of surprise. "Oh dear, are you okay?," she asked, stroking his cheek.
The man's grip on her slackened and he stumbled backwards, holding his head in his hands. He began to choke, sputtering on his blood.
Terror amassed in his expression at the foreign experience he was undergoing. When he fell to his knees, the crowd swallowed him. Claimed him in their mindless chanting.
A sorrowful shame, Marisol thought. A shame.
"Hit him harder, Reese!," Marisol screamed at the ring, mimicking the crowd.
A shame.
"Take him down!"
The truest shame.
"Right hook!"
The ground beneath her shook as the victor of the fight was announced. Reese locked eyes with her, and rose a brow.
Are you okay?, he seemed to ask.
Marisol nodded once as Reese's former opponent was carried out of the ring—a product of stubbornness, of not tapping out even when his body could no longer function. It was stubbornness or Reese's inability to lose a fist fight that landed his poor opponent in severe impairment.
When Reese climbed down the steps of the ring, Marisol embraced him briefly. He was wearing a black short sleeve shirt with dark pants, his usual fighting attire. He still wore his small diamond studs, which he was allowed to wear in the ring—though it was discouraged.
"Imagine the marks you'd receive if you put that much effort into school work," Marisol mused, pulling away from the embrace. Her eye caught the blue beaded bracelet she had given him years ago, it put her at ease.
Reese's tired smile stretched, and he shoved her lightly. "School work doesn't pay me two-thousand coins, does it?"
"Valid point," Marisol remarked, drifting her eyes over to the other side of the ring where her opponent readied. Her heart sank as she observed the familiar two braids. The razor sharp teeth made to tear apart throats.
Holy.
Reese followed her line of vision and winced. "Shit."
Marisol gave him a dark look, "Not helping, witch."
Reese grabbed her shoulders and forced her to look away from her opponent—Kyra. Before he could speak, Marisol beat him to it.
"The elixir you gave me isn't working," she hushed, growing a tree of angst in her belly. "I'm not focused."
Reese pursed his lips momentarily then gave a shaky laugh. "What? Impossible."
She gave him a pointed look, which made him sigh in surrender. She noticed that he still hadn't healed his cuts. They made him appear much older than he was.
"All right," Reese said, crossing his arms. "The elixir is to enhance your...abilities. Strengthen your endurance."
She could only stare.
The wine-haired boy said in an obnoxiously high tone, attempting to imitate her, "Thank you, Reese. You're my hero."
Marisol gave him a gesture that relied heavily on one finger. Just one. "That isn't how I sound."
"But you admit you're grateful for me?," he asked. She could see the way his eyes were spent, exhausted from the fight.
"No," she responded. "I'm quite angry with you."
Reese grabbed a jug of water nearby, drank a sip. "And why is that?"
"Jaak was asking for you at the festival. He expected you to be there," she said flatly. "What was so pressing?"
Reese rose his brows, and looked affronted. "I was busy getting that elixir that's going to give you a chance against Kyra. That's what was so pressing."
Marisol snapped, "I didn't ask you to do that, Reese."
He locked his jaw and nodded, eyes dancing with vexation as they drifted away from her. "Noted."
Marisol wiped her moist palms on her black pants. "Reese, I'm sorry, I'm just—"
He shook his head with finality. "Have a good fight. Remember to duck."
When he walked past Marisol, she wished she had the courage to thank him for the gift—the mystery elixir that she would have to rely on now.
Thirty minutes.
Thirty dammed minutes till she had to burn Kyra to the ground.
—REESE—
He shouldn't have walked off, shouldn't have left her to prepare alone. He shouldn't have, but he didn't quite feel like hearing the truth. The truth about distancing from Jaak.
As Reese shoved his way through the crowd, aiming to reach the bathroom, he began to heal his wounds. Releasing his magic bit by bit.
He didn't have to use his power at all for the opponent he just faced. It wasn't an easy battle, but it was one that didn't require magic. Just flesh and bone.
He already felt his cuts retracting. Not all at once, but slowly. Reese never learned a faster way of healing.
He needed to wash his face properly before watching Marisol's fight. Focus was something he sought. Thema once told him to splash a bit of water on his face after a fight—it would calm the adrenaline in his veins, make him less likely to unleash the lingering aggression on someone innocent.
After the coolness of the water graced his face, he'd apologize to Marisol. Apologize for his impulsive irritation. If only the crowd wasn't so big, he'd finally be—
Someone crashed into him.
Clear blue eyes halted him dead in his tracks. Thick, golden silk for hair and a boyish face. The face he found rather boring.
The boys' eyes widened as he beheld Reese from the floor that was littered with pieces of sharp glass and strange liquids—liquids he did not want to know the source of. Drew Orvar was unaware of the giant foot that was inches away from crushing his hand—a hand made for quills and parchment. Reese acted without thought.
He roughly hauled the boy up from the ground, not caring if he was startled by the sudden contact. Drew appeared awe-struck, almost as if he wasn't sure how he landed on the floor.
"What are you doing here?" Reese growled, eyeing the rabble of raging citizens. He returned his attention to Drew. "And what were you doing on the floor? Certainly you can't be that dense."
It had only been this morning when Reese had to ward off the beggar who approached Drew like he was a meal. Perhaps, Reese should have let the circumstances play out. Should have stayed out of the mess.
Reese could feel the boiling of his skin. He knew it was the aftermath of the fight, the lingering aggression Thema warned him of. He tried to keep it on a leash as he spoke to Drew, but the tactic didn't prove to be promising.
"You ran into me," Drew voiced, subtly giving the man beside them a cautious look. He was stubby and eyed Drew with a sort of madness.
A result of limitless alcohol.
"If I was anyone else here, you'd be gutted for talking to me that way," Reese stated, truthfully. "I'm sure Erik doesn't know his littlest brother is playing rebel at a fight club."
Drew's face scrunched in distaste, "My brother mustn't know everything I'm up to. Besides, I'm not here alone. I'm in the company of another."
Reese gave a dark laugh. "Yeah? In that case, I'm sure your company is as stupid as you are."
The chanting quieted after Reese's fight, meaning he didn't have to scream to talk to Drew, but he wished he could have. For being completely brainless.
It was suicide for someone like Drew to enter a pit like this.
Drew's attention lingered on the cuts on Reese's face. The fading ones.
"Did you win?," Drew asked, ignoring Reese's venomous tone. Reese wondered how he managed to deflect the off-putting comments he received. It was like he was engineered to only be civil and composed—most times.
Reese released Drew's arms, which he had been holding onto to haul him up. "I wouldn't be here if I didn't."
Under the dim light, he couldn't be sure, but he swore he saw Drew's face heat. "Right, of course. Sorry."
"Leave," Reese said, tone clipped despite Drew's good intentions. "Next time, I'm not going to pick you up from that fucking—"
"Loialai," a voice addressed him. His last name, one that did not exist, not really. "I see you've found my boyfriend."
As if the night could only worsen. As if Reese was not already close to shattering his own skull just so he'd be granted an escape.
Drew's boyfriend, with a posh face and neatly combed hair, put an arm around Drew's slight shoulders. They were classmates, they all were—in a school created for Reds. The pair seemed displaced in a crowd full of Mid-Way delinquents, rightfully so.
No one came underground unless they were prepared to fight, inside or out of the ring. Reese did not trust Fenton to defend Drew, either because he truly wasn't capable or because he didn't have the gall to challenge a crooked crowd.
"I have found him, yes," Reese answered, never breaking Fenton's stare. "However, I've been growing concerned, considering that I've been seeing him a lot more lately." Fenton bristled, but kept his mouth shut.
Reese continued, his sharp smirk growing. "You might want to maintain his attention with something stronger, unless you want him to wander too far. Perhaps my bed."
Fenton looked both outraged and incapable of speech. His mouth gaped open, then closed. Gaped open again. Drew crossed his arms and turned his face away from Reese's sight. He didn't miss the slight pinking of his ears.
"Good evening, boys," Reese said as his departure. Let them suffer the consequences of the fight club. He needed to feel the faucet water on his face before his temper surpassed his control.
As Reese reached the bathroom, one thing was for certain: if it had been Fenton on the floor, almost being impaled by the heavy boot of a rowdy man, Reese would have placed his foot on his throat. Holding him down.
—MARISOL—
She had fangs of steel. Steel.
Marisol tried, to no avail, to quiet the outside roars of the crowd. The coin she sought was no longer her chief pursuit; now she chased her life.
May I have my life when I make it out of this blood-splattered ring.
"Marisol, Marisol," Kyra chanted with a violent rasp in her throat, smiling with her metallic teeth. "A fitting name for a dead girl."
Marisol noted that Kyra used her mouth not only to sink her fangs into her opponents, but to talk—a considerable amount. She could use this to her advantage, strike her in the moments spent babbling.
"A dead girl I am," Marisol responded, giving a haughty smile of her own. A look of confusion went through Kyra's bright silver eyes as Marisol dropped low and sprung a leg out to knock her to the ground.
The crowd bellowed as Kyra went down.
Marisol had to take caution not to use her abilities yet, not to strain too much. She already used a sizable proportion of her magic on the man with dirty hands, but with the elixir, she might still be in the clearing. For now, fists and sheer grit would have to get her to the end.
Kyra seethed through her many fangs, gained her footing, and sent Marisol a sizzling glare.
"Game on, bitch," Kyra spat, launching towards Marisol at terrifying speed. She knew never to allow Kyra at her throat, but as she was slammed to the ground, she knew her fate would turn for the worst.
Marisol could not find a single avenue to injure Kyra. As the broad girl's meaty hands wrapped around her throat, she kicked and thrashed and clawed—but it was futile. The sour scent of ginger rum and the faint stench of vomit had Marisol's head foggy.
Ground.
Ground.
You are here, and you will die unless you get your ass up and fight.
Kyra bared her fangs, readying for the final blow. Marisol rammed her knee straight into Kyra's abdomen. It was not quite enough to remove her, but it served as a buffer while Marisol prepared the driving blow.
Kyra stumbled off of Marisol, seemingly from the knee she landed. Marisol's heart stuttered as her magic flowed through Kyra's veins, as it ordered Kyra's body to heed, to become dizzy.
Marisol straddled her opponent and knocked her fist into her nose.
The ring shook with the screams of the crowd.
Again, she hit her.
Kyra halted Marisol's hand as she went for another punch, and with fury in her eyes, the large girl sunk her metallic teeth into Marisol's wrist. A burst of pain so bright. Marisol yelped and hastily knocked her elbow into Kyra's face. Over and over until she released her.
Marisol scrambled away, becoming very aware of the blood that flowed freely from her wrist. The puncture wounds seemed to go deep. She wondered if Reese would be able to completely heal them. Wounds this deep left scars.
Kyra hobbled over to Marisol, still undergoing the effects of the imbalance Marisol delivered. Her fangs were stained with Marisol's cherry blood as she yanked at Marisol's ankle.
Kyra twisted and twisted until Marisol heard an abnormal crack.
The crowd cheered and whooped.
Marisol's breathing became labored, ragged. When she turned to the side, she met Reese's stare.
What are you waiting for?, his alarmed features seemed to say.
Marisol took in a breath.
She jammed her foot into Kyra's mouth, sending her reeling to the other end of the mat.
Marisol forced herself to limp towards Kyra and straddle her once more, wrapping her fingers around Kyra's bloody neck. It was sticky, and Marisol struggled to hold a firm grip.
Kyra gasped as Marisol willed the entirety of her magic to defy Kyra's natural chemistry. Willed it to turn Kyra's blue blood to acid.
Acid.
Acid.
It was all she thought as she applied pressure to Kyra's neck.
Marisol's vision began to blur as more and more magic connected with Kyra. Her injuries seemed to be screaming at her.
Blood began to trickle down Kyra's nose, and Marisol made quick of delivering a blow to that exact spot. To make it seem as if the punch was the only source of the blood.
Kyra, with her silver eyes and teeth, looked up at Marisol with confused anger. Almost as if to ask, How are you winning? She began to gurgle on her own blood, but Marisol did not relent.
She only focused on winning, for Jaak and Reese.
She would win, damn the cost.
Kyra slammed her palm to the mat frantically, signaling her end. Her surrender.
Marisol felt large hands pry her from the girl below her, and she could breathe.
Breathe and breathe the stench of crooked gamblers. Of violence. Of her own blood crusting around her wrist.
One last look at Reese and she was claimed by the dark.
*_*_*_*
She creaked open one eye, and only saw darkness. She was familiar with the feel of the bedsheets beneath her. Reese must have carried her to bed.
The air was different, however. Despite being in her tin hut, Jaak asleep beside her, something was different.
The gentle smell of Ruzicasta flowers filled the room.
Nyall.
Unmoving darkness—Ruzicasta flowers kept it company.