David Lingard: Author
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Chapter 1 - A Son's Plea
🕑 Added 2024-02-14 17:00:05 +0000 UTC"Dad, please," Titus begged, tears filling his eyes. "Why now? Why this? You've always kept me away from the arena. You've never even let us talk about it, and now you want me to go and become a Contestant."
Then he looked to his stepmother, standing beside his father with her hand on his shoulder.
"This is her? Isn't it? That... woman. No, worse than that, she's a witch. She's put a spell on you! Please, father, please, I'm begging you. Don't send me to the Arena. Don't ask me to become a Contestant. I don't know anything about fighting, and I don't know the first thing about the Arena!"
Titus buried his head in his hands, knowing from the look on his father's face that his words had fallen on deaf ears. Still, he begged and pleaded, and he sobbed into his palms. "Please, father, please don't do this."
Ever since meeting his stepmother and that fateful day when his father had announced so suddenly out of the blue that she was to be a new member of their family, to replace his mother, Titus knew she didn't like him. Every time he'd interacted with her, she was just looking for an excuse to get him out of the house. But this, to send Titus to the arena, was something he had never expected to happen. Not while his father still drew breath.
There was something in his father's eyes, though. Something that spoke of the sympathy he felt for the decision. Something that told Titus that his father was still in there somewhere, battling with his conscience. It was like these weren’t his words at all.
"I'm... I'm sorry, son," his father said. "The decision has already been made, and I don't know what all the big deal is about. It's an honour to fight in The Arena. You will see when you get there. People from all walks of life are Contestants and they are beloved in the city."
"Then why have you never told me about The Arena, father? Why have you always kept it away from me and told me it's not something to be concerned about? If you'd just planned to send me off to be a Contestant, then why didn't you teach me the ways of the arena, of fighting, of using weapons, of caring for myself? Why did you keep all that away from me?"
"Because it would've done you no good, Titus," his father said. "Even if you knew how the arena worked, even if you had training with weapons, it is nothing compared to what the Instructors will teach you within the arena. You will learn everything you need to do to become a Contestant and then later once you are ready, a Hunter. You will be praised for the work you do, and you will keep this City, and our people safe from the monsters that threaten us.”
"Did you ever think that I might not want to be a Hunter, father?" Titus's voice raised. "Did you ever think that I might've wanted to become a merchant, or a forager, or a builder, or an engineer!? You've never once asked me if I ever wanted to be any of these things. But now, all of a sudden, I'm to be a Contestant, to give my life to the city, because that is what Contestants do, isn't it? They go to the arena, they fight, and they never return. Because the ones who do survive in the arena become Hunters, isn't that right, father? Hunters that protect the city, Hunters that are famous, that keep the city safe by putting their lives at risk. I've seen them, father. You don't need to tell me about what happens to Contestants and Hunters. You go to the arena as a Contestant, and then one day you become a Hunter, and being a Hunter means life in service to the city."
"And if you know all of this already, why quiz me?" His father growled. "Why do you ask me why I send you off to be a Contestant in the arena when you know how important it is for our city? Why do you question me now?"
"Because it isn't your decision to make!"
"Yes, it is, Titus," his father retorted. "Every decision in your life up until now has been mine to make. And now that you're on the cusp of your sixteenth birthday, this is the last thing I will do for you. The last de idiom I will make on your behalf. I will send you to the arena to make you a proper man."
Titus shook his head, knowing that what he was about to say was likely to be met with hostility. His father wasn’t an angry man, he’d never raised a hand to Titus, but he was strict, and he was proud.
"Then what are you?" He asked quietly. "If it takes becoming a Contestant to make a real man, then what are you?"
"What your father is is none of your concern, Titus," his stepmother said in her annoyingly shrill voice. "And if you had any sense, you'd stop talking before we beat you within an inch of your life and it becomes a bigger issue." This wasn’t something that his stepmother had actually done either, but Titus had always wondered if it was more just to save face with his father than because of any unwillingness not to harm Titus. Either way, as long as his father was there, Titus had never really felt physically threatened by the witch.
"I think we all know what the bigger issue is around here, stepmother," Titus growled. "It's the fact that you've managed to bewitch my father. I don't know how you've done it, I don't know what potion you've concocted or what magic you possess, but since the day my father met you he has been a different man. And I swear, if you send me away today, one day I'll return. I’ll come back to free my father from your poisonous hands and your venomous tongue."
"One more word, Titus," his father warned. "One more word against your stepmother..."
Titus didn't know what the threat would be, but he could hear from his father's words that it was to be something terrible. Something he wasn’t used to experiencing from his father.
Titus softened his tone. "Father," he pleaded again. His father's eyes met Titus', and in that moment, he saw something behind what his father had been saying: Sadness. Unseen guilt in what he was doing.
His father stared at him for a moment and then lowered his gaze to the table. "Perhaps... perhaps he's right, Millicent. Perhaps all of this is just one big mistake. Perhaps he doesn't have to..."
"You know it has to be done," replied Millicent. "We have already spoken about this, and I know that it hurts, but this is how it must be." Titus watched as his stepmother’s entire face softened all the while his father kept his gaze locked on hers. He could see what she was doing, but there was nothing he could do about it. Then she turned her attention back to Titus, the soft, caring look she had given his father long forgotten; it'd been replaced by one of anger and poison. "Now, get to your room, and I don't want to hear another word from you until the morning when your carriage arrives. I suggest you get as much sleep as you can, Gods know you’re going to need all the help you can get if you’re going to become one of our protectors."
Titus gave one last look back to his father, one last begging glance, to see if anything could be said, anything at all, but his father didn't look up. He didn't meet his gaze again; he just let it hang in the air.
"Now go, boy," she ordered in her shrill tone that caused Titus to start, and then he turned away from his father, from the kitchen, from Millicent, from any hope that he had to change his father's mind. But there was no hope. Titus walked away, back down the hallway, and into his small room. He closed the door behind him, and began to cry.
He didn't know how long he'd stayed like that for, but eventually there was a light tapping on his bedroom door, and Titus's father entered the room.
"I'm sorry, son," he whispered before Titus could utter a single word. He hadn't been asleep when his father had entered. Sleep would've been a mercy from the nightmare he now found himself in.
"Then stop it," Titus said. "Don't do this. Tell them there’s no need for a carriage or for anything else that breaks our family apart. Please just make this all go away, I’m begging you."
His father shook his head but didn't reply. He sat down on the end of Titus' bed.
"It's her, isn't it?” Titus’ tone changed, hardened. “What has she done to you? She has something on you, doesn’t she? I know it!"
The look his father gave him said, in no uncertain terms, that Titus was not to continue along this line of questioning.
"Why didn't you say 'baker'?" his father asked.
"What?" Titus asked.
"Earlier, when you were talking about all the things you could've been instead of a Contestant or a hunter, why didn't you say 'baker'?"
Titus smiled. He'd done it on purpose.
"Come on," he said. "I've been working with you in the bakery since I was tall enough to reach the handle on the oven. If you haven't worked it out by now, you should know that I don't make much of a baker, and honestly, I doubt I ever will."
His father smiled back. "You can say that again," he said. "I never really wanted to believe it. I just always thought you would take over the shop when I was ready to leave it. But now..."
He trailed off, and Titus knew what he meant.
"Now you have Millicent in your life, and I'm sure she has different ideas about where your fortunes should go."
"Fortunes?" his father scoffed. "If you really think there's a fortune to be had in being a baker, then I've got news for you, son."
"I don't know much about anything other than being a baker," Titus admitted. "You seem to know that. I just... I don't understand why you spent my entire life telling me to stay clear of the arena, only to one day tell me that's where I'm going."
"Listen, son," Titus's father said in a low tone. "The arena isn't such a bad place. I just didn't want you to become enamoured by those types your entire life, to covet it, to want it. I wanted you to have the choice to be anything you wanted, not just look up to those Contestants and those hunters like they were heroes like everyone else does. I wanted you to make your own way."
"What?" Titus asked, "then why the hell are you sending me to the arena? To spend the rest of my life as a Contestant?"
"Because it is the right thing to do," his father said. "You'll go to the arena. You'll become a Contestant. And once you have graduated, then we can talk again about what your future holds. That is unless you become a hunter because Gods know we need more of those."
"You mean if I don't die? You mean if some creature in the arena doesn't rip my head off and use my body as a chew toy?"
"Where did you hear such things?" his father asked.
"It's not easy to keep what happens in the city away from everyone, especially when people talk. I know they have monsters in the arena, and I know they fight them. I... I just don't know why. You’ve tried to keep me safe from these stories forever - the realities of what happens inside the City. If we’d have lived closer to the centre it would’ve been harder, yes, but even the people who buy our bread know what happens inside the arena, and as much as they love the fights, the Contestants and the hunters, it’s obvious that there’s a lot of struggle and death in there."
"You'll learn everything you need to know, Titus. But I will not fill your head with anything other than the knowledge that I love you. When you come home to me, we can talk again as men."
"If that... if she doesn't poison you in your sleep," Titus said, catching himself before he insulted Millicent again. But it was like his father hadn't even heard him speak.
His father stood and turned to leave the room again. "Father," Titus whispered. "I... I'm scared."
"So am I, Titus," his father said without turning around to look at him. "So am I."
