The Circle does not preach temperance; it does not preach honor, or strength, or pride.
The Circle sings hymns only to fear, to blood, to the end of all things. The Circle preaches only their deep-set hatred, their unquestioning obedience to the church, their blind and bitter pain.

It is with this thought in his head that Jask stares at the gray-brown stone of the floor as he waits. The room is dark, its walls lit only by torches and the small, square windows that peek into the arena. Through them Jask can hear battle, the clang of sword on shield and the telltale clatter of hoof and horn and tooth. Further still is the swelling crowd, trickling in for the festival from Denocte, from Delumine, from Terrastella, though the majority of it is Solterran, a people returned to their roots after years wandering in the proverbial desert of tyranny.

When the notice went up, when Jask heard that the doors would be open, that the sand would be cleared and the fights would be held-- it was one of the few times that his curiosity was louder than his sanctimony.

--but, as he had been thinking, the Church does not care about Colosseums. It does not care about blood sport the roar of the crowd and the bleak heat of the desert. Jask does. It is possibly one of the only things Jask loves on his own. It is perhaps the only thing that makes him yearn.

The call goes out. The crank turns. The doors open. With a cloud of dust and a rush of hot air, the arena unfolds before him and Jask steps into its center like it is such a natural thing to do. The crowd does not scream like it had for the tournament matches, but it does cheer-- loud, joyous, a glorious return to form for a warrior kingdom. It is loud enough that they don't hear Jask, as he walks:

"Let the blade pass through the flesh,
Let my blood touch the ground,
Let my cries touch their hearts. Let mine be the last sacrifice."

--which is just as well, because it is not to their gods that he prays. It is not to Solis that Jask turns when he lifts his eyes to the sun. If he had it in him to be proud, he might. Instead Jask turns to his opponent, first the red eyes, then the milky white one. It stares at Helios, unblinking and cold and dull.

Jask smiles like it is practiced. Jack bows low both out of respect and to drag the blood-red spear of his horn through the sand, drawing a jagged line through the carefully raked sand.  Helios is a soldier, he hears, at least two hands taller than Jask, with skin like clay and eyes like a predator's eyes.

Jask tilts his head again, points his horn at the man's chest. It is a threat, more than a promise. The crowd makes a scandalized sound at his back--and Jask, as always, is unmoved.

they made warriors out of children

The silence before battle is perhaps the most unnerving thing, the edge of an unveiling storm that moves ever closer. For Helios this is familiar- the shadows lingering in the darkened corners of the stone-paved room and the distant sound of blood-manic crowds cheering uproariously. This had been his training more than once. His childhood. A boy-soldier set against other boy-soldiers to battle beneath the eye of a child-king and his cruel administration. So the adrenalin in his veins, the anticipation in his bones was a familiar song to Helios as he waited, forcing himself to remain still. Though this challenge was a game, a celebration, the soldier took it as seriously as he did any real fight. His reputation was on the line- even if he was but another faceless soldier to the nobles, the collar around his neck marked him as one of Zolin’s child soldiers. With the silver metal came the expectation that he would not be easily beaten.

A small line of sunlight appears at the base of the wooden door, the click of metal and the creak of chains the beginning to the melody of this dance. Helios’ chest rises and falls, excitement and expectation thrumming through his veins as his heart beats a steady rhythm in his ears.

Blinking against the sudden onslaught of light, the russet steed paces into the circle, his movements checked as though holding back the electrical exhilaration running through his body. The roar of the crowd greets him but he it pays it no mind. Instead his burnt umber eyes seek out his opponent, a man swathed in stormy greys. Helios comes to a halt roughly 3 foot before the other combatant. The assessing gaze of a soldier regards him- noting the long horn rising proudly from his brow and the third eye sat just below it. Helios is taller by several hands, but he knows this is not always an advantage- not when the small stallion can slip beneath his blows. That horn as well- tipped in red as though dyed by the blood of others- is something he needs to watch out for.

As the younger man bows, scraping his horn across the sandy ring floor, Helios inclines his head in return. The intake of breath and scattered gasps ricochet through the spectators as the grey man angles his horn to Helios’ chest but the twitch of one, dark ear is the only sign that he registers it. Instead, the soldier considers his move carefully. If he charged he’d risk running right into the point of that sharp horn- a foolish move for sure. He did have his spear, clutched between the tendrils of his mind at his right side and it would be a fine way to strike without getting in too close, but he needed to get a better angle.

Mind made up in mere moments, Helios launches forward diagonally to the left, propelled by his hind legs and reaches out with his spear, aiming to slash deeply across his opponent’s right shoulder. He slams his front hooves down to catch himself from leaping too far forward and allows his back end to swing around as he faces the grey stallion, the thud of his movements resounding around the arena. The force of his movement requires him step a few paces sideways to remain balanced. The crowds watch with bated breath, awaiting the silver stallion’s response.

Helios does an awful lot of moving.
Jask does not--from their distance the crowd does not see he is hollow, cannot feel the emptiness coming off him in waves. All he is is the point of his long, long horn that flashes like steel in the sun and those three sharp, dead, blank eyes angled up to see his opponent begin all that terrible motion.

Jask is patient as he does, still as the skin of a lake and twice as murky. Helios lunges forward at speed, on Jask's right. Helios lifts his spear--up, not back, with the intention to slash, and not throw--and the unicorn watches him go, stepping out of the way but clearly unhurried to do so.

He is no stranger to pain. He has known suffering all his life. And when he is slow, when the spear falls and pain blooms in a streak of fire and blood on his shoulder, he is filled with nothing but holy silence. Pain has always sounded like a hymn to him. Pain is the hand of god on your skin-- and it is not a benevolent god, not a kind god.

It is a god that speaks in bubbling blood and the fire of agony. The Circle says their god is agony, and agony, and agony, over and over because it must be. And Jask hasn't stopped to wonder why.

He hasn't stopped to wonder anything.

He is all red blood and gray skin and black horn, when the pain has cleared from his face, draining into the background as a sharp, throbbing thing. Jask limps when he rights himself and turns to see Helios, still facing him but slightly behind, now. 

The holy man does not wait to make his move, either, leaning back to pivot on his hind legs and lunge once the front have landed, turning his head to catch it and the spear of his horn against Helios side in an attempt to shove the soldier as hard as he can manage, hopefully knocking the thin-skinned bone of Helios' legs in the process.

--And Jask does not retreat. He is empty but not stupid, and his weapon is no spear, no bow. So Jask pushes, and pushes, and pushes-- and Jask aches, and aches, and aches-- and Jask bleeds.

they made warriors out of children

There is no glee, no satisfaction as his spear meets flesh and the acrid scent of blood fills the air as a red line wells up across ash grey. The crowd hisses and roars but the horned steed makes no sound, his silence saying more than any cry of pain could. Helios knows what kind of horrors it takes to get a man to that place, where pain is but an old friend. Nevertheless he cannot help but respect the other steed’s quiet. These thoughts are but fleeting as he concentrates on the match, regaining his footing as the other stallion composes himself, limping slightly. Then he moves, a silver streak against the tan coloured sand, lunging toward Helios.

The impact is audible- that resounding thud of muscle against muscle as the horned steed throws his entire weight against Helios’ shoulder. Though the soldier is considerably larger he is not braced for that impact and the air rushes from his lungs in a whoosh.  In the same moment the side of Jask’s horn slams into his legs, a sharp knock against his knees that causes pain to lance up his legs. He does not wince, despite the inclination to do so, nor does he gasp or groan in pain- Viceroy’s training had made hurt a familiar compatriot and Helios had learnt long ago that showing pain only earned him more. Instead he snarls as he stumbles back, more to exhale some kind of noise rather than in true anger.

Though the skin on his legs has not broken, pain travels up and down them abruptly with each step and his shoulder aches where the grey man crashed into it, still pushing and pushing and pushing. He rescinds a few steps, going with the force against him whilst side-stepping his hind quarters so that he is now almost directly facing the grey stag. But Helios does not relent for long, instead he plants his back hooves resolutely, using his sheer size in an attempt to absorb Jask’s efforts. With an audible flurry of feathers his wings pop into view and the crowd gasp in shock at the sudden emergence of the four appendages. He flaps them back once, twice, using the force garnered by their movements in an attempt to maintain his position and hoping their sudden appearance and the buffet of wind might surprise his opponent as much as the crowd. With Jask still thrusting against his side, Helios swiftly brings his head down to side, maw wide and aims for the other stallion’s neck. He hopes to latch onto the skin and muscle above his ebony and red collar, where the mane does not grow, and perhaps break the skin once more.

The impact is loud, a hollow sound, when the shaft of his horn meets the bone of Helios' legs. It is like elk, fighting, the clatter of forest beasts locked in combat. Jask pushes, and pushes, as his shoulder aches and stings and he becomes gray and red and red and red so that point that his leg matches his robes.

There are things Jask cannot do:

Smile like a man that smiles. His is carefully practiced, sure, turned up at just the right angle, tucked back at just the right amount-- but it is perfect in an unsettling way, friendly in a way that looks either disconnected or too eager or both all at once.

Speak loudly; make himself heard. It has never seemed important and the few times it has Jask has remained silent, and still, like a spider hunting its prey. Now he is too old to know the difference.

See, and I mean really see, the moment that Helios' wings blink into existence, as if pulled from a pocket of space where they wait to be called. One moment he is pushing, desperately, aggressively, and the next he is blind in more ways than one, vision going fuzzy at the edges.

His mind reels, trying to make sense of what he's seeing without actually making sense of it at all. His collar, that black, laughing snake coiled around  the columns of his throat, dictates that it cannot be-- wings do not just blink into existence. Magic does not just happen, not in this world or any other. It hurts to even try to consider.

For a moment Jask is full of radio static, the rush of a brain trying to fill in the blanks. Suddenly he is very hot, and then very cold, staggering forward as more of a trip than a shove, falling into Helios' teeth before he knows it's happening.

The teeth come down, the skin sinks and then splits in places (more blood,) and Jask decides without knowing he's done it that the wings have been there the whole time, he just hadn't noticed. Things do not just come into being. Magic does not just happen. They have always been there. It is simply the way that it is.

He feels it now, the teeth-- pain that blooms, and Jask pulls his body away (easy, because these teeth are not sharp, and gripping, once he sees they are there) and twists his neck to point the long spear of his horn at the soldier,

any part of him,

and lunge.