The First Match

[realitymods]

Characters: Robespierre, Oliver Day, Spectators
Location: The Coliseum.
Time: Two days after Weber's announcement.
Summary: The first of the death matches.
Warnings: Character death warning.

Dressed as before, the man in the cravat stepped up to the edge of the Emperor's box. He held his smile, eyes scanning the audience and the combatants below him.

"Welcome to the first of too many fights. To start us off, Maximilien Robespierre and Oliver Day will engage in mortal combat, without the health bars. They have until the hourglass runs out to kill each other."

The man picked up the hourglass and turned it over so the sand was at the top. It held perfectly still despite gravity, waiting for its cue.

"It isn't a fair fight, but I think you've all realized by now: we don't fight fair." The man clasped his hands together. "Let the fights begin."

And the first grain of sand fell.

Comments

[oliverplus]

At Robespierre's words, Oliver sighed in a mixture of relief and resignation. He was grateful that he wouldn't have to do the deed himself, but he realised that he had still been holding onto some bit of hope, however tiny, that there might be another solution. But he was sure now that there wasn't.

He nodded to Robespierre, taking a deep breath and straightening. Weber had said the only choice he had here was how to face his death. He didn't want to look afraid. And he reminded himself that it wasn't really his death anyway. He'd be back soon. It was just something he had to live thro--to experience before he could move on. And his death would protect Robespierre's life. Not only that, but if he died here, it would mean he didn't hurt someone else, even when his own life was at stake. And regardless of how futile his friends might find the sentiment, to him, that would be a victory against the Puppeteer. It was worth dying to protect Robespierre and fight the darkness inside him. Even if he hadn't admitted it to Braxiatel, this was, in some ways, atonement.

He was relieved when Robespierre said he was planning on a swift and quiet death for Oliver, although he didn't understand exactly what he had in mind. He could only guess it had to do with the magic he'd seen in the labyrinth. He almost asked, but he couldn't help thinking that maybe it was better not to know exactly what was coming. Maybe it'd be easier not to remember it that way.

When the other man's eyes went to the stands, so did Oliver's. "C-can I..." He paused, swallowing hard and trying to stop his voice from shaking. He refused to be afraid! "Can I ask you something? I...I have friends out there. If there was a way they wouldn't have to see..." He hesitated again, not quite able to finish the thought. He licked dry lips. "I just don't want this to be worse for them than it has to be."

[le-traitre.livejournal.com]

The mask of coldness slipped, for just a moment. His eyes were cast downward, and just faintly in his expression, there was a distant, but deep sadness. He had tried to push the memory far away, but it was things like this that reminded him. He could hear Lia telling him, "don't go," as she died. Lia had received no mercy in her death. It was all he could do to offer it to other innocent people.

The momentary grief slipped away, and Robespierre once again focused on Oliver as he drew his sword.

"I can," he said simply. Robespierre held the sword out before him, the tip seemingly pointed at Oliver, but he did not step forward to use it. He moved the sword quickly, with the trained expertise of a (former) knight of France, but words made of light appeared as he wrote them.



The words hovered in the air for a moment before simply falling to the ground. Robespierre sheathed his sword as he stepped forward. He gave a final glance to the small number of people gathered there before the words on the ground suddenly ran together, making a ring that turned black in the dirt. And suddenly, there was nothing to see beyond that circle. It was just a black void, infinite and silent. For the spectators, it was quite similar.

"I am sorry," he said with emotion and sincerity that was rare to him, "but when you are ready, Monsieur."

[oliverplus]

Oliver saw that slip in Robespierre's expression. He straightened again, feeling more confident for it. Despite what the Doctor had said, he knew he was making the right choice. Whatever he might know about the historical Robespierre didn't mean he should want this man to die. He deserved to live to make his own choices, and Oliver would protect that.

When Robespierre drew his sword, Oliver was afraid for an instant that, despite his words, he was going to end things just like that. But then he realised that the man was casting a spell. Tense, Oliver watched as the words gathered on the ground, wondering what the spell would do. Was it an answer to his request, or was Robespierre about to...? When the area around them turned black, he relaxed, looking at it in wonder. He even smiled. Now, whatever Robespierre did, his friends wouldn't have to know. It was even more comforting than he'd expected it to be. "Thank you."

He took one more deep breath, trying not to think of how alone he was, or how scared, or how many questions he still had inside, or how many things he still wanted to do. He wasn't really going to die, he reminded himself. He'd be back soon, and he'd have all the opportunities in the world. This was just a life experience. That was all. Oliver closed his eyes, steeling himself as best he could for whatever was about to come. Even if Robespierre was going to be the only one to see him, he still refused to look afraid. He swallowed, clearing his throat and willing his voice to cooperate for him one last time.

"I'm ready."

[le-traitre.livejournal.com]

Robespierre nodded, and stared coolly at Oliver. He began to speak another Psalm, but this one had power in it, showing quickly as a light purple aura surrounded Robespierre as he spoke evenly. It was a long passage. But despite the violence of the death itself, it was less cruel, really.

"Happy are those who do not follow the advice of the wicked,
or sit in the seat of scoffers;
but their delight is in the law of the Lord,
and on his law they meditate day and night.
They are like trees planted by streams of water,
which yield their fruit in its season,
and their leaves do not wither.
In all that they do, they prosper.
The wicked are like chaff that the wind drives away.
Therefore the wicked will not stand in judgment,
nor sinners in the congregation of the righteous;
for the Lord watches over the way of the righteous,
but the way of the wicked will perish."

It was a Psalm that was deadly to another Poet, for it silenced them. Their magic did not work without the power of speech, after all. So if Oliver tried to speak as Robespierre started to send out his spells, no sound would come out. But as he continued, it would get increasingly more difficult to feel much of anything, for a numbness would spread quickly through his whole body. He did not turn his eyes as he spoke the last word, perish, absorbing the detail of the grotesque scene that followed.

Oliver's head exploded into a fine, red mist. Robespierre's expression stayed tight, but as the body fell, he took off his fine coat, laying it over the body. When the red mist had faded (and he could feel them on his skin), so did the field that obscured the view. He stayed kneeling by the body for a moment, murmuring a quiet prayer before the jacket fell straight to the ground. He was surprised by that, and picked up the coat, seeing the dust underneath.

At least there was that mercy to not see the body.

He set the coat over his arm, standing straight again. He glanced once more to the man in the emperor's box, but said nothing before he left the arena.

There really wasn't much to say.

[oliverplus]

Oliver didn't notice when the spell stopped him from speaking. He was too busy listening, and feeling. He couldn't bring himself to look at what Robespierre was doing, but he wondered what it would be like--what it would do to him. What would it feel like to die?

When the numbness came over him, it was alarming in its unexpectedness. He would have cried out then, but no sound escaped him. He wished, for an instant, that he'd kept his eyes open, wanting, irrationally, to understand what was being done to him. Was the shield still hiding this? Did his friends know? Had he died already? It was too late now to find out. He hadn't wanted to show his fear, but it was beginning to consume him. He didn't want this. He didn't want to die! There were so many people--so many things--and he didn't know what was happening! He couldn't feel anything--didn't know when it would end or if it would hurt. It was terrifying, and he wanted it to stop. He wanted--

And then his thoughts, too, ended.