The world had gone white.
He had tapped on the door.
Borrowing as he always borrowed.
Piece by piece. Little bit little.
More and more and more.
And more..
The door buckled in response.
Too much, it said.
It's too narrow, it said.
You need to open me a little, it said.
Open me and it's all yours, it said.
The world was still white.
I will listen, it said. I will obey.
Perhaps, he thought. Lies, he said.
I am you. You are me, it said.
Neither exists without the other.
If not today. Then another.
The white faded.
The tat-lung's eyes jolted awake, half in memory, half from the gentle nudge to his side. The sphinx looked down to him with a curious tilt of the head and his senses returned to register his space: the confines space of the Pit. The 'hotel', so to speak, where they had to spend their time for the duration of the tournament. It hadn't been a 'nap' exactly, but these days, with the amount of exertion and voltage he had been putting out, recovering from the fights were just as good as.
Time to head out again, the sphinx informed him. There's still some ways to go. As the tat-lung sighed and got onto his feet, the sphinx began to guide him out, into the arena tunnel. In truth she felt rather bad for him, the fights were a stronger toll than he probably ever anticipated. Admittedly, when they had the thought about entering, they hadn't considered having to come face to face with three whole thundergugs either. She would have liked to tell him they were almost done, that there were just a few more rounds to go, but in truth it was barely past a midway point. And the challenges? Not likely to get easier.
The doors of the arena opened and the two walked in, squinting against the lights. When they had time to adjust, Det seemed to tilt his head a little. That is.. a mosca? Those don't seem too bad.
Darky's mouth was a fine, long, thin line when the particular physique of the mosca made him unmistakeable. Appearances can be deceptive, she said simply. The less he knew about that particular mosca and Nightmare's history, the better off he was emotionally. How was it that of all the tournaments, this one seemed to have so many ghosts of battles past? The black-white thundergug and Mear, Rayak and Nightmare.. Spirits on high, all they were missing was the black drake who burned up Cathàn and they would have the entire collection.
And poor Det had to be the one to try and make amends for them all.
This one's quicker and tougher than he looks, so be on your toes, she minded him, before reaching over to bump her forehead into his lightly. Then, turned and walked up into the trainer's stand as Det was left to fidget in the sands below, the arena doors ominously closing behind him.
(1)
(Ready)