A Proper End
(Previously: “Nothing and Yet Everything to Lose”)
The other boy is younger than him—eighteen, seventeen perhaps. A fighter in his prime, until today, that is—the day he falls, his bright flame snuffed. The lad has taken three thrusts, hilt-deep, to his naked midriff: one above the navel, two below. Red slicks his slender, muscled abdomen and mats the fur ascending in a straight line to his sweaty, hairy chest. Ferwin can feel the beating of his heart within that heaving cage—thump-THUMP, thump-THUMP—and for a moment hesitates to slay him, stamp that manly fighting spirit out... but there is nothing left to do but put him down. The young man holds his lower stomach in both hands, as if it were a heavy sack; a dark pool spreads into the sand between their bare feet: blood, which once provided him with life but now only betrays his ugly doom. Ferwin extends a muscled arm, and lays the blade’s edge to the boy’s throat—
“Wait, don’t,” yelps his beaten foe. “Ain’t I a gladiator? Gut me, good an’ true—I’m worthy of a proper end, the same as any man...”
Young Ferwin blushes with embarrassment; his sympathy for his opponent was misguided. It is as he said: to honor him would mean to spill his guts out in the dirt, like any other fighter in the pit. “Aye, that you are,” he says—“now, grit your teeth...”
The boy leans back, looks down; his brow begins to furrow, and he bares his clenched teeth, just as Ferwin bid him. As the scream builds in his throat, he holds it back, but only barely, and a hissing squeal escapes, that one, high whistle bearing all his weighty agony. As Ferwin works, the poor lad’s eyes can’t help but fix upon the site of his evisceration—it is here, now, that a warrior achieves his virile heights, precisely at the end—and then, just as the guts begin show their pale face, he starts to quiver, groaning, ultimately failing to hold his peace: “Ngrrraaaghhhhhh...!”
Ferwin pulls out, steps aside, so that the audience can see what he has wrought: another young man’s pretty belly butchered, this one slit from groin to fuzzy sternum. The defeated fighter staggers as they cheer him, clutching at his small intestine as it spills into his opened palms—just a little at first, a few slithering loops, then before long the whole tangled mess, which hangs down to his knees like a sudden and terrible birth.
Is this what you wanted? thinks Ferwin. They all say they do—each man offers his stomach, like you did. Was I any different, with Kirk? I was ready that day, I was eager to die with my guts out... but could I have borne that burden any better?
In the thick of battle, Ferwin bore two wounds: a stabbed thigh, and a jab above the hip. The darkened corridor which leads from the arena, where the air is cool and battle echoes only dimly, is where gladiators snatch a moment’s rest between bouts, wash their bodies of the blood; he doesn’t have much time, just several minutes till he must return and fight again. He takes a bucket and a rag, and cleans his frame of battle-grime. The gut wound stings; he probes it with his finger, wincing—not too deep, but any further and his belly would be pierced, the bowels exposed. A boy walks by; he hefts a stinking sack, within which something slick and greasy glistens in the torchlight: viscera, the guts of his defeated foe, no doubt—and sure enough, a second man appears behind him, one hand wrapped around the loser’s ankle, dragging off his butchered corpse to who-knows-where. They disappear into the dark, and Ferwin is alone once more, a wounded man awaiting one more thrust...
“You’re quite the fighter,” growls an old voice, gravelly and hardened.
“Who’re you?”
The man steps from the shadows: he is short and bearded, thick-built, sixty years or very nearly, probably. His meaty forearms bristle with gray fur; the hands are big and calloused. He’s a gladiator, Ferwin thinks, or former gladiator, surely. Steely blue eyes burrow into Ferwin’s soul, as if to test its fortitude. “I’m Langrun,” he says, “Festus Langrun, soon to be your teacher.”
“Teacher?”
“If you make it through the day. You see, I’m master of a gladiator stable. I have come to seek new blood—and yours, young man, is very bright indeed.” The fellow grins; young Ferwin figures that he must’ve been quite handsome in his day, and even now the old bear holds a certain charm. It’s clear this Langrun’s strength is undiminished—he would lose against the master in a fight, no bones about it! “But before that, you must face one final foe, a gladiator I have trained myself: Arbuc the Ardent, he is called. Defend that handsome belly of yours, boy—he’ll gut you, eagerly and quickly, if you let him.”
Ferwin pours some fragrant oil from a jug and rubs his chest and stomach with it, till the muscles glisten. “I don’t fear evisceration, old man—every gladiator takes it in the guts one day, and I’m no different.”
“That’s a dead man’s attitude,” spits Langrun. “Savages of Bahar’sool may yearn to give their innards up, but we northmen are civilized. A proper gladiator fights to live first, for his supper second, and for fame and glory least of all—remember that!”
A bell is rung; it echoes through the tunnel, tolling Ferwin’s unknown fate. “I need to go,” he tells the man.
“You need to live. Remember what I said... and guard that belly!”
Arbuc is a handsome brute: a mess of wavy, unkempt brown hair, eyes as big and bright as emeralds. He’s past his prime, Ferwin suspects—not forty yet, but likely nearly so—still, all the same, he’s hulking and formidable, a man to fear. His hairy, oiled pectorals are huge and bulging; underneath, the meaty abdomen is rippling in waves with every breath, as if to taunt whomever seeks to see them stabbed. Remember, guard that belly! he remembers Langrun telling him—and suddenly, perhaps anticipating Arbuc’s thrust, his guts twitch, aching, as if eager to emerge...
The fighter sneers at him. “I’ll bet you’re all of sixteen summers, am I right?”
“I’m twenty, if it matters.”
“Not much difference, really. Boys your age are all the same—blood burnin’ for a fight, not carin’ one whit whether they end up alive or dead by battle’s end. You’ve oiled up that fit, young stomach real nice for me, I see... shall we get on with it?”
The boy smirks, slashes Arbuc’s thick thigh straightaway; hot blood rolls out and trickles down his meaty calf into the sand. The older fighter’s counter-swipe clips Ferwin’s groin—but, as the boy hops backwards, it becomes apparent that the slash has done no more than cut his knotted loincloth, and the garment slips down, falling at his feet. Arbuc admires Ferwins cock for several moments, lingering upon the slender, swelling shaft... and then he pulls his own out, thick but rather stubby, reddening with want. “Ahhh, there we are—a proper pair o’ naked swordsmen, bleedin’ in the buff! Perhaps, before you die, I’ll snatch your manhood as a trophy—”
Ferwin lunges, snarling; Arbuc ducks and slashes—swiftly, with surprising force—and though the younger man is able to escape the full brunt, leaning backwards just as he is struck, the blade connects. He looks down: underneath his shiny belly button, Arbuc’s drawn a thin red line between the boy’s hips.
Guard that belly! Langrun told him... but he didn’t listen, did he?
Arbuc takes a step back, smiles proudly, like a man admiring his work. The crowd begins to grow excited; they’ve already chosen Arbuc as the victor, Ferwin realizes, whether premature or not. At first he thinks the cut can’t possibly be all that bad, until...
“Argh—”
Ferwin bites his lip; a chill runs through his spine, as if a cold wind blows, despite that it is sweltering.
“Ahhh, that’s it,” Arbuc tells him, “you can feel it now, eh? Let it happen...”
“No,” the lad protests, “I’m not—it’s not my time yet—”
Arbuc chuckles, scratching at his chest. “I’d beg to differ, boy.” The elder gladiator’s penis throbs erect, a pearl of eager seed erupting from its tip; likewise, the wounded boy’s own phallus has become rock-hard despite itself and starts to buck, as if defying Ferwin’s fate.
Oh gods, he’s done it, Ferwin thinks, so swiftly, too... Can’t... hold them in—! “Urghk... Unghfff... I’m gonna—gonna spill my—damn, my fuckin’ guts!” His bare feet planted wide apart, the boy begins to writhe. He puts his hands beneath his furry crotch, just underneath the slit; as it begins to smile open, he is just in time to catch the slippery intestines in his palms, so warm and slick. Just minutes earlier, he’d seen the other boy’s bowels carted off, the wages of his victory... and now he realizes that in minutes they shall take his too, and cart them off somewhere as well. The image of old Breccan—fixed beneath the trident, innards spilling in the surf—arises in his mind... Forgive me, Ferwin begs. I didn’t know... I didn’t realize—
The victor steps forth, grinning like a boy; he come so close that their erect pricks rub against each other. Arbuc grips the young man underneath one arm, to hold him up; his free hand, meanwhile, probes at his opponent’s guts, the fingers prodding and caressing. Slowly, he begins to reach inside of him, wrist-deep, until he’s gripping Ferwin by the very innards!
Ferwin moans; his eyes grow wild and huge...
Thwurtch—
“Harghk—” Arbuc shivers; pressing chin to chest, he sees the boy has stabbed him, hilt deep, in his muscled stomach. Reaching behind himself, in fact, he finds the blade’s tip jutting from his back—he’s been run through! “You...”
Ferwin watches as his victim slides off of the blade, blood spurting freely from the hole. As Arbuc crumples, pitifully groaning, his erection jerks and spits, the very last of his enjoyment pooling in the sand. The lad can’t help himself—his cock erupts too, spurts of hot seed splattering his kill, this final climax more profound and overpowering than any he has known before today, the day he dies...
The gutted gladiator kneels; he hears the audience no longer, just his own heart’s slow but heady beat. The entrails spilling at his waist—a pink and purple tangle, glistening beneath the bright sun—pulse with life, however fleeting it may be. He feels the urge to arch his back, to learn forth, let the organ spill completely—
Live, Langrun had told him, live!
Instead, he gathers up his guts and stuffs them back inside as best he can, then plucks his loincloth from the sand and wraps his middle with it very tightly, till the wound is bound; like this, he slowly staggers to the tunnel leading out of the arena. Langrun waits for him.
“Good lad,” he tells him, “very good—now come, let’s stitch you whole again.”
Ferwin is healed. Old Langrun’s stable soon becomes his home; there, he shall meet and spar with countless men—some legends, others doomed to die unknown: Big Petrug, of the mountain tribes; young Taban, sleek and fleet of foot; lean Wolok-Tor, the Warrior of Ebon Isle; Justin, said to hail from another world entirely; the bastard Rolf; and many, many others. Ferwin too will topple slain one day, as sure as any man; indeed, he’ll perish with his guts out, as full many gladiators do—but till that day his battles will continue, glorious as ever!
(Next: “The Death of Ferwin Howe,” “Farsworn,” or “Enter Taban”)