He could smell the blood, his own - metallic and hot - and Maximus' rushing and pooling around his injuries, pressing against the skin. He could hear their heartbeats, beating together like war drums.

He could hear the fabric of his pant-leg ripping, his own flesh tearing as the knife - firelight winking off its bloodied smile - cut into him again. Hear it, even as the pain raced across his nerves.

But the second cut didn't stop him any more than the first had. He brought his uninjured leg up, knee smashing into Maximus's sternum - more grinding, more breaking - and then, hands gripping under the man's arms, flung him aside. As if the grown man were nothing more than a toy.

Broken and discarded.