To what smooth place at the end of the line...

[the_marshal]

Who| Wyatt and Max
What| The honeymoon's over...
Where| Arena 2, somewhere in Desperation Basin
When| A day or two after waking up in the desert.
Warnings| Some violence, some arguing, so possibly some language? More warnings will be added if necessary.



Wyatt hadn't expected to wake up in the Capitol. He hadn't expected to wake up at all. So opening his eyes to a zap of racing fire in his arm and to the bright white sun burning down on him was something of a surprise.

More surprising still when he got a good look at the place.

Now his clothes made more sense.

This arena he understood.

It was home. Or close enough anyways.

Water he knew would be his first priority, already sweat was beading up along his hairline, but with no means of transportation but his own two feet, he wasn't about to go wandering off into the mid-day sun. He'd wait for evening, when things cooled, but before it got full dark to go looking.

Except night never came. The day stretched on, the sun beating down and eventually he had no choice. His mouth as dry as the sand around him, he set out, heading north with his hat pulled down low and the collar of his coat turned up against his neck.

High ground, he figured, was as good a bet as any.

Comments

[gluteus]

Maximus frowned, glancing down to his wrists, Wyatt's mood change slowly starting to dawn on him. His brows furrowed slightly.

"Then we'll give them what they want," He said carefully.

He raised his wrist, turning it over as if he was expecting a band to appear. "You may be the man who was marked, but we were both poisoned. I wouldn't count on the mob's opinions to be anything but fickle."

[the_marshal]

He paused, staring at Max for a long, considering moment.

"Is that what ya were doin'? When ya hit me? Giving them what they want?" he asked slowly, a hard knot beginning to twist in his gut.

Had Wyatt been someone else - Howard - would he have stopped?

[gluteus]

Maximus' face slowly shifted, the furrowed brows hardening, the lips thinning. He settled his weight back on one foot, a hand setting on his belt where for years his sword had lain, but was now bare.

"I was doing what I have always done," He said, his voice low and calm. "A man must fight if he is to survive."

[the_marshal]

His eyes flicked to Max's hands, shoulders stiffening.

He might never have carried a sword, but he still recognized the movement. It was were his holster would have hung on his own belt.

"You sure that's the word ya want, Max?"

[gluteus]

It was the nickname that struck him the most out of the sentence. The familiarity next to what sounded like an accusation, though Maximus couldn't figure out what he was being accused of. His fingers tightened on his belt before he dropped his hands.

"I wouldn't have hurt you if I knew who you were," Max said slowly, thinking that perhaps Wyatt was still upset about that. Because surely he couldn't be upset about the fighting in general? He was a gladiator. And before that he had been a soldier. He had always dealt in death. "What else are we meant to do, other than fight, and die, or win?"

[the_marshal]

"I guess I never realized winnin' was something you were intendin' on doin'."

It was less of an accusation as it was disappointment. Sadness. A bone tired weariness.

It wasn't the first time a friend had expressed such feelings...

But he'd thought himself and Max had been cut from far similar cloth. It hurt to realize he'd been wrong.

[gluteus]

Maximus didn't say anything, his face hard as he watched Wyatt for a long moment.

Of course he'd always intended on winning. Maximus had never done anything in his life but win, even if he sought to grant clemency to his foes in his victory. But seeking victory was such a basic part of who he was that for a long moment he simply could not grasp why that would upset Wyatt.

"We live in a death match, Wyatt. One where death doesn't bring always an end to it." His voice was very low, very calm. "A man must fight to win, or he will not survive."

[the_marshal]

"Then why you'd stop, Max? Why not just get it over with?"

His mouth pursed, thinning and paling, a muscle working in his jaw. He held out his arms as if offering another embrace.

Offering an invitation.

"Iffen it don't mean anythin'. An this way I'll see it comin'."

[gluteus]

Something hot and painful tore through Maximus' chest, a dark shadow crossing his face. Is this what Wyatt thought he was? Survival above his friends, above his loyalty? The hurt coursed through his blood, hot as rage, and he stepped closer, just outside of Wyatt's open arms.

"Exactly what kind of man do you think I am?" He asked, his voice incredibly low, low enough only for the two of them. Low enough, he hoped, to escape the notice of the gods. "That I would take the life of my brother to ensure my own?"

[the_marshal]

"I ain't sure anymore," came the reply, rough and low, a whisper as soft as the sand curling around their ankles, his blue eyes searching Max's.

His head tipped slowly. His arms dropped.

"But one thing I'm damn sure of? There's only one victor and iffen ya want to be you, you'll have to go through me sooner er' later. Me, an' Howard, an' R, an' Doc..."

He ran through the names until his voice broke, until he couldn't stomach it anymore.

Until he wished that he'd just let Max strangle him there in the sand.

"Unless yer hopin' someone'll do it for ya."

[gluteus]

He didn't know who R and Doc were, their names meaning nothing to him, but he did know who Howard was. Had the fact that he had taught these same lessons to Howard meant nothing? That he had done his best to train the boy to fight, to survive?

He stepped closer, reaching out and grasping Wyatt's shoulder roughly with one arm, his eyes locked tight on Wyatt's, unflinching.

"Do I want to win? Yes." His voice was only just above a whisper, rough and rumbled and low.

"I want to win so I can stand before Snow the way I stand before you now," He said, a warning to his voice. He could not say more than that, not knowing that the world was listening. He hoped Wyatt would know what he meant. He prayed.

"But there is no Victory without Honour. And no Honour in betrayal." His grip on Wyatt's shoulder tightened. "I would never betray your brotherhood, nor your brotherhood with your friends. They've taken two victors before. And if they will not, then I will die and try again."

[the_marshal]

He glanced down at the hand on his shoulder, then back up slowly.

"I want out, Max. I feel like I lose another piece of myself every time I'm in here, but I ain't gonna do it on the blood of someone else. Not one of them kids."

He took a step back, another, until Max's hand was slipping off his shoulder.

"You go on, do yer duty. An' I'll do mine."

[gluteus]

His hand grasped air, uselessly, before dropping to his side.

That was it, then. Tantamount to a dismissal, and he felt it, through and through. He wondered, then, if Wyatt had really known what he was, before now. Maximus had always dealt in death. Why was it a surprise he did so here?

He wanted to argue but the words would not come, angry and bottled in the depths of his throat.

Fine, he would do his duty. He would fight until he nearly brought an end to this arena, and then he would find Wyatt and prove himself.

But he didn't say anything. Instead he bent down, grasped some earth in his hand, spread it through his fingers and then raised those same gritted fingers to the fabric around his throat, and quietly hid his face once more.

Then he took a step back, and turned away into the sand.

[the_marshal]

Wyatt was a pillar of salt, embittered, watching Max silently.

He lingered until his body was lost to the glare, until the sand swept away his boot prints, hoping maybe... just maybe....

But no.

He disappeared and Wyatt inhaled, a long, steadying breath, before pulling his hat down low and turning away himself.

Carrying on beneath the burning sun.

Alone.

[gluteus]

He didn't look back.

Half of him wanted to. Wanted to stop, turn around, and trudge right back, and tell Wyatt that he wasn't going to do anything in this arena without him, whether Wyatt liked it or not. The other half of him knew that he couldn't.

And all of him wished Wyatt would change his mind.

All he could do was keep walking, fingers clamped tight into his robes, his headdress offering some shade but not enough. If it was possible, the desert felt even more oppressive now.

He'd been walking for approximately half an hour when there was a THUMP in the sand a few feet away from him - a bright, shimmering package attached to a parachute. With a stern face he leaned down, picked up the box, and opened it. A knife. And a note.

There are no heroes. Only survivors. - A.W.

It did not take him long to figure out who the knife was from, and his hands began to shake upon the package in pure rage. He gripped the handle and threw it, hard, until it buried itself hilt-deep in the hard-packed sand with a SMACK!.

And then he yelled.

Long and loud, at the sky. No words, only rage.




It was another half hour before he retraced his steps and with bitter self-loathing retrieved the knife.