I definately wasn't smiling when I heard the cheers of the crowd. They were roaring through the thick hardwood doors, cheering for a fight, for blood. They were either entertainment drained or blood thirsty. I took a guess at with species was making which thunderous applause. Four Watchers were placed about the area as Trance and I listen to the uproar of the crowd. My heart raced in my chest as my eyes follow the intricate design carved into the polished entrance.
"Hey," Trance laces his fingers through mine. My eyes flicker from the frame to his bright lilac orbs. His smile brought an instant relief deep within my soul.
"Don't think. Breathe and find an opening. Don't wander with your eyes. Stay focused. Don't forget about your boots." The Wicken reminds me with stern eyes.
Trance steps closer until his breathe fanned my lips. He stares into my eyes with hope and worry shining through. We gaze into each other's eyes until he breaks our eye contact to kiss my forehead softly.
"Never stop shining," whispers Trance.
My heart melts as he releases me from his hands and smiles proudly at me. It was the last time we would ever touch, the last time I'll ever see him as my partner, and I just about missed it. With a heavyhearted nod to Trance's sappy yet bold disposition, the doors open and the smell of burning wood comes to my senses. Without looking back, I step into the arena with hope and fear in my heart. I wanted to win, but I was afraid of dying.
Dying meant an eternal damnation without Theros and Thesis.
Once I step foot into the arena, I'm no longer a Wicken. I'm a lowly witch who has to earn her right to stay alive and prove I am worthy enough to bond with two Wolvenrians. Our laws are specific by each species we mate with besides our own. I had to prove to not only my old fellow Wickens, but the Wolvenrians as well. If at any time the males who had chose me decide I'm no longer worthy, I fight for my freedom.
Either way, it's death or freedom.
And I wanted that freedom like nothing I've ever wanted before. The thought of a life without Theros and Thesis is painful for me. I have to win for them; I have to win for myself. I have to prove to not only both species, but to myself that I am a true Wicken.
So what will this Wicken do? Prevail.
I didn't bother looking into the crowd, seeing so many familiar and unfamiliar faces would be too emotion. I took my first step onto the sandy floor. Hesitantly, I walk towards the middle of the huge circular arena where the thirteen elders resided. Each of them were the wisest of the elements, signifying the full circle divided by runic and arcanic. Elder Roarke, Consumer of Flame, stood before me with Elder Madea, Growth of Life, and my teacher, Elder Aile, Fighter of Light. The Grand Three, as they're called, stand before me as the rest of the elemental elders sat on their woven thrones.
With his fiery glare, I face his sentence. Elder Roarke calms the audience to speak. "Damara, Bringer of Light," he announces without flaw.
"You have been chosen by two Wolvenrians and accepted the bond, thus forcing myself and my fellow elements to prematurely meet your Reckoning. May the Anima Luna be gracious of you, Child of Light."
There was much pain behind his voice, pain that can only be mended by venturing back in time. Elder Roarke stepped aside for Elder Madea, only it was a grand surprise to see Elder Aile to declare my chosen god instead.
To see such a familiar and caring face to sentence me to my death or the rest of my life, it's hard to not bid him a goodbye or speak a few chosen words to him at the response of my chosen death.
When his golden eyes meet mine, Elder Aile's stern gaze wavers before the spark in his eyes ignite. "Damara, Bringer of Light, shall combat against Nyx, Anima of Night." Elder Aile's staff bangs against the ground three time before the ground begins to shake.
I gasp at the wind blowing the torches out, consuming the arena in the moon's full glow. I can barely hold my balance as the sand begins to sink towards a certain spot until it builds, molding into the shape of a woman. She isn't thick, but she isn't small. The grains of sand begin to fall from her silhouette until it's eerily quiet. Fire suddenly ignites from the torches, one by one, and the figure of the woman is more presentable.
With skin as dark as the night sky, she glows with the stardust she created. Dark tresses of hair liquidly fall against her shoulders. The majority of her hair is pulled back while long strands fawn against her breasts. The goddess had her arms crossed over her chest as she stood in the center of our brawl. Her eyes open and immediately I'm reminded of the moon. They glow like moons among a dark canvas observing the area of war.