The Final Choice Short Story

Prologue

            The roar of the crowd was deafening; they cheered and jeered at the victims of the arena and placed their bets.  Most spectators cheered at the sheer relief of their own safe-being.  It was quite vulgar how such pleasure could be taken at the sight of man vs. man.

            The victims could hardly hear the crowd; they couldn’t afford to lose focus.  The first victim lowered his head in silent prayer, while the other, more brutal looking victim, brandished his razor sharp sword.  Every breath was held as the victims silently, but swiftly took their places opposite of each other.  The first victim’s knees were trembling slightly under the strain of his armor.  He had never, in his whole life, hurt anyone or anything before he was forced to become a victim.  He was a monk, and it was against his vows to be here, but he knew that if he was even seen as the slightest rebel to the dictator, he would be thrown straight into the dog pits.  How this monk survived this long in the tournament, no one knew.  The second victim was smiling with a look of almost insanity on his sunken face.  He was probably raised in the capitol of the province, brainwashed into the cruelty of the tournaments.  Although his overall appearance looked rather shabby, his muscles were toned and bulged out of his armor menacingly. Both victims stood firmly at their spots and finally, after many tense seconds, the signal from the Dictator was given, and the fight began. 

            Sitting in the waiting chamber, was a young man.  His once lively face was now expressionless with concentration.  He greatly resembled his older brother with his dark hair and rigid face.  He knew his brother would be out there, watching him, giving him strength.  He had never expected to become a victim.  Victims were chosen randomly and the chances of becoming one were very low.  It was so normal for him to attend the annual tournaments as a spectator, as he was forced to do along with the other civilians in the province.  Now, sitting in the cold, stone waiting room, he was a victim awaiting his final fight before the crowning of the champion.  He had never been so scarred in his life; the previous fights had taken their toll on him, making him seem much older than he was.  The fight had just begun outside in the arena and already the crowd was jeering at the weaker victim.  The man readied himself as he knew the fight would be over soon.  At last, the deafening ten-foot high gong under the Dictator’s heavily guarded box was struck, letting out the sound that nearly everyone in the province was frightened of, including the young man in the waiting chamber.  This sound was the beginning of the end for many unlucky victims; it was the sound of death.