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"It is easier to find men who will volunteer to die, than to find those who are willing to endure pain with patience."

-

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—•—

[Memories are in italics!]

[implied violence]

—•—

A prickling heat, harsh and sticky like tar, clung to the boys skin. Flames licked at his limbs as he wrenched his eyes open; his eyelashes caked in grey soot.

He screamed, rolling off of his bed, which was now being nibbled at by the flickering mouth of the fire. The hot, orange beast towered over him; consumed the walls of his house and smothered the air.

His mother and fathers screams guided him through the thick blanket of smoke. His lungs stung and his breath was laboured as he burst out of his hut, the early morning air engulfing his body like the fire had engulfed his home.

The boy rubbed frantically at his eyes, dropping to the ground and plastering his sweltering body amongst the long grass; the dew cooling the blisters which were spreading along his bare chest like wasp stings.

Suddenly, his entire being was doused in water. A giant relief of cold, icy fluid extinguished the heat that was eating him alive and he audibly sighed, pressing a hot cheek into the damp grass.

"Dream!"

The boy looked up; his mother standing over him with a now empty clay pot. She tossed the pot aside, scooping the young boy into her arms and cradling him to her clothed chest.

"Are you alright?"

The boys throat still itched with the rawness of embers, so he nodded, burying his red face into the silken cloth of his mother's shawl.

The cloudless morning, still dark with the presence of night, echoed with the roar of fire and the shouts of angry men. Language, foreign to Dream's ears, was being tossed through the air as crowds of people swarmed the clearing.

Many rode atop horses of white and brown, brandishing spears and swords, all tinted red with blood and suffering. Others jogged on foot, throwing fiery torches through doors of huts and using their painted shields to protect themselves from the flying sparks.

"What's going on?" Dream asked his mother, looking up at her expression.

She looked frightened; large eyes frantically darting from person to person as the army advanced. Her face was ashen and the edges of her clothes were singed.

His father appeared, sprinting over to them and gathering them in his arms, helping them to their feet.

"We need to go." He said, with one hand on his wife's back and the other gripping the hilt of his sword.

"What's happening?" It was Dream's mother's turn to ask, and his father urged them away from the charging masses of soldiers.

"The Roman's are here!" He yelled over an ear-splitting crunch, coming from the collapse of the community hut. "We need to run!"

Before the three could move further, more soldiers broke into the clearing, shouting in Latin as they appeared from out of the forest. Many of them took a villager down with one cruel swipe of their sword, grinning maliciously as they advanced further into the clearing.

"Halt!"

Dream and his mother and father were forced to stop by four Roman soldiers, all atop white horses, who had trapped them in a circle. The young boy cowered in his mother's arms and his father swore at the strange men in their native language— but they did not understand.

Another man approached, this time on a black horse, and entered the ring the four other soldiers had created.

With a tedious gaze, he examined the three charred villagers, huddled together on the cool grass.

By the way he was dressed, in armour of gold and red and blue; ornate carvings of vines and jewels on his chest plate, Dream could tell that this man was powerful.

"How old do you think he is?" The man in gold asked, and his four confidants thought for a moment.

"He looks to be in his fourteenth year." One of them concluded, eyeing Dream skeptically.

The man in gold hummed, thrumming his fingers on his horses bridle. He appeared as though he was deciding something, and whatever it was, it made his eyes glint maliciously.

Dream glared at the man in gold and the man, in all his Roman arrogance, smiled.

"Take him."

"What about his parents?" One of the soldiers questioned as two others hopped off of their horses to seize Dream.

The man in gold regarded Dream's parents with an uninterested skim of his eyes. He then cleared his throat and, without an ounce of hesitation, ordered:

"Kill them."

Dream woke with a start, chest heaving, bruised fingers tightening around his blanket. He took long, deep breaths, blinking rapidly through the semi-darkness.

Once he had calmed down, he settled back into bed, laying his head on the straw-filled sack he used as a pillow. He wiped the back of his hand across his forehead, flicking away a light sheen of sweat.

The room he lay in was small. It contained only a slab of paved stone, littered with straw to sleep on and a rusty bucket, in which he used as a toilet.

Thick, metal bars confined the man to his cell. A thick padlock hung heavily from the barred door and the only source of light was from a lit candle at the end of the narrow hallway.

His only connection to the outside world was a small, narrow gap in the far wall, which sat above where his bed was situated. From this window, the size of a brick, Dream could see the moon. Soft luminescent light filtered into the cell, bathing the man in a ghostly aura that dripped across his features like molten silver.

He sighed, kicking his feet out in listless agitation. His movements were restrained however as, which each small kick, his ankles would shudder under the weight of massive chains. His legs were shackled, a chain binding him to the small radius of his room. These chains meant that, if the situation ever arose that the door was left ajar, he would not be able to escape.

Silently, and as slowly as the setting moon, Dream found the solace of slumber. The melodious rattle of his shackles and the distant crow of pheasants lulled him into a dreamless state: for he hadn't gotten a good nights rest in nearly eight years.

—•—

"Wake up."

Dream blinked his green eyes open, squinting through the orange glow of the early morning sunrise. The padlock to his cell had been unlocked, left hanging idly on the handle. The door had been swung open and standing in the doorway was the owner of the Ludus Magnus.

[: a Ludus Magnus was a large training ground/school for gladiators and was often owned by a single rich person who bought people to be trained into gladiators.]

"I said 'Wake up', did I not?" The owner spat, reaching into the room to prod Dreams exposed side with the tip of his spear.

Dream hissed, pulling himself out of bed and towards the owner. However, the chains stopped him from moving any further and the owner smirked, taking a step back.

He ordered one of his servants to unlock Dream's shackles before walking away, calling: "You best be outside in ten minutes!"

Dream grumbled at this, wordlessly thanking the servant who unhooked his restraints. That same servant also offered Dream his breakfast; which was barely a half a loaf of wheat bread and a small, wooden cup of greyish oats.

It was incredibly unappetising, and the young gladiator often compared the oats to the vomit of stray dogs who had spent an entire night feasting on the leftovers of exotic aristocratic dinner parties.

Nevertheless, he ate his breakfast spitefully and, with the gracious presence of the rising sun warming his back with pink and orange hues, the gladiator smiled.

He yawned, stretching the aches from out of his stiff muscles, cracking his knuckles. From on the wall, he unhooked his training sword; a pathetic wooden stick, and set off down the hallway.

Dream would be unable to use his proper sword, which had been hand-forged by the Ludus's very talented weapon smith. Training matches were, like intended, just for training.

And if any of the men were to get gravely injured by another gladiator, that same gladiator would be lashed and whipped until their back was shredded and ground beneath them was slick with blood, stained crimson.

"Hurry up, you piece of shit." The owner grumbled at Dream as he emerged into the arena. It was not as big as you would imagine, but it left space for a good fight and an imaginary crowd.

"One day, Schlatt," Dream mused, stepping into the arena. "I hope you have a heart attack."

Schlatt rolled his eyes, using the butt of his spear to smack Dream in the forehead. The gladiator grunted, stepping back and rubbing his head.

"If you weren't the best gladiator in all of Italia," Schlatt began, taking a large step away from Dream, onto the outskirts of the arena. "I would want your throat slit in battle."

"That won't be happening." Dream mumbled, twirling the flimsy wooden sword in a strong hand.

"Of course not," Schlatt placed his spear down, now in the safety of the audience space. "The formidable, bloodthirsty Nightmare cannot be slain, can he?"

Schlatt cackled at this, indicating for a servant to open the gate at the opposite end of the arena. Dream huffed, crouching into his fighting stance, eyes trained unblinkingly on the opening gate.

From out of the gate burst a man. He, like Dream, held a pathetic wooden training sword, with his only bodily protection being an itchy woollen tunic and strips of leather bound to his shoulders and wrists.

He looks new, Dream thought, examining the new gladiator.

The newcomer, despite his bared teeth and narrowed eyes, was scared. Possibly even petrified.

One part of Dream wanted to spare the poor man; go easy on him and allow him to return to his sleeping quarters, licking only the smallest of bloodied wounds.

The other part of Dream itched for a fight where the famed Nightmare could render a man unconscious with the flick of a crumbling wooden training sword.

"Fight." Schlatt clapped once, sitting back onto the bench to watch the practise fight.

Dream, with a wicked grin, an unwavering smirk of pointed ivory, spurred into action.

He would not be defeated by some trembling newcomer.

He was going to fight.

And he was going to win.

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Hey homies, this is an authors note!

I hope you enjoyed the first chapter, and that it has convinced you to continue reading— Any feedback so far is much appreciated!

This is my second book I have written on Wattpad (my first being Allies, which you should totally, definitely check out).

This story contains combined aspects of Ancient Rome and Ancient Greece, along with fictional aspects created for the benefit of this story.

Also, just a little content reminder, all people are purely based on their dsmp characters, and are not in anyway a representation of their irl personalities. (Same goes with the shipping aspect: purely for their characters and nothing more :]).

Until next time,

Blue :)