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[Mikhaeil]

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The sun beat down upon the sand, ripples of heat shimmering across the arena floor. Hundreds gathered in their seats, restless with anticipation, blood lust etched upon their eagerness. A fine sheen of sweat accentuated the perfection of Mikhaeil's sculptured form as he took his stance in readiness. Eyes never leaving those of his opponent, his penetrating gaze bespoke the confidence of his intent. It wasn't he whose death was imminent this day. He closed his fingers over his sword, raising it in salute then quickly bringing it down in a fierce arc of dismembering precision. At his feet lay the head of the champion sent to slay him. "Better luck in the afterworld," he laughed, kicking it out of his way as he threw down his blade and took leave of the arena, the crowd chanting his name in the wake of his victory.

Doctore.

Mikhaeil couldn't help but smile at the thought, the honour. He stood looking up at the ludus, its plaster walls pristine in the waning light of nightfall. In this realm of warriors bound by fate and freedom, a slave had been chosen to teach and train. As it was then, so it would be once more - devotion, determination, glory!

[Mikhaeil]

---

His body was the same as it had been the day he was slain. Achilles himself had nothing on such consumate perfection. Years of disciplined training had culminated in statuesque apogee. Once a true titan, unbeaten and fearless, he now retained little more than the musculature of that appearance. How he longed to take up the sword once again, feel the weight of a blade balanced sweet in his palm. The bow served him well for the hunt, but the arena's demands were far different. His own sword forever removed from his grasp, he would find another to bring back the splendor. With luck and hard work it wouldn't take long to recapture that which he'd lost.

The soft candleglow silhouetted his thoughts in deep shadow. He lowered his gaze to the brand at the inner aspect of his right forearm. Mark of the ludus he'd fought for - a serpent with fangs bared to strike - it was the much coveted symbol of brotherhood achievable only through trial. Competency had to be proven beyond measure. If it were not then disgrace was the victor, resulting in banishment to the mines or with better fortune, swift death.

Bringing a hand toward the whip laying beside him on the bench, Mikhaeil forced himself to take the rough leather braiding into his grasp. So much time spent at the lash's mercy, both in life as well as after, instilled reluctance in becoming its wielder.

Doctore.

[Kaylor]

---

"You sent for me?"

Kaylor leaned his elbows on the shadow stone desk, tenting his fingers as he studied the man standing before him. Regal in bearing, Mikhaeil had offered no deference to station, making direct eye contact upon his approach and addressing his summons too casually. "Am I to guess who you are, slave?" he sneered. "Or do you expect me to beg for your name so that I might answer your question?"

"Apology, Lord McKairin," Mikhaeil replied in muted tone. "I'd given no thought that you'd sent for another. My name is Mikhaeil . . . and I am not your slave."

"Enough!" The sound of Kaylor's fist slamming down on the desk crested over the sudden wave of silence surging between them. "Such insolence exhausts what little patience I possess, therefore I shall be brief."

"I meant no . . . "

"You meant no interruption and shall remain quiet until I say otherwise."

Mikhaeil shifted his gaze toward the floor, assenting with a solicitous nod.

"My Lady Wife and I have matters to attend to elsewhere for a time. In the meanwhile plans are being drawn for Stonegate's ludus, another meeting set this Sunday with the Oracle and Wolf King to discuss them further. It gives me pause to charge a slave my stead, however given the fact that you are Doctore I deem it appropriate in this instance. Dishonour me during my absence and find the favor repaid you upon my return. Have we an understanding, Mikhaeil?"

"We have."

"As I thought," Kaylor stated flatly. "And one thing more before I give you leave."

Daring to lift his gaze, Mikhaeil steadied himself as The Black Knight stepped away from his chair and, rounding the desk, walked over to where he was standing.

"I would order you beneath the lash, for it is my belief that none should wield its sovereignty without having suffered it first-hand."

Mikhaeil's every sinew seized in shuddering protest, his voice barely above a whisper as he uttered his consent. Lord McKairin had no way of knowing . . .

"As you wish, sir."
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*Even if you be otherwise perfect, you fail without humility. ~ The Talmud*