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Though it may not have been equal to Taengea, the gorgeous kingdom of Athenia still had its fair share of festivals. The latest was not a large one, and did not offer up the same feasts of indulgence as most. It was the kind of festivity of which most would have been unaware were they not a citizen of Athenia, a celebration of peacetime that would likely have been deemed wholly unnecessary if it did not come with a brief opportunity for merrymaking.
There was typically a gladiatorial fight on the bright spring day, as well as a friendly chariot race in which both nobles and not could take part (although, given the cost of the hobby, the lower classes did not tend to participate all that often). Luckily, the Marikas family had never been anything less than affluent, and, as their second son had always been especially keen on riding, such wealth had lent itself well to the hobby. Besides, when the time came for Rafail to begin his military training, the charioteering practice had served him well.
Today, he would be competing in the race, although it seemed a strong word for someone so convinced they would win with little competition. Mama had always ensured Rafail had the best tutors, and the best horses, and the tradition had continued after her death (for every Marikas deserved the finest), and there seemed little doubt that his team would lead him to success. The two horses he had selected for the occasion were large black stallions: tall, sleek and some of the fastest in the family stables, each kitted out in golden tack. The chariot was similarly gold and black, chosen as Marikas colours, and built for the occasion. It appeared delicate from a distance but, in truth, was excessively sturdy, and seemed unlikely to be too significantly damaged in the event of a crash.
Rafail was overflowing with natural confidence - arrogance, really - as he stood by his chariot on the starting line, waiting for Deucalion to finish ensuring his horses were ready, and everything was securely in place. He had set his sights on a pretty redhead in the front of the audience, sauntered across to where she sat, throwing her a bright grin and promising he would win the race with her favour. She had giggled in that way women always did, fluttered her eyelashes delicately, and assured Rafail that she would watch his every turn with immense dedication, and that she was convinced of the skill he claimed. He blew her a final kiss, then returned to mount his chariot as the competition was set to begin.
He was not a substandard racer, and his arrogance was, for once, hardly misguided. As the horn sounded to signal the commencement of the contest, he had set off ahead of most of the others, only a few men seeming to match him. There was one to his left, clearly of no noble standing, judging by his manner of dress, his chariot almost neck-to-neck with Rafail's. The rest of the competition barely mattered compared to the pair of them, as they seemed to press against one another, their chariots grinding against one another. They made it around the first bend without issue, the reins tight in their hands, side glances tossed towards each other in that competitive way they could not resist, despite the dangers it posed to the race.
It was the fifth turn which got them. They had taken the corner too quickly, without enough foresight. Rafail's rival's horse smashed into his own - or the other way around, although he would never accept that possibility - some part of a wheel caught in the one beside it, and they seemed to smash into one another with a force which pushed the Marikas's chariot over, the reins twisting around themselves, both chariots heaved to the ground in a messy entanglement. The horses were hauled backwards, tugged to a halt with a cloud of orange-brown dust. The blonde-haired baron was dragged down with his contraption, but his prime competitor had suffered the same fate, and both men were pulled to the floor, the reins around their waists having bound them dangerously to the chariots.
It was lucky the horses had stopped, else the charioteers might have suffered a worse fate, but, so far as Rafail was concerned, this was tantamount to the greatest tragedy in history. The expensive fabric of his mulberry chiton - trimmed with gold - was torn, the fall had covered him in dirty sand, and there was a large gash - one which would surely and unsettling scar - down the length of his shin, where the force of the accident had caught his lower leg, though he had not felt the pain before he had seen the injury. The nineteen-year-old could not help but scream as he reached to clutch the bleeding slash, now utterly uninterested in who ended up the victor of this race. Papa would hear about this. The King would hear about this. He was a Marikas, and he had been sabotaged, and no one was helping him, and there was a pile of horse dung mere feet from him, and his leg was in searing pain. Why was he still sitting here? Why was the race continuing as if nothing had occurred? Where was Deucalion when he needed him? This was not fair.
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Though it may not have been equal to Taengea, the gorgeous kingdom of Athenia still had its fair share of festivals. The latest was not a large one, and did not offer up the same feasts of indulgence as most. It was the kind of festivity of which most would have been unaware were they not a citizen of Athenia, a celebration of peacetime that would likely have been deemed wholly unnecessary if it did not come with a brief opportunity for merrymaking.
There was typically a gladiatorial fight on the bright spring day, as well as a friendly chariot race in which both nobles and not could take part (although, given the cost of the hobby, the lower classes did not tend to participate all that often). Luckily, the Marikas family had never been anything less than affluent, and, as their second son had always been especially keen on riding, such wealth had lent itself well to the hobby. Besides, when the time came for Rafail to begin his military training, the charioteering practice had served him well.
Today, he would be competing in the race, although it seemed a strong word for someone so convinced they would win with little competition. Mama had always ensured Rafail had the best tutors, and the best horses, and the tradition had continued after her death (for every Marikas deserved the finest), and there seemed little doubt that his team would lead him to success. The two horses he had selected for the occasion were large black stallions: tall, sleek and some of the fastest in the family stables, each kitted out in golden tack. The chariot was similarly gold and black, chosen as Marikas colours, and built for the occasion. It appeared delicate from a distance but, in truth, was excessively sturdy, and seemed unlikely to be too significantly damaged in the event of a crash.
Rafail was overflowing with natural confidence - arrogance, really - as he stood by his chariot on the starting line, waiting for Deucalion to finish ensuring his horses were ready, and everything was securely in place. He had set his sights on a pretty redhead in the front of the audience, sauntered across to where she sat, throwing her a bright grin and promising he would win the race with her favour. She had giggled in that way women always did, fluttered her eyelashes delicately, and assured Rafail that she would watch his every turn with immense dedication, and that she was convinced of the skill he claimed. He blew her a final kiss, then returned to mount his chariot as the competition was set to begin.
He was not a substandard racer, and his arrogance was, for once, hardly misguided. As the horn sounded to signal the commencement of the contest, he had set off ahead of most of the others, only a few men seeming to match him. There was one to his left, clearly of no noble standing, judging by his manner of dress, his chariot almost neck-to-neck with Rafail's. The rest of the competition barely mattered compared to the pair of them, as they seemed to press against one another, their chariots grinding against one another. They made it around the first bend without issue, the reins tight in their hands, side glances tossed towards each other in that competitive way they could not resist, despite the dangers it posed to the race.
It was the fifth turn which got them. They had taken the corner too quickly, without enough foresight. Rafail's rival's horse smashed into his own - or the other way around, although he would never accept that possibility - some part of a wheel caught in the one beside it, and they seemed to smash into one another with a force which pushed the Marikas's chariot over, the reins twisting around themselves, both chariots heaved to the ground in a messy entanglement. The horses were hauled backwards, tugged to a halt with a cloud of orange-brown dust. The blonde-haired baron was dragged down with his contraption, but his prime competitor had suffered the same fate, and both men were pulled to the floor, the reins around their waists having bound them dangerously to the chariots.
It was lucky the horses had stopped, else the charioteers might have suffered a worse fate, but, so far as Rafail was concerned, this was tantamount to the greatest tragedy in history. The expensive fabric of his mulberry chiton - trimmed with gold - was torn, the fall had covered him in dirty sand, and there was a large gash - one which would surely and unsettling scar - down the length of his shin, where the force of the accident had caught his lower leg, though he had not felt the pain before he had seen the injury. The nineteen-year-old could not help but scream as he reached to clutch the bleeding slash, now utterly uninterested in who ended up the victor of this race. Papa would hear about this. The King would hear about this. He was a Marikas, and he had been sabotaged, and no one was helping him, and there was a pile of horse dung mere feet from him, and his leg was in searing pain. Why was he still sitting here? Why was the race continuing as if nothing had occurred? Where was Deucalion when he needed him? This was not fair.
Though it may not have been equal to Taengea, the gorgeous kingdom of Athenia still had its fair share of festivals. The latest was not a large one, and did not offer up the same feasts of indulgence as most. It was the kind of festivity of which most would have been unaware were they not a citizen of Athenia, a celebration of peacetime that would likely have been deemed wholly unnecessary if it did not come with a brief opportunity for merrymaking.
There was typically a gladiatorial fight on the bright spring day, as well as a friendly chariot race in which both nobles and not could take part (although, given the cost of the hobby, the lower classes did not tend to participate all that often). Luckily, the Marikas family had never been anything less than affluent, and, as their second son had always been especially keen on riding, such wealth had lent itself well to the hobby. Besides, when the time came for Rafail to begin his military training, the charioteering practice had served him well.
Today, he would be competing in the race, although it seemed a strong word for someone so convinced they would win with little competition. Mama had always ensured Rafail had the best tutors, and the best horses, and the tradition had continued after her death (for every Marikas deserved the finest), and there seemed little doubt that his team would lead him to success. The two horses he had selected for the occasion were large black stallions: tall, sleek and some of the fastest in the family stables, each kitted out in golden tack. The chariot was similarly gold and black, chosen as Marikas colours, and built for the occasion. It appeared delicate from a distance but, in truth, was excessively sturdy, and seemed unlikely to be too significantly damaged in the event of a crash.
Rafail was overflowing with natural confidence - arrogance, really - as he stood by his chariot on the starting line, waiting for Deucalion to finish ensuring his horses were ready, and everything was securely in place. He had set his sights on a pretty redhead in the front of the audience, sauntered across to where she sat, throwing her a bright grin and promising he would win the race with her favour. She had giggled in that way women always did, fluttered her eyelashes delicately, and assured Rafail that she would watch his every turn with immense dedication, and that she was convinced of the skill he claimed. He blew her a final kiss, then returned to mount his chariot as the competition was set to begin.
He was not a substandard racer, and his arrogance was, for once, hardly misguided. As the horn sounded to signal the commencement of the contest, he had set off ahead of most of the others, only a few men seeming to match him. There was one to his left, clearly of no noble standing, judging by his manner of dress, his chariot almost neck-to-neck with Rafail's. The rest of the competition barely mattered compared to the pair of them, as they seemed to press against one another, their chariots grinding against one another. They made it around the first bend without issue, the reins tight in their hands, side glances tossed towards each other in that competitive way they could not resist, despite the dangers it posed to the race.
It was the fifth turn which got them. They had taken the corner too quickly, without enough foresight. Rafail's rival's horse smashed into his own - or the other way around, although he would never accept that possibility - some part of a wheel caught in the one beside it, and they seemed to smash into one another with a force which pushed the Marikas's chariot over, the reins twisting around themselves, both chariots heaved to the ground in a messy entanglement. The horses were hauled backwards, tugged to a halt with a cloud of orange-brown dust. The blonde-haired baron was dragged down with his contraption, but his prime competitor had suffered the same fate, and both men were pulled to the floor, the reins around their waists having bound them dangerously to the chariots.
It was lucky the horses had stopped, else the charioteers might have suffered a worse fate, but, so far as Rafail was concerned, this was tantamount to the greatest tragedy in history. The expensive fabric of his mulberry chiton - trimmed with gold - was torn, the fall had covered him in dirty sand, and there was a large gash - one which would surely and unsettling scar - down the length of his shin, where the force of the accident had caught his lower leg, though he had not felt the pain before he had seen the injury. The nineteen-year-old could not help but scream as he reached to clutch the bleeding slash, now utterly uninterested in who ended up the victor of this race. Papa would hear about this. The King would hear about this. He was a Marikas, and he had been sabotaged, and no one was helping him, and there was a pile of horse dung mere feet from him, and his leg was in searing pain. Why was he still sitting here? Why was the race continuing as if nothing had occurred? Where was Deucalion when he needed him? This was not fair.
Lesley, quite in defiance of his status as a gladiator-slave, had better than a front-row seat; he was perched on the rail itself, right next to the huge gate by which the horses entered and left the track. He was unarmed, and dressed as neatly and simply as any of the other grooms, though he wasn't exactly that, either. But he knew horses, knew how to stay out of the grooms' way, and he wasn't liable to try escaping - he might be furious at his owner, at the moment (along with the entirety of the upper classes, because he'd never had a terribly good sense of proportion) but he wasn't going to screw his entire life over just because some ass was already trying to do it for him. He'd easily won his fight this morning, neatly and tidily with plenty of showmanship and not even a little bit of maiming, as befitted today's festival, and had claimed the opportunity to watch the races as his reward. Leaning back against the tall gate-post with the summer sun on his face, he was prepared for quite a pleasant afternoon.
He watched as the crowed cheered, as the two chariots in the lead quite literally jostled for position. He yelled encouragement once or twice, as they passed nearby, but as he didn't care who won - it wasn't like he had money riding on it, nor was he friends with anyone rich enough to own horses. He had been, once, maybe. Hard to tell, looking back on an awkward childhood through an adult's cynical eyes, whether the Marikas heir had seen him as a friend, or as a servant he was on friendly terms with, or something else. The younger brother currently at the reins of the ostentatious chariot, however, had been far too young to be friends-ish with. Maybe Rafael had grown up since; military service tended to undo much of a mother's spoiled indulgence, but Lesley simply didn't care enough to even be curious.
"Ha!" The crash was hardly shocking - if anything, he'd started to wonder if the charioteers were putting on a similar mostly serious yet very deliberately nonfatal show as the gladiators had earlier - but these were free men, with their own wagers on the line, and far more pride as well. For a moment, Lesley simply grinned at the sight of the relatively minor mayhem, but then one of the horses screamed as another lashed out trying to get free of the wreckage, and he was off the rail and sprinting towards them before he was finished swearing.
For anyone else, darting onto an active racetrack might have been a sign of a death wish, and certainly Lesley had never feared death, but he knew, without any need to actually think about it, exactly how fast the other teams were coming around the corner and exactly how much space they were likely to give the downed teams, and exactly how fast he needed to move.
"Easy. Woah, easy, easy." For a very brief moment, he wish he had a sharp knife with him, but adrenaline had always shocked his mind into thinking more clearly, and even with the harnesses twisted and the horses panicking, he knew what he was doing. Bridles came off the thrashing horses first, with no concern that it would make them uncontrollable. The faster he relieved at least some of their pain, the faster, hopefully, they would calm down and stop... trying to kick him in the head? "Really boyo? Settle the fuck down, I'm trying to help. Woah." The poorer man's kit was simpler and easier to get loose, and soon that pair were free, and bolted off to finish the race unencumbered, trailing leather traces behind them. "Aha." With only half as many thrashing hooves to contend with, Lesley found where the buckle he was looking for was hiding under some useless fancy golden trapping or other. One of Rafael's horses kicked him in the chest and broke the last piece of leather tying him to the busted chariot, while the other screamed in pain and failed, again, to get to his feet.
"Fuck." Hopefully that wasn't a cracked rib, he reflected, as he quickly scrambled back to his own feet and out of the way of another team coming around the corner. At least the horse hadn't been trying to kill him, just get free of whatever had been tangling him up, and he'd been too close and at the wrong angle to be able to wind up with the full power of his huge hindquarters. It still hurt like blazes.
The horse who'd gone down under the hooves of the other team wasn't going to get up again, and Lesley wished he had a knife for another reason. "Sorry, boy." Well, actually... That leg might not be broken, just torn up and bleeding. "All right, let's see what we can do for you." If he could help him up onto his feet - even if only just three of them - he had a much better chance of surviving, same as the need to keep a badly injured man conscious.
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This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
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Lesley, quite in defiance of his status as a gladiator-slave, had better than a front-row seat; he was perched on the rail itself, right next to the huge gate by which the horses entered and left the track. He was unarmed, and dressed as neatly and simply as any of the other grooms, though he wasn't exactly that, either. But he knew horses, knew how to stay out of the grooms' way, and he wasn't liable to try escaping - he might be furious at his owner, at the moment (along with the entirety of the upper classes, because he'd never had a terribly good sense of proportion) but he wasn't going to screw his entire life over just because some ass was already trying to do it for him. He'd easily won his fight this morning, neatly and tidily with plenty of showmanship and not even a little bit of maiming, as befitted today's festival, and had claimed the opportunity to watch the races as his reward. Leaning back against the tall gate-post with the summer sun on his face, he was prepared for quite a pleasant afternoon.
He watched as the crowed cheered, as the two chariots in the lead quite literally jostled for position. He yelled encouragement once or twice, as they passed nearby, but as he didn't care who won - it wasn't like he had money riding on it, nor was he friends with anyone rich enough to own horses. He had been, once, maybe. Hard to tell, looking back on an awkward childhood through an adult's cynical eyes, whether the Marikas heir had seen him as a friend, or as a servant he was on friendly terms with, or something else. The younger brother currently at the reins of the ostentatious chariot, however, had been far too young to be friends-ish with. Maybe Rafael had grown up since; military service tended to undo much of a mother's spoiled indulgence, but Lesley simply didn't care enough to even be curious.
"Ha!" The crash was hardly shocking - if anything, he'd started to wonder if the charioteers were putting on a similar mostly serious yet very deliberately nonfatal show as the gladiators had earlier - but these were free men, with their own wagers on the line, and far more pride as well. For a moment, Lesley simply grinned at the sight of the relatively minor mayhem, but then one of the horses screamed as another lashed out trying to get free of the wreckage, and he was off the rail and sprinting towards them before he was finished swearing.
For anyone else, darting onto an active racetrack might have been a sign of a death wish, and certainly Lesley had never feared death, but he knew, without any need to actually think about it, exactly how fast the other teams were coming around the corner and exactly how much space they were likely to give the downed teams, and exactly how fast he needed to move.
"Easy. Woah, easy, easy." For a very brief moment, he wish he had a sharp knife with him, but adrenaline had always shocked his mind into thinking more clearly, and even with the harnesses twisted and the horses panicking, he knew what he was doing. Bridles came off the thrashing horses first, with no concern that it would make them uncontrollable. The faster he relieved at least some of their pain, the faster, hopefully, they would calm down and stop... trying to kick him in the head? "Really boyo? Settle the fuck down, I'm trying to help. Woah." The poorer man's kit was simpler and easier to get loose, and soon that pair were free, and bolted off to finish the race unencumbered, trailing leather traces behind them. "Aha." With only half as many thrashing hooves to contend with, Lesley found where the buckle he was looking for was hiding under some useless fancy golden trapping or other. One of Rafael's horses kicked him in the chest and broke the last piece of leather tying him to the busted chariot, while the other screamed in pain and failed, again, to get to his feet.
"Fuck." Hopefully that wasn't a cracked rib, he reflected, as he quickly scrambled back to his own feet and out of the way of another team coming around the corner. At least the horse hadn't been trying to kill him, just get free of whatever had been tangling him up, and he'd been too close and at the wrong angle to be able to wind up with the full power of his huge hindquarters. It still hurt like blazes.
The horse who'd gone down under the hooves of the other team wasn't going to get up again, and Lesley wished he had a knife for another reason. "Sorry, boy." Well, actually... That leg might not be broken, just torn up and bleeding. "All right, let's see what we can do for you." If he could help him up onto his feet - even if only just three of them - he had a much better chance of surviving, same as the need to keep a badly injured man conscious.
Lesley, quite in defiance of his status as a gladiator-slave, had better than a front-row seat; he was perched on the rail itself, right next to the huge gate by which the horses entered and left the track. He was unarmed, and dressed as neatly and simply as any of the other grooms, though he wasn't exactly that, either. But he knew horses, knew how to stay out of the grooms' way, and he wasn't liable to try escaping - he might be furious at his owner, at the moment (along with the entirety of the upper classes, because he'd never had a terribly good sense of proportion) but he wasn't going to screw his entire life over just because some ass was already trying to do it for him. He'd easily won his fight this morning, neatly and tidily with plenty of showmanship and not even a little bit of maiming, as befitted today's festival, and had claimed the opportunity to watch the races as his reward. Leaning back against the tall gate-post with the summer sun on his face, he was prepared for quite a pleasant afternoon.
He watched as the crowed cheered, as the two chariots in the lead quite literally jostled for position. He yelled encouragement once or twice, as they passed nearby, but as he didn't care who won - it wasn't like he had money riding on it, nor was he friends with anyone rich enough to own horses. He had been, once, maybe. Hard to tell, looking back on an awkward childhood through an adult's cynical eyes, whether the Marikas heir had seen him as a friend, or as a servant he was on friendly terms with, or something else. The younger brother currently at the reins of the ostentatious chariot, however, had been far too young to be friends-ish with. Maybe Rafael had grown up since; military service tended to undo much of a mother's spoiled indulgence, but Lesley simply didn't care enough to even be curious.
"Ha!" The crash was hardly shocking - if anything, he'd started to wonder if the charioteers were putting on a similar mostly serious yet very deliberately nonfatal show as the gladiators had earlier - but these were free men, with their own wagers on the line, and far more pride as well. For a moment, Lesley simply grinned at the sight of the relatively minor mayhem, but then one of the horses screamed as another lashed out trying to get free of the wreckage, and he was off the rail and sprinting towards them before he was finished swearing.
For anyone else, darting onto an active racetrack might have been a sign of a death wish, and certainly Lesley had never feared death, but he knew, without any need to actually think about it, exactly how fast the other teams were coming around the corner and exactly how much space they were likely to give the downed teams, and exactly how fast he needed to move.
"Easy. Woah, easy, easy." For a very brief moment, he wish he had a sharp knife with him, but adrenaline had always shocked his mind into thinking more clearly, and even with the harnesses twisted and the horses panicking, he knew what he was doing. Bridles came off the thrashing horses first, with no concern that it would make them uncontrollable. The faster he relieved at least some of their pain, the faster, hopefully, they would calm down and stop... trying to kick him in the head? "Really boyo? Settle the fuck down, I'm trying to help. Woah." The poorer man's kit was simpler and easier to get loose, and soon that pair were free, and bolted off to finish the race unencumbered, trailing leather traces behind them. "Aha." With only half as many thrashing hooves to contend with, Lesley found where the buckle he was looking for was hiding under some useless fancy golden trapping or other. One of Rafael's horses kicked him in the chest and broke the last piece of leather tying him to the busted chariot, while the other screamed in pain and failed, again, to get to his feet.
"Fuck." Hopefully that wasn't a cracked rib, he reflected, as he quickly scrambled back to his own feet and out of the way of another team coming around the corner. At least the horse hadn't been trying to kill him, just get free of whatever had been tangling him up, and he'd been too close and at the wrong angle to be able to wind up with the full power of his huge hindquarters. It still hurt like blazes.
The horse who'd gone down under the hooves of the other team wasn't going to get up again, and Lesley wished he had a knife for another reason. "Sorry, boy." Well, actually... That leg might not be broken, just torn up and bleeding. "All right, let's see what we can do for you." If he could help him up onto his feet - even if only just three of them - he had a much better chance of surviving, same as the need to keep a badly injured man conscious.
Rafail had been lying on this dirty ground for more than a minute, and yet none had the common courtesy to help him, a royal lord. His hands scrambled to undo the reins tied protectively around his waist, the leather too tight and feeling as if it cut into his skin where his chiton was torn. He was uncomfortable, miserable, and a steady trickle of blood was dripping from the cut on his leg. He could feel his eyes welling up with bitter tears in a blend of pain and humiliation, and a part of him was glad that Papa was not present, that the Marikas patriarch could not see his failures and fears.
Someone had approached, and seemed to be concentrating on the injured horses rather than him. It was a long moment before his vision came back into focus, and he blinked away those tears which had already dribbled down his cheeks to see exactly who had the gall to ignore him at a time like this.
Of course, it had to be that despicable gladiator with whom his brother appeared to get along. That wasn't fair either: that Pavlos could have some friend - however poverty-struck - with which he could spend his entire childhood, and Rafail should be stuck alone with nothing more than whichever nursemaid had been made to tend to him that day, or those few noble children that ended up being tossed beside solely because they were of similar age or social ranking. He pouted, pursing his lips together in frustration, waving a hand towards Lesley, snapping his fingers in an attempt to obtain the other man's attention.
"I am dying!" he announced, gesturing towards the injury which, although painful, was not as severe as it appeared. "Leave the horses, or I will tell Papa that you left me here to die in the dirt with the peasants. Help me!" What did the horses even matter? They were hardly Rafail's favourites, and he had plenty of others anyhow, and if its leg was as fucked as its actions implied, saving it now did not seem as if it would do much good in the future. They would likely have to put down that horse and leave it at that. Working so hard to save the stallion was nothing more than a waste of time.
If Mama had been around, she wouldn't have allowed this. She would have made sure that, if anything had happened during the race, there would have been a physician on hand already, then she would have taken him home, and he would have had a nice hot bath, and there would have been a new chariot waiting for him by the stables by the time he was done. Instead, no one was paying him any attention, and he could see the rest of the charioteers were still rushing onwards, worryingly close to turning another corner and crashing into him. Was there even anybody who could tend to his wounds?
Heaving himself up from his half-reclined position, burying a hand awkwardly in the dirt and trying to ignore the way it felt rough and filthy on his fingers, he attempted to stand, but the movement only made his leg burn, and another stray tear escaped him. With no idea what else to do, he reached his arms out towards Lesley, like some child calling out to their mother, the action feeling as pathetic as he imagined it looked. "I need help," he repeated, a little louder, assuming the lack of aid provided so far was due to inexplicably not being noticed rather than disinterest. His temporary rival too seemed somehow injured, but his welfare did not bother Rafail anywhere near as much. He was secondary, and highly unimportant. "I cannot walk. You will have to carry me. And be careful with my chiton."
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Rafail had been lying on this dirty ground for more than a minute, and yet none had the common courtesy to help him, a royal lord. His hands scrambled to undo the reins tied protectively around his waist, the leather too tight and feeling as if it cut into his skin where his chiton was torn. He was uncomfortable, miserable, and a steady trickle of blood was dripping from the cut on his leg. He could feel his eyes welling up with bitter tears in a blend of pain and humiliation, and a part of him was glad that Papa was not present, that the Marikas patriarch could not see his failures and fears.
Someone had approached, and seemed to be concentrating on the injured horses rather than him. It was a long moment before his vision came back into focus, and he blinked away those tears which had already dribbled down his cheeks to see exactly who had the gall to ignore him at a time like this.
Of course, it had to be that despicable gladiator with whom his brother appeared to get along. That wasn't fair either: that Pavlos could have some friend - however poverty-struck - with which he could spend his entire childhood, and Rafail should be stuck alone with nothing more than whichever nursemaid had been made to tend to him that day, or those few noble children that ended up being tossed beside solely because they were of similar age or social ranking. He pouted, pursing his lips together in frustration, waving a hand towards Lesley, snapping his fingers in an attempt to obtain the other man's attention.
"I am dying!" he announced, gesturing towards the injury which, although painful, was not as severe as it appeared. "Leave the horses, or I will tell Papa that you left me here to die in the dirt with the peasants. Help me!" What did the horses even matter? They were hardly Rafail's favourites, and he had plenty of others anyhow, and if its leg was as fucked as its actions implied, saving it now did not seem as if it would do much good in the future. They would likely have to put down that horse and leave it at that. Working so hard to save the stallion was nothing more than a waste of time.
If Mama had been around, she wouldn't have allowed this. She would have made sure that, if anything had happened during the race, there would have been a physician on hand already, then she would have taken him home, and he would have had a nice hot bath, and there would have been a new chariot waiting for him by the stables by the time he was done. Instead, no one was paying him any attention, and he could see the rest of the charioteers were still rushing onwards, worryingly close to turning another corner and crashing into him. Was there even anybody who could tend to his wounds?
Heaving himself up from his half-reclined position, burying a hand awkwardly in the dirt and trying to ignore the way it felt rough and filthy on his fingers, he attempted to stand, but the movement only made his leg burn, and another stray tear escaped him. With no idea what else to do, he reached his arms out towards Lesley, like some child calling out to their mother, the action feeling as pathetic as he imagined it looked. "I need help," he repeated, a little louder, assuming the lack of aid provided so far was due to inexplicably not being noticed rather than disinterest. His temporary rival too seemed somehow injured, but his welfare did not bother Rafail anywhere near as much. He was secondary, and highly unimportant. "I cannot walk. You will have to carry me. And be careful with my chiton."
Rafail had been lying on this dirty ground for more than a minute, and yet none had the common courtesy to help him, a royal lord. His hands scrambled to undo the reins tied protectively around his waist, the leather too tight and feeling as if it cut into his skin where his chiton was torn. He was uncomfortable, miserable, and a steady trickle of blood was dripping from the cut on his leg. He could feel his eyes welling up with bitter tears in a blend of pain and humiliation, and a part of him was glad that Papa was not present, that the Marikas patriarch could not see his failures and fears.
Someone had approached, and seemed to be concentrating on the injured horses rather than him. It was a long moment before his vision came back into focus, and he blinked away those tears which had already dribbled down his cheeks to see exactly who had the gall to ignore him at a time like this.
Of course, it had to be that despicable gladiator with whom his brother appeared to get along. That wasn't fair either: that Pavlos could have some friend - however poverty-struck - with which he could spend his entire childhood, and Rafail should be stuck alone with nothing more than whichever nursemaid had been made to tend to him that day, or those few noble children that ended up being tossed beside solely because they were of similar age or social ranking. He pouted, pursing his lips together in frustration, waving a hand towards Lesley, snapping his fingers in an attempt to obtain the other man's attention.
"I am dying!" he announced, gesturing towards the injury which, although painful, was not as severe as it appeared. "Leave the horses, or I will tell Papa that you left me here to die in the dirt with the peasants. Help me!" What did the horses even matter? They were hardly Rafail's favourites, and he had plenty of others anyhow, and if its leg was as fucked as its actions implied, saving it now did not seem as if it would do much good in the future. They would likely have to put down that horse and leave it at that. Working so hard to save the stallion was nothing more than a waste of time.
If Mama had been around, she wouldn't have allowed this. She would have made sure that, if anything had happened during the race, there would have been a physician on hand already, then she would have taken him home, and he would have had a nice hot bath, and there would have been a new chariot waiting for him by the stables by the time he was done. Instead, no one was paying him any attention, and he could see the rest of the charioteers were still rushing onwards, worryingly close to turning another corner and crashing into him. Was there even anybody who could tend to his wounds?
Heaving himself up from his half-reclined position, burying a hand awkwardly in the dirt and trying to ignore the way it felt rough and filthy on his fingers, he attempted to stand, but the movement only made his leg burn, and another stray tear escaped him. With no idea what else to do, he reached his arms out towards Lesley, like some child calling out to their mother, the action feeling as pathetic as he imagined it looked. "I need help," he repeated, a little louder, assuming the lack of aid provided so far was due to inexplicably not being noticed rather than disinterest. His temporary rival too seemed somehow injured, but his welfare did not bother Rafail anywhere near as much. He was secondary, and highly unimportant. "I cannot walk. You will have to carry me. And be careful with my chiton."
"Better men than you have died on these sands," Lesley informed Lord Rafael uncaringly, still focused on the injured horse. "If you're going to do the same, do try to do it without whining about it." The stallion finally hauled itself to it's feet with a pained grunt, and Lesley stroked it's neck soothingly. "Good boy. Shhhh, good boy."
The horse's eyes still showed white, it's nostrils flared and dripping pink foam, but as soon as the horse stood up, one of the worried horse boys got up enough courage to make the same sprint across the sand as Lesley had. He gave the horse's leg a worried look, then the two downed charioteers, one of whom was being a demanding twit, and the other of whom was either unconscious or dead, unmoving and still half-under the wreckage. Rafael's better-quality chariot had saved him from a similar fate - it had simply lost a wheel and flipped, rather than catching his feet in splintered wood and slamming him hard into the ground.
"I'll deal with them," Lesley assured the young teen. "Your job is the horses, so just focus on that, eh?" At the nod, he added, "I'm not actually sure how bad that leg is. Not about to try feeling for a break when this boy doesn't even know me." He chuckled quietly as he turned away. "I've got better ways to die."
The boy walked off gratefully with the horse, the stallion hobbling horribly on three legs, staying as close as possible to the inner rail. The race would easily be over by the time they got to the other end, so there was no sense staying at this corner.
The gladiator stepped carefully through the wreckage, and stopped looking down at the baby of the Marikas family with a faintly disapproving look. "I might have lost count of years," he commented, folding his arms across his chest, "But aren't you a military man by now?" With a sigh and a shake of his head he turned and crouched to check on the unconscious man. "I don't have a knife, Lord Rafael. You'll have to cut a strip from your chiton yourself to bind that up." Then he shrugged. "Or if it's not as bad as it looks, bleeding keeps a wound clean at least. Up to you."
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"Better men than you have died on these sands," Lesley informed Lord Rafael uncaringly, still focused on the injured horse. "If you're going to do the same, do try to do it without whining about it." The stallion finally hauled itself to it's feet with a pained grunt, and Lesley stroked it's neck soothingly. "Good boy. Shhhh, good boy."
The horse's eyes still showed white, it's nostrils flared and dripping pink foam, but as soon as the horse stood up, one of the worried horse boys got up enough courage to make the same sprint across the sand as Lesley had. He gave the horse's leg a worried look, then the two downed charioteers, one of whom was being a demanding twit, and the other of whom was either unconscious or dead, unmoving and still half-under the wreckage. Rafael's better-quality chariot had saved him from a similar fate - it had simply lost a wheel and flipped, rather than catching his feet in splintered wood and slamming him hard into the ground.
"I'll deal with them," Lesley assured the young teen. "Your job is the horses, so just focus on that, eh?" At the nod, he added, "I'm not actually sure how bad that leg is. Not about to try feeling for a break when this boy doesn't even know me." He chuckled quietly as he turned away. "I've got better ways to die."
The boy walked off gratefully with the horse, the stallion hobbling horribly on three legs, staying as close as possible to the inner rail. The race would easily be over by the time they got to the other end, so there was no sense staying at this corner.
The gladiator stepped carefully through the wreckage, and stopped looking down at the baby of the Marikas family with a faintly disapproving look. "I might have lost count of years," he commented, folding his arms across his chest, "But aren't you a military man by now?" With a sigh and a shake of his head he turned and crouched to check on the unconscious man. "I don't have a knife, Lord Rafael. You'll have to cut a strip from your chiton yourself to bind that up." Then he shrugged. "Or if it's not as bad as it looks, bleeding keeps a wound clean at least. Up to you."
"Better men than you have died on these sands," Lesley informed Lord Rafael uncaringly, still focused on the injured horse. "If you're going to do the same, do try to do it without whining about it." The stallion finally hauled itself to it's feet with a pained grunt, and Lesley stroked it's neck soothingly. "Good boy. Shhhh, good boy."
The horse's eyes still showed white, it's nostrils flared and dripping pink foam, but as soon as the horse stood up, one of the worried horse boys got up enough courage to make the same sprint across the sand as Lesley had. He gave the horse's leg a worried look, then the two downed charioteers, one of whom was being a demanding twit, and the other of whom was either unconscious or dead, unmoving and still half-under the wreckage. Rafael's better-quality chariot had saved him from a similar fate - it had simply lost a wheel and flipped, rather than catching his feet in splintered wood and slamming him hard into the ground.
"I'll deal with them," Lesley assured the young teen. "Your job is the horses, so just focus on that, eh?" At the nod, he added, "I'm not actually sure how bad that leg is. Not about to try feeling for a break when this boy doesn't even know me." He chuckled quietly as he turned away. "I've got better ways to die."
The boy walked off gratefully with the horse, the stallion hobbling horribly on three legs, staying as close as possible to the inner rail. The race would easily be over by the time they got to the other end, so there was no sense staying at this corner.
The gladiator stepped carefully through the wreckage, and stopped looking down at the baby of the Marikas family with a faintly disapproving look. "I might have lost count of years," he commented, folding his arms across his chest, "But aren't you a military man by now?" With a sigh and a shake of his head he turned and crouched to check on the unconscious man. "I don't have a knife, Lord Rafael. You'll have to cut a strip from your chiton yourself to bind that up." Then he shrugged. "Or if it's not as bad as it looks, bleeding keeps a wound clean at least. Up to you."
Every word of Lesley's was insulting, and insubordinate, and Rafail could not understand how his brother had gone so long with such a man who refused to behave as he should. Perhaps it was due to the undeserved privileges which had been offered to the peasant boy by allowing him to grow up undisturbed in the Marikas household, that he had grown into such a despicable example of a slave. Rafail's staff had never been so outstandingly badly-behaved, and he credited that to their far superior training.
'Deal with them', Lesley was saying, and yet he was doing nothing of the kind. He was still fussing about the horses, chatting with some stableboy that did not deserve the attention, and acting as if the Marikas was not yet worth his attention. He pouted again, crossing his arms as if in refusal to do anything lest he had the help he requested, watching the way his stallion was led away, for some reason receiving superior medical care to him.
"Papa says I have to fight," he replied, unsure exactly how any of this was relevant, but agreeing to speak solely because it momentarily drew his mind away from the pain of his leg. "Pavlos leads my unit - though once I am done with my training, I shall head my Thesnian unit - but Papa said I can be a charioteer because I'm the best in Athenia." The latter part of the second statement was not entirely truthful, for Father had acknowledged his existant skills but not gone further in his words, and the man would certainly never claim that his son was the most celebrated charioteer in the kingdom. "I loathe it, but at least my status allows me some necessary comforts of life: my retinue, frequent baths, private chambers, wine, massages, finer food and, mm, all the women I need." The only reassurances Rafail held whenever he was forced to spend his days in endless training drills for which he did not care.
Speaking of necessary comforts, a knife did not factor among them. Rafail owned plenty of swords, but they were kept at home for the most part, and he was typically shadowed by some guard loyal to the family, although his current one seemed to be doing nothing of use now that Lesley had approached, assuming the familiar man had the situation handled. A knife was never a necessity. "No, I told you to help me, and I do not want my chiton ruined. I want to go home and call for the physician. I can ruin you." Rafail moved to try and grab the rail beside him, attempting to heave himself into a more upright position, although he could not put pressure on the one foot without yelping.
"Deucalion!" he shouted to the slave who was still standing uselessly to one side, the lord holding his balance precariously as he waited for the shorter man to approach. "I want my carriage, I want to go home, and I want a bath and a physician when I get there." He couldn't possibly return to his military service in this state either, but he could talk to Papa about that separately. Deucalion nodded at this request, rushing to prepare the carriage as demanded, always obedient even if sometimes slow.
Now that he was in a more upright position, Rafail could take a better look at his clothing, which had been torn almost entirely from the knee to the hem, with the gold trimming uglily unravelling. He reached down, tugging a loose piece of the embroidery, waiting for Lesley to turn and notice him once more. "Papa says that when incidents occur, we need witnesses to prove it, so you have to come with me and explain everything that happened, and how he," he pointed a delicate finger towards the other charioteer, who was stuck unconscious, "sabotaged me. I am a Marikas, I have the best horses, and I have the best chariot, and I have the most skill. This crash is unfathomable, and I want him to pay for it." No man would humiliate a Marikas and be permitted to get away with it, and certainly not when that Marikas was the most undeserving and yet entitled of the set. "Now, help me to my carriage before I tell whichever unfortunate soul currently controls you just how little you care for my wellbeing, and I tell Papa that you have treated me like some common filth when he was so kind to offer you a place in our home. Oh, and, I wanted that redheaded girl in my bed tonight, so if you wouldn't mind calling her over, mm, I might offer you some additional compensation. You do need it, don't you?"
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Every word of Lesley's was insulting, and insubordinate, and Rafail could not understand how his brother had gone so long with such a man who refused to behave as he should. Perhaps it was due to the undeserved privileges which had been offered to the peasant boy by allowing him to grow up undisturbed in the Marikas household, that he had grown into such a despicable example of a slave. Rafail's staff had never been so outstandingly badly-behaved, and he credited that to their far superior training.
'Deal with them', Lesley was saying, and yet he was doing nothing of the kind. He was still fussing about the horses, chatting with some stableboy that did not deserve the attention, and acting as if the Marikas was not yet worth his attention. He pouted again, crossing his arms as if in refusal to do anything lest he had the help he requested, watching the way his stallion was led away, for some reason receiving superior medical care to him.
"Papa says I have to fight," he replied, unsure exactly how any of this was relevant, but agreeing to speak solely because it momentarily drew his mind away from the pain of his leg. "Pavlos leads my unit - though once I am done with my training, I shall head my Thesnian unit - but Papa said I can be a charioteer because I'm the best in Athenia." The latter part of the second statement was not entirely truthful, for Father had acknowledged his existant skills but not gone further in his words, and the man would certainly never claim that his son was the most celebrated charioteer in the kingdom. "I loathe it, but at least my status allows me some necessary comforts of life: my retinue, frequent baths, private chambers, wine, massages, finer food and, mm, all the women I need." The only reassurances Rafail held whenever he was forced to spend his days in endless training drills for which he did not care.
Speaking of necessary comforts, a knife did not factor among them. Rafail owned plenty of swords, but they were kept at home for the most part, and he was typically shadowed by some guard loyal to the family, although his current one seemed to be doing nothing of use now that Lesley had approached, assuming the familiar man had the situation handled. A knife was never a necessity. "No, I told you to help me, and I do not want my chiton ruined. I want to go home and call for the physician. I can ruin you." Rafail moved to try and grab the rail beside him, attempting to heave himself into a more upright position, although he could not put pressure on the one foot without yelping.
"Deucalion!" he shouted to the slave who was still standing uselessly to one side, the lord holding his balance precariously as he waited for the shorter man to approach. "I want my carriage, I want to go home, and I want a bath and a physician when I get there." He couldn't possibly return to his military service in this state either, but he could talk to Papa about that separately. Deucalion nodded at this request, rushing to prepare the carriage as demanded, always obedient even if sometimes slow.
Now that he was in a more upright position, Rafail could take a better look at his clothing, which had been torn almost entirely from the knee to the hem, with the gold trimming uglily unravelling. He reached down, tugging a loose piece of the embroidery, waiting for Lesley to turn and notice him once more. "Papa says that when incidents occur, we need witnesses to prove it, so you have to come with me and explain everything that happened, and how he," he pointed a delicate finger towards the other charioteer, who was stuck unconscious, "sabotaged me. I am a Marikas, I have the best horses, and I have the best chariot, and I have the most skill. This crash is unfathomable, and I want him to pay for it." No man would humiliate a Marikas and be permitted to get away with it, and certainly not when that Marikas was the most undeserving and yet entitled of the set. "Now, help me to my carriage before I tell whichever unfortunate soul currently controls you just how little you care for my wellbeing, and I tell Papa that you have treated me like some common filth when he was so kind to offer you a place in our home. Oh, and, I wanted that redheaded girl in my bed tonight, so if you wouldn't mind calling her over, mm, I might offer you some additional compensation. You do need it, don't you?"
Every word of Lesley's was insulting, and insubordinate, and Rafail could not understand how his brother had gone so long with such a man who refused to behave as he should. Perhaps it was due to the undeserved privileges which had been offered to the peasant boy by allowing him to grow up undisturbed in the Marikas household, that he had grown into such a despicable example of a slave. Rafail's staff had never been so outstandingly badly-behaved, and he credited that to their far superior training.
'Deal with them', Lesley was saying, and yet he was doing nothing of the kind. He was still fussing about the horses, chatting with some stableboy that did not deserve the attention, and acting as if the Marikas was not yet worth his attention. He pouted again, crossing his arms as if in refusal to do anything lest he had the help he requested, watching the way his stallion was led away, for some reason receiving superior medical care to him.
"Papa says I have to fight," he replied, unsure exactly how any of this was relevant, but agreeing to speak solely because it momentarily drew his mind away from the pain of his leg. "Pavlos leads my unit - though once I am done with my training, I shall head my Thesnian unit - but Papa said I can be a charioteer because I'm the best in Athenia." The latter part of the second statement was not entirely truthful, for Father had acknowledged his existant skills but not gone further in his words, and the man would certainly never claim that his son was the most celebrated charioteer in the kingdom. "I loathe it, but at least my status allows me some necessary comforts of life: my retinue, frequent baths, private chambers, wine, massages, finer food and, mm, all the women I need." The only reassurances Rafail held whenever he was forced to spend his days in endless training drills for which he did not care.
Speaking of necessary comforts, a knife did not factor among them. Rafail owned plenty of swords, but they were kept at home for the most part, and he was typically shadowed by some guard loyal to the family, although his current one seemed to be doing nothing of use now that Lesley had approached, assuming the familiar man had the situation handled. A knife was never a necessity. "No, I told you to help me, and I do not want my chiton ruined. I want to go home and call for the physician. I can ruin you." Rafail moved to try and grab the rail beside him, attempting to heave himself into a more upright position, although he could not put pressure on the one foot without yelping.
"Deucalion!" he shouted to the slave who was still standing uselessly to one side, the lord holding his balance precariously as he waited for the shorter man to approach. "I want my carriage, I want to go home, and I want a bath and a physician when I get there." He couldn't possibly return to his military service in this state either, but he could talk to Papa about that separately. Deucalion nodded at this request, rushing to prepare the carriage as demanded, always obedient even if sometimes slow.
Now that he was in a more upright position, Rafail could take a better look at his clothing, which had been torn almost entirely from the knee to the hem, with the gold trimming uglily unravelling. He reached down, tugging a loose piece of the embroidery, waiting for Lesley to turn and notice him once more. "Papa says that when incidents occur, we need witnesses to prove it, so you have to come with me and explain everything that happened, and how he," he pointed a delicate finger towards the other charioteer, who was stuck unconscious, "sabotaged me. I am a Marikas, I have the best horses, and I have the best chariot, and I have the most skill. This crash is unfathomable, and I want him to pay for it." No man would humiliate a Marikas and be permitted to get away with it, and certainly not when that Marikas was the most undeserving and yet entitled of the set. "Now, help me to my carriage before I tell whichever unfortunate soul currently controls you just how little you care for my wellbeing, and I tell Papa that you have treated me like some common filth when he was so kind to offer you a place in our home. Oh, and, I wanted that redheaded girl in my bed tonight, so if you wouldn't mind calling her over, mm, I might offer you some additional compensation. You do need it, don't you?"
The fellow on the ground was still breathing, and not bleeding to death that Lesley could see, though he was well aware that purely internal injuries could easily kill a man. This one had been cognizant of the potential need to cut himself free of the reins, and had a knife at his belt. On the other hand, the tear in Rafael's chiton seemed already enough to be easy enough to tear a a goodly strip off, and if he admitted he'd found a knife, the man would probably insist he use fabric from his own tunic. It was sheer stubbornness that made that an unwelcome proposition rather than modesty, but Lesley had more than enough stubbornness for ten men.
He sighed, and looked up at the annoying noble from where he sat on his haunches with his forearms resting neatly on his knees. "My lord Rafael," he informed the man calmly when it appeared he was done ranting. "If you have never been in a crash before I can only assume it is because you have never been in the lead before. It is one of the risks of the game. If you wish others to simply let you win, perhaps you should stay home and play checkers with your nursemaids."
He sighed again, and reminded himself that the spoiled twat was ten years younger, and had possibly hit his head, and was likely in shock.
"Yes, I'll speak with your father," he agreed, "and yes, I may as well help you out to your carriage. You will need to speak to the arena master, to get permission for me to leave. I really do recommend that wound be bound up immediately, and your chiton is already ruined beyond salvaging, my lord. As I said, though, it is entirely your own decision." He stood up with a shrug. "Do you still think you need to be carried out like a child, or are you well enough to hobble?"
Once Raf had made his decision on both counts, Lesley added as he reached out to help him, "Oh, and my lord, I'm a slave bound to the arena, and the best fighters in Athenia do their utmost to kill me at least every other week. Please don't embarrass yourself trying to threaten me."
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The fellow on the ground was still breathing, and not bleeding to death that Lesley could see, though he was well aware that purely internal injuries could easily kill a man. This one had been cognizant of the potential need to cut himself free of the reins, and had a knife at his belt. On the other hand, the tear in Rafael's chiton seemed already enough to be easy enough to tear a a goodly strip off, and if he admitted he'd found a knife, the man would probably insist he use fabric from his own tunic. It was sheer stubbornness that made that an unwelcome proposition rather than modesty, but Lesley had more than enough stubbornness for ten men.
He sighed, and looked up at the annoying noble from where he sat on his haunches with his forearms resting neatly on his knees. "My lord Rafael," he informed the man calmly when it appeared he was done ranting. "If you have never been in a crash before I can only assume it is because you have never been in the lead before. It is one of the risks of the game. If you wish others to simply let you win, perhaps you should stay home and play checkers with your nursemaids."
He sighed again, and reminded himself that the spoiled twat was ten years younger, and had possibly hit his head, and was likely in shock.
"Yes, I'll speak with your father," he agreed, "and yes, I may as well help you out to your carriage. You will need to speak to the arena master, to get permission for me to leave. I really do recommend that wound be bound up immediately, and your chiton is already ruined beyond salvaging, my lord. As I said, though, it is entirely your own decision." He stood up with a shrug. "Do you still think you need to be carried out like a child, or are you well enough to hobble?"
Once Raf had made his decision on both counts, Lesley added as he reached out to help him, "Oh, and my lord, I'm a slave bound to the arena, and the best fighters in Athenia do their utmost to kill me at least every other week. Please don't embarrass yourself trying to threaten me."
The fellow on the ground was still breathing, and not bleeding to death that Lesley could see, though he was well aware that purely internal injuries could easily kill a man. This one had been cognizant of the potential need to cut himself free of the reins, and had a knife at his belt. On the other hand, the tear in Rafael's chiton seemed already enough to be easy enough to tear a a goodly strip off, and if he admitted he'd found a knife, the man would probably insist he use fabric from his own tunic. It was sheer stubbornness that made that an unwelcome proposition rather than modesty, but Lesley had more than enough stubbornness for ten men.
He sighed, and looked up at the annoying noble from where he sat on his haunches with his forearms resting neatly on his knees. "My lord Rafael," he informed the man calmly when it appeared he was done ranting. "If you have never been in a crash before I can only assume it is because you have never been in the lead before. It is one of the risks of the game. If you wish others to simply let you win, perhaps you should stay home and play checkers with your nursemaids."
He sighed again, and reminded himself that the spoiled twat was ten years younger, and had possibly hit his head, and was likely in shock.
"Yes, I'll speak with your father," he agreed, "and yes, I may as well help you out to your carriage. You will need to speak to the arena master, to get permission for me to leave. I really do recommend that wound be bound up immediately, and your chiton is already ruined beyond salvaging, my lord. As I said, though, it is entirely your own decision." He stood up with a shrug. "Do you still think you need to be carried out like a child, or are you well enough to hobble?"
Once Raf had made his decision on both counts, Lesley added as he reached out to help him, "Oh, and my lord, I'm a slave bound to the arena, and the best fighters in Athenia do their utmost to kill me at least every other week. Please don't embarrass yourself trying to threaten me."
It didn't seem reasonable that one man could possess so much defiance. Rafail, at least, had never met anyone so disagreeable in his life: his youngest cousin, who had quite the impolite mouth on her for a seven-year-old, seemed less insubordinate than this man, and Lesley did not even hold the status to back up such a demeanour. The way he sat there and looked at a lord who was so clearly his superior and in need of aid with such violent disregard for his wellbeing was revolting, and, somehow, even his additional comments could not make matters worse than they already were.
The Marikas twisted his face into an irritated glare, an expression which was more than familiar to him in his two decades of life, staring down the larger man as if daring him to say another word on the subject of his charioteering skill. "How dare you imply that I do not possess sufficient skills to be at the forefront of a race. I have been trained by the best. I do not win by false races, but by pure ability, and my nursemaids' failures at other games are not relevant, because this is not a sport for women."
At least the bothersome slave had decided to come to his senses for a brief moment, for he finally agreed with the Marikas, though he felt the need to comment once more on the man's wound, as if Rafail did not know how bad it was. "I cannot walk," he repeated once again at the query as to whether or not he could hobble, assuming this clearly had not been acknowledged. "I am in far too much pain, and you shall have to carry me. If you so dearly believe yourself a physician, however, then you may fix my wound yourself, but I have no cloth to bind it, and my chiton is too expensive for such a task."
He allowed the man to approach him to help as necessary, resisting the urge to complain that he did not wish to be touched by someone he thought filthy due to their low status. "I do not threaten to kill you. I would not be so stupid. But if I so desired, I could speak with your master, and have you thrown to the lions, or only permitted to work among the weakest of the arena slaves. I can have you destroyed; however I fancy." Rafail smirked, as if satisfied by this warning, though he imagined it would have little effect on Lesley's character. In his youngest years, he had attempted to throw hundreds of threats at the man, though mostly childish complaints about the man's status compared to his own.
The arena master was no issue in the slightest. The man had been watching the race with most spectators, and Rafail needed only to shout towards him, knowing that his status tended to make things easier. Once the matter was sorted, he nodded towards Lesley once more. "Hurry up, then. My carriage is waiting, I am tired, and I want my physician. Papa needs to know what has happened." He crossed his arms, sticking out his lower lip in that petulant manner of his. "And don't tell him any of this nonsense where you believe me untrained. He doesn't care for liars."
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It didn't seem reasonable that one man could possess so much defiance. Rafail, at least, had never met anyone so disagreeable in his life: his youngest cousin, who had quite the impolite mouth on her for a seven-year-old, seemed less insubordinate than this man, and Lesley did not even hold the status to back up such a demeanour. The way he sat there and looked at a lord who was so clearly his superior and in need of aid with such violent disregard for his wellbeing was revolting, and, somehow, even his additional comments could not make matters worse than they already were.
The Marikas twisted his face into an irritated glare, an expression which was more than familiar to him in his two decades of life, staring down the larger man as if daring him to say another word on the subject of his charioteering skill. "How dare you imply that I do not possess sufficient skills to be at the forefront of a race. I have been trained by the best. I do not win by false races, but by pure ability, and my nursemaids' failures at other games are not relevant, because this is not a sport for women."
At least the bothersome slave had decided to come to his senses for a brief moment, for he finally agreed with the Marikas, though he felt the need to comment once more on the man's wound, as if Rafail did not know how bad it was. "I cannot walk," he repeated once again at the query as to whether or not he could hobble, assuming this clearly had not been acknowledged. "I am in far too much pain, and you shall have to carry me. If you so dearly believe yourself a physician, however, then you may fix my wound yourself, but I have no cloth to bind it, and my chiton is too expensive for such a task."
He allowed the man to approach him to help as necessary, resisting the urge to complain that he did not wish to be touched by someone he thought filthy due to their low status. "I do not threaten to kill you. I would not be so stupid. But if I so desired, I could speak with your master, and have you thrown to the lions, or only permitted to work among the weakest of the arena slaves. I can have you destroyed; however I fancy." Rafail smirked, as if satisfied by this warning, though he imagined it would have little effect on Lesley's character. In his youngest years, he had attempted to throw hundreds of threats at the man, though mostly childish complaints about the man's status compared to his own.
The arena master was no issue in the slightest. The man had been watching the race with most spectators, and Rafail needed only to shout towards him, knowing that his status tended to make things easier. Once the matter was sorted, he nodded towards Lesley once more. "Hurry up, then. My carriage is waiting, I am tired, and I want my physician. Papa needs to know what has happened." He crossed his arms, sticking out his lower lip in that petulant manner of his. "And don't tell him any of this nonsense where you believe me untrained. He doesn't care for liars."
It didn't seem reasonable that one man could possess so much defiance. Rafail, at least, had never met anyone so disagreeable in his life: his youngest cousin, who had quite the impolite mouth on her for a seven-year-old, seemed less insubordinate than this man, and Lesley did not even hold the status to back up such a demeanour. The way he sat there and looked at a lord who was so clearly his superior and in need of aid with such violent disregard for his wellbeing was revolting, and, somehow, even his additional comments could not make matters worse than they already were.
The Marikas twisted his face into an irritated glare, an expression which was more than familiar to him in his two decades of life, staring down the larger man as if daring him to say another word on the subject of his charioteering skill. "How dare you imply that I do not possess sufficient skills to be at the forefront of a race. I have been trained by the best. I do not win by false races, but by pure ability, and my nursemaids' failures at other games are not relevant, because this is not a sport for women."
At least the bothersome slave had decided to come to his senses for a brief moment, for he finally agreed with the Marikas, though he felt the need to comment once more on the man's wound, as if Rafail did not know how bad it was. "I cannot walk," he repeated once again at the query as to whether or not he could hobble, assuming this clearly had not been acknowledged. "I am in far too much pain, and you shall have to carry me. If you so dearly believe yourself a physician, however, then you may fix my wound yourself, but I have no cloth to bind it, and my chiton is too expensive for such a task."
He allowed the man to approach him to help as necessary, resisting the urge to complain that he did not wish to be touched by someone he thought filthy due to their low status. "I do not threaten to kill you. I would not be so stupid. But if I so desired, I could speak with your master, and have you thrown to the lions, or only permitted to work among the weakest of the arena slaves. I can have you destroyed; however I fancy." Rafail smirked, as if satisfied by this warning, though he imagined it would have little effect on Lesley's character. In his youngest years, he had attempted to throw hundreds of threats at the man, though mostly childish complaints about the man's status compared to his own.
The arena master was no issue in the slightest. The man had been watching the race with most spectators, and Rafail needed only to shout towards him, knowing that his status tended to make things easier. Once the matter was sorted, he nodded towards Lesley once more. "Hurry up, then. My carriage is waiting, I am tired, and I want my physician. Papa needs to know what has happened." He crossed his arms, sticking out his lower lip in that petulant manner of his. "And don't tell him any of this nonsense where you believe me untrained. He doesn't care for liars."
Lesley just rolled his eyes. "You sure do talk a lot for a boy who still needs to use his father to threaten people with," he commented, still entirely unintimidated. "Have it your way, my lord."
He abruptly scooped the Marikas lordling into his arms, with absolutely no attempt to be gentle and even less care for how much of Rafael's blood got smeared onto either of them. Lesley was wearing linen, and a cold rinse before it dried and then a good scrub with lye soap would have the stain completely out and the dye only a little faded. Walking out of the arena he showed no sign that the weight of the taller man was any bother at all. Rafael could behave like a petulant child all he liked; it was obvious to anyone that Lesley would have no more difficulty managing him than a mother abruptly needing to leave a gathering with a squalling toddler.
"The other one's alive but out cold. Alekos can handle him; my lord wants to be attended by his own physician," Lesley added to Rafael's demand to have the gladiator take him home as they passed his owner. The arena master just shrugged and waved them off, then began shouting orders to the other slaves once they were past. Alive or dead made little difference, the track needed to be cleared for the next event.
The carriage in Marikas black and gold was easy enough to spot, and the gladiator set him in it with no obvious attempt to be harsh, but clearly with no skill at being gentle. Then he swung himself up beside the shocked driver. "Bit of a smash-up today," was his curt explanation. "My lord Rafael has insisted I come speak with his father."
Why on earth had he decided to be such an impulsive idiot?
He wondered if Rafael would get a scar out of it. Pity it hadn't been his face, that might have actually made him look a bit dashing. Not that a prissy boy like that was ever likely to appreciate it. Ah, he probably shouldn't be daydreaming about what the man would look like with a facial scar, he'd just get tempted to give him one.
After a few minutes of winding their way through the streets, he turned to glance back at the injured nobleman. If the idiot wanted to insist on having his priorities messed up, then Lesley didn't really care, but if he was starting to look glazed over, he'd probably do something. Probably.
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Lesley just rolled his eyes. "You sure do talk a lot for a boy who still needs to use his father to threaten people with," he commented, still entirely unintimidated. "Have it your way, my lord."
He abruptly scooped the Marikas lordling into his arms, with absolutely no attempt to be gentle and even less care for how much of Rafael's blood got smeared onto either of them. Lesley was wearing linen, and a cold rinse before it dried and then a good scrub with lye soap would have the stain completely out and the dye only a little faded. Walking out of the arena he showed no sign that the weight of the taller man was any bother at all. Rafael could behave like a petulant child all he liked; it was obvious to anyone that Lesley would have no more difficulty managing him than a mother abruptly needing to leave a gathering with a squalling toddler.
"The other one's alive but out cold. Alekos can handle him; my lord wants to be attended by his own physician," Lesley added to Rafael's demand to have the gladiator take him home as they passed his owner. The arena master just shrugged and waved them off, then began shouting orders to the other slaves once they were past. Alive or dead made little difference, the track needed to be cleared for the next event.
The carriage in Marikas black and gold was easy enough to spot, and the gladiator set him in it with no obvious attempt to be harsh, but clearly with no skill at being gentle. Then he swung himself up beside the shocked driver. "Bit of a smash-up today," was his curt explanation. "My lord Rafael has insisted I come speak with his father."
Why on earth had he decided to be such an impulsive idiot?
He wondered if Rafael would get a scar out of it. Pity it hadn't been his face, that might have actually made him look a bit dashing. Not that a prissy boy like that was ever likely to appreciate it. Ah, he probably shouldn't be daydreaming about what the man would look like with a facial scar, he'd just get tempted to give him one.
After a few minutes of winding their way through the streets, he turned to glance back at the injured nobleman. If the idiot wanted to insist on having his priorities messed up, then Lesley didn't really care, but if he was starting to look glazed over, he'd probably do something. Probably.
Lesley just rolled his eyes. "You sure do talk a lot for a boy who still needs to use his father to threaten people with," he commented, still entirely unintimidated. "Have it your way, my lord."
He abruptly scooped the Marikas lordling into his arms, with absolutely no attempt to be gentle and even less care for how much of Rafael's blood got smeared onto either of them. Lesley was wearing linen, and a cold rinse before it dried and then a good scrub with lye soap would have the stain completely out and the dye only a little faded. Walking out of the arena he showed no sign that the weight of the taller man was any bother at all. Rafael could behave like a petulant child all he liked; it was obvious to anyone that Lesley would have no more difficulty managing him than a mother abruptly needing to leave a gathering with a squalling toddler.
"The other one's alive but out cold. Alekos can handle him; my lord wants to be attended by his own physician," Lesley added to Rafael's demand to have the gladiator take him home as they passed his owner. The arena master just shrugged and waved them off, then began shouting orders to the other slaves once they were past. Alive or dead made little difference, the track needed to be cleared for the next event.
The carriage in Marikas black and gold was easy enough to spot, and the gladiator set him in it with no obvious attempt to be harsh, but clearly with no skill at being gentle. Then he swung himself up beside the shocked driver. "Bit of a smash-up today," was his curt explanation. "My lord Rafael has insisted I come speak with his father."
Why on earth had he decided to be such an impulsive idiot?
He wondered if Rafael would get a scar out of it. Pity it hadn't been his face, that might have actually made him look a bit dashing. Not that a prissy boy like that was ever likely to appreciate it. Ah, he probably shouldn't be daydreaming about what the man would look like with a facial scar, he'd just get tempted to give him one.
After a few minutes of winding their way through the streets, he turned to glance back at the injured nobleman. If the idiot wanted to insist on having his priorities messed up, then Lesley didn't really care, but if he was starting to look glazed over, he'd probably do something. Probably.
Lesley was far from gentle. Rafail imagined the man had never been trained to handle someone of such high status, and that the time he'd spent in the Marikas household had gone entirely to waste. When he became the patriarch of the family, he would most certainly not be allowing random slaves to spend their lives in his home, as if they were worth as much as the royal lords and ladies which otherwise inhabited the estate.
Still, he did not make a sound of complaint outside of a few humphs of disapproval, and the typical whine of someone who had been profoundly and painfully injured. He could endure some further insolence from Lesley if he had the reassurance that Papa would handle the man once they returned home, and it was not until he had been deposited back in the carriage, stretching out his cut leg with a grimace, that he spoke again, first directing his words towards the driver. "I am injured, and I have lost the capacity for patience." This latter statement was perhaps untrue, for Rafail had been raised with very little tolerance for waiting, a fact of which his driver would undoubtedly be aware. "Get me home quickly."
He leaned back in his seat, eyes half-closed as if exhausted, although, in truth, it seemed the only thing which could calm the throbbing ache, as if not paying it any heed would make it vanish. Rafail could tell that the gladiator was looking at him, even if he could not entirely focus his gaze on the bulkier man, and he frowned in response - or, at least, he thought he might have. He didn't feel fully in control of his actions at the moment, and even the most basic of movements were starting to feel far more complicated than usual.
"Why are you staring at me?" he demanded of Lesley, head tilting to one side, squinting as if to try and see him better. Gods, he was freezing - why was he freezing? Was he dying? He was far too young for that! "Don't stare at me. I'm a Marikas. I'm...I..." Rafail stumbled for a moment, trying to find the words he intended, a hand moving upwards to support his suddenly heavy head. "I don't feel well."
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Lesley was far from gentle. Rafail imagined the man had never been trained to handle someone of such high status, and that the time he'd spent in the Marikas household had gone entirely to waste. When he became the patriarch of the family, he would most certainly not be allowing random slaves to spend their lives in his home, as if they were worth as much as the royal lords and ladies which otherwise inhabited the estate.
Still, he did not make a sound of complaint outside of a few humphs of disapproval, and the typical whine of someone who had been profoundly and painfully injured. He could endure some further insolence from Lesley if he had the reassurance that Papa would handle the man once they returned home, and it was not until he had been deposited back in the carriage, stretching out his cut leg with a grimace, that he spoke again, first directing his words towards the driver. "I am injured, and I have lost the capacity for patience." This latter statement was perhaps untrue, for Rafail had been raised with very little tolerance for waiting, a fact of which his driver would undoubtedly be aware. "Get me home quickly."
He leaned back in his seat, eyes half-closed as if exhausted, although, in truth, it seemed the only thing which could calm the throbbing ache, as if not paying it any heed would make it vanish. Rafail could tell that the gladiator was looking at him, even if he could not entirely focus his gaze on the bulkier man, and he frowned in response - or, at least, he thought he might have. He didn't feel fully in control of his actions at the moment, and even the most basic of movements were starting to feel far more complicated than usual.
"Why are you staring at me?" he demanded of Lesley, head tilting to one side, squinting as if to try and see him better. Gods, he was freezing - why was he freezing? Was he dying? He was far too young for that! "Don't stare at me. I'm a Marikas. I'm...I..." Rafail stumbled for a moment, trying to find the words he intended, a hand moving upwards to support his suddenly heavy head. "I don't feel well."
Lesley was far from gentle. Rafail imagined the man had never been trained to handle someone of such high status, and that the time he'd spent in the Marikas household had gone entirely to waste. When he became the patriarch of the family, he would most certainly not be allowing random slaves to spend their lives in his home, as if they were worth as much as the royal lords and ladies which otherwise inhabited the estate.
Still, he did not make a sound of complaint outside of a few humphs of disapproval, and the typical whine of someone who had been profoundly and painfully injured. He could endure some further insolence from Lesley if he had the reassurance that Papa would handle the man once they returned home, and it was not until he had been deposited back in the carriage, stretching out his cut leg with a grimace, that he spoke again, first directing his words towards the driver. "I am injured, and I have lost the capacity for patience." This latter statement was perhaps untrue, for Rafail had been raised with very little tolerance for waiting, a fact of which his driver would undoubtedly be aware. "Get me home quickly."
He leaned back in his seat, eyes half-closed as if exhausted, although, in truth, it seemed the only thing which could calm the throbbing ache, as if not paying it any heed would make it vanish. Rafail could tell that the gladiator was looking at him, even if he could not entirely focus his gaze on the bulkier man, and he frowned in response - or, at least, he thought he might have. He didn't feel fully in control of his actions at the moment, and even the most basic of movements were starting to feel far more complicated than usual.
"Why are you staring at me?" he demanded of Lesley, head tilting to one side, squinting as if to try and see him better. Gods, he was freezing - why was he freezing? Was he dying? He was far too young for that! "Don't stare at me. I'm a Marikas. I'm...I..." Rafail stumbled for a moment, trying to find the words he intended, a hand moving upwards to support his suddenly heavy head. "I don't feel well."
"Hmm." Lesley wrinkled his nose at Rafail, then glanced at the driver and up the street. Deciding the other man was already getting them where they were going with a sufficient level of efficiency and didn't need to be told how to do his job, the gladiator swung himself into the back of the moving carriage and sighed audibly at the younger man. He couldn't even call Raf a stubborn idiot; Les had waved off doctoring himself when he shouldn't have, but the young lord wasn't pushing himself too much, rather the opposite, and Lesley judged he wasn't likely to get anything worse than mild curses thrown at him for taking matters into his own hands.
"See, here's the thing, my lord Rafail," he informed him quietly. "I don't have terribly nice manners. No point complaining about it - I'm far past the age to learn, and not terribly motivated to try at the moment." Strong hands grasped the fabric of Rafail's chiton near the existing tear, and a sharp yank left him with a conveniently-sized strip of fabric in one hand. "I am, however, of the opinion that your life is worth slightly more than a piece of fabric. This might hurt." Wrapping the makeshift bandage tightly around the injured noble's leg, he put carefully even pressure on the wound, rather than just giving it the quick yank he would have done for himself, but he still didn't let the boy's protests prevent him from binding it tightly enough to be effective.
"I'm not a physician. I am very good at killing people, and am very experienced at both bleeding all over the place and at judging whether and how quickly an injury is going to take someone down, so I think I have some claim to a professional opinion in this situation." He met the lord's eyes, a serious look in his own. "You are going to die, my lord." Not laughing at Rafail took a lot of self control, but Lesley was a showman, and one did not spoil one's own performance by laughing at one's own jokes. "Eventually. Probably not today, and not from this, unless your physician is terribly incompetent."
He was entirely serious - though he wasn't sure the younger man could tell the difference - as he added, "You are going to have a rather unpleasant afternoon, though. That will need stitches, and infection is always a possibility, no matter how skilled the doctoring." He stood, balancing easily in the moving vehicle. "You've lost an unhealthy amount of blood, you're going to feel woozy for a few days, probably. Luckily for you, you're very likely to be allowed to laze around in bed while you recover. Do try not to be too much of a baby about it."
There were probably nicer ways of encouraging an injured man to stay conscious than pissing him the hell off, but Lesley had never seen the need to be especially nice to anyone he didn't like - or even to people he did like, some days.
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"Hmm." Lesley wrinkled his nose at Rafail, then glanced at the driver and up the street. Deciding the other man was already getting them where they were going with a sufficient level of efficiency and didn't need to be told how to do his job, the gladiator swung himself into the back of the moving carriage and sighed audibly at the younger man. He couldn't even call Raf a stubborn idiot; Les had waved off doctoring himself when he shouldn't have, but the young lord wasn't pushing himself too much, rather the opposite, and Lesley judged he wasn't likely to get anything worse than mild curses thrown at him for taking matters into his own hands.
"See, here's the thing, my lord Rafail," he informed him quietly. "I don't have terribly nice manners. No point complaining about it - I'm far past the age to learn, and not terribly motivated to try at the moment." Strong hands grasped the fabric of Rafail's chiton near the existing tear, and a sharp yank left him with a conveniently-sized strip of fabric in one hand. "I am, however, of the opinion that your life is worth slightly more than a piece of fabric. This might hurt." Wrapping the makeshift bandage tightly around the injured noble's leg, he put carefully even pressure on the wound, rather than just giving it the quick yank he would have done for himself, but he still didn't let the boy's protests prevent him from binding it tightly enough to be effective.
"I'm not a physician. I am very good at killing people, and am very experienced at both bleeding all over the place and at judging whether and how quickly an injury is going to take someone down, so I think I have some claim to a professional opinion in this situation." He met the lord's eyes, a serious look in his own. "You are going to die, my lord." Not laughing at Rafail took a lot of self control, but Lesley was a showman, and one did not spoil one's own performance by laughing at one's own jokes. "Eventually. Probably not today, and not from this, unless your physician is terribly incompetent."
He was entirely serious - though he wasn't sure the younger man could tell the difference - as he added, "You are going to have a rather unpleasant afternoon, though. That will need stitches, and infection is always a possibility, no matter how skilled the doctoring." He stood, balancing easily in the moving vehicle. "You've lost an unhealthy amount of blood, you're going to feel woozy for a few days, probably. Luckily for you, you're very likely to be allowed to laze around in bed while you recover. Do try not to be too much of a baby about it."
There were probably nicer ways of encouraging an injured man to stay conscious than pissing him the hell off, but Lesley had never seen the need to be especially nice to anyone he didn't like - or even to people he did like, some days.
"Hmm." Lesley wrinkled his nose at Rafail, then glanced at the driver and up the street. Deciding the other man was already getting them where they were going with a sufficient level of efficiency and didn't need to be told how to do his job, the gladiator swung himself into the back of the moving carriage and sighed audibly at the younger man. He couldn't even call Raf a stubborn idiot; Les had waved off doctoring himself when he shouldn't have, but the young lord wasn't pushing himself too much, rather the opposite, and Lesley judged he wasn't likely to get anything worse than mild curses thrown at him for taking matters into his own hands.
"See, here's the thing, my lord Rafail," he informed him quietly. "I don't have terribly nice manners. No point complaining about it - I'm far past the age to learn, and not terribly motivated to try at the moment." Strong hands grasped the fabric of Rafail's chiton near the existing tear, and a sharp yank left him with a conveniently-sized strip of fabric in one hand. "I am, however, of the opinion that your life is worth slightly more than a piece of fabric. This might hurt." Wrapping the makeshift bandage tightly around the injured noble's leg, he put carefully even pressure on the wound, rather than just giving it the quick yank he would have done for himself, but he still didn't let the boy's protests prevent him from binding it tightly enough to be effective.
"I'm not a physician. I am very good at killing people, and am very experienced at both bleeding all over the place and at judging whether and how quickly an injury is going to take someone down, so I think I have some claim to a professional opinion in this situation." He met the lord's eyes, a serious look in his own. "You are going to die, my lord." Not laughing at Rafail took a lot of self control, but Lesley was a showman, and one did not spoil one's own performance by laughing at one's own jokes. "Eventually. Probably not today, and not from this, unless your physician is terribly incompetent."
He was entirely serious - though he wasn't sure the younger man could tell the difference - as he added, "You are going to have a rather unpleasant afternoon, though. That will need stitches, and infection is always a possibility, no matter how skilled the doctoring." He stood, balancing easily in the moving vehicle. "You've lost an unhealthy amount of blood, you're going to feel woozy for a few days, probably. Luckily for you, you're very likely to be allowed to laze around in bed while you recover. Do try not to be too much of a baby about it."
There were probably nicer ways of encouraging an injured man to stay conscious than pissing him the hell off, but Lesley had never seen the need to be especially nice to anyone he didn't like - or even to people he did like, some days.
Was this normal? Rafail was doing his best to focus on Lesley's words, confident that if he was speaking, then he must have been saying something offensive, but each one barely seemed more than a confusing mumble. He couldn't entirely focus on the other either, though his gaze attempted to follow his hands down towards the way his hands grabbed the man's chiton with little regard for his previous objections. He tried again, but the almost-uncertain "Stop!" seemed to go unheard as Lesley tore the fabric and moved to wrap it around his injury.
He screamed out at the pain, his leg thrashing in response, though he could not move it as much as he desired with Lesley's tight grip. The man closed his eyes fully, thinking it might mask his discomfort further, but they snapped open automatically at the suggestion that he was going to die. It didn't matter if it was today or in twenty or thirty or any number of years, but death was not a concept Rafail ever wished to consider, and he had almost managed to trick his mind into believing it didn't exactly exist if it wasn't for the looming thought of Mama. Twelve years was hardly enough to begin to loosen the horror of the memory, and he didn't want to think that such a thing could happen to him as well.
Stitches were something he could more or less handle - Rafail could not imagine the pain could be much worse than this - and a few days of rest were no trouble. Whoever struggled when it came to lazing about? The words would not form easily enough to offer his response, however, and he only scrunched his features into an expression which made clear his distaste at being called a baby. It was not atypical to cry at an injury, and especially not when it was as severe as the one which now graced the length of the Marikas lord's left shin. He was sure it would scar, and, of course, he was unlucky enough that it would be a scar in a place quickly noticeable to all those who saw him.
"My physician is excellent," he managed to respond after a long moment of silence, each word seemingly taking longer to let out than it should have. He wanted to go to sleep and wake up again when this entire horrid nightmare was over, but he imagined Lesley was unlikely to allow him that luxury, though most people would do so. Instead, Rafail leaned up in an attempt to see how far along they were on his journey home, but he could not quite manage the movement, and fell back again in his seat, turning to his somewhat-undesired companion instead. "Are we almost there?" When they were home he would be able to drop himself onto a kline and have this whole situation resolved in moments - a few goblets of wine to calm his head as well, perhaps - but this usually short journey seemed to be taking centuries, and he felt as if he was losing his mind further with every passing moment.
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Was this normal? Rafail was doing his best to focus on Lesley's words, confident that if he was speaking, then he must have been saying something offensive, but each one barely seemed more than a confusing mumble. He couldn't entirely focus on the other either, though his gaze attempted to follow his hands down towards the way his hands grabbed the man's chiton with little regard for his previous objections. He tried again, but the almost-uncertain "Stop!" seemed to go unheard as Lesley tore the fabric and moved to wrap it around his injury.
He screamed out at the pain, his leg thrashing in response, though he could not move it as much as he desired with Lesley's tight grip. The man closed his eyes fully, thinking it might mask his discomfort further, but they snapped open automatically at the suggestion that he was going to die. It didn't matter if it was today or in twenty or thirty or any number of years, but death was not a concept Rafail ever wished to consider, and he had almost managed to trick his mind into believing it didn't exactly exist if it wasn't for the looming thought of Mama. Twelve years was hardly enough to begin to loosen the horror of the memory, and he didn't want to think that such a thing could happen to him as well.
Stitches were something he could more or less handle - Rafail could not imagine the pain could be much worse than this - and a few days of rest were no trouble. Whoever struggled when it came to lazing about? The words would not form easily enough to offer his response, however, and he only scrunched his features into an expression which made clear his distaste at being called a baby. It was not atypical to cry at an injury, and especially not when it was as severe as the one which now graced the length of the Marikas lord's left shin. He was sure it would scar, and, of course, he was unlucky enough that it would be a scar in a place quickly noticeable to all those who saw him.
"My physician is excellent," he managed to respond after a long moment of silence, each word seemingly taking longer to let out than it should have. He wanted to go to sleep and wake up again when this entire horrid nightmare was over, but he imagined Lesley was unlikely to allow him that luxury, though most people would do so. Instead, Rafail leaned up in an attempt to see how far along they were on his journey home, but he could not quite manage the movement, and fell back again in his seat, turning to his somewhat-undesired companion instead. "Are we almost there?" When they were home he would be able to drop himself onto a kline and have this whole situation resolved in moments - a few goblets of wine to calm his head as well, perhaps - but this usually short journey seemed to be taking centuries, and he felt as if he was losing his mind further with every passing moment.
Was this normal? Rafail was doing his best to focus on Lesley's words, confident that if he was speaking, then he must have been saying something offensive, but each one barely seemed more than a confusing mumble. He couldn't entirely focus on the other either, though his gaze attempted to follow his hands down towards the way his hands grabbed the man's chiton with little regard for his previous objections. He tried again, but the almost-uncertain "Stop!" seemed to go unheard as Lesley tore the fabric and moved to wrap it around his injury.
He screamed out at the pain, his leg thrashing in response, though he could not move it as much as he desired with Lesley's tight grip. The man closed his eyes fully, thinking it might mask his discomfort further, but they snapped open automatically at the suggestion that he was going to die. It didn't matter if it was today or in twenty or thirty or any number of years, but death was not a concept Rafail ever wished to consider, and he had almost managed to trick his mind into believing it didn't exactly exist if it wasn't for the looming thought of Mama. Twelve years was hardly enough to begin to loosen the horror of the memory, and he didn't want to think that such a thing could happen to him as well.
Stitches were something he could more or less handle - Rafail could not imagine the pain could be much worse than this - and a few days of rest were no trouble. Whoever struggled when it came to lazing about? The words would not form easily enough to offer his response, however, and he only scrunched his features into an expression which made clear his distaste at being called a baby. It was not atypical to cry at an injury, and especially not when it was as severe as the one which now graced the length of the Marikas lord's left shin. He was sure it would scar, and, of course, he was unlucky enough that it would be a scar in a place quickly noticeable to all those who saw him.
"My physician is excellent," he managed to respond after a long moment of silence, each word seemingly taking longer to let out than it should have. He wanted to go to sleep and wake up again when this entire horrid nightmare was over, but he imagined Lesley was unlikely to allow him that luxury, though most people would do so. Instead, Rafail leaned up in an attempt to see how far along they were on his journey home, but he could not quite manage the movement, and fell back again in his seat, turning to his somewhat-undesired companion instead. "Are we almost there?" When they were home he would be able to drop himself onto a kline and have this whole situation resolved in moments - a few goblets of wine to calm his head as well, perhaps - but this usually short journey seemed to be taking centuries, and he felt as if he was losing his mind further with every passing moment.
"We are." Sure enough, the carriage slowed to a stop shortly after the reassurance, and Lesley simply scooped Raf up into his arms without any mockery or suggestion he might attempt to be manly enough to walk. He shook his head when the driver started to ask if he needed help; the doors stood open to catch any stray breeze on such a bright summer day, and he was strong enough to carry the skinny noble all the way to his own rooms unassisted.
"Oy, boy," Lesley addressed the young slave waiting by the door to greet visitors and make sure nobody poor simply wandered onto the property uninvited. "Fetch the physician immediately to Lord Rafael's room." He didn't pause to make sure his order was followed; any questions worth asking could be answered simply by the presence of the pale, shaking man in his arms. He remembered where Raf's old bedroom was, of course, and assumed that unmarried as he was there was no reason to think he'd moved. With an efficiency that couldn't be easily criticized, even if he still wasn't quite as gentle as the injured noble doubtless thought he should be, Lesley had Rafael laid in bed and propped up on pillows, with a folded linen sheet tucked under his leg in a valient but only partly sucessful effort to reduce the excess laundry from this adventure to a mere two items, including the damaged chiton.
By the time the physician had arrived, the gladiator had poured Rafael a goblet of water from the pitcher conveniently waiting for him, and set a small fire in the brazier to heat the rest of it.
"My lord Rafael was injured during the chariot race and chose to be treated by yourself rather than any of the physicians at the Arcus," Lesley told the man. He spoke with more confidence than the brat no doubt thought a slave ought to, but he wasn't as disrespectful as usual, either. Around a stranger, his manners were perfectly appropriate, that of a servant to another of higher status, minding his forms of address for those above them both. "I bound the cut only a few minutes ago in the carriage, my lord was convinced at first that it was not as serious as I think perhaps it is - I have no formal training, only experience, but I believe I have at least slowed the bleeding. It has not been cleaned yet, however, so I set the water to boil. I can have someone bring up more linens, and to be another pair of hands if you need it, but I myself need to find my lord Marikas immediately, as he needs to know the details of what happened." Apologetic enough to be polite, but nonetheless firm.
He answered the physician's questions about the wound, and responded to a wordless expression of skepticism with a charitable suggestion of "Perhaps it opened farther when the carriage hit a rut, or perhaps it was simply the heat of the excitement that made it seem less at first. I have once or twice not noticed as bad a wound immediately myself. I did offer to bind it immediately," he apologized, "but my lord was quite insistent, so what was there to do?" He spread his hands helplessly. "Do you need anything else sent up?"
With the answer given he bowed himself out of the room. "I am certain you are in good hands now, my lord. I pray you a speedy recovery."
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"We are." Sure enough, the carriage slowed to a stop shortly after the reassurance, and Lesley simply scooped Raf up into his arms without any mockery or suggestion he might attempt to be manly enough to walk. He shook his head when the driver started to ask if he needed help; the doors stood open to catch any stray breeze on such a bright summer day, and he was strong enough to carry the skinny noble all the way to his own rooms unassisted.
"Oy, boy," Lesley addressed the young slave waiting by the door to greet visitors and make sure nobody poor simply wandered onto the property uninvited. "Fetch the physician immediately to Lord Rafael's room." He didn't pause to make sure his order was followed; any questions worth asking could be answered simply by the presence of the pale, shaking man in his arms. He remembered where Raf's old bedroom was, of course, and assumed that unmarried as he was there was no reason to think he'd moved. With an efficiency that couldn't be easily criticized, even if he still wasn't quite as gentle as the injured noble doubtless thought he should be, Lesley had Rafael laid in bed and propped up on pillows, with a folded linen sheet tucked under his leg in a valient but only partly sucessful effort to reduce the excess laundry from this adventure to a mere two items, including the damaged chiton.
By the time the physician had arrived, the gladiator had poured Rafael a goblet of water from the pitcher conveniently waiting for him, and set a small fire in the brazier to heat the rest of it.
"My lord Rafael was injured during the chariot race and chose to be treated by yourself rather than any of the physicians at the Arcus," Lesley told the man. He spoke with more confidence than the brat no doubt thought a slave ought to, but he wasn't as disrespectful as usual, either. Around a stranger, his manners were perfectly appropriate, that of a servant to another of higher status, minding his forms of address for those above them both. "I bound the cut only a few minutes ago in the carriage, my lord was convinced at first that it was not as serious as I think perhaps it is - I have no formal training, only experience, but I believe I have at least slowed the bleeding. It has not been cleaned yet, however, so I set the water to boil. I can have someone bring up more linens, and to be another pair of hands if you need it, but I myself need to find my lord Marikas immediately, as he needs to know the details of what happened." Apologetic enough to be polite, but nonetheless firm.
He answered the physician's questions about the wound, and responded to a wordless expression of skepticism with a charitable suggestion of "Perhaps it opened farther when the carriage hit a rut, or perhaps it was simply the heat of the excitement that made it seem less at first. I have once or twice not noticed as bad a wound immediately myself. I did offer to bind it immediately," he apologized, "but my lord was quite insistent, so what was there to do?" He spread his hands helplessly. "Do you need anything else sent up?"
With the answer given he bowed himself out of the room. "I am certain you are in good hands now, my lord. I pray you a speedy recovery."
"We are." Sure enough, the carriage slowed to a stop shortly after the reassurance, and Lesley simply scooped Raf up into his arms without any mockery or suggestion he might attempt to be manly enough to walk. He shook his head when the driver started to ask if he needed help; the doors stood open to catch any stray breeze on such a bright summer day, and he was strong enough to carry the skinny noble all the way to his own rooms unassisted.
"Oy, boy," Lesley addressed the young slave waiting by the door to greet visitors and make sure nobody poor simply wandered onto the property uninvited. "Fetch the physician immediately to Lord Rafael's room." He didn't pause to make sure his order was followed; any questions worth asking could be answered simply by the presence of the pale, shaking man in his arms. He remembered where Raf's old bedroom was, of course, and assumed that unmarried as he was there was no reason to think he'd moved. With an efficiency that couldn't be easily criticized, even if he still wasn't quite as gentle as the injured noble doubtless thought he should be, Lesley had Rafael laid in bed and propped up on pillows, with a folded linen sheet tucked under his leg in a valient but only partly sucessful effort to reduce the excess laundry from this adventure to a mere two items, including the damaged chiton.
By the time the physician had arrived, the gladiator had poured Rafael a goblet of water from the pitcher conveniently waiting for him, and set a small fire in the brazier to heat the rest of it.
"My lord Rafael was injured during the chariot race and chose to be treated by yourself rather than any of the physicians at the Arcus," Lesley told the man. He spoke with more confidence than the brat no doubt thought a slave ought to, but he wasn't as disrespectful as usual, either. Around a stranger, his manners were perfectly appropriate, that of a servant to another of higher status, minding his forms of address for those above them both. "I bound the cut only a few minutes ago in the carriage, my lord was convinced at first that it was not as serious as I think perhaps it is - I have no formal training, only experience, but I believe I have at least slowed the bleeding. It has not been cleaned yet, however, so I set the water to boil. I can have someone bring up more linens, and to be another pair of hands if you need it, but I myself need to find my lord Marikas immediately, as he needs to know the details of what happened." Apologetic enough to be polite, but nonetheless firm.
He answered the physician's questions about the wound, and responded to a wordless expression of skepticism with a charitable suggestion of "Perhaps it opened farther when the carriage hit a rut, or perhaps it was simply the heat of the excitement that made it seem less at first. I have once or twice not noticed as bad a wound immediately myself. I did offer to bind it immediately," he apologized, "but my lord was quite insistent, so what was there to do?" He spread his hands helplessly. "Do you need anything else sent up?"
With the answer given he bowed himself out of the room. "I am certain you are in good hands now, my lord. I pray you a speedy recovery."
Festivals were meant to be exciting: fantastical deviances from the tedium of lessons and mediocrity. And they were, ordinarily. Still, Sofia had seen her fair share of chariot races and vicious gladiator fights by the time she was sixteen. Besides the special, colorful clothes and the celebratory music, there was little left to excite the surly teenager. She had spent the morning engaging with various nobles, offering polite words to her younger cousins in particular. But they were mostly too young to provide much entertainment, and by the afternoon Sofia had wandered off to explore the stalls filled with marvelous crafts and foods. She knew that Rafail would be racing—he had not shut up about it for days—but the sunlight and the crowds blurred her mind to nothing more than pleasantries and forced smiles. It was all so boring. She had taken to people watching near the marketplace by the time the race started, content, if not happy, with the way even the peasants seemed at ease.
The news did not take long to reach her, even with her distance from the racetrack. Murmurs of ‘Lord Rafail is injured!’ and ‘That huge gladiator carried him off!’ swept through the festival. Immediately, Sofia was on her way home, moving as quickly as possible without drawing too much attention to herself. Worst-case scenarios flew through her mind. Injured? That could mean anything from a scratched finger to five broken ribs and a massive gash. Injured told her nothing about what had happened. Sofia tried to calm her mind, to wait for answers, but her heart only beat faster, twice the speed of her rapid steps. He was carried away. Surely that meant it was bad. Otherwise, why would Raf take the potential blow to his dignity? The spring flowers so carefully braided into Sofia’s hair were falling into disarray, blown away by her haste. She would never forgive herself—nor hear the end of it—if he had been seriously injured and she had not been there, lost instead to the world of flowers and wanderings.
Nearly breathless by the time she burst into Rafail’s rooms, her eyes immediately zeroed in on her brother. There he was, propped up in bed like a king, her view of his leg obscured by his physician, carefully working. “Rafail,” she said slowly, moving around to the far side of the bed so as not to disturb the physician. She perched on the edge of the mattress, eyeing the wound with a wrinkled nose. His leg looked far worse than a scratch, admittedly, though he appeared to be more or less okay. No risk of imminent death, at the very least. Though, with Raf’s theatrics, she would hate to be even remotely involved in causing the injury, no matter how minor. Someone was sure to be getting an earful already. Sofia herself was prepared to cause a ruckus on her brother’s behalf if there truly was someone to blame for this. She raised her eyes to his face instead, concern lacing her voice, “I came as soon as I heard. What happened? Are you alright?”
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Festivals were meant to be exciting: fantastical deviances from the tedium of lessons and mediocrity. And they were, ordinarily. Still, Sofia had seen her fair share of chariot races and vicious gladiator fights by the time she was sixteen. Besides the special, colorful clothes and the celebratory music, there was little left to excite the surly teenager. She had spent the morning engaging with various nobles, offering polite words to her younger cousins in particular. But they were mostly too young to provide much entertainment, and by the afternoon Sofia had wandered off to explore the stalls filled with marvelous crafts and foods. She knew that Rafail would be racing—he had not shut up about it for days—but the sunlight and the crowds blurred her mind to nothing more than pleasantries and forced smiles. It was all so boring. She had taken to people watching near the marketplace by the time the race started, content, if not happy, with the way even the peasants seemed at ease.
The news did not take long to reach her, even with her distance from the racetrack. Murmurs of ‘Lord Rafail is injured!’ and ‘That huge gladiator carried him off!’ swept through the festival. Immediately, Sofia was on her way home, moving as quickly as possible without drawing too much attention to herself. Worst-case scenarios flew through her mind. Injured? That could mean anything from a scratched finger to five broken ribs and a massive gash. Injured told her nothing about what had happened. Sofia tried to calm her mind, to wait for answers, but her heart only beat faster, twice the speed of her rapid steps. He was carried away. Surely that meant it was bad. Otherwise, why would Raf take the potential blow to his dignity? The spring flowers so carefully braided into Sofia’s hair were falling into disarray, blown away by her haste. She would never forgive herself—nor hear the end of it—if he had been seriously injured and she had not been there, lost instead to the world of flowers and wanderings.
Nearly breathless by the time she burst into Rafail’s rooms, her eyes immediately zeroed in on her brother. There he was, propped up in bed like a king, her view of his leg obscured by his physician, carefully working. “Rafail,” she said slowly, moving around to the far side of the bed so as not to disturb the physician. She perched on the edge of the mattress, eyeing the wound with a wrinkled nose. His leg looked far worse than a scratch, admittedly, though he appeared to be more or less okay. No risk of imminent death, at the very least. Though, with Raf’s theatrics, she would hate to be even remotely involved in causing the injury, no matter how minor. Someone was sure to be getting an earful already. Sofia herself was prepared to cause a ruckus on her brother’s behalf if there truly was someone to blame for this. She raised her eyes to his face instead, concern lacing her voice, “I came as soon as I heard. What happened? Are you alright?”
Festivals were meant to be exciting: fantastical deviances from the tedium of lessons and mediocrity. And they were, ordinarily. Still, Sofia had seen her fair share of chariot races and vicious gladiator fights by the time she was sixteen. Besides the special, colorful clothes and the celebratory music, there was little left to excite the surly teenager. She had spent the morning engaging with various nobles, offering polite words to her younger cousins in particular. But they were mostly too young to provide much entertainment, and by the afternoon Sofia had wandered off to explore the stalls filled with marvelous crafts and foods. She knew that Rafail would be racing—he had not shut up about it for days—but the sunlight and the crowds blurred her mind to nothing more than pleasantries and forced smiles. It was all so boring. She had taken to people watching near the marketplace by the time the race started, content, if not happy, with the way even the peasants seemed at ease.
The news did not take long to reach her, even with her distance from the racetrack. Murmurs of ‘Lord Rafail is injured!’ and ‘That huge gladiator carried him off!’ swept through the festival. Immediately, Sofia was on her way home, moving as quickly as possible without drawing too much attention to herself. Worst-case scenarios flew through her mind. Injured? That could mean anything from a scratched finger to five broken ribs and a massive gash. Injured told her nothing about what had happened. Sofia tried to calm her mind, to wait for answers, but her heart only beat faster, twice the speed of her rapid steps. He was carried away. Surely that meant it was bad. Otherwise, why would Raf take the potential blow to his dignity? The spring flowers so carefully braided into Sofia’s hair were falling into disarray, blown away by her haste. She would never forgive herself—nor hear the end of it—if he had been seriously injured and she had not been there, lost instead to the world of flowers and wanderings.
Nearly breathless by the time she burst into Rafail’s rooms, her eyes immediately zeroed in on her brother. There he was, propped up in bed like a king, her view of his leg obscured by his physician, carefully working. “Rafail,” she said slowly, moving around to the far side of the bed so as not to disturb the physician. She perched on the edge of the mattress, eyeing the wound with a wrinkled nose. His leg looked far worse than a scratch, admittedly, though he appeared to be more or less okay. No risk of imminent death, at the very least. Though, with Raf’s theatrics, she would hate to be even remotely involved in causing the injury, no matter how minor. Someone was sure to be getting an earful already. Sofia herself was prepared to cause a ruckus on her brother’s behalf if there truly was someone to blame for this. She raised her eyes to his face instead, concern lacing her voice, “I came as soon as I heard. What happened? Are you alright?”
Lesley was no gentler now than he had been earlier, but, for a moment, Rafail had lost the ability to complain. The pain was overwhelming, and his sight was blurred, and he had no will to tell the gladiator that he was a royal lord and should have been handled as such, only to fall weakly into his arms and allow himself to be carried up this bedroom like some pathetic child. If he was to die this day, then this was not how he wished to be remembered, and he hoped that someone - Sofia, perhaps - would be able to spread the word that he had passed as a result of the injuries caused by some overly brave deed which had benefitted the entirety of Athenia, nay Greece.
Though it was not the wine he wanted, the Marikas willingly accepted the goblet of water he had been offered, sipping at the liquid as if these were the final moments of his life, although with each swallow he felt a little more as if he was not going to die, and everything might actually be fine if the physician knew what he was doing. He certainly seemed competent, asking all those questions of Lesley (although the Marikas family would never have employed someone who was not), and Rafail did his best to nod along with the explanation. "I won't be treated by someone wholly unqualified. Gods only know what idiocy the man could pull if he has not been trained in any sort of medicine." He decided not to comment that, as far as he could tell, Lesley's actions had actually helped quite a bit, and the amount of blood pouring from his leg had decreased tenfold. Instead, he fell back onto the cushions provided, waving a hand at Lesley by way of both farewell and vague thanks, and turned his attention entirely to the doctor.
"If I die, Papa will know it was your fault," he informed the man, because added pressure was sure to help in this sort of situation. "Likewise if I lose a leg." Deciding that was enough interaction with the man, for the time being, Rafail let him do his job, quietly drinking from his goblet and trying to ignore the pain. He was a military man, so he had been working so hard to prove to his father lately, and he could take a little pain.
Fortunately, it seemed he would not have to ignore the suffering for long, because Sofia had come to his rescue and burst into the room right at that moment, and his eyes naturally lit up at the sight of her. There were few people Rafail liked, and even fewer women, but Sofia had always been one of them. Her concern was immediately noted, and he was glad someone seemed to care, half-smiling at her. "I am dying," he replied, the dramatics standard for him, as he always seemed to leap to this absurd conclusion whenever he suffered from even the most minor of maladies (he found that it tended to elicit pity from others, and the preferential treatment he enjoyed). "I was racing - winning - and some cheat cut in front of me. His chariot attempted to crush mine - my new one - as if he had no respect for who I am, and I was tossed to the ground like some sort of peasant, and now I am injured and dying and might never be able to ride again." That was unlikely, but it gave Rafail a little more edge in the conversation, he thought.
Setting the goblet to one side, he gazed up at Sofia, reaching to take his sister's hand. "Lesley is talking to Papa about what happened, and I'm sure it'll be resolved, but you can stay with me a while, yes? Talking dulls the pain, and I'm sure you had a far better time at the festival than me. Did you see me race?"
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Lesley was no gentler now than he had been earlier, but, for a moment, Rafail had lost the ability to complain. The pain was overwhelming, and his sight was blurred, and he had no will to tell the gladiator that he was a royal lord and should have been handled as such, only to fall weakly into his arms and allow himself to be carried up this bedroom like some pathetic child. If he was to die this day, then this was not how he wished to be remembered, and he hoped that someone - Sofia, perhaps - would be able to spread the word that he had passed as a result of the injuries caused by some overly brave deed which had benefitted the entirety of Athenia, nay Greece.
Though it was not the wine he wanted, the Marikas willingly accepted the goblet of water he had been offered, sipping at the liquid as if these were the final moments of his life, although with each swallow he felt a little more as if he was not going to die, and everything might actually be fine if the physician knew what he was doing. He certainly seemed competent, asking all those questions of Lesley (although the Marikas family would never have employed someone who was not), and Rafail did his best to nod along with the explanation. "I won't be treated by someone wholly unqualified. Gods only know what idiocy the man could pull if he has not been trained in any sort of medicine." He decided not to comment that, as far as he could tell, Lesley's actions had actually helped quite a bit, and the amount of blood pouring from his leg had decreased tenfold. Instead, he fell back onto the cushions provided, waving a hand at Lesley by way of both farewell and vague thanks, and turned his attention entirely to the doctor.
"If I die, Papa will know it was your fault," he informed the man, because added pressure was sure to help in this sort of situation. "Likewise if I lose a leg." Deciding that was enough interaction with the man, for the time being, Rafail let him do his job, quietly drinking from his goblet and trying to ignore the pain. He was a military man, so he had been working so hard to prove to his father lately, and he could take a little pain.
Fortunately, it seemed he would not have to ignore the suffering for long, because Sofia had come to his rescue and burst into the room right at that moment, and his eyes naturally lit up at the sight of her. There were few people Rafail liked, and even fewer women, but Sofia had always been one of them. Her concern was immediately noted, and he was glad someone seemed to care, half-smiling at her. "I am dying," he replied, the dramatics standard for him, as he always seemed to leap to this absurd conclusion whenever he suffered from even the most minor of maladies (he found that it tended to elicit pity from others, and the preferential treatment he enjoyed). "I was racing - winning - and some cheat cut in front of me. His chariot attempted to crush mine - my new one - as if he had no respect for who I am, and I was tossed to the ground like some sort of peasant, and now I am injured and dying and might never be able to ride again." That was unlikely, but it gave Rafail a little more edge in the conversation, he thought.
Setting the goblet to one side, he gazed up at Sofia, reaching to take his sister's hand. "Lesley is talking to Papa about what happened, and I'm sure it'll be resolved, but you can stay with me a while, yes? Talking dulls the pain, and I'm sure you had a far better time at the festival than me. Did you see me race?"
Lesley was no gentler now than he had been earlier, but, for a moment, Rafail had lost the ability to complain. The pain was overwhelming, and his sight was blurred, and he had no will to tell the gladiator that he was a royal lord and should have been handled as such, only to fall weakly into his arms and allow himself to be carried up this bedroom like some pathetic child. If he was to die this day, then this was not how he wished to be remembered, and he hoped that someone - Sofia, perhaps - would be able to spread the word that he had passed as a result of the injuries caused by some overly brave deed which had benefitted the entirety of Athenia, nay Greece.
Though it was not the wine he wanted, the Marikas willingly accepted the goblet of water he had been offered, sipping at the liquid as if these were the final moments of his life, although with each swallow he felt a little more as if he was not going to die, and everything might actually be fine if the physician knew what he was doing. He certainly seemed competent, asking all those questions of Lesley (although the Marikas family would never have employed someone who was not), and Rafail did his best to nod along with the explanation. "I won't be treated by someone wholly unqualified. Gods only know what idiocy the man could pull if he has not been trained in any sort of medicine." He decided not to comment that, as far as he could tell, Lesley's actions had actually helped quite a bit, and the amount of blood pouring from his leg had decreased tenfold. Instead, he fell back onto the cushions provided, waving a hand at Lesley by way of both farewell and vague thanks, and turned his attention entirely to the doctor.
"If I die, Papa will know it was your fault," he informed the man, because added pressure was sure to help in this sort of situation. "Likewise if I lose a leg." Deciding that was enough interaction with the man, for the time being, Rafail let him do his job, quietly drinking from his goblet and trying to ignore the pain. He was a military man, so he had been working so hard to prove to his father lately, and he could take a little pain.
Fortunately, it seemed he would not have to ignore the suffering for long, because Sofia had come to his rescue and burst into the room right at that moment, and his eyes naturally lit up at the sight of her. There were few people Rafail liked, and even fewer women, but Sofia had always been one of them. Her concern was immediately noted, and he was glad someone seemed to care, half-smiling at her. "I am dying," he replied, the dramatics standard for him, as he always seemed to leap to this absurd conclusion whenever he suffered from even the most minor of maladies (he found that it tended to elicit pity from others, and the preferential treatment he enjoyed). "I was racing - winning - and some cheat cut in front of me. His chariot attempted to crush mine - my new one - as if he had no respect for who I am, and I was tossed to the ground like some sort of peasant, and now I am injured and dying and might never be able to ride again." That was unlikely, but it gave Rafail a little more edge in the conversation, he thought.
Setting the goblet to one side, he gazed up at Sofia, reaching to take his sister's hand. "Lesley is talking to Papa about what happened, and I'm sure it'll be resolved, but you can stay with me a while, yes? Talking dulls the pain, and I'm sure you had a far better time at the festival than me. Did you see me race?"
Sofia hoped her presence gave her brother at least a modicum of comfort, though his dramatic words would indicate otherwise. She certainly hoped, too, that Rafail wasn’t dying, as that would be unfortunate for a number of reasons. Not least of which being that he was her favorite brother and most trusted confident. Still, if he didn’t die, Sofia was sure she would be hearing of this outrageous tragedy for months—if not years—to come.
Gasping softly in all the right places as Rafail recounted the harrowing tale, the teenage Marikas tried to imagine how awful the race must have been. Chariot races could be exciting on occasion, but Sofia usually found them boring. None of the intensity of gladiator fights—though races rarely had gore: a positive, in Sofia’s opinion—and little of the variety. She had seen enough of them, and they rarely changed. Racers speeding around the track, some minor aggressions, and then someone would win. This time, however, the royal girl felt guilt curling up in her stomach. She tried not to grimace at the mental image of her dear brother crashing to the ground, the victim of foul play. He might be exaggerating the story, but Sofia still felt that she should have been there. She should have been there to support Raf, even if this whole catastrophe had not happened.
“That sounds horrible,” she murmured, frowning lightly. “It would be a horrific tragedy if you couldn’t ride again—he will be okay, won’t he?” she turned to the physician, who grunted in acknowledgement and continued working. Physicians were not known for their bedside manner, she supposed, those a grunt was hardly comforting. “I can stay as long as you like,” she smiled, turning back to her brother and giving his hand a light squeeze. The guilt twisted further. She should have been there. Now, though, she was resolved to supporting Rafail however he needed.
“I—” she faltered, brows furrowing. “I admit I missed the race,” she sighed, hoping he wouldn’t be too hurt. “The colorful market stalls caught my attention—I thought I might find some special trinkets or hear the latest music.” She almost added that she had intended to return in time for the race, but lies would hardly comfort either of them at this point. Sofia sighed again, shifting to curl her legs beneath her on the edge of the bed, “I was wrong, of course. There was hardly anything interesting at the stalls. I did hear a lovely harp piece, though,” she added hastily, wanting to give her brother some small story to distract from the pain. “I’m so sorry. I promise, I’ll make your next race. I’m sure there will be a next one, after all, and you’ll be marvelous!” Biting her lip, she wracked her brain for something else to say. She felt mostly useless—usually, she was the one asking for stories. As a man, Rafail had a generally more exciting life than she did. “Which horse did you use? Is it injured?” she inquired at last, smiling hopefully. Her brother loved his horses. Surely that would get him talking.
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Sofia hoped her presence gave her brother at least a modicum of comfort, though his dramatic words would indicate otherwise. She certainly hoped, too, that Rafail wasn’t dying, as that would be unfortunate for a number of reasons. Not least of which being that he was her favorite brother and most trusted confident. Still, if he didn’t die, Sofia was sure she would be hearing of this outrageous tragedy for months—if not years—to come.
Gasping softly in all the right places as Rafail recounted the harrowing tale, the teenage Marikas tried to imagine how awful the race must have been. Chariot races could be exciting on occasion, but Sofia usually found them boring. None of the intensity of gladiator fights—though races rarely had gore: a positive, in Sofia’s opinion—and little of the variety. She had seen enough of them, and they rarely changed. Racers speeding around the track, some minor aggressions, and then someone would win. This time, however, the royal girl felt guilt curling up in her stomach. She tried not to grimace at the mental image of her dear brother crashing to the ground, the victim of foul play. He might be exaggerating the story, but Sofia still felt that she should have been there. She should have been there to support Raf, even if this whole catastrophe had not happened.
“That sounds horrible,” she murmured, frowning lightly. “It would be a horrific tragedy if you couldn’t ride again—he will be okay, won’t he?” she turned to the physician, who grunted in acknowledgement and continued working. Physicians were not known for their bedside manner, she supposed, those a grunt was hardly comforting. “I can stay as long as you like,” she smiled, turning back to her brother and giving his hand a light squeeze. The guilt twisted further. She should have been there. Now, though, she was resolved to supporting Rafail however he needed.
“I—” she faltered, brows furrowing. “I admit I missed the race,” she sighed, hoping he wouldn’t be too hurt. “The colorful market stalls caught my attention—I thought I might find some special trinkets or hear the latest music.” She almost added that she had intended to return in time for the race, but lies would hardly comfort either of them at this point. Sofia sighed again, shifting to curl her legs beneath her on the edge of the bed, “I was wrong, of course. There was hardly anything interesting at the stalls. I did hear a lovely harp piece, though,” she added hastily, wanting to give her brother some small story to distract from the pain. “I’m so sorry. I promise, I’ll make your next race. I’m sure there will be a next one, after all, and you’ll be marvelous!” Biting her lip, she wracked her brain for something else to say. She felt mostly useless—usually, she was the one asking for stories. As a man, Rafail had a generally more exciting life than she did. “Which horse did you use? Is it injured?” she inquired at last, smiling hopefully. Her brother loved his horses. Surely that would get him talking.
Sofia hoped her presence gave her brother at least a modicum of comfort, though his dramatic words would indicate otherwise. She certainly hoped, too, that Rafail wasn’t dying, as that would be unfortunate for a number of reasons. Not least of which being that he was her favorite brother and most trusted confident. Still, if he didn’t die, Sofia was sure she would be hearing of this outrageous tragedy for months—if not years—to come.
Gasping softly in all the right places as Rafail recounted the harrowing tale, the teenage Marikas tried to imagine how awful the race must have been. Chariot races could be exciting on occasion, but Sofia usually found them boring. None of the intensity of gladiator fights—though races rarely had gore: a positive, in Sofia’s opinion—and little of the variety. She had seen enough of them, and they rarely changed. Racers speeding around the track, some minor aggressions, and then someone would win. This time, however, the royal girl felt guilt curling up in her stomach. She tried not to grimace at the mental image of her dear brother crashing to the ground, the victim of foul play. He might be exaggerating the story, but Sofia still felt that she should have been there. She should have been there to support Raf, even if this whole catastrophe had not happened.
“That sounds horrible,” she murmured, frowning lightly. “It would be a horrific tragedy if you couldn’t ride again—he will be okay, won’t he?” she turned to the physician, who grunted in acknowledgement and continued working. Physicians were not known for their bedside manner, she supposed, those a grunt was hardly comforting. “I can stay as long as you like,” she smiled, turning back to her brother and giving his hand a light squeeze. The guilt twisted further. She should have been there. Now, though, she was resolved to supporting Rafail however he needed.
“I—” she faltered, brows furrowing. “I admit I missed the race,” she sighed, hoping he wouldn’t be too hurt. “The colorful market stalls caught my attention—I thought I might find some special trinkets or hear the latest music.” She almost added that she had intended to return in time for the race, but lies would hardly comfort either of them at this point. Sofia sighed again, shifting to curl her legs beneath her on the edge of the bed, “I was wrong, of course. There was hardly anything interesting at the stalls. I did hear a lovely harp piece, though,” she added hastily, wanting to give her brother some small story to distract from the pain. “I’m so sorry. I promise, I’ll make your next race. I’m sure there will be a next one, after all, and you’ll be marvelous!” Biting her lip, she wracked her brain for something else to say. She felt mostly useless—usually, she was the one asking for stories. As a man, Rafail had a generally more exciting life than she did. “Which horse did you use? Is it injured?” she inquired at last, smiling hopefully. Her brother loved his horses. Surely that would get him talking.