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year 5, quarter 3
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When Ignis first arrived in Gorgon, the ground was covered in a thick layer of snow. It had crunched under his boots, muffled sound, made it more difficult to walk in an area where he already had no mental map. Even now, though he had been in the Yard nearly every day, Iggy had no concrete ideas of what the place looked like. The snow was gone, turned to nothing but slush and mud, but still the world around him was somewhat difficult to discern.
He was familiar with the path he and Gladio typically followed. There were groups and individuals who tended to keep to themselves; their own little pockets of outdoor space. Rurik’s men tended to be the most mobile, but Ignis had come to know most of their voices. Names didn’t matter, and it’s not as if he would get an honest answer if he ever asked for one. Many people muttered about Gladio as they passed by, but they nearly all stayed away.
Ignis corrected his path as Gladio’s hand gently nudged him. It irritated Iggy that he couldn’t be self-sufficient here, but there simply hadn’t been enough time to learn, and the freedom to do so was stolen away from him permanently. Everyone in Gorgon had a target on their back, though they varied in size and prize. As Iggy was a part of Gladio’s team now, his target was already large -- and his disability made it even larger.
Disability. Gorgon had forced him to face the cruel, blunt fact that Ignis was still half the man he once was. Without his sight, he lacked so much. He’d been doing decently well in the outside world, and Iggy hadn’t considered how hindered he’d be in a place like this. The thought gnawed away at him every night as he attempted to sleep in the unforgiving cold. He was a liability.
Thankfully, conversation dragged him from his self-deprecating thoughts. Mindlessly, he’d asked when Gladio would be forced into the ring again, hoping to hear that there would be a decently long time between bouts. It didn’t seem they’d be so lucky, however. Iggy frowned deeply when he heard that Gladio may be back in the ring again so quickly. Their more minor injuries were healed -- Ignis was none the worse for wear, in the grand scheme of things -- but he knew that Gladio’s knee was still likely recovering. Though his limp was gone, he could hear his friend struggle with the pressure put on it when going up stairs or pushing himself up into the top bunk.
“A week or so…,” the words left Ignis’s lips with a sigh, as he ran a hand through his dirty, matting hair, “That’s … much too soon.”
It was obvious, and cruel. The world would not wait on Gladio to fully heal. Iggy hid a shiver as he tugged his warm hat back on, pinching a bit of his cheek with his teeth as he mulled over the thoughts in his mind. It would be impossible to convince Gladio to let him fight, wouldn’t it? And really, how would he truly fare in the ring? Ignis was strong in his own right, but brute force wasn’t his style. Everyone in Gorgon’s walls played dirty. And the crowd would absolutely go wild, watching a blind man die.
Gladio stopped, sneezing heavily into his coat. Ignis paused next to him, instinctually reaching for a handkerchief that wasn’t there. Ah, well, perhaps he could fashion one out of a sleeve at some point. In the meantime, Gladio would have to mop up his nose with his sleeve … which would have driven Ignis insane nearly a month earlier. How easily things could change.
A conversation caught his attention. Iggy knew better than to turn toward any conversation going on nearby, as even though he was blind, people would still call him out for daring to look at them. There were voices, perhaps four of them, all mumbling on nearby. While he couldn’t catch their entire conversation, Ignis overheard differing parts of it. About money owed and who would pay. Someone was due to receive a dose. Basilisk?
“Gladio,” Ignis mumbled quietly, knowing well there was no one close enough to them to hear him speaking as he turned his head closer to Gladio’s shoulder, “What exactly is Basilisk?”
But its too late, to go back. I can see the darkness, through the cracks. Daylight fading, I curse the breaking. The day is gone.
It didn’t seem possible for life to return to some sort of “normal” after what happened with the fight in the ring. And yet, there they were, going back to the mess hall and the yard, whispers and stares following after them. Somewhere, blearily in Iggy’s exhausted and frozen mind, he knew this was absolutely absurd and horrific. Yet, the part of him that fought for nothing but survival had taken over, and he moved with the motions day in and day out at Gladio’s side.
The cold made for a decent enough healing balm. The swelling in his face had gone down significantly after a day or so, and the scars were healing up. Iggy insisted on cleaning and checking Gladio’s scars as well, making sure they were healing up as best they could. His own sense of humor had turned more morbid than it should, as he considered offering to break Gladio’s nose and reset it once they were out.
The joke died in his throat.
They spent the days healing, and Ignis wasn’t sure what to expect next. Everyone seemed to be satiated by the blood spilled over a week ago, at least, and things had been eerily calm -- for the world’s most horrific prison, anyway. There was still an awkwardness to Gladio’s gait as he walked, his knee still aching, but otherwise they appeared none the worse for wear.
Evening fell, and Ignis paused from attending to one of their coats -- patching up a hole best he could with the small amount of adhesive he’d managed to sneak away -- as he heard boot steps approaching from the outside. The steel door creaked and groaned as it slid open, only for a moment, before it was slammed shut again. Iggy shook off the ringing such a noise always caused for him, before attempting to make out what had been thrown on their floor.
Gladio had already crossed the small expanse of their cell, picking up one item and shaking it around. Fabric. Ah, it must have been another blanket. It landed in a heap next to where Ignis was perched on the bottom bunk. It smelled of must and mold, but felt a little less grating than the other one they had. The sound of crinkling packaging broke the muted silence, as Gladio tore into their other item.
Iggy took the offered item, turning it over between his fingers. It was dense and dry, and yet it smelled less offensive than the gruel they were served day in and day out. “Thank you,” came his quiet, but sincere reply, as he took a bite of the gift they’d been bestowed. It was flavorless and difficult to swallow -- yet that, all the same, was a blessing in disguise.
Gladio spoke, and Ignis couldn’t repress the small, sad smile that came to his lips. He hid it quickly with another bite of the bar. How long had it been, since Gladiolus had eaten something other than gruel, moldy bread, and old, stale rations? Had he given up on ever getting to eat real food again? Iggy hadn’t been in Gorgon long, and certainly not as long as Gladio had been by a mile, and yet he already found himself pining for what he’d lost.
“If I had a kitchen right now…,” he mused, leaning against the steel frame that supported the top bunk. Indeed, what would he make? Fully stocked, set with ingredients of all kinds. He could picture it -- his old lodgings back in Insomnia. The gas stove, the perfectly maintained cooktop, the drawer filled with spices, the cabinets and fridge stocked with fresh ingredients. He pictured looking out of the window and seeing snow.
“Something warm and spicy,” Iggy finally settled on an idea, as if he were looking at his own recipe book and flipping through the pages, “Delicate, yet filling. Do you recall the crustacean curry I’ve made before? I believe I got the idea for the recipe from a book Noctis picked up around Ravatogh.”
It seemed a thousand years ago and yesterday all at once. Ignis had been surprised to be handed the recipe book, a gift, but he made good use of it, “It’s a spicy red curry. The type that warms your mouth and throat, and it seems like you can feel it in the pit of your stomach. The smell of it lingered around camp, as it took hours to stew in the flavor.”
The taste of the ration bar was nothing like he was describing, and yet Iggy took another bite of it as he continued his explanation, “The cygillian crab is sweet and tender, and infused with that curry flavor. I can’t recall the amount of spices I used. Nearly every different chili powder we had, cumin, cinnamon, coriander, cracked pepper, ginger and garlic. The sweet peppers taste rich, swimming in that sauce. The recipe makes an entire stew pot’s worth, and between us we could clear the entire thing.”
He paused a beat, a genuine small and quiet laugh leaving his lips, “Well, you could probably eat the entire thing on your own. But I’d put up a fight in allowing you to do so.”
The smile on his face lingered for a moment, slowly falling as he chewed another bite of the cardboard ration.
But its too late, to go back. I can see the darkness, through the cracks. Daylight fading, I curse the breaking. The day is gone.
There was something disturbing about the casual cadence of Gladio’s lack of recollection. Ignis waited a few beats, sure that the memory of being in the ring would come back to him quickly enough. However, nothing but silence followed, as well as the hitch of Gladio’s breath as he began to push his body up. As Iggy went to lift underneath his friend’s shoulder, he felt something … off. Gladio’s shoulder had a strange amount of give. The Shield, though, was pushing through the pain, and Ignis cursed quietly as he wrapped his arms around Gladio’s midsection to help pull him up and support him bit by bit.
The metal frame of the bed protested under Gladio’s weight, but he was finally off the floor. Ignis listened to Gladio’s explanation, and found himself suddenly angry and ashamed by his lack of sight. If he could see, he could look into Gladio’s eyes for signs of a concussion. Even without that, though, he was sure that the Amicitia had one. How many times had this happened to him already? The idea that this was a casual, common occurrence made his stomach twist into an unpleasant knot. Iggy stepped away only briefly, grabbing the soaked, cold rag from the edge of the sink. He shooed Gladio’s hands away from his face, before placing the freezing, torn cloth to his cheek, to begin mopping up the mess that Rurik and his goons had caused.
“You already fought, yes,” Iggy mumbled, feeling for the rivulets of congealed blood with his left thumb before scrubbing them away with the rag in his right hand, “Two matches. The first was against one man, and the second was against two. You won both bouts.”
He tried to keep his voice as neutral and matter-of-fact as was possible, considering the circumstances. But, with his nose swollen and throat tight, it came out hoarse and coated with a thin layer of resentment toward their circumstances.
Gladio had noticed his injuries at that point. Ignis smirked and shook his head, forcefully tilting his friend’s chin upward as he dabbed at another cut, “It’s not your fault, Gladio. Rurik baited me into the ring. You told me before that match started to run as soon as it was over, but I’m afraid all logic and reasoning had left me at that point. I’m positive they wouldn’t have let me escape unscathed either way.”
He had beat up on Rurik’s men in the yard, after all. A blind man toppled two goons with a metal bar, after he’d been given protection from entering the ring by Gladio. They would have hunted him for revenge at some point, taken his blood as payment.
“They dislocated your shoulder,” Iggy interjected before Gladiolus could find any words to continue to blame himself for the incident, “I’ll get it back in place, and you know just how much it’s going to hurt. If you vomit, do mind where my feet are when you lurch forward.”
He set the rag down and placed his hands on either side of Gladio’s right shoulder. He told his dear friend that he would count down from five before moving.
He snapped it back at three.
But its too late, to go back. I can see the darkness, through the cracks. Daylight fading, I curse the breaking. The day is gone.
I know way too much about broken noses and what blood looks like in the nose and throat thanks to working for an ENT
Ignis awoke -- panicked.
That’s how he woke most days since coming to this world. Gasping for air, the traces of his final memory before losing his eyesight slowly teetering away with each passing beat of his heart. He’d always grasp for the closest thing and attempt to remember where he was. Truly, every environment was unknown, despite his skills to mentally map it out. Colors, patterns, decor; he could picture none of it, and it sent him spiraling into a panic first thing in the morning before true consciousness caught up to him.
This time, though, the reason for the panic was nothing so superficial. As he jolted up, an angry, ferocious pounding lit up his skull. Iggy groaned, a freezing hand coming to his face, feeling the partially dried flood of blood. Each breath brought a sharp pain to his chest. Slowly, his fingers mapped out the contours of his face, finding the wounds that had bled far too much, as facial damages tended to do. His largest scar, where the skin was the weakest, seemed to have betrayed him the most. A split lip. Was his nose broken?
One of his ribs certainly felt that way.
Ignis pulled in a breath through his mouth, his nose stuffed up and swollen, clearing his throat as it made its irritation known. The blood from his nose must have pooled there when he was lying down in--
Wait. By the gods, where was he?
The last few moments came back in a flash as Iggy threw his arms out in either direction to feel for something. The jeers and taunts of the crowd, the ring of the bell, the sound of bones cracking and blood and spit mixing on the mat. Rurik had gone into the ring and knocked Gladio unconscious, and he’d run in after him … And then ended up on the mat, shortly thereafter. Then again, you tend to make radical decisions when your friends are in danger, don’t you? a bit of his subconscious managed to grind out through the pounding headache.
His left hands found familiar, cold and grimy bars. His right hand found nothing but stone for a moment, before his fingers bumped into a boot. Their cell. The boot wasn’t his. “Gladio?” Ignis croaked out, his voice rough and somewhat muffled by his swollen nasal cavities. The blind man brought himself forward further, hands and knees on the freezing stone until he was by his friend’s side. Iggy placed one hand on Gladio’s chest, and another dug into the side of his neck, to the side of his trachea. Beneath his somewhat numbed fingertips was a strong pulse, and under his other hand Gladio’s chest was rising and falling -- hitching occasionally, but otherwise unencumbered.
“Gladio?” Ignis tried again, gently grasping and shaking at the larger man’s shoulder, “Can you hear me?”
There was no response. Iggy cursed under his breath, leaning back on his heels, listening to his own beating pulse in his skull. How long had he been unconscious for? Not too terribly long, he supposed, as the blood on his face hadn’t dried completely. Ignis moved one hand to gingerly feel at Gladio’s face, his fingers ghosting over the swelling and drying blood. Thankfully, it seemed most of the blood had come from his eyebrow wound and his nose. Head wounds bled like no other.
Iggy slowly rose to his feet, gritting his teeth and fighting through the pain in his head as he did so. Carefully, he stepped around Gladio and found his way to their sink, turning the handle of the tap and waiting the nearly 30 seconds before water began to trickle out. It was cold and dirty, he knew, but it was all they had. The bucket of supplies for the fights was kept in the arena, and so all he had to clean Gladio up with in their cell was horrid sink water and …
With a sigh, Ignis felt around for the bottom bunk. His hands found the blanket he knew was there, and he spun it until he found the frayed and already-torn end. He tore another strip from the thin fabric. It was hardly any sort of insulator as it was. He shoved the fabric strip under the sink water, soaking it and mumbling at how his fingers lost what little feeling they had left. He shut off the water, just in time to hear rustling on the floor behind him.
Gladiolus was waking up. Iggy released a breath, staying still next to the sink as his friend groaned, and barely made his way off of the floor. He must have tried to move his leg, as Gladio didn’t bother rising any further than sitting up; the groan of the metal bed frame the only indication as to what was holding his weight.
Ignis set the freezing rag down on the edge of the sink as Gladio called out for him, and Ignis responded with an equally quiet murmur, “Behind you.” He crossed the few steps between his position and Gladio’s, careful to be aware of where his friend’s injured legs were still splayed on the floor. Gladio’s question gave him pause, though, his brows furrowing as he came to the Shield’s side.
“Do you not remember that last match?” Ignis asked, clearing his throat as the dried blood threatened to cause him to cough, “... We should get you off the ground. They took out your knee, so it’s going to be .... unpleasant. But, I’ll be able to treat you a little better if you’re on the rock mattress rather than the rock floor.”
Iggy took in a solid breath past his dry lips, hooking one arm underneath Gladio’s armpit, ready to help raise him up onto the bed.
But its too late, to go back. I can see the darkness, through the cracks. Daylight fading, I curse the breaking. The day is gone.
Gladio’s angry words on his behalf were lost amongst the roar of the crowd. Though he’d spent months blind, experiencing the world only through sound, Ignis had felt confident in his ability to find his way around things, to live as normally as he possibly could. Until that moment, where in the insatiable buzz and screech of the crowd, he couldn’t ground himself. It was just a moment -- gone as soon as it had come -- but for a few, horrific seconds, Iggy couldn’t place himself in the room. The edge of the mat was under his fingertips, but all words were nothing but garbled noise.
An icy fear thrust itself into his gut, but it was quickly dismissed with the ring of the bell.
That sound, just as terrible as any other, brought Ignis back into the moment. He sucked in a breath, shaking off the hands of the man who had pulled him out of the ring as it became apparent that the blind man had no intention of interrupting the match. The match started slow, but it was enough for Ignis to map out who was where, and what their builds must have been like. He grit his teeth as the crowd heckled, hungry for blood.
This truly was a world of nothing but cold and violence.
Blows were finally traded, the only sound in the ring that of skin on skin, bone on bone; the rush of air forced from lungs, the unintentional grunt of a hit to the abdomen. Ignis could do nothing to help other than urge his friend onward, barking words of encouragement when he could. It seemed as if things were moving in the right direction for a bit, with Gladio managing to handle the two-fold attackers on his own. If Ignis hadn’t spent years training with Noctis and Gladiolus in Insomnia, he’d wonder where such stamina and determination came from. It was a fact, in his mind, that it would take something more than human to stop Gladio when there was a goal in his sight.
However, when a horrific snap and an agonized scream filled the air, Ignis felt the blood drain from his face. His actions must have been apparent on his face, as the ringman’s arms came around him as Iggy clambered at the side of the mat. Gladio had hit the ground, he knew it, he could hear the other men beating him -- ! Ignis was hardly aware of the hands grabbing at him and holding him back, he knew he was screaming something, but the words from his own mouth were lost in the roar of the crowd.
It all seemed too slow, and yet so fast at the same time. The momentum of the crowd changed, and there was surprise from the ring. Ignis heard another body drop. Stunned, he stopped fighting against the arms holding him back and listened, hard. By some miracle, he could hear Gladio’s ragged breaths as he took painful steps in the ring. His breath hitched each time he put weight on his bad leg. It was the worst kind of relief. The world still reeked of blood, the crowd still jeered and cheered for Gladio’s downfall, but Gladio was still moving, and that’s what mattered.
The rest of the fight passed in a quick blur, and in what seemed to be moments, the bell rang and the announcer bellowed out Gladio’s victory. Ignis ducked his head, ignoring the shaking in his fingers. Gladio had stumbled to the other side of the ring -- he’d need to make his way over to treat him. There wouldn’t be any running, not with whatever snapped in his dear friend’s leg. Ignis moved, one hand still on the mat, grabbing his bucket of supplies, when he suddenly felt another pair of footsteps reverberate through the material.
Two hands came together for a slow, drawn out clap. And, as the man opened his mouth, Ignis immediately realized who it was.
“Gladio!” Iggy’s voice felt raw as he shouted for his friend, over whatever meaningless jeering Rurik was spouting, “Gladio, move!”
It was too late. Rurik took quick steps and with one kick, Gladio was on the ground once more. No hands came to hold Ignis back as he scrambled under the ropes, clawing his way onto the bloodied mat. He could make out Rurik’s laughter over the roar of the crowd as his hands slid in blood and spit as he pushed himself to his feet. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, Ignis knew he was making a terrible mistake. Then again, rationale tended to flee when the lives of his friends were in danger.
He quickly cleared the space between them, and as predicted, his first swing was easily dodged. Ignis stumbled, finding the ropes with his hands, before turning back and moving toward Rurik’s position again. He couldn’t say what caused him to dodge Rurik’s own fist -- perhaps it was just dumb luck -- but nothing stopped Iggy’s boot from making contact with his opponent. It was a high kick, a desperate shot, but it landed nonetheless.
Victory was extremely short lived. Rurik cursed, spitting on the mat as Ignis readjusted his position -- but the man moved too quickly for him. As Ignis went to dodge another swing, his foot got caught on a body, causing him to stumble. And that was that.
Blinding, horrific pain bloomed in his left temple. Iggy barely had the wherewithal to shout, before another hit landed squarely into his gut. Then another to the back of his head as he doubled over.
When … did he hit the ground?
The symphony of the crowd began to tune in and out, crescendoing and then becoming almost mute. Pain seared across his skin. Blood ran across his face. It was only in split moments that consciousness came back to him, but as he’d flail his limbs in an attempt to get back up, the pain would only come back twice as terribly. How many times had a boot hit him? Or, was it fists? He wasn’t sure. Every time he was sure that it was over, another terrible sensation brought Ignis back into reality.
Eventually, the world went quiet. There was nothing but the feeling of blood on his face, under his skin. Uneven breaths in his chest. He wanted to cough, but he couldn’t.
The sound of the world dimmed further from a buzz, into nothingness.
But its too late, to go back. I can see the darkness, through the cracks. Daylight fading, I curse the breaking. The day is gone.
Gladiolus’s temporary silence spoke louder than the jeering and cheering crowds. Ignis narrowed his functioning, useless eye as he worked, biting back any further commentary he had. It was all useless, angry complaints about the nature of the situation they found themselves in. That this horrific place had any need to pit people against each other for entertainment when they’d already suffered minute to minute, hour to hour, plenty.
The world was cruel, but Gorgon was crueler.
His friends response was toneless and cold, and Iggy knew not the press the matter further. Instead, he simply focused on his work -- it was all he could do, for the moment. His calloused fingers found the areas of Gladio’s face that were the warmest, beginning to swell and raise. Ignis applied the cold bottle he had to them one at a time, urging the swelling to subside. There was only so much he could do, but what he could, he would perform to his utmost ability.
Behind him were the sounds of the excited and pleased crowd as Murdock’s body was dragged out of the area. Ignis released a held breath, trying to focus on picking up any important sounds as they came. However, it was nothing but a garbled mixture of noise and words that, strung together, made little sense. Picking out one person was near impossible, given the distance, yet he picked up something strange.
“Are they ready?”
They? Didn’t Gladio have another round? The electronic whirr of the microphone blazed back to life and Iggy’s hands froze as he heard footsteps enter the ring. No, not one set, but two. One stomped heavier than the other, but both moved eagerly and quickly on the opposing side of the ring.
Gladio reacted before he could, hissing through his teeth. Ignis turned, a towel clenched in his death grip as the announcer blared about a special exhibition. They were sending in two men to fight Gladiolus this time. Panic gripped Ignis’s heart and adrenaline began to pump through his veins. He stood frozen for a moment, his eye wide in disbelief, as footsteps approached. There was an unfamiliar hand on his shoulder, pushing him toward the ropes to get him out of the ring.
“No,” the denial slipped through Iggy’s teeth before he could stop it, angry and frustrated, “No, if they’re sending in two, then I am joining this fight--!”
However, his protests were silenced as hands reached through the ropes and began to pull him through, whether he wanted to go or not. He lost his footing, falling to the mat before the strange hands pulled him out and onto the cold, hard ground below. The same pair of hands grabbed at the clothes of his back while Ignis struggled, heaving him back up and shoving him against the corner.
“Don’t even think about it,” came the gruff, unrecognizable voice that had pulled him out of the ring, “You ain’t helpin, you’re the reason it’s happenin’.”
Ignis stilled, his hands on the edge of the ring. His breath came out in short, angry bursts between his rattled teeth. … There was nothing he could do, at the moment. He could only hold tight to Gladio’s words -- to be ready to run, as soon as the fight ended.
But its too late, to go back. I can see the darkness, through the cracks. Daylight fading, I curse the breaking. The day is gone.
Gladio had no answer for his accidental slip of the tongue, and Ignis found himself thankful for the moment. Truth be told, the entire experience was already overwhelming enough. The sounds of voices echoed all around him, the scrape of chairs against concrete distant, the creak of wooden benches. The shared stench of all the different inmates made it difficult to pinpoint any one person. Iggy painted a constantly changing visual of the area in his mind -- but it felt so imperfect, so confusing.
With one last loop and a quick double check by feeling, Ignis finished the wraps on Gladio’s hands securely. He could only hope he’d done an adequate job with the quick training he’d been given, but Gladiolus appeared to have no complaints, the crinkle of tape barely audible as he flexed his hands. There was movement in the ring; footsteps.
Ignis could only nod as Gladio informed him what his first injury would be, as if he’d lived it a thousand times before. He recalled feeling that particular knot of scar tissue over Gladio’s eye, gnarled and too close to bone. Facial injuries always bled terribly. With his few resources to help his dear friend through the matches by his side, Ignis could do nothing but wait, listen, and learn.
And pray.
The announcer’s voice came over the speakers, all too loud. Ignis listened intently, arms crossed over his chest as the opponent was introduced. He seemed to be making a show of things, growling and bouncing around a lot. He’d won in the ring five times, it seemed, and had a murder conviction that had trapped him within Gorgon’s walls.
Murdock’s entrance was finished, and it hit Ignis like a sudden bullet that they were to announce Gladio’s records in the same way. He felt his heart sink down to his gut as the words flew from the announcer’s mouth with near glee like it was some sort of spectacle.
Eight counts of murder. Fifty-five appearances in the ring.
Just when things seemed like they couldn’t get any more eerily serious, anymore real, another surprise came. Whether it was in words or sudden attacks or stories. Gladiolus had been imprisoned within the walls for years, all of his scars and broken bones, his calloused and clunky hands, it was all this and more. Iggy felt sick. Outwardly, he didn’t move, feet planted to the ringside and face tense with concentration. But inside, the already thin and delicate facade that they could make it out was cracking. Gladio had lived something worse than hell for all of these years, and never made it out. He may have been lucky to be alive.
The bell rang, shaking Ignis from his thoughts. Enough, you need to focus, for both your sakes.
Footsteps quick and heavy across the mat, thumping hard. The pace wasn’t right, that wasn’t Gladio, it must have been Murdock. The familiar sound of skin-on-skin and bone-on-bone rang through the air, louder for Ignis than any screaming that came from the crowd. It was … near impossible to tell which blows belonged to who. They were too quick. The only hints came from grunts and spittle as the two combatants moved about the ring.
The crowd erupted, and over the stink of the prison, Ignis picked up on the subtle, iron-y scent of blood. Thick droplets hit the mat, one after another, plit plit. It must have been Gladio’s eye. There was a brief pause, where Murdock’s ugly laughter crawled across the space between them. Then, just as suddenly, movement resumed and a horrid sound rang out. Iggy strained to discern what had happened, before picking up one of Gladio’s heaving breaths -- thank god, it wasn’t him. Another loud crack rang out, and footsteps became less focused, wobbling.
A body hit the mat, shaking it. Another fell purposefully and the sounds came louder and more intense -- crunching.
Ignis felt sick. The humane part of him screamed, why is no one stopping the match? The man is down, he’s not getting up -- yet the logical part of him knew.
This was what made the money. This was what everyone was there for.
The announcer stepped in and announced the obvious fact of Gladio’s victory. Ignis felt steps coming back toward him and immediately grabbed his necessary supplies. Gladio was sat down for Ignis to work on; pushing an open water bottle of questionable quality into his hands, Ignis worked with a damp towel, to clean his face. A cotton swab, not thick enough, to press against the weeping wound. A solution to help constrict the blood vessels in his cut. Vaseline to cover it. They didn’t have much to work with, and so Iggy had to be sparse, had to be quick. His stomach was still turning as he caught the words whispered about Murdock, broken orbital bone, he’ll be out for some time if he manages to live.
“So, that’s what it’s like,” the simple admission wasn’t a question, it was just a statement. A fact. An acknowledgement of what was to come, and what Gladiolus had endured all this time. Ignis smoothed the towel over Gladio’s face one last time, dodging the covered cut on his eyebrow. The crowd was already riling up for the next blood bath.
It’s sickening.
But its too late, to go back. I can see the darkness, through the cracks. Daylight fading, I curse the breaking. The day is gone.
Some months ago, Ignis would have been happy to quip back to Gladio, Of course, aren’t I always the only one that takes your advice? But, those days were long gone, it seemed. Lost to the sands of time in their transition to a strange and harsh new world.
Ignis dropped the weight bar where he stood and walked alongside Gladiolus, listening to the crunch of snow and frozen dirt under his boots. The whispers in the yard were hardly quiet to him -- more people speaking near directly into his ear. Some people moved out of their path, and others stood still too dangerously close. He missed the bar in his hands at that moment; the sudden feeling of defenselessness. Keeping people further than an arm's length was necessary, in his current state, in an unfamiliar environment. The cold always seemed to bite the worst, when realizations like that dawned on him.
Iggy smirked, shaking his head at Gladio’s words, “Yes, I figured that would hardly be the end of it.”
A pause, and Gladio complimented his work. Normally, Ignis would have brushed off such a remark, but considering the amount of work he’d done in such a short amount of time to recover some of his abilities, he accepted the rare chance for his chest to swell with an inkling of pride.
“I lost steps,” Iggy was quick to correct Gladio, as they approached the prison walls to continue their miserable day, “But, I re-learned to walk.”
---Day 3---
The morning of the fights had passed in a flash. Gladio went over with Ignis one more time what exactly he needed to do in the corner for him, what tools he would have, and what to expect in the matches. The fighting might be ugly, the crowd might be restless -- but that was all expected. The fights weren’t for the inmates, but for the warden, and for the prison itself. They were a money maker. They decided rank among the prisoners, yes, but that was their only benefit.
The crowd was growing, and with it, the noise level as well. Ignis strained to listen to the sounds in the ring, memorizing the noise shoes and feet made against the fabric. There was a lot to take in, and not a lot of time to do so. Gladio’s first match was against someone lower on the totem pole, one of Rurik’s goons, but Iggy couldn’t be bothered to recall the name. Not at that moment.
Ever a master of hiding his uncertainty, Ignis instructed Gladio to clench his fists, so that he could wrap his wrists. Never before had Iggy been so thankful for his natural ability to learn something and master it quickly. The tape rolled in his hands easily, his fingers quick and precise as he moved from one wrist to the next; ensuring a proper wrap.
He was, of course, given very little to work with. It would be just enough to get Gladiolus through both of his matches, if he had to guess. Only a few towels, a couple of bottles of water, a pitiful, beaten bucket. He was, thankfully, given a few things to quickly treat injuries … And there was no getting around that injuries would occur. Ignis had felt the scars and badly healed breaks of enough on Gladio’s skin.
“How many times have you fought in this ring?” The question, quiet and frustrated, wasn’t meant to make it past his lips. Ignis paused a moment, realizing the words had gotten through, before shaking his head at himself and tapping Gladio’s hand to spread his fingers. His friend’s palms were sweating, but Ignis hardly noticed as he followed through with the tape, “Sorry. The barbaric nature of this ordeal is becoming very real, very quickly.”
It wasn’t a fear he was sharing, nor a pity. It was simply disbelief. That this was real, that a prison forced its inmates to fight for sport, that Gladiolus had been doing it for gods knew how long. Adrenaline snaked its way through Iggy’s veins, despite the fact that his only action would be in the corner of the ring. He didn’t need to worry, a part of him tried reassuring his anxiety.
He’s already been hurt enough, another, louder voice successfully countered.
But its too late, to go back. I can see the darkness, through the cracks. Daylight fading, I curse the breaking. The day is gone.
As expected, the men were out looking for trouble.
Ignis furrowed his brows, his broken eyesight resting only on the bar that was still within his hands, resting on the bench. From the moment he’d set foot in the rotting fortress, he’d had his guard up. His back was consistently tensed, jaw locked tightly. A loose tongue was all that betrayed that sense of danger; able only to deal with the constant barrage of joint pains and retched smells with a strong wit. It had only been two days, a voice rumbled in the back of his head. Two days.
Gladio confirmed to the men that Ignis would indeed be his cornerman and not the spectacle of the day. They were as displeased as everyone else had been, of course. He picked up on the sounds of footsteps moving forward, flanking away from where he knew Gladio to be standing. Like hungry beasts in the field, surrounding a much larger, more dangerous prey.
Iggy flexed his near frozen fingers against the metal in his grip. Feet moved quickly and the shuffle began. The sound of a fist slamming into something boney echoed loudly. Two sets of footsteps continued to move quickly, past the sound of the where the scuffle was occurring.
There were only seconds to react. Ignis hauled the hefty bar off of the bench, quickly spinning his body to the right to slam the edge of it against a warm, giving body. He heard the heave of the man losing his breath and staggering, before slipping in the snow and falling. Pinpointing all the different sounds was still a work in progress for Ignis, though, and the second assailant was able to slip behind him. A horrid pain flared up in his back as the man took a strong swing right at Iggy’s kidneys. Scientia grit his teeth and whirled the metal bar once more. However, there wasn’t as much pushback against the makeshift weapon as there should have been. He must have clipped the man.
The chaos of sound blended together; grunts and steps and breathes, the stretch of fabric, the crunch of bone. Ignis took the only moment he was allowed to sort through the mess, before stepping forward a few steps and taking a strong jab forward with the bar.
The man must have thought there was no way Ignis could have pinpointed him. The butt of the bar slammed into the man’s chest, and he quickly fell back with an ungraceful, gargled yelp.
The bar was tugged in his hands. The first man had apparently gotten to his feet and run over to try and help his friend, “Fight with your fists you--.”
The insult went unfinished and morphed into a yelp as Ignis stepped back and placed a well-timed kick to the man’s abdomen. He yanked the bar free from the man’s grasp and knocked him back to the ground with another powerful strike.
Iggy listened for more movement, and tensed as he heard someone jogging his way. He relaxed his shoulders, though, as he recognized the gait as Gladio’s. He took a few steps away from the semi-beaten man at his feet, the weight bar still clutched tightly in his hands like a polearm once would have been. If he hadn’t had the weapon, he wouldn’t have fared as well, and Ignis knew that. The two-on-one fight only worked because he’d had the advantage of something to swing.
Unable to really process the fact that he’d been attacked simply for not fighting before, Ignis defaulted to turning his nose up at the situation rather than trying to make logic from madness.
“I suppose they should have listened to you.”
But its too late, to go back. I can see the darkness, through the cracks. Daylight fading, I curse the breaking. The day is gone.
The soft bump of a body against a light door broke Ignis of his train of ever depressing thoughts. He could hear Cissnei’s footsteps across the floor, the sound of items on a metal tray. He kept his unseeing gaze on the table, however, as items were placed near him. His hands stayed politely folded in his lap, until each item had found its place. The first she’d set down for him had certainly been the coffee, if the aroma was anything to guess by.
Told to enjoy, Iggy was sure that he would. How long had it been since he’d had a simple, delicious cup of coffee? He smiled and uttered a polite, “thank you”, before reaching forward to find the warm cup of coffee. He bumped the ceramic gently with his fingers, before carefully grasping the handle of the mug. Iggy brought it close, inhaling the delicious aroma. Before tasting it, he could tell that it was a dark roast, full-bodied, with a hint of spice. Smiling to himself, he took a cautious sip.
Ah, delectable! Even just a subtle sip of the hot beverage brought a warmth to his fingertips that had been missing for quite some time. Ignis allowed himself another long sip, feeling his shoulders relax. It truly was simply that; tasty. While it wasn’t Ebony, the coffee was good in its own right.
Ignis wished that he could ignore the tray of food. It seemed so very rude to eat something given to him out of the goodness of Cissnei’s heart, while other customers had paid expressly for what they wanted. Yet, it was already here, unable to be given away to anyone else now that it had been presented to him. He would have to find a way to pay her back, in some form.
A mixture of scents came from the tray, mostly that of confectionary sugar. However, he also detected a hint of something acrid … Perhaps, something that had baked for just a smidge too long. Ignis wasn’t sure who was baking the goods here at the cafe, but maybe he could speak to them afterwards with either compliments or concerns. A curious hand found the tray, as he cautiously touched what lay within. A cookie, something soft and jiggling (jello, or flan maybe?), a small cake, and what felt like a scone.
Iggy took the scone and went to break off the corner, intending to just try a bit with his coffee. Yet the pastry was oddly … resistant. It took entirely too much power from his hand to break off just a small piece. Oh, no, that was quite concerning. Taking his coffee into his left hand, the former-daily-chef prepared to soak the scone if need be.
He popped the bit of pastry into his mouth.
Oh, by the gods, no. It didn’t crumble, it crunched. The longer it sat in his mouth, the more apparent that was far from the only thing that was wrong with it. The texture was atrocious, but so was the flavor. Iggy quickly took a sip from his coffee to help the wronged baked good soften, painfully swallowing it once it was sufficiently chewed. What … flavor was that supposed to even be? Pure, solid, rock?
If only the bad luck ended there. Each bite of each pastry made Ignis’s hair stand on end. The cookie was burnt and tough, the chocolate chips entirely too bitter for an already acrid batter. The small hand cake seemed to be filled with baking soda, yet dense as a puck. The frosting was oily and it seemed the texture would never leave his tongue. The flan was … of nightmares. How could something be so soft and gritty at the same time!?
Ignis leaned on his coffee in an attempt to get through the taste test from hell. However, once the cup was empty, he dared not take another bite of anything.
But good lord, what did he say!? What could he do!? He didn’t want to insult the chef, and yet …
Well, he was insulted on the food’s behalf.
As Ignis detected Cissnei’s footsteps nearby, he cleared his throat to get her attention. And, well, dislodge a bit of terrible cookie crumble.
“I’m sorry to force you over here once more,” Iggy stated, truly apologetic as he placed his empty cup to the side, “I was wondering if it would be alright to ask for another cup of coffee?”
There was an awkward silence for a split moment, as he debated how to proceed, “And … perhaps a word with your chef, if possible.”
But its too late, to go back. I can see the darkness, through the cracks. Daylight fading, I curse the breaking. The day is gone.
