Taking the Chain

The crowd roared, shaking the very foundations beneath Durus' feet. From the cacophony, the chants rang clear.

"Mordax, Mordax, Mordax!"

Durus' smiled as he pulled his sweat-laden leathers from his body. His bout in the arena had been successful and while he too had received his share of cheers and chants, it paled in comparison to the chorus that Mordax was receiving.

Mordax was in his first season, a fresh young gladiator going up against some of the most seasoned and awarded Minotaur the arena had ever seen. And he was winning. He'd quickly become a crowd favourite, and it wasn't just because of his fighting prowess. Mordax jeered at his opponents, toyed with them, and made a show to the crowds when he won. Young. Cocky. Invincible in his youth.

Durus had been itching to fight the young bull all season. And Mordax had just won his final bout. Tomorrow, at last, they would face each other, and Durus would put the arrogant bull in his place.

Durus quickly rinsed the sweat and dirt from his body before stepping into the steaming baths. They were blessedly empty, the other fighters having left in indignation as their chances of winning the title were crushed beneath stronger opponents. Beneath him. Durus leaned back as the chants died off. The hot waters soothed his aching muscles.

The clop of hooves interrupted his drowsing thoughts, and Durus had to smile as his future opponent entered the baths.

Mordax was the perfect example of a peak Minotaur body. He was tall and broad, his shoulders boulders of pale muscles with a trail of thick hair trailing down his chest to his crotch. His red unruly hair, the soft brown of his nose and the wide-spread upright fashion of his horns showed his ancestry from across the oceans. He also dared to stain his horns in bright colours, today they were tipped in blue, contrasting ridiculously with the red of his hair. It was just another reason the crowds loved him. He stood out amongst the other bulls.

But Durus wasn't intimidated. He came from a long line of fighters, trained for decades, his horns curled and pointed forward like any decent fighter should. His fur was as black as night and gleamed almost blue in the right light. While he didn't stand out for blushing maidens to swoon over, anyone with true knowledge would look at him and know he was a prime specimen of Minotaur breeding.

"Still," he thought, watching Mordax step out of his leathers. "I can see the appeal."

There wasn't a mark on Mordax's pale skin. He'd won his fight effortlessly.

Even more reason for Durus to look forward to tomorrow's fight. Mordax would challenge him properly, and give him a good fight. And when he had the bull pushed into submission and offered him the chain, it would be all the sweeter when Mordax conceded his defeat.

"Durus," Mordax said with joy. "Congratulations on your victory earlier. It was an exciting match. But for a moment I truly thought I would be facing Velox tomorrow."

The smile fell from his face. Durus shifted slightly, feeling the press of fresh bruises against his back. Velox had gotten a hit in yes, but the match was completely incomparable. How could anyone think for a moment Velox could have bested him?

"I was scared," Mordax said, stripping out of his skirts and kicking them aside. "I have been excited to fight you since I first entered the arena."

He pulled the leather ties free from his hips that held his manhood in place and showed just how excited he was. Durus couldn't help when his eyes fell on Mordax's crotch. Only half-hard, it was clear the bull's cock was just as proportional to the rest of his impressive body. Durus scoffed and began to knead at the muscles on his thighs.

It was impressive for sure, but it too paled in comparison to Durus' cock.

"Are you that eager to be put in the dirt?" Durus snorted, flicking the ring in his nose.

It was pure gold. The sign of his three-year reign as champion. Mordax, of course, only wore one of plain black steel, and until Durus retired he would make sure Mordax never wore the gold.

"I am undefeated," Mordax smiled. He ran a wet hand through his hair, slicking back his arrant locks and revealing large brown eyes. "And you are getting old, perhaps it is time you accept the passing of the tides and give up?"

Durus snorted, sitting up straight as his pride demanded he show this young upstart, then and there, what he was capable of. Old!? The arrogance of this whelp. He was only twenty-seven, and Mordax had to be at least twenty-one himself to even enter the arena.

"You arrogant fool," he seethed. "You go out there and taunt your appointments, you flirt with the crowds, and you paint your horns like some slut from the lower quarter. You have no respect for the traditions and yet you mock me?"

"Traditions," Mordax scoffed. "This is a game, a pale shadow of what it used to be. If we were playing by traditions, the defeated would take the chain and submit, like in the old days. Now it is all for show. Would you take it, if it were offered to you? When did you last hear someone take it?"

Not in Durus' lifetime.

In the old days, when the arena was a blood sport, determining life and death, the defeated had only two outcomes. They would either refuse the chain and accept their death, or they would take it, submitting to the victor before the crowds. These days, the offering of the chain was purely symbolic. The loser would refuse the chain, and instead of death, they would simply walk away, burdened by the weight of their loss.

Nevertheless, Durus stewed at Mordax's words.

"I do not even have to think about whether I would take it or not," he said, bursting up out of the steaming water. "I have never lost a fight, I have never known the shame of being offered the chain. It is beyond my abilities to even consider taking it."

He waded out of the water, his bronze skin flushed from more than the water. How dare Mordax even suggest such a thing? Him! Losing a fight! His hooves struck the ground hard enough to crack tile as he snatched up a towel.

"I am yet to lose a fight either," Mordax called from the waters. "But tomorrow one of us will fall."

"And when you lose, I have no doubt you will turn down the chain since you have no respect for traditions," Durus spat.

He began to dry himself off quickly, wanting to be away from the arrogant bull more than anything.

"Since you are so undefeatable and fixated on your precious traditions, then perhaps you would like to make a bet?"

Durus snorted and flicked the ring of his nose once more.

"And what do you propose?" he asked, throwing his towel aside.

"Tomorrow, when our fight is over, the defeated will take the chain, and submit before the crowds."

"Deal," Durus said without a second thought.

Mordax's eyes widened, the smug sense of self, draining from his face. Durus smiled, looking the bull up and down. He didn't think Durus would accept his offer. There was no doubt in his mind that he would win tomorrow. And it was true, Mordax truly was a prime specimen. His cock throbbed, twitching with interest. It would be a great honour and pleasure to take the bull tomorrow, as both a testament to his abilities as a fighter, but also, a return to tradition.

Of course, the arrogant bull ruined it all by bursting out laughing. Mordax let his gaze travel lazily down Durus' naked form to rest on his half-hard cock.

"I look forward to it," he said, his eyes locked. He licked his lips, and then leaned back with a sigh, resting his elbows on the edge of the pool. "I shall have sweet dreams tonight, of the cheers the crowd will make when I pull you to your knees."

Durus sneered, spat on the ground and walked away. Tomorrow, he would wipe that smirk off Mordax's face and replace it with bellows of ecstasy.

***

Durus' leathers creaked as he rolled his shoulders, the light armour well oiled. His sword gleamed and was sharpened to within the permitted edge. His shield was also carefully tended, the metal shining, and the arm strap secure without being restrictive. Durus' entire morning had been dedicated to preparing for this match, and not once. He held himself upright and steady, prepared for his bout with Mordax as he was for any match. Not even the chanting of Mordax's name of his own diminished his spirit.

He would win this final fight, just as he had won every fight before.

The gate before him shuddered, grit and dirt raining down as it pulled from its holdings and began to rise. Blinding white light poured in and the roaring of the crowd doubled. Unperturbed but the thrill of the crowd, Durus stepped out into the arena, beating his pommel against his shield. The sands were hot beneath his hooves, squeaking with each step. Before him, through the haze of heat rising from the grounds, Mordax seemed small as he stepped through his doors onto the battleground.

Mordax was a duel wielder, holding long curved blades in either hand. He roared as he stepped out, swinging his blades in an overly showy fashion, the whirl of the blades cutting through the wind perceptible to Durus even through the din of voices. Then Mordax turned to them, the crowds, the humans that came to watch them fight, and he riled them up, raising his arms and encouraging their cheers. They responded to his push, the chaos of so many voices so loud it was a near physical thing that pushed at Durus from all sides.

He sneered, whirled his blade once to test the weight and then braced his shield. He strode into the arena, stopping right before the coiled chain that signified the centre, happy to wait while Mordax continued to bathe in the attention of the crowds. Durus lowered his head so that he peered over the shield, hiding the smile on his face. It would be all the sweeter to knock Mordax down when he projected himself so much.

At last, Mordax seemed to be taking it seriously, as he diverted his attention away from the crowds and stepped to the centre ring. Slowly, the noise died as the two warriors stood opposite one another.

"Here we are at last," Mordax said, his chest puffed forward, his swords held low at each side. "I have dreamt of this day since I first saw you enter the ring."

"You flatter me," Durus said, with a sneer.

His eyes flicked to the chain at his hooves and he couldn't help but nudge the thick links.

"Don't forget our bet," he said.

"I would never," Mordax said with such conviction that Durus' found himself on the back foot. He'd said it with such seriousness he sounded as though he was pledging his life. And if they were truly playing to traditions, then he was. Would Durus be within his rights to strike Mordax down if he refused the chain?

He shuddered away from the thought. How could he? The arena was no longer a blood sport, and it would be a terrible waste of beautiful flesh to kill Mordax.

His eyes lingered over Mordax's body, beneath the leather, his chest rose and fell, straining against the armour. Mordax's skin shone as though freshly oiled, accentuating the definition of his muscles. Every part of him shone in precision, and Durus could not help but admire him. Durus' cock strained against his leather thong, longing to dominate such a strong body.

Durus shook his head and snorted. It would not do to be distracted by such things when the fight was about to begin.

The crowd was deathly silent, and the two rivals stared at one another waiting for the bell to chime and signify the beginning of their fight. Durus shifted his weight, testing his hooves against the sand. Across from him, Mordax whirled the sword in his right hand. The quiet was deafening, the slightest cough or snort from the crowd echoing across the space.

The bell rang.

Durus sprang forward, raising his shield and thrusting it forward, hoping to stun his opponent early on. But Mordax easily stepped aside, his blades whirling with a whistle of air. They swept by him, their sharpened blades barely missing his bare forearm.

He struck out, forcing Mordax's blade away, only to have to leap back from his second. Swinging his shield around, he grazed the other warrior's arm, knocking him away but not shattering bone as his swing would have if it had connected properly. The two of them stepped back, staring at one another as they reassessed.

Durus had fought and bested two-handed fighters before. They were eager and quick, and Mordax was no different in that regard. But he pulled away when others would continue. Durus had studied his fighting style and knew the young bull had exceptional stamina. Like a fisherman letting a reel run loose, only to force their prey in again, Mordax hoped to weary him. But he would not be defeated so easily.

Durus swung his sword low, and as Mordax jumped over it, he swung his shield high, battering the bull in his perfect face. The impact shuddered up his arm, but Durus followed through, even as the ache jarred his shoulder. Mordax landed on his back but kept moving, flipping his legs over his head and stumbling upright once more. With a roar, he whirled, both blades flashing towards Durus.

Metal clanged as shield and sword met, the force of their blows sending them both spinning away.

Durus knew that there was a crowd that watched them, that his very honour and championship were at stake. But all of it melted away as the fight continued. He knew Mordax was good. But he didn't realise how good. For every charge, Mordax met with equal enthusiasm. His swings were blocked, his attacks thwarted and his defence penetrated.

Sweat poured from his brow and down his back. His chest heaved, the air heavy with heat and the taste of salt sucked the moisture from his tongue. Muscles cramped and threatened to give out. Fingers ached, skin split and scrapped. And yet it was the best fight of Durus' life. For the first time in years, he felt challenged. He laughed out loud as Mordax deflected a blow that would have shattered the bones of any other opponent.

And Mordax too seemed to thrill in their fight. He roared and laughed and leapt nimbly as though it was a game. It should have enraged Durus, but it enlivened him more. Here was a fellow warrior, perfect in almost every way. But as Durus swept his sword high, swinging his shield low towards Mordax's left knee, he knew he was not faultless. There could be only one winner.

His shield connected and Mordax went down. He rolled away, the continuous assault of the sand drawing blood from both of their bared skin, but when he rolled to his feet, the battered knee gave way, spurring Durus forward. Mordax crumpled to his knees. Durus brought his sword down with all the force his tiring body could enforce. Mordax cried out, crossing his swords overhead to catch the descending blade.

The blade did not descend on his head, nor was it deflected away. The weight of it forced Mordax down, his arms crumpling as his wrists bent, the blades tumbling away. He crashed to the ground with a huff of air, rolling away once again. But it was slower, his movements not as graceful. Durus kicked out, catching the bull on his shoulder and sending him tumbling across the sand. He stalked after the warrior and before he could right himself, pressed his hoof to the bull's back and pushed him to the sands.

Mordax bellowed as he pushed against the stronger bull. Thick veins pulsed in his neck as he continued to try to free himself. That was where Durus pressed his sword. Mordax stilled as a thin line of blood welled up, snaking slowly down his neck.

"Do you yield?" Durus asked. He was surprised to find his breath billowing in and out of him. Now that the fight was over, a hundred aches and pains were making themselves known. Sweat lathered his sides, little cuts and abrasions stung from the salt of his exertion. His sword, once flawless, now held numerals furrows and dents. It was the best fight of his life.

"I yield," Mordax said, his body going limp.

The world rushed back in and Durus remembered they weren't alone, the crowd roared, a mix of excitement and disappointment. They called his name in chants, and beneath it all were those who mourned the defeat of their favourite.

Durus stepped back, freeing his opponent. No longer concerned, he turned his back to Mordax and made his way to the centre of the arena. He picked up the chain. It was heavier than he remembered, his arm quivering as he held the length up. The crowd cheered once more, but the excitement from earlier had lessened. He had already won. What did they care about the ritual of the chain?

Durus turned to where he had left Mordax, only to find the bull right behind him. He was defeated, but still, he walked upright, unlike all the others Durus had defeated who approached with slumped shoulders and glares of contempt. Smiling, Durus held out the chain.

Without hesitation, Mordax snatched the chain from his hand and clipped it to the black steel in his nose.

The crowd silenced.

"I agreed to the terms of our bargain," Mordax said, one brown eye peering out from the mess of his red hair. "And wish to be spared like the days of old by submitting to you in front of all."

The crowd roared as the length of the chain fell from his hands. Durus looked on stunned. Through the whole fight, he was sure Mordax would refuse. And yet... Durus rolled the chain around his fist and pulled. Mordax snapped forward, falling to his knees.

Durus did not know the crowds could scream so loudly. He was deaf to all else but their cacophony as he circled Mordax, the chain dragging behind him.

What to do now?

The question was answered for him when two humans ran out onto the grounds of the arena. They were tiny things compared to him. One carried a large bowl, the contents spilling over the edge. The other carried a stand and was larger, strong of muscle and surely a fine specimen amongst his kind, but as Durus' eyes glanced between the human and Mordax, he could find no true comparison. Mordax truly was an almost perfect example of Minotaur prowess. Durus just happened to be better.

The humans set down the pedestal and placed the bowl atop it before scurrying away. Glancing into the bowl, Durus found it was filled with thick scented oil. He smiled and turned back to Mordax on his knees.

He pulled the chain again, forcing Mordax onto his hands. Durus walked behind him, resting his hands on his lower back and trailing his fingers through the leather splits of his skirt.

"You truly are a wonderful fighter," he said.

"Not good enough," Mordax said.

Durus dropped his hand to feel Mordax's thick and muscled thighs. They were firm beneath his touch, but quivering. His hand fell away, uncertain at the touch.

"There is still time to back away," Durus said, lessening his hold on the chain. "I will not force this."

"No," Mordax said through clenched teeth. "I agreed to this."

"But Mordax," he said, running his hand up his thigh again. As before, Mordax shuddered under his touch.

"No," he said again. "I want this."

Durus hand still rested on that muscular flesh, the quiver beneath his palm prominent. But he wanted it? A realisation struck him. Mordax quivered in anticipation. Not fear.

Taking hold of the edge of his leather skirt, Durus ripped the armour up, flipping it over the bull's back. The crowd roared and Durus looked around, soaking in their praise. He slowly removed the skirt from around Mordax's waist to the crowd's delight.

His hand fell to the revealed flesh of Mordax's mounds. Like his thighs, they were tightly muscled but still held a supple softness that Durus massaged under his hands. Mordax shuddered beneath him, jerking and causing the chain to rattle. Durus pulled on the chain lightly, tugging the bull's head back down, but without any real force.

His fingers glided over Mordax's rounded flesh, finding the ties of his leather thong. He stepped away when he pulled the first one free, allowing the audience to see as he slowly revealed Mordax to their fervour. The second tie slid free, and Durus wanted to savour the reveal as much as he wanted to tease the crowd.