Mikhaeil - Ruminations of The Past

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Mikhaeil - Ruminations of The Past

Postby kaylor » Wed Feb 29, 2012 12:27 pm

*this is a compilation of pieces from a myriad of posts written for Mikhaeil last year thrown together as prelude of introduction for his presence at tonight's event. of note, his freedom is bound by a golden chain held in place by jeweled golden shackles locked about his wrists, the reason alluded to in part toward the end of the following . . . !!**WARNING-video at close contains violence, gore & language as well as spoiler to plot & ending of Spartacus: Gods of the Arena**!!


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

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

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

The answer to right of retrieval and strength lay in the test yet to come, however bound by cursed complexities. In order to gain the freedom he sought he would have to surrender it all. If he wished to recapture his past he would have to commit to that life once again in entirety. The glory of yesterday beckoned, but remained held at bay by his absence of total submission. So he'd asked for the shackles and constructed a cell in his bedchamber to which he retreated at night instead of the bed. At first he'd thought to ask for removal of his chains when in public, however doing so partially negated the reason he wore them. To be seen freely moving about was not part of the compromise.

And as for love, far more used to the rage of the arena, his experience with affection had been sorely limited. Gifted with a wife as reward for glory, he was allowed her company just once a week and then but for a few short hours only. Prior to the Doctore's decision to train him as a gladiator, he'd served the Domina in quite another way. Sold into slavery at an early age, he spent two years a secus puerulus, pleasuring as he was commanded. While he learned the ways of sweet seduction, his attentions expert and sought after, love was little part of what he'd been permitted.

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