The Lion and the Boy

A sense of overwhelming smallness overcame the boy.

The scarred, hacked armor he wore felt heavy and cut at his sweating skin. His numb hands clenched the short sword he carried. Droplets of sweat slicked his hair to his head and carried on into his eyes. His heart hammered dizzyingly at his chest, so loud it seemed the whole world could hear it. And over the sound of his blood pumping in his ears came the roar of the crowd massed in the arena. Thousands of careless men and women eager to see this young, untested man face his worst fears in the Pit. Like vultures around a kill, eager and impatient for the feast to begin.

Wild, useless thoughts of escape swim through the boys mind. Hope and despair mingle and entwine and his stomach lurches as the creak and crash of a gate opening echoes behind him. Slowly he turns around to face the yawning black mouth of a tunnel entrance. Something will soon emerge from the tunnel, the boy knows it, the crowd knows it. In anticipation the crowds bellow rises to fever pitch and the boy fights to ward off the individual voices that emerge from the mass.

"Run while you can, little boy!"

"You're a dead-"

The jeering cries fade from the boy’s ears as he is drawn into a memory of a better time, as if in desperation his mind is seeking to escape and return to his peaceful youth.
A spicy aroma wafts beneath his nostrils and he sucks it deep into his lungs, enjoying a scent he remembers well. The essence of the spices that grew on the small farm of his childhood. And now he can see his mother, running through the spice trees, laughing and sweeping him up in his
arms. His father is grinding a plowing blade in the shed and the happy cries of his brothers and sisters at play echo in his ears.

Without warning the pleasant memory is torn away and harsh reality floods his mind again. His tearing eyes focus on the tunnel and he gathers all his courage and steadies the sword at his side. Fear raises its ugly head and his nerves seem to be bursting.

~
Within the tunnel the lion senses sunlight. Despite its weakened state, it easily lopes down the darkened tunnel, gliding along on muscles of steel. Its once proud mane and coat reduced to a tattered dirty rug. Suddenly it bursts into the open and into a world of terrifying chaos. Thousands of voices bellowing fill its ears and the sheer size of the arena is unlike the black cell or the African savannah now so dim in the great beasts' mind. It focuses on a slim figure standing before it; smells the fear barely masked by the stench of sweat. Lips curl back to reveal countless white fangs. Confusion, anger and fear overwhelm the poor lion and it circles its opponent warily. It has learnt to fear these humans after months of savage beatings and the cruel tortures they deliver. Its racing mind delves into the past, reforging faint memories of the golden savannah. Pounding through sifting oceans of grass, the glorious thrill of the hunt. Countless hours spent dozing beneath a gentle sun and a faint breeze. The mightiest king of the jungle, reduced to a cruel puppet.

~

The boy becomes acutely aware of every detail around him. The faint play of wind on his neck,
cooling his sweat. The harsh grinding sand biting at his toes. The drop of saliva that slides from the lions sabre-like fangs. But it is the lions eyes that captures him. Deep brown pools that glare out at a cruel world. Pity wells inside him as he realises the fear that fills the once proud eyes of the beast. He notices how it cringes at every noise, unsure how to react. Sees its confusion at being torn from its peaceful world, made to kill and to maim. Most of all he sees the lions eyes searching his own, studying him.
In one instant he makes a decision. The deadly blade falls limply from his hands and with trembling fingers he removes the cold breastplate on his chest. The thud seems deafening as it hits the ground at his feet. The crowd dims shockingly silent, every eye watches as the boy steps forward, towards the lion.

The boy raises his hand and slowly places it on the rough fur of the lions head. A recognition fills both of their eyes, a realisation that they have both been torn from their home and thrust into a harsh environment, forced to slaughter each other. A silent communication passes between man and animal.

For the first time ever, the bloodthirsty arena is silent.