When All is Null and Void

Chapter Ten

 Blood thrummed through Titus' veins like bells at an execution. Hot and violent, his life coursed its way from his pounding, rib shattering heartbeat. The world moved in slow, shimmering motions as adrenaline reached every part of his body. No matter that he was about to die, his ring lay useless and uncaring, rebooting against the Void's power. "Dammit!" he spewed under his breath. Titus searched for ways out of the arena, but he was too low to see anything.

And then the gate on the other side of the arena opened, and a man the size of Goliath entered. His muscles rippled in the afternoon sun. Shirtless with thighs larger than Titus' head, Goliath held two swords in his hands. Titus was supposed to fightthis guy? Did the crowd see the impossibility of his situation? But of course they did. Blood tinted their vision.

Bile rose in the back of his throat as the man across the arena stalked toward him. Titus was smaller and might have been able to outmaneuver the warrior, but he wouldn't be able to for long. He knew that the crowd expected him to engage, but seeing as he could barely hold the trident in his hands, he did what any logical person would--

--sprinted the opposite direction.

He kept the net in his hands, though he couldn't possibly fathom how he could use it. The man's pinky finger would break through in an instant.

Once he was across the amphitheater, Titus halted. His breath came in heaving gasps. The adrenaline was clouding his vision now, and his instinct to run away was the safest option. The man had stopped in the center of the arena. Ice slid down Titus' spine as he saw the eyes assessing him, a hawk observing its prey. This man must have been doing this for a long time. Scars ran up his arms, and his hardened face was impassive. Titus knewhe wouldn't be able to fight.

And so they engaged in a graceless dance.

When the behemoth stepped toward him, Titus stepped in the opposite direction. He closed out the shrieking of the crowd, knowing their unintelligible words would only cause him to falter. He set music in his head, stepping and moving in time. If he could bide his time... But what would he do when the battle became too boring? Would they force them to fight? His heart wouldn't stop pounding, and panic clouded rational thought.

He knew he'd made a mistake when he heard a single voice in the crowd shout his name. It couldn't have been his name. It shouldn't have. He scanned the crowd, but he saw no one. That was because no one was here with him. He was alone. His brain was creating phantom voices.

WHOOSH.

The wind of a single sword passed by Titus, and the metal clattered as it hit the sandstone wall. The gladiator had thrown his sword. Dizziness washed over Titus as he looked at how close the sword had come to slicing into him. A tiny, hysterical laugh passed through his lips. Two inches--that was what had separated him from certain death. When he thought to look back at the gladiator, he heard the pounding of leather boots against sand.

Titus cursed loudly and rolled away from the point of the other sword, which was inches from him as well. Blood streamed down his knee where he'd slammed into the earth. Titus tried summoning his ability to Hop, but the ring was still unresponsive. He was still stuck here, and he was in a terrible spot.

He could run awayfrom the gladiator, but they were so close now he couldn't outrun him. He was stuck. It was only a matter of time before he would die in a time that wasn't his own, away from anyone who cared about him. Away from anyone who knew the name Titus James. Unbidden, warmth spilled down Titus' legs. And then he was crying, humiliated and terrified. As the gladiator bore down on him, he was frozen. Piss and tears baptizing him, death looming him in the face.

The gladiator retrieved the second sword and clanged them together. Sparks scattered across the earth. Titus took steps back, trembling from head to toe. He tossed the net at the man, but his shaking muscles had launched it to the dirt directly in front of him, useless. The crowd's cruel laugh echoed as one through the arena. Titus took off running again. He turned his back and sprinted. The wind whipped through his hair, and sweat dribbled from his skin to the earth.

A fire of searing pain arced across his back. The gladiator had thrown his sword once more and hadn't missed. Titus crumpled to the earth with a grunt, his face slammed hard into the dirt with an agonizing crunch. The crowd roared in glee. And Titus thought he heard his name again, a gasp in the wind. Then it was gone, and Titus saw stars. He groaned as blood streamed from his back. The gladiator pounded toward Titus, heavy footfalls shaking the earth. This was really it.

Suddenly, heat spread through his right hand, and the fluttering of his ring pulsed against his finger. Sobbing with relief, Titus Hopped, leaving the arena behind. He didn't care that it would look as if he had suddenly disappeared. He didn't care that people would wonder what sort of witchcraft they'd seen. The only thing Titus knew was the sound of the sword impacting the dirt he'd just occupied following him through the Void.

+++

The early morning air was brisk against Titus' skin. His ring had deposited him on the front steps of the Estate, without a shirt. His blood flowed freely onto the smooth concrete, creating a puddle of crimson. He couldn't turn his neck. He stood as quickly as he could and took a long, slow breath. As he walked into the Estate, Titus prayed his blood wouldn't stain the marble. The primitive part of his brain had taken over, and he walked with fading determination toward the stairs. He needed to wash the blood off.

Truly, he needed a doctor, but he couldn't concentrate on that detail. The flayed flesh from his shoulder blades to his kidneys gaped, and cold air seeped into the wound and caressed his exposed spine. As he climbed the stairs on weak knees, he took calming breaths. Titus could only breathe raggedly with the pain surging through his body. If his mom saw him like this--that was enough to make him move quicker. She would take away his ring. She would claim it was too dangerous for him to be a Timewalker. She would strandhim here.

"Titus?"

He stopped midway up the stairs. Turning slowly he found himself looking down on Peggy Landers. Her mouth was agape in horror, and there was a pallor to her skin almost green in shade. He rarely interacted with her. She was simply his mother's assistant, and the dread he felt upon seeing her sent him to his knees. Fogginess consumed him, his stomach churned, and his vision blurred. "You can't tell my mom," he pleaded.

Peggy was by his side in an instant, pulling him up by the wrists. His ankles seemed covered in a heavy dried cement. She grunted as his weight fell on her. She was a tall, large woman, but Titus was still a teenage boy. She dragged him toward the East Wing. He wouldn't stop begging her to not tell his mom. Tears of pain and fear streamed down his cheeks.

"I won't tell her," Peggy promised as she led him into the lab. It was empty, and Titus vaguely noticed the shade covering Natalee's room was up. She slept, and that, coupled with Peggy's words, was enough to calm him for the time being. She led him to a table, and instructed him to lay facedown. He did so, and soon she was injecting his arm with something. It was merely moments before his eyes closed and he was in darkness. The pain in his back was distant and dull in the sleep Peggy had induced on him.

+++

Grogginess assaulted Titus when he opened his eyes. His pulse pounded in his temples, and his face was in the pillows of his bed. How had he gotten here? He groaned as he lifted his face from the bed, and memories flood into him. Trier. The gladiator. Peggy. Titus let out a stiff whimper as he felt along his shoulder blade. There were stitches along his scapula, and when he stood he nearly vomited

It wasn't so much a feeling of eviscerated flesh as an uncontrollable itch along his spine and a nearly debilitating soreness. He limped across his room to a mirror, and saw a ghost. His skin was pale, perhaps a little on the green side. His face covered in bruises, a patchwork of yellow and purple. He could barely turn his neck to see what would become a diagonal raised scar. The vanity in him bemoaned the disfigurement, while the teenager in him rejoiced over such a scar.

"You're a badass," he whispered to himself, even as a whimper burst through his lips, nearly losing consciousness.