Regulus' POV
342 BCE, Kingdom of Macedon
Regulus Black has never been a fan of blood.
Sure, he wasn’t afraid of it, and he’s certainly witnessed plenty of it in his current 17 years of living, but that didn’t mean he enjoyed the pool of crimson piling at his feet on the arena floor. It was always exhausting, watching the life drain out of his victim’s eyes, and even more so to scrub the blood off of his hands afterwards.
When he drew his sword from the lifeless body with a sickening crunch, the stands erupted into chaos - whether it was yelps of approval or screams of outrage, Regulus wasn’t sure. He didn’t care much, either. This was the fourth time this had happened today, and the twelfth time this week, and to be honest, he was really starting to tire of it, though he was careful not to let it show. Weariness was a sign of weakness, and that certainly couldn’t be shown, not here, not back at home, not ever.
Was it so selfish of Regulus to wish that this wasn’t the case sometimes? Yes, he thinks, as he watches the dead man sprawled across the dusty arena floors , his helmet askew, his jaw slack, hand still loosely clenched around the spear he had been wielding just moments ago. It doesn’t matter how painfully alive the man looks - still looks - Regulus has seen it too many times, enough to stop himself from thinking too much about it past the very surface level of I had just killed someone. He looks away, holding himself together tight enough to hurt.
When Regulus raised his sword into the air, his shout of triumph through his helmet didn’t waver, and he stood there, feet planted into the sandy ground underneath him, shoulders stoic, chin raised - a challenge to anyone who dared. Not many people dared, and those who did had ended up like the corpse lying at his feet now.
“And wow, it seems like the gods are on the Prince of Crete’s side today. Fourth kill of the day, my word!” Boomed the voice of Horace Slughorn, the unbelievably rich and equally infuriating man who was hosting the gladiator competition between the kingdoms throughout Greece. It would make Regulus sick that a man like him was watching all these princes kill each other out of pure entertainment and profit, except Regulus was far too busy trying to get himself to breathe to care. “Will anyone ever best this young man?”
Regulus would like to think that impossible, but judging from the way his bones were starting to ache, and his limbs starting to strain, he was really starting to doubt his own durability if he wasn’t given a chance to rest and just breathe, for fuck’s sake. Regulus knows his own endurance, and so he also knows that if he doesn’t get some form of intervention between now and the next round, he would probably become the next Prince of Thebes being carried off. So, much to the irritation of Horace Slughorn, who was a rich man but could never refuse kingdom heirs, Regulus had himself escorted out of the arena, where his helmet was removed, with servants (slaves, really, but Crete prides itself on becoming the next democracy, and calling workers slaves really just weren’t in fashion anymore) who crowded around him and wiped away beads of sweat on his forehead with wet cloths, and fed glasses of water to his lips. The water dribbled across his chin and the sun glared painfully into his eyes. Regulus stood, face blank from emotion the way he’d had to learn over the years, limbs unmoving apart from his left hand, comforting a wound he’d taken to the side of his ribs, a souvenir from the last prince before Regulus ran him through with his sword. It had been difficult to keep up the mask when he was younger, but now, it’s just a matter of switching it on and off - sometimes, Regulus alarms himself by not remembering how to switch it off at all. Perhaps if he covered himself up enough, he would learn not to feel in the first place.
Surprisingly, the pain wasn’t as defined as Regulus’ other wounds had been, although the cut was deep and sharp. He would like to lay it off as a sign of his tolerance to pain becoming stronger, but in reality, it had little to do with the large amount of pain he’d received in the past, and everything to do with the numbness in his chest.
It wasn’t that Regulus hates these - most the kingdoms revel in it, as a matter of fact - they had all pretended to be doing charity work when they agreed to attend the gladiator tournament this year, but everyone knows that it’s just a time for larger empires to show off their skills and glamour, and a chance for smaller kingdoms to prove themselves. Nobody says it, but they all know. They all know as they watch all the kingdoms across Greece ship their golden heirs to Macedon with bated breaths, as they watch every prince fall, one by one, until eventually, only one stands.
It’s just that sometimes (all the time), Regulus feels bitterness creeping up the back of his throat - bitterness at the reminder that he’s the one competing, not that he’d had much of a choice, whilst Crete’s precious Sirius, heir to the throne, sits on his kline and eats grapes and looks pretty. Regulus is the disposable one, the one that the kingdom won’t miss too much if his fire blows out. It’s a thought that drives his punches in the arena when necessary.
Regulus was jolted out of his thoughts by a figure yelling his name rather throatily in the distance, and he squinted to find Barty Crouch Jr leaping through his steps in his hurry to reach Regulus. Despite himself, Regulus found his lips twitching upwards - Barty was the son of one of the richest merchants in Crete, who had a very good relationship with the King (most of which springs from Mr Crouch’s generous donations to the palace every now and then), therefore making Barty Regulus’ friend since childhood. It just made sense, really - Barty was always around, and Regulus was always lonely. Barty, much like Sirius, walked as if he owned the world, and regarded things with a regality reserved only for the rich and royal, his accent tinged with the surest signs of nobility no matter how hard he tries to fight it. Here was someone who managed to turn almost every situation into something to laugh at, a skill that was dearly needed in a life like Regulus’.
“What a stunner, Reg. I think half the stands started drooling whilst watching you throttle the Syracuse guy. I, for one, certainly needed a napkin.” Barty grinned, patting Regulus’ shoulders, before quickly extracting his hand away again when Regulus winced. “Ah, shit, sorry, did I hurt you?”
“No.” Regulus resisted a grimace as he shifted his shoulders, rubbing the ache away from where he’d pulled a muscle earlier in one of his fights. He then glanced up at Barty again, raising an eyebrow as his gaze landed on the other boy’s angularly perfect face, set with features that made it easy to understand the number of girls in the kingdom that fawned over him. Regulus, personally, would never fawn over him, but he understands the logic behind it. “Lay off the flattery a bit, won’t you? There’s still six more chances for me to die before the end.”
Six more fights. Gods, how Regulus wishes he would just die already.
Barty smirked, making a show of looking into the distance, as if peering up at the skies, the sun casting a glow over his face. “The gods wouldn’t let that happen. You’re a favorite, remember?”
Indeed, the Oracle had told both Regulus and his father that the gods would be on his side, would guide him through the fights, and would eventually lead him to a hefty victory. Regulus suspects that prediction had a lot more to do with the hefty price his father had paid to hear it.
Regulus rolled his eyes at the memory, before picking up his helmet and putting it on again. “Go piss yourself, Barty.”
Barty chuckled, shaking his head to himself. “Hardly enough time. Maybe later, though, just for you.” he winks, and then falls a little more sober again. Barty had had, and still does have, difficulty wrapping his head around the fact that Regulus really might die today.
“Look for me in the stands though, alright?” He adds, nodding.
“And what good would that do?”
“I don’t know. You’ll see me giving out hankies to everyone mourning your downfall.”
“How considerate of you.” Regulus said flatly, earning another bark of laughter from Barty before his expression falls again almost comically.
“You know you can count on me, Reg.” the words feel sincere.
“I know.” Regulus sighed, before turning away from him rather abruptly, picking up his sword and trudging back to the amphitheatre, leaving dust behind him. As much as he appreciates the sentiment, Regulus doubts there is much Barty can do to stop him from getting stabbed to death in the arena.
He does, admittedly, leave a lot slower than he should’ve, but who can blame him, really? Nobody is eager for their own demise.
Not that Regulus would be dying today.
No, he refuses to.
Seeming to spot his return with those increasingly irritating beady eyes (seriously, how the fuck can he see from so far away?) Horace Slughorn immediately bellowed his arrival for the crowd to hear. Regulus clenched his jaw, summoning some of the energy he had had at the start of the tournament. He couldn’t possibly wear out now, not because he was close to victory (the last few fights would always be the most dangerous ones, his trainer had told him), but because tiring could cost him his life.
Out of the corner of his eye, he could spot his mother and father in the stands, watching him with hawk-like gazes, throwing off everyone around them with their haughty royal breeding, postures still pin straight despite the many hours they had sat without moving. At least there was some pride in their eyes, Regulus reasoned with himself, despite knowing that that would disappear the moment he let himself slip up.
Right next to them sits Sirius - Regulus’ infuriatingly beloved and charming older brother, with his beautiful long hair and his Cretan drawl, which, instead of making him sound like a sailor, instead paints him to be the appealing and perfectly rebellious crown prince he had promised the world he would be. He does not sit with his posture straight - he sits with his arms tossed over the back of the seat, his legs crossed lazily over one another, as if this was simply another symposia for him (which Regulus knows Sirius hates), his hair in his eyes and his gaze fixed on the same spot on the arena floor. Regulus.
Sirius looks at Regulus in a way that reminds him of when they were younger - when everything was more colourful (the world seemed to have dulled ever since Regulus hit puberty) and more simple (that was a lie. Nothing had ever been simple). Sirius looks at Regulus tenderly, as if despite his lackadaisical behavior and his unaffected smiles, Regulus risking his life simply for the pride of their kingdom still holds some value to him.
Well, he gritted his teeth. This is what he was made for, wasn’t it? Regulus’ grip tightens around his sword as he looks away.
He was so lost in his thoughts that he almost missed Slughorn’s last words.
“...and oho! You’re all in for a treat, folks. Here comes an all-time favorite! Greece’s golden boy, and the land’s pride… Give it up, ladies and gentlemen, for the Prince of Athens!” The moment the last three words were out for the crowds to hear, the stands erupted into cheers and screams of approval, and Regulus found himself tense immediately, swallowing several curses that he felt crawling up his throat, a rush of anger heightening his senses and making his blood boil.
Not only was the man the Prince of Athens - a kingdom which has had a long history of conflict and competition with Regulus' homeland, Crete (it seems to be getting increasingly worse ever since Theseus had bested the Minotaur over a century ago), he was also known to be the valiant, charming golden boy of Greece - someone whose flaws (and Regulus was convinced that there would be many) were either simply overlooked, or instead just makes him all the more attractive.
Despite Crete and Athens’ conflicts, on the few occasions where the two kingdoms had come together (usually in circumstances much like now), Sirius had promptly become infatuated with James Potter. It took just about two exchanges, and off ran Regulus’ brother, quickly drawn into a bubble that Regulus failed to penetrate (and not for lack of trying). Regulus didn’t have to look in the stands to know that Sirius was probably now drawn to the edge of his seat - all pretenses of casual superiority gone. This prince was the reason why Regulus’ interactions with Sirius are now painfully foreign instead of filled with their past ease, and he’d never allowed himself to forget that, no matter how much this Athenian grew in popularity, or how much the kingdoms spoke of him in awe. Regulus was going to kill him if it was the last thing he did.
So, when the crowds somehow managed to get even louder, a sign that the Prince had stepped into the arena, Regulus was barely suppressing his rage, his grip so tight on his sword it hurt, feeling a rush of determination spread through him, the adrenaline hitting him full force.
And yet.
And yet, when the Prince stepped forwards to face him, his helmet in one arm, his sword in the other, Regulus felt his mouth run dry, as well as every fibre of sense and persistence disintegrate in the air between them.
The Atheinian, made of a jaw so sharp Regulus was sure he could cut himself if only he was allowed to touch, with a day’s worth of deliciously dark stubble, had golden-brown skin so perfect it almost hurts to look at. Regulus had never even had a thing for stubbled chins until now. His hair was dark and messy, sticking up in all directions all at once and looking very much like it needed Regulus to run his fingers through, to feel the softness beneath his fingers. His lips were curled upwards into the most beautifully lopsided grin, and Regulus found himself wondering if they were as soft as they looked, or if it was just a trick of the sunlight that seemed almost dull in comparison to this man standing before him. And his eyes - oh, his eyes. Regulus could feel his knees buckling as his eyes fell onto him, and Regulus was glad that he had a helmet to conceal the way his jaw dropped. The Prince’s eyes, framed by dark, thick eyelashes, were the colour of autumn, a combination of hazel and gold so bright that Regulus became very sure in that moment that this man must be part god, or part something. It just wasn’t possible for a human to look this unbelievably, mouth-wateringly beautiful. No wonder the kingdoms were crazy about him - anyone with a set of functioning eyes would do the same.
Surely, the Prince of Athens was a pretty face and nothing else. Because if he was any more than that, then Regulus would be in grave, grave trouble. As if on cue, the Prince tilted his head at him, presenting a wide smile and a wink as if to say ‘goodluck’ before he put his helmet over his devastatingly gorgeous face, and Regulus almost stopped breathing.
Oh, fuck.