ANASTASIA

BLOOD.

It's all I've ever known. It's all I dream of, all I think of. It's all I smell in the air, all I taste on my tongue, and all I feel in my heart, for there is no memory within me that is not tainted with crimson. Found one winter's eve, practically buried beneath the pile of bodies left in my wake, drenched in blood, with no memory of who, or what, I was…

My life began that day, and from that day on, I have lived for the kill. Because to be born in blood is to live for blood. And so I have for many long years.

I'd been taken from that clearing and thrust into the tournament, and there I have stayed, crowned champion, killing for the cheers of the crowd.

Just as I was now.

I was not unduly worried. The last remaining opponent in the coliseum was not overly formidable. The other two that had begun with us were already dead. One killed by my own hand, the other impaled to death after having fallen into the spike-pit at the center of the arena. My final opponent stands across from me, trying desperately to cease the steady flow of blood from the gash I'd left in his arm. He wouldn't bleed to death, I'd made sure the wound wasn't deep enough for that, but the loss of blood was already beginning to make him lose focus. His sword hung limply within his grasp, and his eyelids fluttered back and forth, as though he were struggling to stay conscious.

The crowd screams my name, cheering me on. Pushing me towards the inevitable kill. "Everyone's got a favourite," Grayson, my trainer, always said to me. "And right now, you're everyone's favourite."

I knew what it meant to be the favoured champion. I knew that if the crowd liked you, really liked you, then the arena masters would find a way to get you through alive. Whether it be screaming your name, or casting their bids for the winner, usually the crowd favourite made it through generally unscathed. To be honest, the whole tournament was a little one-sided. Deadly creatures would find themselves released on the opposite side of the arena, placed perfectly to devour the weaker, less popular gladiators first. If the people screamed your name and waved your colours in their hands, then you would live.

"But remember," Grayson would always add, "you won't be the favourite forever. There will always be someone else down the road that will capture the people's hearts like you never will, in a different way. And, in time, the same will happen to them."

"The people," he said, "are fickle. You need to rely on the crowd's favour as much as your own skill. Play the game and live a while longer. For the day will soon come where the lions are on your end of the arena."

Accepting this was easy. I had always relied on my own skill to survive in this arena. Cheers didn't slit throats or gut vicious animals. I did. The crowd's favour meant nothing to me. No cheer, no matter how loud, could replace the feeling of cold, hard steel beneath my hands. The thrill of battle, the stench of blood… No, their cheers could not replace such things. But I could pretend because I knew I had to. And so it was with a deep disgust that I smiled and waved at the crowd as I took each of my victories.

The screams of the crowd are still ringing in my ears, driving me forwards, sword raised. It's kill or be killed here in this arena, and when you've killed as much as I have, there is no choice to make.

My opponent, a man – no, a boy, as he could have been no older than eighteen years – seemed to realize that the longer he stood still, the weaker he got as the blood seeped from his wound. I see the realization in his face as he puts two and two together. The faster he kills me, the quicker the healers will get to him.

He charges me, raising his sword arm as best he can, but even from ten feet away I can see the flaws in his loose grip. His blow is easy to parry, and so weak and feeble is his grip upon his sword that it falls from his grasp and to the sandy ground as our blades collide.

He sinks to his knees, utterly defeated and exhausted from the effort, sobbing. I stand above him sword held firmly at my side. The crowd continues to scream my name, but heard even above that was something new, something that was even now spreading amongst the crowd, growing louder.

"Kill" is the new chant, and it rings in my ears, completely overwhelming as the entire coliseum joins in. And yet, loud as it is, it cannot ever drown out the sound of the boy beneath me. Sobbing uncontrollably, he raises his head to look at me. Tears stream down his face as he slowly begins to crawl backwards away from me. Without thought, I pursue at a leisurely pace until his back hits the side of the wall.

End of the line, I think.

"Please," he cries to me. "Please…"

I say nothing. I can imagine what I look like to him. Stern, filled with no empathy, covered in his own blood, poised to strike the final blow. What would it be like, I wonder briefly, to stare death in the face? Certainly, that was what I was to this boy, even he had already accepted it judging by his defeated stance and the pleading.

I glance up at the crowd above me. A mass of screaming violet, my champion's colours, overwhelms my vision. People are screaming my name, screaming for me to kill, to end the boy's life and take my victory. My gaze passes them, and drifts ever higher, towards the Royal Box, where the Queen, my savior, sits with her entourage. She watches me carefully, her snow-white hair billowing softly in the light breeze. We make eye contact, and she gives me an almost imperceptible nod, and I know this is my cue.

But before I can turn back to him, the cowering boy speaks.

"Look at me," he says, just loudly enough for me to hear. "I want you to look at me when you kill me."

Perhaps he expects pity to well up within me, some sort of mercy, or empathy to spring forth. If so, no such thing is forthcoming. I cannot say for certain who or what I was like before I was saved from that clearing, but I know now that no such emotions exist within me now. I do look at him though, long and hard.

"This is all just a game!" he screams at me, growing more and more hysterical as I walk closer towards him. "You'll see one day; you're nothing to her! The Queen's pet for now, but what then? What are you if not a killer? What will you be worth once you've won every battle there is to win?"

Though he is yelling, there is no way the crowd above us can hear him, and so I lean inwards, my sword at his throat, and whisper, "Blood, you see… Is all I have ever known." I apply the smallest amount of pressure to my sword, nicking his throat and causing it to release a delicate trickle of blood. "I was born in blood, and so, I live for blood. And so long as you, and those like you, keep coming, I will never stop killing."

It's over before he can even blink. In a split second, I pull my sword to the left, slashing his throat wide open and spattering myself with his blood. His ruined corpse tumbles to the ground as the crowd's scream reach a whole new level.

Though killing comes naturally to me, the aftermath is always so confusing. I feel no remorse and no pity. No sadness exists within me for the boy now lying dead at my feet. There is no measurable amount of empathy that I possess to extend towards his mangled corpse, so instead I instantly turn away from the ruined man lying in the sand, drop my sword to the ground, and turn to walk out of the arena. I am sure to smile and wave all the while, solidifying myself as the crowds' favourite for another day. The arena doors open and I step inside, handing my sword to the waiting guardsman immediately. The doors shut ominously behind me and the sounds of the cheering crowd are cut off.

I am escorted down the hallway and up a flight of stairs to the champions' quarters where I make my home during the competition. The two guards bring me to my room – though it is more like a cell – and close the door. Inside is nothing but an uncomfortable bed with a straw mattress and a small desk tucked in a corner. In the opposite corner is a small pail to shit in that gets emptied less often than I would like.

I sit down on the edge of my bed and relive my experiences in the arena, hoping to learn something else, but instead my mind drifts back to my rebirth, as it often does.

Born in blood, I think, reliving the moment where I was discovered in that clearing, covered in crimson, surrounded by a heap of Imperial bodies. Memories stripped from me, left with nothing but hate and rage, and the thrill of the kill.

The Queen had approached me in robes of white, her cloak trailing behind her in the breeze, her arms outstretched as if to embrace me. Her expression was one of wonder and surprise, yet I had known only peace as she walked forwards, as though her presence soothed the monster within me.

"Child," she had said to me, barely a foot from me. "You have been reborn here today."

I had collapsed into her arms, crying, as she held me and whispered to me.

"Born in blood," she had whispered more to herself than to me. She pushed me off of her then, gently so, so that we were looking into each other's face. "You will live for blood, child, from this day onwards." She had said it with a kind of sadness, as though she already knew what my fate was for certain. "With a new life, comes a new name. You are Anastasia. Oh, my beautiful Anastasia."

She had turned away from me then, leaving me in the center of the clearing, tears still streaming down my face. Her guards approached me and I followed them willingly, as I would until the end of my days, so long as they would lead me towards her.

My savior.