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m1d-45 · 2 months

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pankration

summary: wriothesley has come a long way in his life, ascending the ranks of the fortress in merely a handful of years. yet, after it all, it always seems he ends up right back where he started.

word count: 3.7k

-> warnings: lots of mentions of blood and violence, major spoilers for wriothesley lore/story quest

taglist: @samarill || @thenyxsky || @valeriele3 || @shizunxie || @boba-is-a-soup || @yuus3n || @esthelily || @turningfrogsgay || @cupandtea24 || @genshin-impacts-me || @chaoticfivesworld || @raaawwwr || @ryuryuryuyurboat || @undrxtxd || @rainswept || @wanderersqt

< masterlist >

pankration was a core part of the fortress of meropide.

it started as a collective term for the various brawls around every corner, a whispered term when guards were present. all fights had to be reported, but if you bet on someone winning pankration, those that knew pretended they didn’t and those that didn’t didn’t have to pretend at all. anything goes within the impromptu battlefield, cut up gears into rough brass knuckles, scrap metal as a shiv, blood and bruises blooming in equal proportion. fighters would take out whoever you wanted if you had enough credits, or maybe they wouldn’t and take both your money and the reward from the administrator for reporting you. pankration had no rules, no boundaries, no set time or place.

wriothesley knew this, and figured out early on the best ways to win. when he first arrived at the fortress, he was young. not exactly scrawny by anyone’s standards, but certainly at a disadvantage among those with decades of experience. he kept his vision close to his chest, and when another prisoner’s knife dug into it instead of his heart, he knew he had to change.

he was never taught how to fight, but he learned how to cheat, and fast. he swiped spare wire and scrap parts, formed points for his punches to drive through. he couldn’t beat his opponents through pure strength at first, so he forced himself to be quick. even the toughest fighters had their weak spots, and he was determined to find them. it was life or death, if not for the immediate battle then for long term food.

a small corner of his mind flinched at the violence, hated that this was how things had to be, but he silenced it quickly enough. he was fighting for money, he told himself, to win reputation, to earn his spot within the bolted steel walls. he fighting to be able to eat well, to sleep comfortably, to walk when he needed without his hands twitching for his gauntlets at any sound. he fought to stay alive, not only because of his vision’s added strength but of his own, every scar across his body a lesson learned.

slowly, his reputation grew. slowly, people began to recognize him, the oddly proportioned teenager —only barely, but he wasn’t about to correct them—with steel hands and silvered hair. rumors were as important a currency as coupons, and he took great care to keep the ones about him in his favor. that was his life for a while, cycling between picking fights and patching himself up, collecting coupons and earning favor. he listened to the shadows, and if someone had something to say, he challenged them in the light.

soon, though, these whispers began to change. gossip bled through the walls about a ‘duke,’ speaking with such reverence that it had him worried. they spoke about him like a deadly weapon, all sharp edges and jabbing cuts. the duke, highest in rank second only to the administrator, a force of nature stronger than even the sea itself. he’d never met or even heard of duke, had they been intentionally avoiding him? how much did they know? he only hid his pankration from the guards, he’d be at a major disadvantage if they knew all his tactics.

it’s almost funny how concerned he was over a ghost, the thin week between who he was and who he became spent with a knife tucked in his sleeve.

someone had tried to trick a new prisoner into being his toy, saying that it was part of the prison’s “orientation program.” wriothesley thought he’d made his point perfectly clear to all who knew him that newbies needed time to make their own place, but a well-placed punch did the rest of the job. he wasn’t paying much attention to what he was saying, spouting off the usual nonsense about not taking advantage of others while an itch at the back of his neck told him he was doing the same thing.

it’s different, he told himself, even as his boot pressed into their chest. they tried to push it off, wheezing out an apology, but he let them squirm a bit before letting up. it’s different, because he’s doing it to protect someone else, isn’t he?

“that’s our duke,” someone whispered behind him, and he whipped around so quickly he nearly tripped over himself. he searched for an unfamiliar face, trying to find who spoke, but all eyes were on him.

his hands began to shake within his gloves, uncomfortable dots connecting in his head. he stepped forward to push his way through, but the crowd parted like the tide around a ship, nobody resentful on behalf of the man with bruises rapidly forming across his ribs.

he spent nearly an entire day alone after that, pacing within his room. how could he be their duke when he didn’t want to rule? not out of fear, not when a sharp enough glare could make another prisoner pale, not when he had just managed to convince himself that his violence was a necessity. his gauntlets lay on his desk and he didn’t even want to touch them, conflict taking place of his blood.

he was still doing good, wasn’t he? protecting those who didn’t know better, forcing vendors to lower the cost of basic necessities, discouraging violence against the guards to defend those he could tentatively trust. he did not have an ‘inner circle,’ not like the other groups that came before him, and part of the reason was that he was not part of any one gang. he had no affiliation but himself, no family but the steel that wrapped around his wrists, no name but the one he’d chosen.

but here he was. the duke of the fortress.

he wasn’t the first to know when his coupons were taken. a massive leaderboard hung in the center of the main level, the top ten positions a brawl. his place had long since been cemented, and yet he returned from his breakfast to find a massive crowd surrounding the board. part of him wanted to ignore it, as he was leaving—was he? he was avoiding the topic as best as he could—the fortress the next day, but he knew better. as before, the crowd parted, allowing him to see that his space on the board had been filled, with a note to the side explaining that his had been confiscated for “poor behavior.”

he almost laughed. almost, the corner of his mouth twitching, but he remained firm. the crowd had turned to him for an answer, and he needed to find one fast.

“that could have been anyone.” he didn’t know where he was going with this, turning around and crossing his arms to appear bigger than he was. “is that how you want to live?”

roars of agreement met his ears, most of the prisoner body gathered under a flag of need.

“underhanded sabotage is not the answer to the failure of authority,” he had declared, well aware that the hand he was waving was stained with years of bloodshed. “i’ll take care of it.”

he didn’t know how. nobody asked, hundreds of voices assenting that their duke would handle it, that if anyone could it was him, again parting to allow him passage. his hand was raised, knocking on the administrator’s door before he could understand what he was doing. he didn’t even register their face, heart pounding. he was saying something, asking- asking for a duel he’d surely never receive. he may have some sort of authority over the prisoners, but he surely had none over the administrator.

when they called for those who thought the challenge was unjustified, the only sound was the water circulating beneath their feet.

they agreed. tomorrow at noon, in front of their office. he nodded, the doors closed, and he was left in front of a crowd he didn’t know how to face. people were smiling, patting each other’s shoulders, expecting him to win. he knew if it came down to a physical fight he would, but they could have just as easily slipped word to a palais garde, and his sentence would be extended for threatening a public official.

would he mind? was freedom what he really wanted? did he prefer living in the fortress, or did he just like that he’d already established a foundation? what did that say about him, if he liked living in blood and oil more than he did fresh air?

he hardly slept that night, not that it mattered. the administrator was gone the next morning, and his life had changed.

another crowd had gathered, trying and failing to be subtle. iron doors stared him down, the knocker weighing twice as much as it should. when it hit the door, it shifted inward just the smallest amount, as if inviting him in. his heart was in his ears as he pushed the door open, wondering about the hundreds of options that could be awaiting him inside, but the office was empty. the lower level had no coat on the rack, the stairs missing the bright red rug that used to run down it. the shelves up top were empty, the only sign someone had lived in there at all taking the form of a gramophone sitting on the edge of the desk. no record lay inside.

people had figured out what had happened, now, metal echoing as people climbed the stairs. the chair was a plush velvet, a rapidly forming headache burning behind his eyes.

the prior administrator had people call them by their title and last name, a rule nobody followed. they were simply the admin, nameless and faceless and only ruler in title alone. wriothesley’s name was well known throughout every inch of the fortress’ walls, and yet now that he was in their chair, everyone still called him the duke.

his position as duke did not make him fit to be an administrator, and his new seat could only be secured as he proved himself worthy of it. he had no idea how to manage the fortress. he was running blind for a half of his first year, off the cuff intuition somehow getting him what he wanted. he feared every day that someone would find out, that his incompetence would be put upon the world’s stage, but either nobody noticed or nobody cared. he timed shipments wrong? apologies for the hold-up. guards weren’t following the uncoordinated patrols he arranged? forgive us, your grace, for allowing your orders to slip our mind. he waited for the day that people realized they had no tangible reason to respect him, waited for the revolt, but it never came.

why? he wanted to ask, watching as guards saluted when he walked by. what part of me has earned your respect?

he made it a point not to strong-arm prisoners now that he was in a higher position, did his best not to rule with fear. as a prisoner, he could allow himself to survive, but now he had no reason to. to wriothesley, true respect was not bought or fought for, and only true respect could keep a fortress full of criminals in line.

welfare meals earned him respect. standardized jobs, base level housing, small quality of life changes that he hated as a prisoner. he worked from dawn to dusk—as much as one could when buried hundreds of feet beneath the sea—and even then, it took him years to feel as if he’d finally earned his keep. much like his time as an inmate, wriothesley could not feel comfortable until he had prepared for everything, until every problem had either been gotten rid of or improved.

pankration could not fully be outlawed. fights would still happen no matter what rules he implemented, so he skipped banning and went straight for regulation. the least he could do was ensure it was safe and organized, to provide a stage for formalized challenges. it only resembles its original form in name, changing from fistfights in shadowed hallways to a tournament sport held next door to the infirmary. a new elevator was installed, a dedicated section of the sub-level below sectioned off to keep the main area of the fortress somewhat quiet. prisoners’ hobbies had little to do with how the fortress functioned externally, but he was finding himself with more and more free time. it was supposed to be a good thing, less work for him meant that the systems he’d implemented could hold their own, but he was left restless. even now, his schedule was cleared for the rest of the day, desk empty of paperwork. nothing to do and nothing more urgent needed improving, so it’s not like he had anything better to do than pay the ring a visit. he was getting antsy sitting still for so long anyway.

he pulled his jacket from the back of his chair, lazily draping it over one shoulder. guards and prisoners alike dipped their heads as he passed, a gesture he returned with a faint wave. the elevator was empty, the clanking gears his only company as the cart slowly twisted. the shouts and cheers from below grew louder and louder, echoing up the tunnel. the doors hissed open and he stepped out, the sound of his boots on the metal floors drowned as bets were won and lost.

he could nearly pinpoint the moment that people recognized him. the flicker of uncertainty over their faces, credit coupons tucked into pockets and hidden away, someone subtly trying to loosen the springs on the training dummies. he spent years trying to lead without terror, and yet here in the pankration ring, none of it seemed to matter. blood and sweat mixed in the air, his mind automatically associating the smell with memories. if he were to close his eyes, he could almost pretend he wasn’t wearing his cloak, pretend he was about to enter a fight he knew he could win, pretend that he could see his would-be opponent curled up in a pool of their own blood.

“is there a problem, your grace?”

he blinked, and he was back to the present. “just wanted to check in,” he lied, waving over to the group of training equipment. “you could tell me if you needed new dummies.”

and the group relaxed, oblivious to the fact that their duke’s fingers were digging into his arm, the memories lingering like an infectious disease.

he came back the next week, helping set up the new equipment. the old ones were worn out and poorly repaired, and everyone was happy that they were being replaced. it was a safety hazard more than anything, and a need he was more than willing to meet.

again, setting up a small stall for water and snacks, for both contestant and observer. a more official platform for those managing the bets and standardization for the referees, better padding over the poles of the ring, jokes passed around that if he spent any more time in the arena, he might as well compete.

he had told himself he was better. that he was only a fighter as an inmate because he needed to be, that everything he did worked to prevent power by way of fear. he told himself over and over that he was different, that he didn’t want that, and now he was wondering if he ever believed it. now he wondered why he ever tried.

his coat was left in his office this time, the various pins and layers of his outfit stripped away. wraps were now purchasable, but his hands were covered in the same roughly cut cloth he’d always used. he stretched, watched as his opponent hyped himself up, gaining cheers from the crowd on his side of the arena. he had wanted his first show to be a surprise, to listen to the shocked silence that would undoubtedly follow his debut. he reached, pulling himself up and over the railing in one fluid jump, and was met with the silence he expected.

and then the room exploded, coupons changing hands—why was he surprised people were betting on him competing?—as his opponent turned around. with the entire arena as his witness, wriothesley smiled, adrenaline tingling in his palms at the flash of fear over their face.

for the good of both pankration and the fortress as a whole, he’d hired a proper, in-house nurse. her name was sigewinne, a melusine with more intuition for the human body than most would give her credit for, her work neat and diligent. she was hellbent on getting him to take care of himself, which included stopping his habit of returning to the ring day after day. when he went to fix himself up (that she always insisted on doing for him) she often asked why, asked if there was really nothing better to do with his time than to continue to fight as if he were an inmate, all teeth and claws and dirty tactics. he knew if he was honest with her, pouring out every thought and craving in his head, she would have some fancy name for his desire. there was some book she could point to, some moment in his life that was at fault, but he never bothered trying. why would he, when he already had his answer? this rush, this high as he dashed forward, feeling the prisoner’s balance shift beneath his fist, it wasn’t a stranger to him. he was well familiar with the pride that came with a fight well won. wriothesley had spent years convincing himself he had earned his power outside of beating someone else for it, but now he wondered why he had used that conviction to avoid fighting as a whole. this was what he was meant for, barely feeling the blows across his chest in favor of kicking out their feet with his own, pouncing as they fell. there was no crowd around him, no harsh lights, just him and the head locked beneath his arm, elbows jabbing backwards in weak protest.

the bell rang. he’d won. he didn’t care.

again and again, he returned to the ring, the bruises from his last fight not yet fully healed. scars already crossed his body in a net of victories, he barely noticed a few extra spots of blue. he wanted more than anything to believe he was better than those who raised him, that he wasn’t someone who wanted others to live in fear of them, but he couldn’t deny the enjoyment he felt when someone regretted signing up. that brief, blink and you miss it instance of cold feet, lingering just for a moment. there were rules to pankration now, rules that he followed to the letter, but that didn’t make him any less intimidating and everyone involved knew it. a lifetime of fought for muscle and a glare sharpened to a point, barely an icy flash beneath his hair. the deafening cheers, the dim lights, his split lip he barely noticed and a bruise on his side that pulsed when he breathed. beat up and dirty, the prime example of some street rat he’d normally condemn, smiling a bit too wide when he won.

what was the point of being a duke, his mind whispered, if he wasn’t allowed a little fun?

that’s what it was to him. fun. he put up a front and pretended that he was whole on the inside, that it was just a time-killer to keep him in shape, the sick pride that came with it a secret kept locked far, far away. maybe he wasn’t better. maybe this made him just as bad as his host family was, maybe his enjoyment should have him locked up in a different kind of institution. maybe that was all true, but his gray morality was something he’d long since come to terms with. he didn’t regret killing, he didn’t regret rising to the tops of the fortress’ ranks, and he certainly didn’t regret taking part in this new pankration. what was one more sin added to his tally? wednesdays always had a cleared afternoon, but it wasn’t enough, his feet bringing him back to the arena again and again. day after day, the elevator’s whine already setting his heart pumping faster, chasing the high that the control gave him.

his current opponent struggled beneath his hand, an iron grip around their neck that wasn’t tight enough to do any permanent damage. they could still breathe, their pulse thundering beneath his fingers, and he waited a split second too long after they tapped out to let them go.

it was bad, but it was fun, their eyes tearing up with a subconscious doubt that they’d leave the ring alive. he was bad, but he was already in prison, and nobody had to know about what went on behind the scenes of his actions. nobody ever ended up hurt, after all, and he still did somewhat pull his punches. he stood, then helped them up and patted them on the shoulder, making some blanket comment that they needed to focus on defensive techniques more. most of the contestants did. he waited a moment to make sure they got out of the arena safely before returning to his corner, waving off someone offering him water. it wasn’t as if he didn’t care his prisoners, far from it in fact, but…

wriothesley made a bit of a show of fixing the wraps on his hand, watching that familiar regret light up his next challenger’s eyes.

what was the point of being the duke, he thought, if he wasn’t allowed a little fun?

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