There were other games as well and all paled in comparison to the stakes that were traded back and forth over matches in the arena. Rarely a week went by where Isen did not earn a host of new bruises and cuts from fights down on those blood-stained floors. But with the injuries he also earned extra food, bandages, things to gamble away. I often wondered why Hardt didn't fight. He trained his brother, and was stronger by far, but never took part in the combat. Pacifism was a trait I spent long hours training out of Hardt.
It was Josef who finally convinced me to socialise with the other scabs. We had just finished shoving and elbowing our way to the front of the Trough to get our daily rations. The later you got to the front of the line, the more likely you were to get more mould than bread. The freshest bread was gone long before us scabs got anywhere near it. Deko and his lot claimed the best food and the largest portions, the rest of us often got whatever we could fight tooth and nail for. I mean that literally. More than once I left the Trough with a few bite marks from overzealous scabs.
There are advantages to being small and fighting your way to the front of a mass of people is not one of them. At fifteen, I was still growing, and Josef was only a couple of years my senior. Neither of us had the bulk or power to force our way forwards, and for the first few months we contented ourselves with the worst fare scabs could get. Hardt, on the other hand, was a head taller than most people and had an indomitable strength. I remember the first time I saw him wade into the mass, gently shoving people out of his way as he pushed through to the front. Before long, Josef and I learned to trail along in his wake, riding the void he left behind all the way to the front. Of course, once we were there it was nearly as difficult to keep our food. There was never a shortage of scabs willing to snatch a heel of bread or a handful of gruel in the press. Stealing from each other was frowned upon but in that mass of pressed flesh it was nearly impossible to tell where snatching hands came from. That was where my size became an advantage. I was small enough to slip away, beneath the notice of most people as they shouted and pushed their way forward.
Most days I took the opportunity to slip back to our little cavern once I had my food. There I would enjoy the peace and quiet and consider all the people I hated, cataloguing all the reasons why, and simmering in my own anger. A stew of bitter resentment. It was perhaps not the healthiest of choices. I was already a social outcast, shunning others in favour of my own company. Josef's loyalty was dragging him down along with me.
"Not today," Josef said, grabbing hold of my arm before I could slip away. We were just out of the press near the Trough and he started dragging me toward the series of stone tables and stools that were set out for the scabs. I'd passed by the place every day I'd been in the Pit, it was impossible not to unless I was happy not eating, but I always averted my eyes and moved quickly. I didn't want to socialise, didn't want to make friends. I wanted to escape, to be rescued. I also didn't trust the other scabs not to steal my food the moment I sat down.
Hardt and Isen had a table all to themselves, surrounded by other tables, each similarly occupied. I couldn't understand how they looked so comfortable surrounded on all sides by men and women they couldn't trust, but then I suppose when you're as big as Hardt, you're far more likely to be the one causing fear than trapped by it. Josef kept a firm lock on my arm as he dragged me towards them. I could have pulled away, wrenched my arm free, but I didn't want to make a scene nor spill any of my gruel. As foul as it tasted, it was food, and my stomach rarely stopped grumbling at the meagre portions while I was underground. The truth was, my hunger had less to do with the portions and more to do with my desire to feel the power of a Source in my stomach once more. It is a gnawing hunger all Sourcerers know too well.
The brothers looked surprised as Josef sat down and pulled me down onto the stool next to him. I grumbled out a complaint— I won't repeat it, but it was quite insulting and Josef looked at me aghast. I didn't take it back.
Isen was bruised and a little bloody, his bottom lip swollen on the left side and a number of cuts across his face were hastily pulled together with a strip of cloth across them. Isen had a lot of little scars on his face. They only served to make him look rugged to my young eyes. I thought them evidence of his prowess down in the arena, but they were evidence of his mediocrity. People always think those covered in scars are a good bet in a fight, but it often just means they've been punched a lot.
"This is rare," Hardt said in that quiet rumble of his.
"Rare would indicate it has happened before," I said, thinking I was smart. I was already in a bad mood, my daily routine interrupted by Josef's insistence. "This is unprecedented."
Hardt glanced at Isen and the younger brother shrugged.
"She means, there's a first time for everything," Josef said, giving me a shove that very nearly made me spill some gruel. I was angry at him already, but furious at the near miss. I may have growled.
I spooned a mouthful of the paste into my mouth and bit off a chunk of bread, refusing to inspect it lest I find anything furry or wriggling. "You lose a fight?" I said around a mouthful, nodding at Isen.
Isen grinned at me then and I felt my cheeks warm. I was a little thankful that the grime covering my face would hide it. I hate to admit it, but I was young and inexperienced. For years, the only man even close to my age I had any contact with was Josef and the love there was more like to that of a sibling. My tutors at the academy were all in their middling years and most of the other students were much younger than I. This was my first experience of attraction and I was attracted to Isen and oddly ashamed that he made me feel that way.
"This is the face of a winner." Isen smiled and a little gruel slipped out over his swollen lip. He quickly wiped it away. I found myself staring at his lips, wondering what they might feel like. I had seen people kissing; my parents, other students, even a few of the inmates down in the Pit. I wondered what the attraction was, how Isen's lips might feel against my own, how he might taste on my tongue. I was still staring when his tongue poked out from between his lips and wiggled at me. I focused on my gruel to hide my embarrassment and tore off another chunk of bread, chewing as loudly as I could.
I look back now and I can't see why I was so embarrassed. It seemed horrible at the time, Isen catching me looking at him like that. I suppose I should just be glad he couldn't see how I thought of him sometimes when I was alone. The young love hard and they love fast, and they recover from it almost as quickly. The sentiment is doubly true for young lust.
"How did the other guy look?" Josef asked around a mouthful of his own gruel. Manners were something we had been taught back at the academy, but they were useless down in the Pit. It was far safer to eat while you could, whether or not you were talking. The only really safe place to keep your food was in your stomach.
"Unconscious," Isen said, a smug look on his face. It was the sort of expression only the victorious wear. It was one I had worn many a time back at the academy, and I was bloody smug about my victories there. But I couldn't remember the last time I had won anything but a beating.
"You didn't kill him?" I asked. "I would have killed him." It was a boast, and a stupid one. I wanted Isen to think I was more mature than I was. I wanted him to think I was dangerous.