Chapter 10: Longing

Wake up, clothe yourself, and brace for the call to the pits. This was the rhythm of Quba’s existence—a monotonous dirge that gnawed at his soul. Every day, the same silent prayer, a flicker of hope that maybe today wouldn’t be the day he was summoned, wouldn’t be the day he had to stain his hands with another’s blood while the crowd roared with sadistic glee. But hope was a cruel jest, an illusion that withered in the pitiless light of reality.

The air in the slave barracks was heavy with the scent of fear, a miasma that clung to the skin like a second layer of filth. The other slaves around him huddled in silence, their eyes hollow, their bodies trembling beneath the weight of their own terror. They were all the same—broken, dehumanized, stripped of any identity beyond their role as playthings for their masters.

Quba tried to harden himself against the fear, to hide his hatred and anger behind a mask of indifference. He had become adept at this—his face a blank canvas, his eyes empty, a void that betrayed nothing of the storm raging within. But the anger was there, festering, a raw wound that refused to heal. He wanted to scream, to rage against the injustice of it all, to make them understand the depth of his suffering. But he knew it would change nothing. Nothing ever changed in Yunkai especially for a slave.

For the slavers, the free people of Yunkai, Quba and his kind were less than human, mere tools to be used and discarded at whim. Their wickedness was a legacy passed down through generations, a twisted inheritance of cruelty and corruption. They had been born into a world where they were taught to see others as nothing more than objects, their pain inconsequential, their lives meaningless. This was the reality Quba had come to accept, the bitter truth that gnawed at his soul day after day.

He had seen children—innocent, fragile, terrified—forced into the pits to butcher one another, their screams echoing through the blood-soaked sand as they fought for survival. And yet, the children of Yunkai, those born free, either watched with cold, detached eyes or laughed, pointing with those fingers in their too-expensive clothes as if the suffering of others was nothing more than a form of entertainment. They were taught from birth to be unfeeling, to revel in the agony of those who were deemed lesser. It was a cycle of brutality, a chain of cruelty that Quba despised with every fiber of his being. But he was powerless to break it.

He was a slave, nothing more. The name they had given him, Quba, was a Valyrian name—a name that, in the tongues of the free, spelled cruelty and evil. It was a name that branded him as an instrument of death, a tool to be wielded by those with the power to command him. He had done unspeakable things to survive, and each act of violence had etched a new scar upon his soul. He hated himself for it, hated them for making him into this. But more than anything, he feared death.

Quba didn’t want to die. Despite everything, despite the horror of his existence, the thought of death filled him with a cold dread. Life, no matter how cruel, was still life. He clung to it with desperate hands, even as he cursed the world that had made survival so costly. He wanted more than this half-life, this existence defined by suffering and fear. But what did "more" even mean in a world where freedom was a dream, a cruel joke played on those too weak to claim it?

The door to the barracks creaked open, and the sound of boots echoed through the stone chamber. The overseer’s voice, harsh and grating, shattered the oppressive silence. “Quba! To the pits, now!”

His heart sank, but he kept his face blank, his body moving mechanically as he rose from the cold, hard floor. The other slaves didn’t look at him, didn’t meet his eyes. They were all too familiar with the routine, too accustomed to the cruelty of the pits to offer anything more than a silent prayer that they wouldn’t be next.

Quba followed the overseer down the dark, narrow corridors, his footsteps echoing in the gloom. The walls felt as though they were closing in on him, the weight of the stone pressing down on his chest, making it hard to breathe. Every step brought him closer to the arena, to the place where he would be forced to kill or be killed. It was a fate he had faced before, but it never got easier. Each time, the fear was the same—cold, paralyzing, suffocating.

The arena was a brutal place, a ring of sand stained red with the blood of countless souls. The crowd was already there, their voices a cacophony of excitement and anticipation. To them, this was sport, a distraction from their own meaningless lives. But for Quba, it was another step closer to the abyss.

As he was pushed into the center of the arena, Quba’s eyes found his opponent. The boy was young, younger than Quba, barely into his teens. His face was streaked with tears, his body trembling with fear. Quba recognized him—Tyvek, a boy supposedly of Westerosi descent who had once shared his rations with him, who had laughed at his jokes, who had become a younger brother in this hellish existence, Tyvek who didn't have more than ten name days.

The sight of Tyvek’s tear-streaked face, the terror in his wide, innocent eyes, struck Quba like a physical blow. The overseer’s voice rang out, commanding them to fight. But how could he? How could he lift his hand against this boy, this child who had done nothing to deserve this fate?

Tyvek’s voice was barely a whisper, choked with sobs. “Please, Quba… I don’t want to die…”

Quba’s heart twisted in his chest, a knot of pain and anguish that threatened to consume him. He wanted to scream, to throw down his weapon and defy the slavers, to let them kill him instead. But he knew that if he did, they would kill Tyvek anyway, and his death would be slow, agonizing, a lesson to the other slaves. The cruelty of the slavers knew no bounds.

In that moment, Quba felt the crushing weight of the world’s indifference. It seemed to whisper in his ear, telling him that life was meaningless, that nothing he did mattered. The world was a void, empty and uncaring, and in its vastness, Quba’s life was insignificant. But even in this void, there was something that clawed at his soul—a desperate need to protect, to save Tyvek from a fate worse than death.

He raised his weapon, the blade heavy in his hand. Tyvek’s eyes widened in terror, and Quba felt his own tears welling up, blurring his vision. He wanted to tell Kato that it would be quick, that he would make it painless, but the words stuck in his throat. There was no comfort he could offer that would ease the boy’s fear.

With a cry of anguish, Quba struck. The blade sliced through the air, swift and merciful, cutting through Kato’s chest. The boy gasped, a sharp, pained sound, and then crumpled to the ground, his life draining away in the blood-soaked sand. Quba fell to his knees beside him, his hands trembling, his heart shattered into a thousand pieces.

At least, the boy was now free he lied to himself. At least, Tyvek wouldn’t have to live longer such an accursed existence he tried to reassure himself. As the crowd erupted into cheers, Quba felt nothing but emptiness and horror. He could see in the corner of his eyes, his shaking hands. And yet, despite the horror of it all, the part of him that feared death, that clung to life, was relieved. He had survived another day.

But at what cost?

Quba looked up at the sky, the sun blazing down on the arena, indifferent to the suffering below. In that moment, he felt the full weight of his existence—the hopelessness, the futility, the crushing realization that nothing would ever change. He was trapped in a cycle of violence, a cycle that would only end when he finally succumbed to the darkness that lurked at the edges of his soul.

The world was alive, oppressive, a living nightmare that Quba could never escape. But even in this darkness, there was a spark—a flicker of defiance, a desperate, burning desire for something more.

Quba wanted more than a life of suffering. He wanted freedom, a chance to live, to choose his own path, to find meaning in a world that seemed devoid of it. But until that day came, if it ever did, he would continue to fight, to survive, no matter the cost.

For in this world, survival was the only freedom he could grasp. He prayed that one day, this would change, that the whispers and tales said by the other slaves were true, that one day, they'll be freed, their chains broken, their masters killed. He hoped that one day, he would be able to forever lay down his blade, experience fully the world and simply be able to be.