Defiance

by Matt Nute

"Stand before me, boy."

The voice was powerful and commanding. Deep basso profundo echoes resonated from the walls of the arena, fading in a decrescendo of majesty. Grit and sand stained the boy's face, mixing with oozing blood to form a crust, warm as it slowly hardened in the sun. He made no move to clean himself, knowing that the attendants would take care of him later.

He looked up with his left eye, the right obscured by blood not his own. The world around him was blurred, both from the heat haze of the desert sun, and from his near-total dehydration and exhaustion. With muscles that had only recently ceased their tiresome efforts, he stood. Bones creaking from abuse, he stood, feeling a separated rib shift painfully.

He would show no pain. Not before this man. If indeed a man he was.

The boy took a step forward, over the first body before him. He moved with growing purpose, knowing that his life could end at any moment, even after he had fought so hard to preserve it. His life, young as it was, was not his own, and had not been for as long as he could remember. A slave he had been, for nearly all his life. A slave, up until three months ago.

He had been unchained from the milling wheel, and brought to a stone chamber. He recalled being examined critically by a robed man whose face was hidden and whose grasp was like granite wrapped in rough linen.

"He is strong?" the stranger had asked the boy's master.

"For one so young, yah."

"That is not my question. Is he strong?" the stranger's voice was harsh, like the wind over sand.

The slave driver shrugged. "Yah. Like an ox, that one. Stubborn, too."

The boy had heard the clink of money, a sound that meant nothing to him but change. When he heard the music of the coins, he knew that his life was always about to change, whether it be to a new master, a new place on the wheel, or different food instead of rancid meat, gold meant change.

And although he did not know or understand it, change meant growth. And to grow was to become strong, or to die.

"To me, boy." The booming voice repeated. The boy took another step, his blistered feet sticky with the blood of those beneath him. He rose higher, climbing over the bodies in the arena. With his limited vision, he could see the piles, beginning to rot and stink in the sun. He had lost count of time since he had been in the arena. His skin was rough, both with burn and callus. His body ached, more than the time he had spent a week on the wheel.

He climbed, because that was the order. To obey was life, to defy was death. This much he understood, and respected.

From an early age, he had come to see that death was not a thing to be feared, but to be respected. When his death came, the boy had vowed, it would be a change from the life of a slave. Perhaps to be reborn as a king, or a majestic warrior. Death meant that the life of a slave was over.

Yet still he obeyed the commands, and he climbed. Fingers scrabbled over dead flesh, pulling himself to the wall. He felt searing hot stone against his palms, and rested his weight for a moment. Then stretching to his fullest height, he reached for a handhold and pulled.

Strained shoulders screamed in agony as the boy hauled his weight up the wall. Grime-encrusted toes searched for footholds as he ascended, away from the charnel pit. He heaved with all his strength, levering his body over the first ledge. With a loud clatter, he felt the weapon that had served him for the past days slip free of his belt and tumble to the ground below. He did not grieve, for there was no more need for it. If anything remained for him to kill, he would slay it with his bare hands, or die in the glorious attempt.

The boy had never heard of religion, outside of the stories and myths of the older slaves. But if religion was merely believing in something greater than the known, the boy was a zealot. His god was now the battle, and the slaying of his enemies would be his prayer. Pulling himself up onto the ledge, he continued to climb.

As he punished his muscles and bones, his teeth clenched in agony, the boy ascended. All that he knew was obedience, drilled into him since his first day as a slave. To obey, was life. Defiance was death. The credo of all slaves echoed in his ears.

His body cried out to relax, to fall. Certainly the hard ground beneath him would shatter his bones like a clay pot, and let his life flow into the sand with his blood. His heart beat fiercely, forcing his arms to move, to pull despite the pain.

Here, at least, he would have some measure of defiance. For the first time in his life, the boy began to realize the contradiction. By obeying the command of his master, and denying his body's desire for death, he would win life. Even if only for the seconds before his possible execution, he would know one moment of defiance. And that defiance, in a reversal of all he had known, would mean life.

So, in defiance, he climbed. Climbed towards the sound of his master.

And suddenly, his fingers clutched at air, sending him sprawling forward. His face smashed into rough stone, his arms akimbo. The heat of the sun was no longer on his back, the rough texture of the wall replaced by smooth fabric. The boy blinked, unable to stand. He had reached the edge of the pit.

Slowly, moving like a gored pig, he rolled, looking to the sky. A crimson canopy shielded him from the harsh sun, casting his vision into shadow. For a moment, he could feel a breeze cool against his skin, not bearing the stinging desert sand. He glanced to the horizon, and found that he could see past the walls of the arena, to the desert stretching to infinity, beyond the limits of his sight.

The boy took a deep breath, and laughed despite himself. Let death come, he thought. This moment, I am free.

"You will rise, boy."

The voice broke through his momentary reverie, commanding obedience. As if on instinct, the boy began to rise. Blood still pouring from open wounds, he forced himself onto his knees, gasping for strength.

"I will not have you on your knees, lest you desire your end. Rise, if you are of the strong."

Obey. Obey. Obey. You are of the strong.

The boy stood.

With cracking of back, and wailing of torn ligaments, he forced himself upright, proud and tall. For the first time, he realized his stature, impressive for one so young. Despite his blurred sight, he strode forward slowly, toward life or death, he knew not which. Nor did he care.

"Stop." The majestic voice was hushed, almost awed. The boy saw a shape rise before him, obscured by the darkness under the canopy, and the blood streaming into his face. Large and imposing, the shadow moved forward, footfalls like thunder against the stone.

Fear told the boy to kneel. Kneel, for to stand would be arrogance, and arrogance was a luxury a slave would never know.

In defiance, the boy stood.

He could feel the air move as his master stood before him. Like a giant monolith, his body blocked the sun. The boy felt a cold hand, massive and powerful, cup his chin. He felt pressure, enough to make his bones into powder, lift him from the ground. Unable to gasp for air, the boy thrashed, choking.

"You fight." It was more of a statement of fact than of amazement. "You desire life. Yet know this, at this moment as in all others, you live or die by my will alone."

The boy was dropped to the ground, wheezing as he sucked air into his lungs. His body was like water, unable to support even the slightest movement. With every fiber of his being, he wanted nothing more than to end the pain. Feeling the sun on his face, he looked to his left. The arena floor lay below him, all he would have to do would be to roll. To summon the strength to move his body scarce inches, and he would feel nothing forevermore.

He could make the choice, to finally have one moment of true freedom over his destiny. He would die, but not as a slave. He would die like a warrior, in the arena.

"Choose then, boy." He was not certain if the voice in his head belonged to his master, or to himself. His body screamed at him for mercy, to let it rest. Better to die from the sun than to resist any more.

With defiance in his heart, denying every desire within him, the boy's body began to move. But not to fall earthward into the arena.

The boy stood once more, facing his master. He extended a hand for balance, staggering forward.

Laughter echoed. Not derisive, like the laughter of the crowds at the slave market. And not cruel, like the laughter of He Who Wields The Lash. It was the laughter of knowledge gained, or a hope realized.

"You are of the strong."

His master's voice.

"You have fought your blood, five days in this arena. You have not eaten, you have not slept. For five days, you have battled for your life."

The boy merely stood, letting the words fall on his ears like the wind. He cared not for how long he had fought. Only that he was victorious, that he was alive.

"You have the chance, boy. You may choose life or death, obedience or defiance. Should you choose the path of weakness, the fall is behind you. But," the booming voice continued, "should you choose loyalty and life, step forward and speak your name."

The boy's eyes grew wide. A name. His name. As a slave, he had none, save for the name the others had called him. The name his first master had bestowed upon him. To take it now as his own would mean individuality, and the death of his life as a slave.

It would mean change, and thus growth. And with this growth, strength and life.

The boy stepped forward into the light, standing before his master.

"My name is Conan." He spoke, voice dry as dust, but strong as rock. "And I am of the strong."

His master stood, dwarfing Conan. The two beheld each other for a moment before the master spoke.

"I am En Sabah Nur, little warrior. And you are indeed of the strong." En Sabah Nur looked down at the boy before him, the boy who had survived the slave pits, the desert, and five days of brutal combat. For a moment, he felt a kindred spirit rise within him.

"What then, do you choose, Conan?" he asked. "Obedience? Or defiance?"

The boy warrior took a breath, standing like a rock before the ancient one before him. If all time were to have stopped at that moment, no man ever born would know the thrill of being alive more than Conan. He slowly took a knee before Nur and replied.

"Obedience."

En Sabah Nur, the mutant who would one day become known as Apocalypse, placed a hand on the shoulder of the man before him. "Then rise and be of the Strong."

"Rise, and become my First of the Strong."

And as Conan did so, his heart was bound with obedience, for his life as a slave was over. Now he was a servant, but no slave. Now he was one of the strong.

And in his days serving his master, he would never forget the one spark that gave him the strength to survive. Despite his unyielding loyalty and obedience to Nur, even unto death, there was still one fire that burned inside him, wagering life over death, strength over weakness.

Defiance.

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