With an edge of desperation, Eymen rolled out of Colleen's reach. His breathing was labored from exertion and injury.<i>I have to end this. Now! <br/>
</i><br/>His opponent felt the need to marshal herself as well, fortunately. It gave Eymen a few precious seconds to catch his breath. His knee complained with shocks of pain...but it held, for now. Rising to his feet, the young Turk held a defensive stance, favoring the leg. He worried about that. A skilled fighter could take advantage of even the slightest imbalance. Colleen would notice.<i>All the more reason for a decisive end to this contest. A grisly end. </i>Eymen flicked his eyes toward the crowd and spied the emcee standing foremost among them. A greasy man, with beady dark eyes and a too ready smile. He gave the nod, and Eymen cringed inwardly. So, it was decided. Eymen had known it was coming, and felt rocked by it all the same.<i>May Allah forgive me...<br/>
</i><br/>Eymen bolted forward, feinted left, then slammed his right knee hard into Colleen's groin. A debilitating blow for anyone, man or woman. As Colleen folded, Eymen slammed his forehead into her nose...once...twice...and slipped the leg. She hit the sand hard, and he wasted no time. Eymen kicked her as hard he could. One blow after another to the stomach, the ribs, and face. The crowd roared its approval. Like the ancient Romans, they screamed their need for blood, and he gave it to them. He would take this girl's life as payment for his family's future. He would hate himself for as long he lived.<br/><br/>She stopped defending herself at this point, Eymen realized. Dazed, he supposed. He forced himself to see her as something not alive; a sack of potatoes. He tried to block out the dull, dreadful thuds of his kicks lancing into her body. He failed. Even the cacophony of bloodlust from the audience couldn't down out the sound of this slow, brutal murder. The crowd quietened to a murmur.<i>Good, </i>he thought.<i>Let it sink in. Let them realize this travesty for what it is! Take your blood and choke on it you anim--<br/>
</i><br/>Eymen heard a sharp crack, and found himself on the ground. "What?" he muttered. "What?"<br/><br/>He rolled to hands and knees and attempted to stand. His wounded knee exploded into agony, broken, and Eymen fell again. He turned his head, and saw an old man raise a wooden cane. Pain exploded in the back of his skull, and Eymen's vision swam.<i>I don't...I don't understand...what happened...? What is happening...?<br/>
</i><br/>Something cold and hard--the cane, he realized--slipped around his throat. Eymen saw the old man's arm wind itself around the cane, inside of the elbow trapping the shaft, palm of the hand resting against the back of Eymen's head. The old man's other hand pulled the handle of the cane back toward his body, and something odd happened. A wet, sharp popping noise. The young fighter felt something in his throat cave in, and was suddenly unable to breathe. He slipped to the ground, hearing the nightmarish sound of a wet, frantic gurgle.<br/><br/><i>Allah be merciful! That's <b>me</b>!! That's...<br/>
</i><br/>For two minutes more, Eymen choked to death on his own blood.<br/><br/><div style="text-align: center">- x -<br/>​</div>Al-Akhir knelt down and examined Colleen with dispassionate eyes. "Well," he said, in barely accented and beautifully enunciated English. "You yet live. Your delicate form hides great resilience, little one." The rasp of his aged voice held an unfamiliar trill of dark amusement. "You will need medical attention soon...and I cannot take you to a hospital." Eyebrows furrowed, Al-Akhir worked the problem in his mind. Within seconds, he knew the choice before him. He could let her die and preserve his current life, or save her and shatter it.<i>What is a king to do?<br/>
</i><br/>"How dare you!!"<br/><br/>The old man rose, joints popping, and turned to regard a beady-eyed fellow stumping toward him. "You killed him! You may as well have killed yourself, you fucking corpse!" Al-Akhir blinked placidly at this barrage. From the periphery he saw men close around him, wearing identical expressions of professional detachment. "Ah..." he murmured, and switched to fluent Turkish. "I have disrupted your festivities. Apologies. I would rather this girl not die for your amusement. You have already collected the bets. Your money is made. There is no profit in the death of this child."<br/><br/>The emcee stepped up and grabbed a fistful of Al-Akhir's robe, yanking him forward. "There is pleasure, and that is enough. Don't worry, you ancient fuck. You'll join her in the afterlife."<br/><br/>"Would that I could meet my end so easily. Alas, I will not die by your hand. You will let us both leave this place." Al-Akhir paused a beat. "And...you will give me your car keys," he finished absently.<br/><br/>The emcee couldn't decide whether to be stunned or amused. He settled for belligerent. "And why will I do this thing? Who are you to make me?"<br/><br/>Al-Akhir uttered three simple syllables, and silence reigned supreme in the room. The emcee's face blanched, and he snatched his hand away as if burned. Al-Akhir watched the man open and closed his mouth several times, grasping for words. No one refuted him. None called him a liar. Not a single soul in the fighting pit even entertained the notion of deception. No one would dare say those words in falsehood. Ever.<br/><br/>The old man turned back to Colleen. He knelt down, propping her up long enough to wrap an arm around her waist. "Come along, child" he said in English, "you will need to help me. I cannot carry you." Rising, Al-Akhir extended his other hand without meeting the emcee's eyes. "Your keys, sir." They were in his hand seconds later.<br/><br/>Walking with slow, deliberate care, Al-Akhir and Colleen left the fighting pit in perfect silence. No one tried to stop them. No one said a word. Al-Akhir would learn later that the fighting pit closed seven days thereafter, never to re-open. The emcee was found hanging from the rafters, strangled by his own intestines.