Achilleas had turned to find himself looking at the same noblewoman who had been sitting beside the fighting ring, the combination of dark hair and pale skin that much more striking close up. If he were going to accidentally hold someone’s hand then he could think of worse fates than it being hers.

Still, he’d pulled back quickly, folding his hands behind his back as he conceded to the woman before him, only to give a dip of his head and a small laugh at her observation. “Perhaps you are right.” he replied, before he picked two cups from the stall and offered one out to the dark haired woman. When she introduced herself, his brows lifted in recognition of the name at least. The Thanasi were a powerful house in Colchis.

“Well met, Lady Thea. You clearly know who I am, even if I was not so lucky as to meet you in Taengea. I do not doubt that my cousin was a gracious host.”

Actually, Achilleas was trying to gauge the woman’s mood to see if here was one of Stephanos’ many conquests that had ended happily, or one that felt scorned. He had no wish to deal with the latter. Following Thea’s motion as she turned, he took in the young man with her, and smiled a little at the confirmation that they were indeed family. Recalling the finger that had been pointed in his direction, Achilleas took a measure of the youth - for he still had that reedy look about him - and wondered at his attire.

Realising that Lady Thea’s attention had returned to him, the Mikaelidas man’s gaze , clear blue and unwavering,found her face once more

“I have only recently arrived. I wished to pay my respects to the princes whilst I was in the area.” he replied in response to the question asked of him, but the lord glanced about him as if to make quick appraisal. “This..event certainly seems to draw a crowd though.”

It was true: the Colchian people certainly seemed invested in this litte contest and Achilleas tired slightly to look back at the fight when the dull thud of flesh meeting flesh sounded. His gaze lingered a moment on the sight of Damocles, still holding his own against the formidable crown prince before he took a sip from the cup of water, throat bobbing as he swallowed it down.

When he lowered the cup once more it was to direct a question of his own at Lady Thea, his attention flickering once back to the young man who still hung back as he spoke.

“And have you a Thanasi champion in the competition my lady? Someone I should be wary of perhaps?”

He had not, after all, intended to compete and was at the disadvantage of knowing little to nothing about any of his opponents. Save for one that he knew better than most. But the Taengean’s smile was mild; polished as he waited for an answer, betraying little of his feelings. Well-practiced at polite conversation he knew well enough how to make bland small talk when it was called for.

Maleos had been resting as best as he could, drinking some of the offered water to replenish himself after his victory. He knew that it would likely not be long before he was called to fight once more. Matches like these tended to be quick and filled with adrenaline, each man fighting for his honour and to prove himself as a warrior. In Colchis, there wasn’t much more a man could want than to be known as a fierce warrior. The Greek Kingdom’s culture was based around it.

He heard his name called once more and he finished off his cup of water, handing it off to one of the serving women that was there to tend to the men fighting that day. He headed back towards the rings, pushing his black curls out of his face, sweat from the heat of the day and the earlier fight ran down his forehead, but he quickly wiped it away and prepared himself mentally for this next fight.

He did not know his opponent this time, had never heard of the man nor had he seen him fight. While things would be less predictable than his first opponent, Maleos knew his abilities and therefore felt confident that he could do this. He just needed to keep focused.

Maleos had to room for theatrics. He was a man of discipline and war, and so while his opponent made a show of disrobing, Maleos simply positioned himself in the ring, taking note of the other’s stance and attitude. He had no wish to impress the crowds with some pageantry, he was here to prove his merit as a man and as a soldier, and nothing more.

Maleos found his stance, a carefully balanced position from which he could attack or defend, one that came with ease and the practice of a fighting man. He would not underestimate his opponent, despite his earlier theatricality. He would not be here if he was not a man who could fight.

The tense air stood still around them for awhile as both men simply studied the other, Maleos calculating his move.

It didn’t seem as if the other was going to make the first move, and Maleos couldn’t blame him for it, but he knew they needed to get on with the fight, they couldn’t stand here all day waiting for someone to make a move.

And so he shifted forward, feigning a swing at the others head from the right, he used the momentum of the fake swing and ducked instead, throwing a punch up at the others torso, more power behind the blow than there would have been without the momentum from his previous fake out.

He swung himself quickly out of the attack, rolling backwards and hopping easily back up on his feet, ready to attempt to counter anything that came his way, or go on the offensive if it was necessary again. He didn’t want to be the offensive person in the fight, so he hoped after he had gotten things started, the other would come after him first. Maleos really shined when it came to countering blows when it came to hand-to-hand combat.

Zanon let Achilleas and Vangelis continue speaking, excusing himself as he prepared for his bouts, jesting with the other fighters and friends. This was a bright sort of day that nothing could really dull, and his gaze kept scanning for Evras in the crowd to see if she might decide to make the trip out to watch. Her pregnancy was at seven months now, and they looked forward to giving Dion a little brother or sister to play with. The boy was all but bouncing off the walls with excitement at the thought and he was hopeful the little one might come watch him fight as well.

His first round against Maximus was a good one, and though he clenched the victory he clapped the young man on the shoulder in good spirits once they had finished. Giddy from his victory, Zanon gave a grin and a wave at his brother and sister in law. Of the Thanasi relations, Thea and Mihail were undoubtedly his two favorites, and seeing Achilleas stopped and speaking to them he began making his way toward them, pausing after a quick greeting to all of them to watch Vangelis' next round.

A wince crossed his face as the brute defeated his brother, knowing Vangelis would be feeling off about it for a while even if he didn't really admit it. He brought his hands up to applaud, turning to Thea and Mihail with his mouth open to make a comment that died on his lips. A rider had ridden up during the bout with his brother, and now whispered in his ear that he was needed back at the Kotas house urgently. It was too soon, far too soon, but his wife had apparently gone into labor.

"I have to go. Lord Achilleas, or Lord Mihail, if you could tell my brother I have been called home." Zan didn't want to pause but he looked to the Thanasis standing near, speaking specifically to Thea under his breath. "The baby is coming." He gave a bow to the Taengean lord and others assembled before taking off at the fastest pace he could allow himself. Handed his ring and chiton, Zanon dressed and swung himself up onto the back of the horse handed to him. It didn't matter who's mount it was, only that he get back to his wife's side as soon as possible, fear and uncertainty clear in his eyes as he rode away from the event.

The pleasant chit chat with the Lady Thea was somewhat interrupted with one of the Colchian princes calling out that he was taking his leave. Upon hearing Prince Zanon’s request, Achilleas half-turned toward the man and bowed his head. “Of course your highness.” Because the man’s brother was still engaged in combat with none other than Damocles, and as the Colchian royal took his leave, Achilleas let his attention wander briefly back to the fight.

Whether the crown prince was somehow distracted by his brother’s leaving, or just tiring after the prolonged bout, but to Achilleas’ surprise, it was the Magnmean captain who came out the victor. It was not that he doubted Damocles’ skill, but he had heard much of the Stone Prince, and there was perhaps a touch of disappointment that he would not be allowed to test himself against the man. Making sure to offer the man his commiserations and to pass on the message from his brother, Achilleas had just turned to replenish his water when a servant arrived to tell him that he had been drawn for the next bout. When he heard against who he was to fight, there was a small moment of panic.

He didn’t fear being beaten - he’d sparred with Damocles enough to know the man had no skills he could not better, but there was a slight unease that the Colchian would let their...more personal disagreement colour the bout. Or, and Achilleas tried to console himself with this notion as he rubbed chalk dust into his hands, perhaps this would be just what was needed to allow Damocles to run off his bad temper and forgive him. That would be worth taking a beating for, the Mikaelidas lord never comfortable knowing that others were unhappy with him.

Excusing himself from the company of the Crown Prince and the two Thanasi nobles, Achilleas kept his expression carefully neutral as he moved to step into the ring. He smiled slightly - a polite smile, with only the smallest hint of wariness- as he extended his hand toward the Colchian to shake, willing Damocles to be less combative than he had been with the Crown Prince. Though, that would at least make it less unusual if he rejected the overture from Achilleas too. They had said they would talk, later, but it seemed as if the fates had decided they would fight first, and the Taengean had no idea how that was going to go down with the man before him.

” I’ll..go easy on you.” he offered, that same faint smile that didn’t seem to know if was happy being in place or not. “ Wouldn’t wish for you to lose face in front of a home crowd.”

The crowd, just having seen their crown prince defeated by the behemoth of a man in the ring were now given the opportunity the cheer either for him and for Colchis, or to take the part of the handsome Taengean lord who dared to put himself forward against those of the fiercest Greek kingdom. Consoling himself that it would at least not be too shameful to be defeated by the man who had beaten the prince of the realm, Achilleas backed off a couple of paces after the handshake, shook out his arms and tried to remind himself of what he knew of Damocles’ fighting style.

The man was a powerhouse, he knew, and perhaps that would be where he might press an advantage of being that little bit more agile. What he didn’t know was how detached the other might be in this fight. Was he going to be ridden by the same temper he’d shown upon seeing Achilleas earlier in the day? Or keep his head.

Deciding it would be better to find out sooner rather than later, Achilleas moved in quickly with a feint toward the man’s chest, ready to pull out of it and step away quickly depending how Damocles were to respond.

He had looked away…

What a mistake…

Really, could anyone truly blame Damocles for pressing his advantage and seizing upon the small, but crucial window of opportunity that Vangelis’s distraction seemed to portrait? It was only common sense that, whence the Fates opened up oneself towards an opening, once strode towards it with one’s entire willpower and might. Had the tables turned, the Magnemean would not have blamed that pompous royal for doing the same, but, then again, this victory only showed that the Captain of the Damned not only counted amongst the highest echelons of Colchis’s warriors due to his monstrous, brute force, but also his savage cunning and quick-thinking.

His assault had been brutal, with fist after fist landing on the face of the Crown Prince, before finally, a particularly ruthless uppercut crashing right down against the strongly-defined jaw of that absolutely deplorable man. At that moment it was abundantly clear that Vangelis could not go on any longer, and though Damocles strongly considered the possibility of arrogantly demanding that his chief rival got up from the sands and faced his defeat like a real man, the referee intercepted before he could even express his heartless wish. After wiping away a dribble of blood that escaped his lips, not his of course, but of his enemy, the silver-eyed Colchian collected himself and stood up proud and glorious, neither showing any sign of regret for the callous beating he had enacted, nor any disrespect by, for example, spitting on the ground or hurling insults at the so-called Blood General. Instead, he let silence be his weapon, and basked in the sharpness of his victory, huffing intensely as he composed himself and said nothing before leaving the arena, basking in, what he unrightfully believed most would consider, his entirely shocking victory.

Amusingly enough, it seemed his victory had spurred many game-runners and gamblers to hurry about as their either collected their losses or accrued the profits of their victories. Sure, he had been the underdog, but, any good betting man would realize that while the safer move would be to bet on the more famous of the two, the best rewards often favored those that took a chance on those that caused most surprise. And what greater surprise could there be in the Kingdom of Fire and War than that a commoner had bested the Crown Prince and General of the land? Perhaps, he should have placed a bet of his own before the match. At least that way he could have fattened his purse a bit, but then again, he cared far more about glory than money. And, come what may, nobody could deny that, at least today, in a contest of battle prowess and ability, the Captain of the Damned had defeated the General of the Colchians.

Once he returned to his side of the resting bay, a few medics rushed to his side and tended to his wounds, most of which consisted of scrapes and a few cuts that did not dig too deep. Despite the fact that Vangelis had lost, Damocles still could not claim that it was a sound victory for himself. The Stone Prince had lived up to his name and shown a tremendous degree of might, and, above all, skill. Even if he were bold enough to claim that he was more cunning and physically stronger when it came to the weight of one’s muscles, the Captain of the Damned could not possibly make the argument that he boasted superior skills than those of the Kotas prince, regardless of whatever his pride and those game-runners said. Besides, this had been a weapon-less bout, and though it did not dismiss the surprising triumph that he felt, deep down Damocles still knew that, unless the match had been one waged between his shield and Vangelis’s dual-swords, their never-ending and personal contest would continue on.

Still, not long after he had been declared the victor of his previous match, his name was once more called upon, causing the Magnemean to growl at the disappointment. Really? Could he not have a single moment to rest up before engaging in another fight? Was it too much of an ask? To make matters worse, the man whom had been declared as his enemy was none other than Achilleas himself, perhaps the one fighter that Damocles least wanted to do battle with. Not too long ago they had agreed to settle their differences behind the confines of safe, quiet walls, so there was no real reason for the Captain of the Damned to really feel any particular wrath aimed at his former love, and yet he could not shake off the feeling that, just as the Fates had preordained his victory against Vangelis, so too had they weaved this match themselves.

“Don’t insult me. You’re strong. We both know that you can take a pounding.” Teased the somewhat recovered Colchian as he stretched out his hand and winked at the Taengean in a mostly lighthearted manner, offering Achilleas a double entendre behind his words. Furthermore, unlike his bout with Vangelis, Damocles reciprocated the other’s honorable pleasantries and bowed and shook the others hand, as was expected between combatants that promised to duel each other in a fair and just way. “By the way, I know you kept staring at me, but don’t get distracted. I'd hate for you to end up like the Cyclops Princess over there.” He further teased in reference to both his own good-looks and the sorry state of the Crown Prince's face. He took to heart that Achilleas would not repeat his words to anyone else, nor would the referee be bold enough to report humorous trash talk between two men who, for all intents and purposes, only seemed to have a friendship of sorts, despite their far more…amorous, but secretive, past. Besides, at that moment, they were far enough from the rest of the crowd that nobody could truly hear their words, save for well, themselves. 

He supposed that, even if he lost to Achilleas, which was not an outcome that the Colchian had planned on following through, it would not really be the talk of the town. He might have a pretty face and a handsome demeanor, but Damocles, probably more than most Colchians, was aware that the Taengean was similarly counted amongst not only the better fighters of his own homeland, if he wasn’t the best one already, but also could boast that he was one of Greece’s top warriors. After all, their past wasn’t just quiet talks by the Nile’s riverside or passionate nights of wanton intensity hidden underneath the confines of tents and shacks. They had warred, sparred, fought and, yes, quite literally, bled together upon their time in Egypt. And as he finished returning the show of sportsmanship that was the expected custom, Damocles began to recall the main points of Achilleas’s style of combat.

Agile, perceptive and fast, with a certain accuracy of strike and an incredible might that might just rival his own, the Silver-eyed militant thought for a moment that, on paper, Achilleas almost sounded as if he were an invincible force of nature. Most warriors often had a discernable weakness of sorts, but, when it came to the Mikaelidas lord, few were the physical strengths that the Magnemean could count. Notwithstanding, just as he had proven in his fight with Vangelis, there was a lot more to a fight than pure combative ability, and, perhaps, Damocles could comfort himself with the idea that, amongst them, he might just boast the greater amount of cunning. Still, unlike his fight with Vangelis, where he did show his more ruthless and cruel side, the Captain of the Damned had no real reason to resort to such aggressive strategies and merciless methods. Gods, if anything, he did not want to hurt his former lover too much, showing an almost polar opposite mindset than he had with the Crown Prince of Colchis. Couldn’t the Fates have chosen another as their pick for this fight instead?

Be what it may, there was little use in thinking about hypotheticals. For all he knew the Taengean had changed his methods since last they sparred. He therefore moved back to his side of the arena, keeping his arms tight against his body as he relied on his signature defensive style that the other man probably recognized anyways. Much to his own surprise however, Achilleas began their fight with a feint, a deceptive move that, while not entirely shocking, was not one of the usual ways by which the Taengean often started his fights, if his memory served him well. Well, perhaps he was right after all, and the Magnemean could not rely on his prior knowledge at all. No matter, even if he was caught a bit off guard by the move aimed at his chest, Damocles dodged by turning on his side and riposting with a move that was not too dissimilar to the crushing uppercut he had delivered upon Vangelis’s jaw not long after. Maybe his own opening move was a bit more aggressive than he had wished, but, a part of him wished to end things quickly, so it only made sense that Damocles had resorted to the same devastating move that had knocked Vangelis unconscious. Yet, another part of him would have expressed disappointment if, after only one punch, no matter its intensity, Achilleas was defeated.

Deep down, Damocles did enjoy the idea that, perhaps, he had distracted Achilleas a bit with his humor and jokes, recalling the familiar furrow in the other’s brow of disappointment aimed at the somewhat disrespectful tone that the Magnemean took. Then again, was it really surprising that the Colchian had taken such an irreverent tone? Achilleas knew that he was not subtle when it came to his emotions or feelings, especially when it involved victory or loss.

Nevertheless, even if his heart told him that he was more than justified in gloating about defeating Vangelis, his intuition told him that, perhaps, it was best to spare such words from public perception and leave them to more private ears. A forced, but mostly perceivably apologetic frown formed on his face, mostly out of an effort to appeal to Achilleas’s royal sensitivities, and not really anything else. “Apologies…I forgot he’s your cousin. Old habits die hard.” He said, sounding as convincingly sorry as he could possibly try and reason inasmuch as defeating his chief rival and most personal enemy in an open and, for all intents and purposes, equitable match. “Let’s have a fair fight, I won’t hold back, and you won’t either, agreed?” He asked, trying to smile a bit so as to reassure the other that he would not be dishonorable and ruthless here and now.

With the pleasantries over and done with, Damocles turned his attention at the fight at hand, keeping up his signature defensive stance as he recalled his own state of affairs. He was tired, and drained of a considerable amount of his energy. Speed and agility had never been his best side, but now he would have to be far more conservative with his movements if he did not want to waste all of his energy unnecessarily. The fight with Vangelis had taken a more significant toll than he would have preferred, but if he kept up his defenses and played to his inhuman strength, then maybe, he could defeat Achilleas. Or at least, that was what he thought.

Gods, that Taengean was fast, and certainly more nimble than either Vangelis or himself! Plus, he was right in his previous assesstments concerning the other’s own might, it was great and heavy, bordering on the one that Damocles possessed, but with none of the lack of finesse that the Magnemean had. So, this was the best that Greece’s wealthiest kingdom had to offer? Part of Damocles wanted to say that he was a bit impressed, but then again, he expected no less from a man that was both a longstanding militant with a brilliant record and, his own former lover. The Colchian after all did not share his bed with unremarkable individuals after all, be they women or men, and Achilleas certainly lived up to the hype. Still, if the blue-eyed man thought that he would restrain himself solely because of their former affair, Achilleas had another thing coming.

There was power and speed behind his opponent, that was abundantly clear, but the Captain of the Damned lived up to his reputation as the Terrible and maintained his impregnable defense just as he had done with Vangelis, albeit in a far less showy, but still efficient way. He could trace the path of the other’s fists and countered them with his own deflections and blocks, stonewalling the other man’s aggressive tactics with his own unyielding one. Yet, it was quite a strain on his energy reserves, keeping up his defenses for such a prolongued period of time, and besides, fights were not determined by merely shielding.

And yet, it seemed that the apple really did not fall far from the true. At long last, Damocles recognized a familiar move made by Achilleas, that echoed another low-aimed kick once enacted by his own father, Irakles. Well,if he had been struck one, that was on the Mikaelidas men, but if he allowed himself to fall because of the same trick twice, then this would be entirely on Damocles and nobody else. His brain told him that the easiest move would be to jump and evade it, but that would drain his stamina almost entirely, and he could not sacrifice such a risk. And yet, he could not afford to fall for it again. Thus, he shifted his foot by the side and removed it from the other's trajectory, evading it before recovering his ground a bit after steading himself. "Like father, like son huh?" He teased, laughing a bit after he composed himself again and went back to business as usual. 

Noticing the way that the other man’s fist moved in a straightforward pattern, Damocles catched a thrown punch and grinned, twisting the muscle-ridge limb behind his back as he locked the other’s muscular arm on his back and squeeze, knowing that such a move would be painful to even a perfect warrior such as Achilleas. “Here, a gift, hope you enjoy it!” He snarled, feeling somewhat bad that, he still harmed his former lover, but not feeling remorse enough to apologize for what had been an entirely fair move.

There was a substantially different tone than the previous fight however. It was as fierce as the one with Vangelis, but it was far less antagonistic and, dare one say, generously more sportsmanlike. Despite his tired and worn state, Damocles kept grinning the whole time, a rare thing that someone did in the midst of a heated struggle. Was he enjoying himself? Perhaps. Though he certainly was not the only one who did so. It seemed that he had earned the hearts and minds of his people, and grown to become the crowd favorite, for once he held Achilleas in his painful lock, the audience erupted in thunderous applause and cheers, making it clear that this fight was noticeably more entertaining than the previous one, which had pitted two sons of Colchis against each other. “Submit…” He arrogantly asked of Achilleas, knowing that a surrender would wound the other’s pride more than an actual war of attrition.

With his hand firmly pressed and iron clad grip firmly focused on Achilleas, Damocles thought that victory was all but guaranteed for him. It would have been so easy to dislocate the Taengean’s shoulder, but, despite his obstinate pride, the towering Magnemean had hoped he could at least spare his blue-eyed adversary the excruciating pain that would accompany such a move. Say what one wished about him, Damocles was not an overly cruel or spiteful man, and if he could spare others from unnecessary measures that amounted to nothing but capricious whims once his objectives were accomplished, he would do so, if only due to the pointlessness of it all. He was ruthless and, perhaps, amoral, but theatrical and gaudy, never.

Yet, while he perhaps was not an overly cruel man, he was an unfathomably arrogant one, and though he could have, possibly, secured victory had he kept his mouth shut and not demanded the other yielded, then maybe, he could have won that spar right here and there. Yet, after allowing himself to grow complacent for but a moment when he tried to recover his strength and amass his greatly depleted stamina, Achilleas reacted, and seized upon his moment of arrogance, breaking free from the man’s unforgiving lock with a pronounced elbow aimed straight at his gut, barely an inch away from his sternum, but with enough force of impact to make the usually resilient Colchian momentarily gasp for breath. Air pushed away from his lungs and he was knocked backwards by the Taengean’s strength, causing Damocles to momentarily lose his focus as he stepped away from his opponent.

Merciless as he had remembered, Achilleas did not waste a single moment as he pressed his advantage onwards, slamming Damocles against the sands of the arena as the once roaring crowd lowered its tone and found itself once more stressed by a fight that most had thought finished already. At first, he tried to push the other off him, striking the other with his hands and legs whilst recalling an oddly familiarity to their entangled, and, daresay, heated, state. How many times had they felt the press of their bodies in a matter that, whilst not aimed at fighting, still found them with little to no clothes between another’s sweated embrace. Yes, to the untrained eye it looked aggressive and rowdy enough, but, even the typically unemotional Damocles could admit that there was a certain intimate sensualness to it all that just seemed too coincidental to be mere happenstance. And then, his silver eyes met the other’s azure gaze, with hitched breaths and their faces not even but six inches away from each other. Damocles could feel Achilleas’s breath, and, it was perhaps not too much of an assumption to presume that Achilleas too felt Damocles’s. This man that he was fighting wasn’t just some baron from Taengea, he was one of his lovers, former maybe, but still, a lover at one point. His eyes hinted at the incredibly elusive and rare softness that the Colchian once showed the Taengean, and, for a moment that felt like an eternity, it seemed almost as if the Fates themselves had conspired to found them in this ironic situation.

“Achi…” He whispered, his voice almost impossible to hear, but with enough force behind it to pierce the other’s ears. It wasn’t the call of an enemy, nor was it the call or a rival. It was the call of someone who had missed the Taengean, almost foolishly so. And there was a certain quiet tenderness to that nickname, which was not the other’s full name, as one would decree whence angry or upset, but rather, was the almost vulnerable hint at closeness that Damocles had thought finished and done after that painful and unexplained farewell in Egypt.

And yet, as he felt that twinge of familiar fondness for but a single, fleeting moment, Damocles was brought right back into reality, snapping back to his present state as his throat was seized and the other’s strong fingers dug against his Adam’s apple. A growl escaped him as he stared at the other with recognizable fury, but, there was no wrath or anger behind it, like a fire that raged but did not burn. Then came the other’s demands, precise and clear, but, with a perceivable hesitation to it all. The writing was on the wall, and even proud Damocles had to know when enough was enough. Still, he was not going to give the other the satisfaction of hearing him submit, for both knew that he was far too stubborn to say those words. Thus, with the last of his waned strength, the Captain of the Damned raised his hand and showed his index finger, officially conceding and putting an end to that somewhat long, but, strangely personal fight.