Chapter 6 – Delicate Things
The ludus slept uneasy. Men groaned in dreams, chains rattled with restless turning, and the ever-present smell of iron and sweat clung to the air.
Spartacus lay awake on his cot, staring at the ceiling, the memory of Sura's touch haunting him like a ghost. He closed his fists until the nails bit deep into his palms, desperate for something to hold onto.
Across the chamber, Ivar sat alone in the shadows, sharpening a practice blade by lantern light. The hiss of stone on wood filled the silence. His sea-green eyes reflected the glow like a cat's.
"You never sleep," Spartacus muttered, breaking the silence.
Ivar didn't look up. "Sleep is a luxury. I grew up where it was a weakness."
Spartacus turned his head, scowling. "You talk like an old man, yet you are a boy."
That made Ivar pause. He set the blade down, leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Old men die with excuses. Children die with complaints. I choose neither."
Spartacus studied him. He wanted to snap back, but the boy's tone wasn't arrogance. It was matter-of-fact.
At last, Spartacus asked the question that had gnawed at him since his first day. "Why do you always thank the gods? You've bled, starved, been chained like the rest of us. They have not lifted a hand to aid you."
Ivar's gaze softened, just slightly. "Every breath I draw is proof enough. They do not shield me from suffering because suffering is the forge. Steel breaks if not tempered. I am still standing, therefore the gods have never left me."
Spartacus frowned, unsettled. His rage had always turned upward — at Rome, at the gods, at fate itself. Yet this boy accepted pain as a gift, not a curse.
"Tell me, Thracian," Ivar said, voice low, "if the gods took your woman to sharpen you for war, would you spit on their gift?"
Spartacus surged up, fury flashing. But when he met Ivar's eyes — calm, unyielding, not mocking — the anger drained, leaving only silence.
The boy leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes. "Hold on to her memory. It gives you strength. Do not waste it in curses. Every victory, every wound, belongs to the gods."
For the first time, Spartacus felt the weight of his grief bend. Not ease, not vanish — but bend, like metal under hammer.
In the shadows, Varro shifted uneasily, listening. Crixus snorted from his cot, voice dripping with disdain. "Let the boy marry his gods. See if they bleed for him when the arena calls."
But no one laughed.
The lantern hissed, casting Ivar's face half in shadow, half in light. His youth could not hide the truth in his words.
Delicate things break. But Ivar? Ivar bent and endured.
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Would you like me to continue straight into Chapter 7 – Great and Unfortunate Things (Ivar's first arena debut, where he finally reveals his dual blades and green armor to the crowd), or pause and add a smaller "in-between" chapter showing how his faith and calm start to unsettle the other gladiators before that big turning point?