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When it's over and Megatron's stained her body with the woman from the temple, she props herself up on her elbows.
Rung (like a bell) pulls her robes back around herself, fastening pins and sashes. She's brilliant to behold. Like living light.
"Do you truly believe in a god of light?" Megatron blurts out.
Rung looks up from the intricate ties around her waist and stares at her for a long minute. "Not as such."
Fascinating. A woman committed to the temple—and to the temple's ideal of love—who carries such an interesting philosophy.
"I do not believe in Primus," Megatron confesses. "A fable for children and beggars."
The noise Rung makes sounds disappointed to Megatron's ears.
"I see your point." Rung's hand finds the bruised meat of Megatron's thigh. "A gladiator at the bottom of hell can hardly be asked to look up toward the light."
That's why Megatron insists, when her handlers throw her a bone, on Rung. Winnings spent for an hour of this. Not for any religious ecstasy. For Rung's mind and her conversation.
"I hardly think Primus approves of barbarism," Rung adds, cool fingers tracing the split in Megatron's swollen lip. "What purpose does this serve?"
"A god of war demands Her payment in flesh and blood."
Rung hums. Her stare is soft and her tough gentle. If Megatron could, she'd insist on more time. Instead of these temple-sanctioned hours stolen between bouts of bloodshed.
All of Rung is soft. Her skin. Her touch. Her words. It's a different kindness than the medics stitching meat back together to get hacked at again. Different from her handlers who treat Megatron with a certain fearful gentility.
Reaching out, Megatron touches the delicate skin of Rung's hand.
"Surely you must be sick of me," Rung teases. "You spend all your time with me."
"I want more time." Megatron sits up properly and notices the pleasant soreness of her body after use. "I would tear down all of Primus' pretty temples, if I though it would give us another second."
There's a bang at Megatron's door. The only courtesy she has before it's thrown open. Megatron doesn't bother with shame and simply sits as unclothed as she is in bruises and stitches.
"May you walk in Primus' light, Megatron." Rung smiles—a secret smile for the two of them.
Rung's personal guard escorts her out of the room, a hand on their sidearm the whole time. The door closes, locking Megatron back inside her lavish cell. Laying back in her bed, she doesn't care for the expensive sheets (she always gets blood on them, anyway) or the gilded edges (what use is a golden cage). But the light's gone out of the room.
Her next match will be in a week. That's enough time to decide how best to escape. How best to make good on her promise—tearing down those temples of light and beauty.
She will wage a war on heaven itself since Primus isn't home.