The youth stood there. In the middle of the arena, thousands of eyes upon him, and waited. He waited for an answer. The answer being life or death. The answer to come from behind the shroud which stood before the opened right door. He breathed heavily, and heard nothing. He stood. He waited. He watched. He turned.
He turned and looked upon the princess' face. She was so fair and beautiful in the bright sunlight of that day. Her lips pale pink, her eyes bright green. He looked close. And he saw her head, so lovely and perfect, turn away in horror.
From behind the man arose the beast, it's shadow overpowering his in midair as it lept. The youth knew what had happened. He knew her decision. He knew the answer. He felt no pain as the beast ripped it's claws upon his back, he felt no pain as it tore into his flesh a second time, a third, and a fourth.
He simply laid there, his wet lips caked with powdered dirt, and wept. He wept from the heart, not from the beast. He had been beaten.