Author's Notes: This story is inspired by Agron's crazy/bloody laugh at the beginning of episode 1 in Spartacus: Vengeance and Steven DeKnight's commentary in Spartacus: Blood and Sand that mentioned a scene he regretted not having the time to ever film involving Agron. Basically, Agron goes berserk after Duro dies and kills all the Romans in his path which makes for quite a bloody training square. Oenomaus finds him and is really upset/distraught and says, "This was my home." To which Agron replies, "Then I truly pity you."
This is what it is to hate your face. To be taunted by the fleeting glimpses of his face in yours. To see parts of the whole but never its entirety. Never again.
Your reflection is a curse and that which feeds your life's blood betrays you. Water and sword are enemies to your eyes.
None would ever mistake the two brothers for twins. Where Agron light, Duro was dark. Where Agron's face round, Duro's square. Still, resemblance existed. It was in the slant of their foreheads and shape of their brow bone, the almond shaped eyes…the profile, the nose, the mouth and the hundred mannerisms and completed sentences shared between them.
Agron was an amalgam of their father and mother, while Duro a reflection of their father. And thus, Agron could never be too hard on his brother because he could see the wisdom and strength of their father behind Duro. But perhaps it was better to say that Duro reflected the appearance of their father, but his heart, his presence and warmth was of their mother. So Agron could never crush him. The best he could hope to do was to watch over his little brother as guardian and protector.
A task failed miserably.
What would they say to him now, beloved mother and father? Would they comfort or accuse?
The point was moot for his guilt.
The knife shining in hand is tempting…inches from his face.
Again, a counterfeit appears. It is everywhere.
He crushes the reflection under bloodied fist. It is a lie. Water foams, rushes, splashes. But the night is quiet and the gods answer none of his prayers. He swears he can hear their laughter.
And it is not only in his face, but every waking and sleeping memory, every whisper of the trees, each movement of the sky and comfort of the earth that his brother lives shadowed life still. In them he sees a thousand mistakes, a thousand missed chances for a better outcome.
Water mocks and is smooth once more. There is the face once more, a mockery of his brother's.
He screams, crushes water once more, caring not who he disturbs in the darkness of the night and raises the scorn of the moon and stars. They once lent comfort to two brothers for they are the same skies of their German homeland. No longer.
He knows not himself anymore. Years spent without sibling are long forgotten in his childhood. He has forgotten what it was to be alone. Yet he wasn't simply alone, he had been ripped apart and left bereft of the half that had been his heart and soul. In its place remained only purposeless husk easy to dispose. The eagle of emptiness gnaws at him endlessly and he is cursed Prometheus. He could never be free of it. He could never be fulfilled.
There is nothing. No purpose.
Knife is in hand again and he clutches and pulls at his hair.
Gods laugh at him. They curse. They spit. They rip and tear at him. Where is their favour once promised?
He is lunatic. He is mad. He does not care.
They wake. They stare. All are disturbed. He does not care.
The first cut is a betrayal, the second worse. Still, he continues.
He is manic in his slices. Insanity is expecting a different result from the same action. He is insane. Nothing changes.
"A-Agron…" she says. He catches dark eyes and hair in the moonlight, pale skin, slow deliberate steps and the concerned features upon her face too. She who wants to be the mistress to his master.
"Leave. Now," he hisses, the rage pulsing on the tip of his tongue.
"A-"
"LEAVE."
She jolts and stumbles back.
"Agron—" his voice is strong, commanding. Ahh, yes. The master.
"Save your words. I give not a shit," he growls. He is wretched wolf tossed to the sands, beholden to no one.
Now hair is shorn, but spirit is not lifted. And face still haunts.
No escape. No rest. Only haunting.
And emptiness of eyes which cannot look away at mere counterfeits for he would be completely lost of truth.
"I have lost…" the commander starts. Only Agron has no use for balms. They are ever useless.
The run, the jump, the hands upon the throat and the body beneath him fallen to the ground is exhilarating. As are the fists he throws into the so-called saviour. He is dog that bites his master's hand.
"You know nothing of me!" he yells at the face as it stares unmoving at him. But master takes the fists he throws with stoicism. Neither flinch nor yelp of pain escapes him. Yet the eyes betray something. Sympathy? Pity?
He wants it gone from him.
"Your fucking face is not your wife's! Your fucking face is not your friend, of the brotherhood!"
There, a shift in the commander. Yes, and he sees it. Pity.
And then arms are pulling him off the master. He screams and his teeth snap at he who dares intervene.
"Are you fucking mad!" asks his obstructer. Fucking Gaul.
Agron but laughs, unsure whether tears or sobs escape his eyes too. He is fucking weak. He's so weak, exhausted. Insane. And now there's oblivion. Sweet oblivion.
"Run, you stupid shit!" he yelled as life flowed out from his shoulder. It was deep. Deep enough to rob him of life. At least the Roman shit was dead now. At least he saved his brother. The way it bled, something had to be severed inside him. He'd seen greater men die like this, of wounds deceivingly shallow with deep consequences inside.
"NO! No, Brother!" cried Duro as his blade tasted the flesh of a Roman neck sliced clean off. Agron smiled, laughed of a lesson well taught to a poor student from years past.
Agron felt cold as Duro's sword pierced the heart of another Roman. …The last, but he could hear the rhythmic approach of more in their rigid formations.
"Go, brother. I am not long for this world. Let me die in fucking peace knowing you live, you little shit," he shuddered.
Warm hands hot with anxiety pressed forcefully upon his shoulder, receiving naught but a scream and a curse.
"You will not die this day in the cold and I will not be parted from you," whispered Duro with the strain of desperation.
His eyes light and hazy, he clutched his brother's face. He needed the last memory of a beloved face.
"Someday you will, little brother," Agron murmured.
"Where you go, I follow, remember? Always." Hot, unbidden tears fell from Duro into the dimpled cheek of his elder brother in warm reminiscence of shared childhood and boyhood annoyance.
"You yet have life," the elder brother mumbled as the rhythmic march broke the tree line.
"Not without you, brother," Duro replied. "I will see us from this night."
With that, Duro launched to his feet, sword in hand to face the Roman approach and the glinting golden shields.
"STOP!" A voice bellowed from the advance. As one, the army ceased their march.
"What's this?" the commander called, taking in the scene of Roman horror as he rode upon the site atop a white steed with bells jangling in mockery. "Two little German boys did all this?"
"And we shall slay still more!" Duro cried.
The commander scoffed. "So you say."
"Trebius!" the Roman summoned, "How do you appraise these wares?"
A slumped man with greasy hair and ill look snaked out from the Roman legion.
"Fit for gladiators," the aforementioned Trebius assessed with seedy eye. "Strong, brutal and wrought from the flames of war that even Mars himself cannot control."
"Hmm," the mounted Roman hummed noncommittally.
"The dark one shall fetch fine coin and fruitful winnings in the arena. The light one but for Hades or whatever land forsaken of the gods his people go to," Trebius reported.
"Seize the dark one!" commanded the leader.
"Seize me and face the wrath and blood of Germania, you vile cunt," spat Duro. "I shall be a pestilence to your house and bring endemic debt to your investment. I shall shed blood upon you and your men to the likes of which you have never seen or will ever see again."
Then quietly, "But save my brother and we shall bring the bloodlust of Germania to the arena and line your pockets with more coin that your cock can ever be satisfied with."
"Brothers…" The commander's eyebrow tweaked in interest and a calculating smirk quirked his lips.
"Brothers are a valued commodity in the arena, Praetor. The crowd roars to hardened peak to witness double spectacle of blood and loss. A scar as such the light one shall bear will draw the crowd to see one touched by Death, yet seized from his clutches. I shall fetch much coin for the pair," Trebius said greedily.
"And for you of course, Praetor," he tacked on strategically.
"Mmm…Seize the brothers and send the light one to the medicus," ordered the praetor.
A sad smile graced the lips of Duro as he regarded his brother he would follow anywhere. Duro dropped his sword willingly as Roman hands seized him and dragged him to a golden gilded captivity mired in blood, piss, shit and sand.
"Where you go, I follow, brother."
Agron sighed in meek acceptance.
The praetor leapt from his horse and approached Agron.
Agron let out a gasping snort and a coughing laugh. Did those of higher status look increasingly stupid in Roman society?
The Roman drew his sword and let the pointed tip prod and stretch Agron's wound as Duro looked on in helpless fear. A satisfied smile slithered upon his lips as Agron cried out in pain.
"NO! You said-"
"Silence."
The Roman regarded Agron appraisingly. "Live, boy, or the last image you shall see will be of Publius Varinius severing the head of your beloved brother before you reach the afterlife."
Last line to his past, his home, his family is forever cut. No time to bury his brother, no funeral, no eulogy, just the closing of vacant eyes for a body tossed among the sands of many in that ludus forsaken to the gods. And from best friend, brother and heart, there was only a husk to be tossed over the cliff, the joy of a crushed rebel to the Romans, and a mere inconvenience for those who came afterward. They would never see and never know the human being that once existed.
Ripped from his grasp, what is his purpose now? What is his reason for existence if no longer to save his brother from an existence Duro could never hope to eek and survive from? Gone are the plans to fight by his side, sacrifice gladiatorial winnings for brother's freedom, to escape their slavery through the games these Romans play or by own hands.
When Agron awakes, he hears the sound of snipping around his head. His head spins and reels. It's her again with scissors in hand to his wild hair. As if she could hope to tame it and give him sanity at the same token.
"May I trust you to be complaisant this morning or must we tie you down?" she bites.
He says nothing. He glares at her and damns her righteousness.
"I pray you know how idiotic you were last night! Do Romans not trail our tracks?"
He barely hears her.
He is numb.
"Come to fucking grips or curse us all."
He scoffs. "I wouldn't mind the company."
What is it to feel so much and so little at once?
He is lost to rage and fury, a better alternative than grief. From the world around him there is little to receive, to feel. They no longer pity him. They fear him. He is a wild rabid dog.
He sees in black and blood, smells only death and decay. Sounds speak only of violence. Food tastes not. And beneath his hands, Duro's hands, all he feels is the snuff of another life. This is what Duro felt as life left eyes. Do you feel it, Roman shit? There is only this.
In killing, there will be relief…in the next body perhaps.
The blood feels good, like he might yet be alive. If not, the next blade will take his life. It shall be a promise of the gods and he but punishes all unworthy of his desires.
The knife to the throat, each stab a little release of life and yet, a gurgle remains. He wants them to feel what he feels. That nagging in his head, like the pounding against a stone. Always there.
Yes, maybe the next crush of the head against rocky slab will grant him relief.
"I believe the man dead," says a voice. He sees the question of his sanity in fearful eyes.
He laughs.
Not this one then. Must be the next body.
Yes, I am dead.
"Agron. Supplies," master commands. And he listens.
He is but dog his master unchains to kill.
There is only this.
And I am dead.
Hope you enjoyed that! Please review! I really appreciate them. Anyways, there was just something really insane about that laugh that Agron gives Donar like he's barely holding onto it. And it really got me thinking…how shitty is it to always see your brother's face but not quite when you look at your reflection? It makes grieving that much harder. Plus, it was that line Mira had in the first episode about how Agron can't be the one to lead them because he's an angry boy who can't even piss without splashing everyone. I kinda loved that line because it was so apt for how Agron was behaving and I suspect a lot of it is grief mixed with an insecurity and need to prove himself as the youngest of the brotherhood/gladiators. I feel like he just wants to start something because he's hurting so bad over Duro's death and just wants to fight because then he doesn't have to feel the keenness of his death. Plus, his inexperience also makes him a poor leader in comparison to Spartacus. However, he is greatly pragmatic which will help him as a leader.
I really started wanting to get into Agron's sanity, then came into answering questions I had about him because the story felt incomplete when I first wrote it. So I came back and things came to me. Questions really. Why he got his hair cut? Besides, Dan the actor having a sensitive scalp lol. I quickly researched scissors…and they do exist in the time frame…so. And then I kinda left the story to bake for awhile and came back with the story of Agron's scar. That kinda made everything come together and make everything worse for Agron.
On another note, I have to say that I'm quite enjoying (enjoyed…I finished this weeks after I first started it lol) this season despite really missing Andy and all that. Agron was a big surprise on me as to how much I ended up liking his character. I always fall hard for the sarcastic badboy type characters. And I just LOVE Agron and Nasir. They are ADORABLE. I think Nasir is a big reason why Agron really cooled his jets a bit and is less reckless. I feel like those two should just adopt Ilithyia's demon spawn and run a gladiator rescue or something.