The excuse Agron and Nasir had made to escape the sanctuary had been to hunt, though they'd accomplished nothing of the sort. Their morning and afternoon had been spent under the shadow of the canopy above and atop a soft bed of leaves. They had laughed together, had held hands as two children in love, had intertwined their bodies and discovered what their skin, so pressed together, had looked like dappled in sunlight through swaying leaves. The rebellion seemed far removed from the world they'd disappeared into. Rome seemed millions of leagues away and it almost felt as though those far-reaching fingers, ones groping for the slaves that had escaped, could never touch them again.
"When we return with no game," Nasir mused as they walked together through the woods, losing themselves on paths they'd never before come across, "what with the others say?"
Agron, following close behind, wrapped his arms around the Syrian and buried his nose behind one of the man's ear, nuzzling gently. The steps they took were in time, both right feet stepping forward simultaneously and the left following. Agron was far taller, though, and took bigger steps; Nasir was pushed along by the larger man's body so that Agron was just short of carrying him. "Let them say what they will," the gladiator said, splaying his fingers over Nasir's stomach, the tips of them just brushing the scar on his side. He traced the old wound, mapped its familiar shape. He'd memorized it already, both by touch and by taste. "We could claim that the gods themselves concealed from us every animal, but the others would know better." Oh, yes, they would all jeer and point and know that the two lovers had disappeared in the woods with another sort of game in mind.
The gladiator and his Syrian had no destination in mind; they only walked to see the forest passing around them, only walked to be in each others' presence for just a little while longer before they had to turn back and make for the sanctuary again. Once in a while, Agron would steal a kiss, and every time it would take Nasir by surprise. Without fail, the Syrian's eyes would widen just a little and the smallest of smiles would play at the corners of his mouth as if he was amazed at getting the kisses at all. Each time, Agron got so much joy out of that expression, and he wouldn't soon stop brushing his lips over Nasir's cheek, over his nose, over his temple and his neck and his shoulder and anywhere else he could reach as they walked, the smaller body still in the gladiator's embrace.
It was as Agron stole one of those kisses, his lips pressed against the soft skin just beneath Nasir's ear, that the Syrian stopped walking abruptly, halting their progress. He was suddenly rigid within Agron's arms, his head lifting; it was much like an animal sensing danger near. "We've wandered too close to the road," he said, his voice hushed. Agron pulled back and his gaze dropped to the ground beneath them, and Nasir was right - there was the road. They'd walked from the brush and stumbled right upon it. And approaching was the sound of a wagon.
Agron took a step from Nasir and immediately drew his sword. With his free hand, he reached out and touched the other man's arm, guiding them both back into the cover of the woods. They moved slowly and silently, crouching low - but it wasn't enough. Too quickly, the cart was upon them, and marching along with it were several Roman soldiers - enough for both Agron and Nasir to have three opponents each. They were outmatched.
A voice shouted, though Agron couldn't make out the words. They were lost to him as he turned and began tearing through the forest, Nasir close by his side. The Romans were on their trail, and though Agron's first instinct was to head back toward camp and attempt to lose the soldiers in the woods, he didn't want to risk any of them following to the sanctuary and fleeing with the information of their location. So Agron stopped abruptly and reached out for Nasir, pulling him close. "We must lead them away from camp," he said, breathless. He looked into those dark eyes and was surprised to see them calm and level. The gladiator took some comfort in that, though there was still part of him that was terrified - not for himself, but for the one who held his heart. If Nasir got hurt again… But Agron would push those thoughts aside, as he would have to in any battle. Nasir was not helpless. He was not a victim. He was as much a warrior as any of the rest.
The only difference between the man standing so close and all the other rebels was that Agron would never be able to bear losing Nasir.
The Romans were crashing toward them, making no attempt to conceal their attack. Agron began to run again - but Nasir stopped him with a hand on his elbow. Surprised, the gladiator turned and stared. "These woods belong to us," the Syrian said. "We know them. The Romans know only paved roads and their cities. Let us fight them on uneven ground."
Agron paused. The Romans were only seconds away. A decision needed to be made; did they flee, or did they stand? The gladiator had faced worse odds than these, but never with Nasir so near - but he would trust the Syrian. He would put faith in what the man said. Nodding once, Agron reached out with his free hand and brushed his knuckles gently over Nasir's cheek - and then the soldiers were upon them and he was forced to pull away.
Tightening his grip on his sword, Agron faced the enemy, and with a single swing cut open one of their throats. Blood spurted from the wound and the man toppled to his knees, clutching in vain at his neck, trying to stop his lifeforce escaping him but nothing could be done. He dropped onto his side, dead. One down. Six to go. And then five, when Agron dodged an attack that left a soldier's sword embedded in a tree before removing his head from his body. And then four, when Nasir jumped on one of the Roman's backs with a hiss and stabbed him in the throat. Three, when Agron took advantage of a soldier's misstep over a root, slicing the man's stomach open as his guard was dropped. Two, when Nasir severed a Roman's spine with the thrust of his sword. Only one left. One—
The gladiator turned on his heel, readying himself to face the last Roman if Nasir hadn't already sent him to the afterlife, but before he could lift his gladius, before he could do anything, the tip of the soldier's sword slid into his flesh. Agron's lips parted in shock, the pain taking its time to make its way through his body. With a growl, the Roman pushed the sword forward, deeper inside of Agron, and that was when the gladiator screamed. That was when the pain registered and he really felt it. Burning, searing, white-hot pain.
The Roman pulled his weapon back, preparing for another blow, but before he could swing his gladius again, Nasir's struck. The soldier's life was ended in half a second, the Syrian's sword thrusting through the back of his neck. The dead Roman fell to the ground just as Agron did, though Agron wasn't still; no, he writhed in pain, shaking hands pressed against his bleeding wound - a wound that would match the one that Nasir had suffered long ago. His screams of pain had turned to short gasps, his voice gone from his throat.
Nasir spoke, though. The sound drew Agron's gaze to his dark eyes and it seemed to hurt a little less when he looked at the Syrian. "No," Nasir whispered, dropping to his knees beside the gladiator and reaching out. But it seemed he didn't know where to touch Agron; his hands hovered first over the man's abdomen and then over his face before, finally, those fingertips slid along his jaw. "Nothing. It is nothing," he continued, his voice shaking. "Only a scratch."
Agron laughed, though it lasted only a second; the noise had sent a new shock of pain through his body. "More than a scratch, little man," he managed to say, the words strained. It hurt to speak but he would rather expend his dying breath speaking to the one he loved. "Take their weapons," he ordered gently. "And what filled their cart. Return to camp." The gladiator would set Nasir to task, if only to occupy him; he feared that if he did not, the Syrian would remain there at his side even long after he was dead.
A look of confusion passed over Nasir's face. Agron lifted his hand to touch that furrowed brow, to perhaps smooth away those lines of worry and leave him happy, but when his hand entered his line of sight, he saw that it was covered in blood. No, he couldn't soil Nasir with it. Didn't want to smear it on his pretty, dark skin. He began to lower his hand again, but the Syrian snatched it up and pressed it against the side of his face, holding it there. Agron's heart skipped a beat - he didn't like seeing Nasir covered in blood - but then he felt just a little glad that he could touch the Syrian one last time.
But the touch lasted only a second before Nasir was standing. "Where…" Agron started, but he couldn't find the strength to finish the question. It had all been drained from him when the other man had pulled away. He felt infinitely colder without Nasir near and the pain seemed to intensify. Agron wasn't left alone for long, though; Nasir bent and picked up his sword, sheathed it, and then reached out for Agron. Not to comfort him with a gentle touch, not to press hands against the wound in his side to stop it from bleeding, but to pick him up off the forest floor. The Syrian showed surprising strength, but perhaps it was the panic of losing Agron that gave it to him. Whatever the reason, Agron was pulled to his feet, though he leaned heavily against the other man, hardly standing at all. Being moved had been agonizing, but he swallowed the whimper that had risen in his throat, if only so he could speak again.
"Nasir, no," he whispered. He was breathless just from that one movement; there was no way he'd be able to make it through the entire forest and back to camp. It was impossible. "Do as I said." But the gladiator already knew he would not. Stubborn fucking Syrian. Beautiful fucking Syrian. Agron felt dizzy as they started to move through the trees.
He did his best to walk. Agron tried putting one foot in front of the other, tried so hard to carry his own weight, but he could not. Their progress was slow and halting; often Nasir had to stop and shift his grip on the other man, one arm around his waist and the other hand holding the gladiator's arm around his shoulders. But somehow the Syrian managed to drag him along. And the whole time, he spoke. He pleaded with Agron not to die. "You are needed here," Nasir said. Again and again, he begged, but soon the begging gave way to something else.
The Syrian began speaking of what they would do when the rebellion was over. "We will live as free men," were the breathless words. "We will leave Rome - visit your country. Meet your people." Agron was slumped against him, his eyes closed, but behind his eyelids the gladiator saw images of his home. He tried to smile, but it was too difficult. "The gods will reward us with long life for all we have sacrificed. We will die together, old and gray." And for the first time, that was Agron's wish. Not to die by the sword, as he'd always imagined, but years in the future after a lifetime with Nasir.
It was a wish too late.
Agron could hear no more of the future Nasir described.
"Help!" Eyelids fluttered and above him the gladiator could see a clear sky. White clouds. The canopy was gone and replaced with an endless expanse of blue. Eyes closed again.
"Get the medicus. What has happened?"
"Romans. We wandered too close to the road. They have all fallen—"
"We will carry him, Nasir."
"—will he live? Tell me—"
"Agron is made stronger when you are near. Stay close."
"—much blood. Has he life yet within him?"
"He yet grasps at it."
"….must stop loss of blood…"
There was cold stone beneath him and hot, burning metal pressed against his skin. Agron's body curled and he parted his lips in a scream of pain that ripped his throat. The smell of singed flesh filled the air as his wound was cauterized. Hands reached out for him, held him down and kept him still and his scream caught, silencing him. He started to breathe faster and faster, gasping for breath, and he thought of nothing but the pain he was in. Agonizing. Death would have been kinder. 'Let me die,' he wanted to yell, to cry, but the words never came. Soon the burning metal was withdrawn, the damage done, and as Agron struggled to breathe, hands touched his face and lips brushed his forehead.
"The worst has passed," said a sweet voice. He knew that voice. He loved that voice. Agron's eyes were closed and they would not open, though he wanted so badly to see that face. His lips formed the man's name - Nasir - but no sound escaped him. The gladiator felt trapped within his body, held captive by this pain. Helpless. He'd never felt so helpless.
Something cool and damp was pressed against his forehead, washing away the kiss that had been pressed there. "Still yourself," Nasir whispered. "Find escape from pain in sleep."
Agron obeyed.
When the gladiator opened his eyes, they rolled in his head, attempting to find something on which to focus. But everything was blurred and nothing quite took shape. Agron could see the outline of someone sitting beside him and he knew in his heart who it was though his gaze could not confirm it. A light seemed to be surrounding him. Beautiful, lovely light that silhouetted the figure. Warm. He wanted to reach out and lift his fingers and watch the light bend around them, but he couldn't move.
"Nasir," he said, and speaking the name made his throat hurt and something lower on him throb. But he ignored the pain. "Nasir," he repeated. He didn't know if he'd wanted to say something or if he'd just wanted to taste the man's name on his lips. His mind was moving slowly, very slowly. Everything was sluggish. His voice sounded drawn-out, the syllables of the Syrian's name long.
"The weapons," Agron said suddenly, "and the cart. Return with them to the sanctuary." He paused to allow a jolt of pain passage through his body. "I will remain here."
There was a hand on his face. It felt heavy and warm and he drew away from it. Everything was hot. The light was searing him and he had to turn his gaze from it. It had been beautiful but now it fell over him and he could feel his skin blistering in its wake. A moan of pain escaped him and he tried to curl up, to shield his body from what would burn it alive but his limbs were too weighted for him to lift. "Stop," he moaned, shutting his eyes. "Please stop."
A cup was pressed against his lips. The liquid was cool and so he drank it eagerly, grasping onto anything that would help soothe this burning. The liquid soon sent him to sleep, where the light no longer fell on him.
Agron was so very close to death. This, Nasir knew. No matter the comforting words from the medicus, no matter Spartacus's declarations that Agron was strong enough to be able to survive worse than this, he knew the gladiator only hovered on the side of the living. The wound had struck deep; he'd lost so much blood in the forest as Nasir had dragged his body through it. The Syrian himself was covered in much of it. And Agron had barely survived the pain of having his would cauterized. Nasir remembered how that had felt, but his injury hadn't compared. This was worse. Much worse. This was a wound that would have killed him and might still kill Agron.
Nasir couldn't remain still. Once or twice, he tried only sitting and looking at Agron or else hiding his face in his hands but then the realization that Agron might not survive crept up on him and consumed him and threatened to call him to the afterlife with the man he loved. So he did what he could. He cleaned the wound. He washed all the blood from Agron's body. He changed the man's clothes and, when Agron slipped into consciousness, gently poured water down his waiting throat. If the pain seemed too much, the medicus would put into this water herbs to induce sleep, and Nasir would have to watch as those blue eyes closed once more. And he had to wonder if they would ever open again.
Days passed. Nasir never moved from Agron's side and no one ever asked him to, save Naevia who had tried to order him to sleep. But the Syrian was stubborn, and soon she no longer made attempt to force him, though she brought him a bedroll to set up beside Agron, should he ever want to rest. He would find no rest as long as the gladiator was in hell. And Nasir knew how he suffered, because the Syrian had gone through the same thing himself. Though this was worse, he reminded himself constantly. This was much worse.
Agron's body fought off infection. He was constantly covered in a sheen of sweat, his skin warm to the touch. He trembled, and Nasir wanted nothing more than to draw the man into his arms and hold him until it passed, but he couldn't move him. The pain would be too much. So instead Nasir took up a rag and soothed that burning skin as well as he could, though he couldn't help but think that it was all done in vain. Agron had only acknowledged him once over the past few days, and that had been to order him to take the Roman's weapons and what was within the cart and make way back toward camp. 'I will remain here,' Agron had said, and Nasir had felt sick because he'd wondered if maybe the gladiator had been left in that forest and the body that now writhed in pain within the sanctuary was only the smallest part of the whole man.
Nasir held Agron's hand, his forehead pressed against their clasped fingers and his eyes closed. It had been a long time since he'd slept and he felt it calling to him, enticing him into its warm embrace, and right when he was on the edge of it, something came to pull him forcefully back into consciousness. It was Agron's voice.
"I dreamed of the life you spoke of," he said, and he sounded so very lucid. Clear and sure. It wasn't the delirious whisper of the last few days, not the voice that had before only sounded in half-formed words. Nasir sat up quickly, dark eyes flying to Agron's face, and the gladiator gazed back at him. That gaze was still slightly unfocused, but it was more clear than it had been, and Nasir's heart soared. "Old and gray," Agron continued, "and East of the Rhine." Nasir had never seen anything more beautiful than the smile that came onto his gladiator's face, though it was short-lived; perhaps Agron had meant to laugh but instead he let out a short sound of pain, his body jerking. What Nasir wouldn't give to take that pain away from him.
"When the rebellion comes to its end, we will find ourselves there," Nasir said, his grip tightening on Agron's hand. He wanted to keep the gladiator there and awake and speaking with him, but that tremor had started to call Agron away again. Blue eyes fluttered closed.
But still, Agron spoke. "I will kiss you when it ends," the man said, "in the ashes of Rome." His voice had lost some of his strength, had slightly returned to the slurring whisper from before.
Emotion slightly choked Nasir's response. "Do not put to words promises to be broken," he demanded. Or perhaps he pleaded. Would Agron really survive? Would he stand again, take up his sword, see this struggle to its end and hold Nasir close soon after?
In a surprising show of returning strength, Agron squeezed Nasir's hand. "Kiss me," he said softly, "and see me healed."
Nasir would not refuse. The Syrian leaned over Agron and brushed his lips gently against the gladiator's, and he prayed to the gods that such a simple thing, a thing he would so willingly give, would bring this man back from the brink of death. But it seemed to be already having effect; Agron lifted his arm and, though he winced in pain at the movement, touched Nasir's hair with slightly curled fingers. The Syrian pressed further into the kiss, spurred on by that slightest of touches, and they were both breathless when he pulled away.
Had some color returned to Agron's pallid cheeks? Or was it only the foolish hope that Nasir had for the gladiator's recovery that made the Syrian see it? He didn't know, not for sure, but Agron's next words, strong and sure, were very real. "Not even the gods could take me from you now," the gladiator said, and Nasir leaned down to chase them away with another kiss.
And if any two people could defy the gods, it was them.