Only you can save me.
Only you can bring this heart to life.
Sometimes, he wants to ask Spartacus how much he would give to stop feeling guilty, living in denial, grief and constant pain. (Not that he ignores it's impossible—death means death anyway and he doesn't really believe in miracles, in gods and all that roman shit.)
He knows the answer—it's obvious he would say "everything" with the most resolved tone—but he wonders if there's a price for a life; if you can give something, no matter what, and receive a purse in return.
A purse of love, filled with breathing and heartbeats and laughings that sounds alive, that smells brotherhood and resurrection, tenderness and fidelity. That smells real life and true freedom : not only in body but in spirit and heart too; the right to release from the wounds of the past or at least to change them in soothed scars.
Does something like that have a cost on Earth ? And would he be able to pay it ? To bribe fucking Death and fucking Fate ?
He wanders over broken mirrors that ache his feets and burrow into his skin—sand in an impressive palette of gray extending out of sight under his body.
Sometimes he lays on the ground with dust and heat, begging for something in an unknown dialect, praying in a language that he does not understand himself, not Latin, not German—each words escaping his mouth wounding his tongue a little more. And sometimes he's on his knees, crawling like a striken and bleeding dog and strangling himself with his own hands and then scratching the ground, tearing his nails to try to escape.
He thinks he might be deaf because the scream of the crownd reach him in a distant but terrible hum—shadow ennemies which he can not see the face always carry further his sword when he wants to catch it and the blood flowing out of his wounds is tinted in the same color as the sun?molten gold that dries in his veins.
"Acta fabula est. Plaudite."
He does not know if it's his lips that uttered these words or if it's the man in front of him with his big eyes that light up his skin darkened by ash—but he asks to repeat.
"Nox tibi optima sit, frater amavit."
Frater. Brother.
He turns when the blade of a dagger plung into his back and tore his bowels through his chest—he recognizes the cadaverous face which smile in a loving way while tatters of it skin fall on the ground with an infernal noise. He holds his breath.
Blood brother. He understands.
"Duro." But his voice is low as if his throat was pierced. And maybe it is because his whole body is torn as if a furious master had whipped him and he feels life leaving him from every pore—the last blow is fatal but yet the ghost of a breath near his ear, of a fraternal caress on his cheek hurt him more than any weapon.
"Agron."
He raises his eyes—a suppurating wound digs Duro's chest and he thinks he hears a scream of rage and despair coming straight from the past which he recognizes as his own and which resonates and bounces on the walls of the arena. For a few seconds, his lips tremble and the word "sorry" rushes a hundred times out of them with a taste of tears as salty as bitter or acidic. Duro's thumb turns down to announce his killing and he kisses his forehead.
He chokes with the blood that fill his throat; he knows he will end up devoured. The last thing he sees before the black hole that the sky became swallows him, it's the blade sinking into the body of his brother over and over, the scene being repeated endlessly without he can not do anything more to protect him than the first time.
Flowers.
The breeze that strokes his body has a delicate fragrance he has not smelt for ages.
His eyes open and he first feels a bright light blinding them—but painless unlike what he excepted. It's soft, sober and warm—a plaisant warmth. He waits an undefined time to be used to the surprising luminosity of this place and then finds himself lying on a bed of colored grass—dried blood painting his body with clippery brown, surrounding closed wounds that now rather look like scars. (He wonders how much time he spent asleep here because they look cured and clean. Weeks ? Mounth ? Years ?)
For a few moment, he thinks he is dead—nothing seems real here; nor the frozen and crystal-like petals of thousands of dahlias and chrysanthemums, nor the horizon that seems to melt with that white and pure sky in a never-ending flowery field, nor the way the air he breathes taste sugar and reminds him of a place almost forgotten in his memory but that he still calls 'home' for whatever the reason.
The whisper of invisible children birds fills the silence as he feels a strange electricity running through his hands and fingers. The sound of a river echoes far away and he doesn't know why, but he thinks of the great forests in Germania. Maybe it's because the furthest flowers seem increasingly taller—or at least that's what he sees; he's not sure his mind is perfectly clear and it's possible that it's his own body which his smaller than it should be, after all.
As he stares at the cloudy white sky with little drops of dew beading on his eyelashes and swirl of mist escaping his mouth, he feels something changing in the atmospher and the waves of warm wind that surrounded him stop silently.
"Duro ?" he suddenly wants to say, but the name coming out of his lips and rolling on his tongue is not his brother's one and it's as if an invisible force had pushed him to mutter this name which sounds strangely exotic - or at least different from everything he heard on the East side of the Rhine. "Nasir ?"
Two soft hands squeeze through his hair and the glow of a smile takes the place of the sun above his head—but the boy is not smiling with his mouth; he does it with his two deep dark eyes and also with his dark skin and with his dark hair and with the sweetness of his touch. It has something singular but wonderful at the same time.
"I'm sorry. About your brother," he mutters even if his lips don't move and his accent and his voice are so melodious that it looks like he sings when he speaks. It's like he sings him to sleep—and he thinks he probably looks like a child who needs it right now.
He wonders for second if it's the boy who treated his wounds and he has the feeling it can't be anyone else.
He feels something growing in his chest, a strange but gentle warmth spreading through his veins when he feels fingers stroking his cheek.
"Per aspera ad astra."
He understands what it means and he smiles because he's probably lost in those sooty-black eyes and maybe a bit drunk because of this unusual ivory sky.
He closes his eyes and then repeats with certainty, "Through the winding roads, to the stars."
He knows he will never be alone again.
When Agron wakes, he realizes he has fallen asleep while watching over Nasir's wounded and feverish body.
The girl Naevia left to join Crixus probably for a long time—the night is dark and only distant rustlings can be heard while the flame of the single candle in the room flickers in contact of the fresh air. She didn't even warned him.
"Fuck," he whispers.
He places is gaze on the boy whose sleep seems restless—he has a quick look at the wound that rips his left flank and on which he had watch over for three sleepless nights. It's clean now—he owes his life to Naevia : if she had not thought of sealing the sore with fire, he would probably be dead right now. Thanks the gods he yet lives.
It's strange, but he thinks he has an important debt to her now—after what he did, the lie and all that shit, he wonders if he really deserves to be spared from mourning. Not that he regrets. And then, he also would have liked to be there at the right moment to prevent him of being hurt. Because of his own argument with Crixus, the boy risked his life ; and maybe he should not care because he is nobody but a slave who tries uselessly to become a gladiator to him—but he doesn't like the thought of seeing him dead. He feels like he needs him for whatever the fucking reason. And he had this constant impression of doing something wrong the whole time he spent after leaving without Spartacus in Neapolis. He cans admit to himself that it's mostly the reason which prompted him to turn around with his mens. He was worried for his friend but there was something more that's still spreading in him now.
At least he founded them alive.
And then there's that dream. Honestly, he thinks it sucks a lot.
He has forget how to speak the language of dreams, of symbols. It's only morbid nightmares or complete blackout since he and his brother were caught by the Romans—it's the first time he dreams about something else than never-ending blood rivers. And also the first time he dreams again about Duro for a long time. Something truly missed; if the wound of his death is still open, the memory of what he was has begun to fade away, soilled by all the blood that flows on his hands and all the heads he separated from their body. And he doesn't want to forget.
But why would him dream about him now, at this point ? And what about the boy—what about Nasir and the bliss he felt while being in his arms ? And then, why does he have the feeling that he knows what it means while being unable to put the finger on.
Althrough, he wonders if there's really a signification to this or if it's just pieces of the puzzle of his mind that have lost their way for a moment.
The boy lets out a groan of pain in his troubled sleep that gets Agron out of his thoughts. Fever is not yet fallen and he keeps fighting (and maybe he has a strange dream too; one where the boundary between the nightmare and the dream is so melted in the horizon that it's impossible to tell exactly what it is); the features of this face are clenched, hips lips and his fists are tight and his dark complexion is unusually wan. Medicus said the worst was over and he should be standing in a few days but the German can't help but feel affected. The wound is fucking serious, himself had never to endure such an injury, and even if he proved he was strong, he fears his body has not been trained for that. He looks so young...
The gladiator places an hesitating but soft hand on his burning forehead to take his temperature with a worried frown. It's less important than yesterday but it is far from being erased.
He is about to go and wake Medicus to ask him to clean the wound again when Nasir suddenly relaxes with the cool touch of his fingers, releasing an unexcepted small moan of relief that dissuades Agron from moving.
"Stay," he whispers uncounsciously between some other nonsenses, his singing voice a bit damaged by days of sleep but still melodious to the gladiator's ears. It's the first time he speaks since he and his men founded him wounded in the forest near Vesuvius. And his words are for Agron.
He holds his breath for a few seconds, not daring the slightest movement as he watches his face begining to relax—and then he can't prevent himself of smiling a bit when the surprise is gone.
"I'm not going anywhere," he says in a reassuring tone. "It will be okay."
It's strange, but he feels like the situation is reversed. It's not him that calls for help and support anymore : it's Nasir that needs him right now. And he finds out that he wants to be there, that he is almost glad. He will be there for him until he's fine—and maybe a bit more, if he allows him to stay at his side.
He knows he is walking on a unknow territory when he begins to strokes the burning skin with his thumb, carefully, slowly as if he was afraid to break him or to hurt him because he looks so fragile and delicate in this way, opened to him—and maybe he doesn't want to lose what he just found. But the warmth in his chest is not frightening and it spreads softly in his blood, making his heart bounce regularly. There's no pain and no bad intentions and the only thing he wants, it's to stay so forever. He doesn't know where it will lead him to take this road, but he guess it will be great and it can't be any other way.
He doesn't think he understands every single meaning of his dream and he doesn't believe in gost, but the sadness he feels toward his brother is less violent and more tender because he now knows the answer to his question.
This is what Duro gave him in return. The purse filled with bliss and laugh and little colored butterflies that lingers on his fingers instead of fading away faster than the wind. The coast of his loss and a way to stay with him even through death. A chance to dry his tears and to seek the true feeling of liberty. His gif.
Love.
"I hope you are waiting for me," he mutters for himself or for someone he is the only one to feel the presence. "Because I'll not yet fucking join you."
a/n. For those who don't speak Latin, here's the traduction of the sentences I used : "Acta fabula est. Plaudite." "The show is over. Applaud." "Nox tibi optima sit, frater amavit." "Good night, beloved brother." and "Per aspera ad astra." "Through the winding roads, to the stars." By the way, the title of this fiction means "the art of love".
I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I have enjoyed writing it. If there's any mistakes, I apologize : english is not my first language. And of course, I don't own Spartacus and its characters. Unfortunately.