A/N : Briefly as possible- I own none of these characters, I merely borrowed them for a time. HBO and its affiliates at the BBC own the characters from Rome. One shot that turned into two pages- a fleshing out of the Eirene/Pullo conflict from the final few episodes of Season 1. Formatting with drives me batshit- so if this is difficult to read, just let me know.

Night's mantle fell quickly and covered every roof. The moon, wane and hidden full from sight, gave no light to touch the inky blackness that seemed to crowd against even the brightest lamp. Every room seemed now too small and every noise too loud- it was not a night for easy sleep. Even those who could find rest did not hold it easily, and dreams soon turned into terrors.

She was not asleep, but neither was she awake. She was walking through the half-world between waking life and illusion. Her wide, round eyes stared straight ahead, though she did not see across the room to where her sleeping companion tossed fitfully on her bed, but instead she looked across a great vista of bleached rock and sand- many miles both wide and long. The glare across the land made tears stream down her face, but she would not flinch; heat rippled from the rocks around her in thick, oppressive waves. A thin, black snake wound its way across the pale ground, gathering depth and breadth as it worked its way toward where she stood. Suddenly, the snake was a snake no longer, but a wide river, rolling in thunderous torrents and bearing down upon her, bellowing in rage and fervor. A crimson river, a river that rolled and seemed to catch the wind like a legionary's cloak- a river of blood. It washed over her feet and rose up to her knees, desperate to pull her down.

Her eyes snapped into focus. A thin sheen of sweat ran the length of her spine and caused her to shiver uncontrollably. Instinctively, she reached out for one who was not there- one who would never be there again. How often had she sought comfort from his arms? And now he lay dead, his strong heart that had measured the beat of her dreams was gone as though he had never existed. As she tucked her knees up to her chest she felt the warm tears slide down her neck and land on her already wet pillow.

He should have let me die.

Eirene's nightmares had left her sleepless, and her shattered heart had left her hollow. There was no more strength within her to mourn, no more dulled shock to bear. Her work bore her through the day in a stupor; at meals she ate little and spoke not a word. What was there to say? Why nourish her body and suffer herself to survive another day? Grief had soured into despair, and with every remembrance of that awful day, yet only two weeks past, she again lifted that bitter poison to her lips and drank full- quenching the light of forgiveness and glutting her sorrow instead.

Her master's face, so dark and horrible, streaked in blood and drawn down tight with rage, consumed her thoughts and caused her to tremble with the memory of it. How cruel and evil he had shown himself to truly be- how right the other servants had been to call him brute and animal- for he was untamed and violent, heartless as a lion who would shred through flesh and bone of a babe without remorse.

At first she had struggled to learn the words of these Romans, yet even in her broken speech, she had feebly made to correct those who spoke ill of her master. Had he not once saved her life? Brought her to these people, a family strict, but fair?

He had saved her life, and so blinded her to his true nature. His eyes, once she thought looked upon her in pity and wonder, now seemed only to laugh at her naiveté as she thought back again and again to the day he had found her half dead and bound to a cart. Her memory struggled to faithfully remember how he had looked upon her then- for each time she drew back, only the face of a jackel, grinning horribly and smelling of rotting flesh and blood, stood in his place.

Why had she pitied him? Why had she ever thought him kind? Now she could not remember. Somewhere hidden within his eyes, for it was a very small and fragile thing, she had thought she had seen a flicker, like the end of a taper, glowing dimly but stubbornly. It had given his smiles the warmth of compassion and his eyes the barest hint of joy. Surely she had imagined such a thing- that creature that lay curled and watchful within his breast had struck out and consumed any such goodness she may have fancied she saw. Now the beast controlled the man- and instead of her master, she could see only the wicked, twisted animal his body nursed.

She had not seen her old master since that day and since that day she had been free. It felt odd to be called a freedman, she did not feel free. The chains that bound her in place seemed only heavier and harder to bear. Did all slaves feel such emptiness when freed by their masters? How could she have known what that day, a day that should have been joyful, would bring?

What slave did not love a master who treated her kindly, handled her gently? But what slave would ever presume upon those actions of their master? Masters were not thought of as lovers- yet such had been Pullo's intentions, she reasoned. When he had told her she was freed, she had though her heart would burst with joy- her only thoughts were of her lover- now they could be married! And Titus Pullo- how generous and wonderful he was! She had nearly cried with happiness when she toldher love that they should take the name of Pullo when they were married- for she wanted to pay homage to her master's greatness for the rest of her life. He was so small, standing in front of Titus Pullo, thanking him in broken Latin, thanking him for setting Eirene free, and then...and then...

At first there had only been confusion and fear. Screaming filled her ears as she held the motionless body of her love, still warm from the life that had been taken but a few moments earlier. Her eyes crowded with tears again as she heard that awful sound of bone cracking against stone repeatedly, violently. The sound pounded in her ears, threatening to drive her mad.

Born a slave, Eirene had been raised beneath a whip and watchful eye. While she had thoughts and hopes and dreams all her own, she could not help her nature- to delight in pleasing her masters and to bear their beatings with acceptance. She was not weak, indeed, her heart and body were strong, and though she could neither read nor write and possessed but a simple intelligence, she thrived by virtue of her steadfast and stalwart perseverance. Passion was something she could not understand- it stood too far apart from what she had been conditioned to feel. Her master's wrath had held for her a horrible fascination. In one moment, her future lay bleeding to death and shaking on the courtyard floor- one heartbeat and her life had changed forever.

He should have let me die. Her feet carried her onward.

The wine tasted bitter against his tongue and his countenance turned down. The tavern was alive with music and laughter, and though oil lamps glittered in every corner, the light seemed to shun his face, leaving it to the shadows.

This is as it should be. He thought sardonically. Cast off from every friendly shore and left alone to drift and rot. Why should my fate be anything else? Ribald comrades in the 13th and whores made good company, but had never been his true friends. They had suffered his presence for their oaths or his coin, never for his words. And Eirene? What had he wanted, expected of her? The memory of her face, stricken and horrified, looking upon him as one would upon a vile, malformed beast, was too recent, too raw for him to bear. He pushed her away. The last of his glass drained, he walked out into the eventide, seeing neither night nor day as a singular purpose filled his thoughts.

His mind was viscous and black as pitch, gurgling merrily as it slowly choked the last of his humanity. I am Titus Pullo. I slaughter men, I take whores to my bed, I rot my body with wine. So I was created, so I must be. How pale and distant his ideas of living out a rural life with Eirene now seemed. He burned with shame at the thought of how foolish he had been. I only allowed myself to believe lies. His step quickened.

The payment for his services as a sellsword rattled hollowly in his belt. His blood money weighed heavily against his thigh, reminding him with each dull clink what portion of his soul he had sold for their purchase, and what still remained ahead of him this evening.

Night had come full and heavy by the time he crossed paths with his mark. The man was old and unarmed, his skin stank of a fear that curled Pullo's nose. This was not honor. This was vile and hateful to him, but he dared not stay his hand as it drove deep into the old man's chest.

I am the monster she saw within. His wrist flicked and drove the knife between the elder's ribs and into his heart. Death would come more quickly now. Pullo laid him down, not daring to touch the gold circlet around his neck or the coins within his pockets. Let the other scavengers have their game.

His arms were wet with blood, yet he made no move to clean them and instead curled up in a doorway dimly lit by torches, studying them in silence until they had long since dried. I am Titus Pullo. This is who I am.

Hours later he found himself in a drugged stupor. The whores who had entertained him had fled, taking with them everything of value he had carried upon his person. What did it matter? The coin could not buy ignorance, the opiate forgiveness, and fucking them had not brought forgetting. Every vice that had once brought him pleasure only served to plague him with guilt and shame.

Fragments of rumor drove her mad. It had been a week, and the streets still rang with his name- Titus Pullo had been saved from death in the arena by Magistrate Vorenus! Brotherhood- the 13th! Old friends fighting together, fighting with the fury of the gods against ten men- twenty men- fifty men! Whispers and catches of phrases worried at the wounds Eirene had so desperately tended and healed. Why had he not died? It was enough that his name echoed throughout the streets stringed with praise, but now artists had emblazoned scenes from the arena across buildings and mummers reenacted the battle in garish detail. Every street corner bore her relentlessly back to memories of Pullo. He had been condemned to die in the arena for murdering a merchant in broad daylight- but in the arena he had not been killed, thanks to Lucius Vorenus. He had been badly wounded, and many thought him dead- but no one knew where he was, if dead, where was his body? If still living, where was he hidden away?

She could find no respite, save in the house of Vorenus, where Pullo's name was still unspoken. It was her one solace, to know that so far as she could see, Lucius did not intend to rekindle his friendship with the brute.

On any ordinary day, she would have been at market, purchasing fruits and herbs for her mistress' dinner, but on this day she had stayed home- another had been sent in her place so that she might finish work on a new dress for her young mistress. Sunlight streamed into the open courtyard, bathing the pale stones in light and taking the edge off of the day's chill breeze. Magistrate Vorenus returned, walking with his usual strong gait across the court. He was met by one of the other slaves of the house- his words caught Eirene's ears and halted her steps.

"Titus Pullo…he asked to be brought here."

Eirene's heart stopped dead in her chest. Impossible. No one knew where he was. He had been wounded- near death- in the arena. He could not have lived, he could not be here.

Time slowed, seized, halted. There was nothing in this world except the open doorway of the house and her- standing as still and dumb as a wild creature facing down the speeding shaft of an arrow. With a delicate, nearly silent snap, she felt her heart break open, spilling all of her agony out in merciless rivers.