Blood and Wine.
by Ghani Blue (ghaniblue @ yahoo.de)
Pairing: Commodus/Maximus
Rating: PG-13
Summary: "So very different from blood, yet still hard to tell apart when spilled."
Disclaimer: I do not own Gladiator nor its characters, no copyright infringement is intended.
A dark figure sitting by a fireplace, one elbow resting on the side of a chair. The figure, a man, seems deep in thoughts, a frown creasing his forehead. He takes a sip from the glass in his hand and the dark liquid inside sparkles deep-red like a ruby when the light of the fire breaks on the surface of finely carved crystal.
He's always loved wine, the deep, dark red colour and heady scent and the rich taste on his tongue.
He sets the glass down on a small table by his side. His feet almost make no sound on the carpet as he stands up. He slowly walks over to a window and parts the heavy curtains. Bright light streams into the room. He blinks, gives his eyes a second to adjust before turning his back to the sun.
There's a spot on the carpet right at the foot of the small table where he's left his glass of wine. "So very different from blood, yet still hard to tell apart when spilled." He shakes his head as if to clear it from unwanted thoughts.
Then suddenly his voice rings out loud and clear and a second later a servant soundlessly enters the room bowing low, not daring to meet the man's eyes. "I want the carpet removed," is all the man says and the servant bows low again and disappears as silently as he's just come in.
The bed in the far left corner of the room is covered with parchments and books. He stares at them as if willing them to burst into flames. "I can hear him speak of duty." He grits his teeth. "My father was a fool. He talked of dreams when strength was what he needed. Strength is what decides fate, not foolish dreams." He sits down at the edge of the bed, it sinks in slightly under his weight. "I may have inherited his eyes, his blood but we were never alike in mind."
His fingers trail over the surface of one document. "You were his chosen son, I knew that from the moment he first looked at you. We were still boys, you and I, but already you had his heart." A beat. "I was not there when you saved Lucilla from drowning off Capri, do you remember? I was with my teachers listening to lectures about honour and the duties of an emperor." The man's hand closes about the document and crushes it in his fist. "I should've been the one by her side, not you. I was her brother and you just some boy."
"Brother I call you, and friend, but your reply is curt now. Why is that? Why do you seek to anger me? You should know better, you should know me better." His voice turns wistful, "Do you remember when we were still boys and you answered me with smiling eyes?"
"We have known each other since we've been boys. We have a history, we are history," he mutters. There's a look in his eyes like the one you can find with caged animal. "You cannot deny it. You cannot deny me." His fingers tense around the glass in his hand, "I forbid it!" it shatters in a thousand glittering pieces against the marble of the fireplace.
It's like there's no sound after that. The silence is so complete that it seems as if he's not even breathing, though he can hear his own blood thunder in his ears.
He turns his eyes away from the fireplace and looks out the window instead, his gaze sweeping over the building site of a new palace, bigger and more beautiful than anything the empire has every seen. Built to rival the temple of a god."Rome," he whispers. A pause. "Mine."
"In my sleep the great Hercules himself laughs at me, he taunts me with your name. He tells me stories that keep me awake at night and have me dream with open eyes by daylight."
He crouches to pick up a crystal shard. It slides smoothly over the inside of his palm leaving a dark red line in its wake. "It is indeed hard to tell blood and wine apart." His laugh reverberates off the walls and echo I his mind, dull and nauseating.
"Elegance and grace, life should consist of nothing else. The curve of a slender hip - too fragile to fight back; soft flesh that warms under my palms - fingernails leaving half-moon marks; the delicate arch of a pale neck - deliriously easy to snap the bones."
"She has black hair and eyes the colour of the sea where it's deepest, you once said. Her skin smells of jasmine, you said."
"You bit me when I kissed you that summer on Capri. It was hot that day, the sun glaring down on us mercilessly but you refused to go swimming with me because Lucilla wanted you by her side." A bitter laugh escapes his lips.
"Which of you said the parting words? Lucilla may be made of steel but she's just a woman. Her mind's a butterfly flittering from flower to flower. How different men are. How much more faithfulness and truth there's to be found in the heart of a man, a soldier."
He lets the shard of glass fall to the floor. "I will never forget the taste of you mingled with my blood."
He turns away from the light and is faced with his reflection in a man-high mirror on the wall. As if cast in a spell he raises his index finger to his lips. The light from the fireplace paints his face in stark contrasts. Red and golden and black. His dark eyes gleam like the ones of a wolf.
"I am Commodus, son of Caesar, born in the colour of the Roman emperors, Hercules born to new flesh, and one day the proud general will bow to me, one day you, Maximus Decimus Meridas, will look at me and you will love me."
End.
by Ghani Blue (ghaniblue @ yahoo.de)
Pairing: Commodus/Maximus
Rating: PG-13
Summary: "So very different from blood, yet still hard to tell apart when spilled."
Disclaimer: I do not own Gladiator nor its characters, no copyright infringement is intended.
A dark figure sitting by a fireplace, one elbow resting on the side of a chair. The figure, a man, seems deep in thoughts, a frown creasing his forehead. He takes a sip from the glass in his hand and the dark liquid inside sparkles deep-red like a ruby when the light of the fire breaks on the surface of finely carved crystal.
He's always loved wine, the deep, dark red colour and heady scent and the rich taste on his tongue.
He sets the glass down on a small table by his side. His feet almost make no sound on the carpet as he stands up. He slowly walks over to a window and parts the heavy curtains. Bright light streams into the room. He blinks, gives his eyes a second to adjust before turning his back to the sun.
There's a spot on the carpet right at the foot of the small table where he's left his glass of wine. "So very different from blood, yet still hard to tell apart when spilled." He shakes his head as if to clear it from unwanted thoughts.
Then suddenly his voice rings out loud and clear and a second later a servant soundlessly enters the room bowing low, not daring to meet the man's eyes. "I want the carpet removed," is all the man says and the servant bows low again and disappears as silently as he's just come in.
The bed in the far left corner of the room is covered with parchments and books. He stares at them as if willing them to burst into flames. "I can hear him speak of duty." He grits his teeth. "My father was a fool. He talked of dreams when strength was what he needed. Strength is what decides fate, not foolish dreams." He sits down at the edge of the bed, it sinks in slightly under his weight. "I may have inherited his eyes, his blood but we were never alike in mind."
His fingers trail over the surface of one document. "You were his chosen son, I knew that from the moment he first looked at you. We were still boys, you and I, but already you had his heart." A beat. "I was not there when you saved Lucilla from drowning off Capri, do you remember? I was with my teachers listening to lectures about honour and the duties of an emperor." The man's hand closes about the document and crushes it in his fist. "I should've been the one by her side, not you. I was her brother and you just some boy."
"Brother I call you, and friend, but your reply is curt now. Why is that? Why do you seek to anger me? You should know better, you should know me better." His voice turns wistful, "Do you remember when we were still boys and you answered me with smiling eyes?"
"We have known each other since we've been boys. We have a history, we are history," he mutters. There's a look in his eyes like the one you can find with caged animal. "You cannot deny it. You cannot deny me." His fingers tense around the glass in his hand, "I forbid it!" it shatters in a thousand glittering pieces against the marble of the fireplace.
It's like there's no sound after that. The silence is so complete that it seems as if he's not even breathing, though he can hear his own blood thunder in his ears.
He turns his eyes away from the fireplace and looks out the window instead, his gaze sweeping over the building site of a new palace, bigger and more beautiful than anything the empire has every seen. Built to rival the temple of a god."Rome," he whispers. A pause. "Mine."
"In my sleep the great Hercules himself laughs at me, he taunts me with your name. He tells me stories that keep me awake at night and have me dream with open eyes by daylight."
He crouches to pick up a crystal shard. It slides smoothly over the inside of his palm leaving a dark red line in its wake. "It is indeed hard to tell blood and wine apart." His laugh reverberates off the walls and echo I his mind, dull and nauseating.
"Elegance and grace, life should consist of nothing else. The curve of a slender hip - too fragile to fight back; soft flesh that warms under my palms - fingernails leaving half-moon marks; the delicate arch of a pale neck - deliriously easy to snap the bones."
"She has black hair and eyes the colour of the sea where it's deepest, you once said. Her skin smells of jasmine, you said."
"You bit me when I kissed you that summer on Capri. It was hot that day, the sun glaring down on us mercilessly but you refused to go swimming with me because Lucilla wanted you by her side." A bitter laugh escapes his lips.
"Which of you said the parting words? Lucilla may be made of steel but she's just a woman. Her mind's a butterfly flittering from flower to flower. How different men are. How much more faithfulness and truth there's to be found in the heart of a man, a soldier."
He lets the shard of glass fall to the floor. "I will never forget the taste of you mingled with my blood."
He turns away from the light and is faced with his reflection in a man-high mirror on the wall. As if cast in a spell he raises his index finger to his lips. The light from the fireplace paints his face in stark contrasts. Red and golden and black. His dark eyes gleam like the ones of a wolf.
"I am Commodus, son of Caesar, born in the colour of the Roman emperors, Hercules born to new flesh, and one day the proud general will bow to me, one day you, Maximus Decimus Meridas, will look at me and you will love me."
End.