The makeshift camp they'd made was disassembled, packed again once Spartacus and the rest were returned to them. There was still some distance to travel, and to make a home so out in the open would only hasten the rebellion's end. More permanent and more hidden lodgings were needed.

But all had come such a distance already; time was needed to gather wits and strength and to look toward future. And more than that, there were wounds to be tended.

Agron's arms were tight around Nasir still. The smaller body was pressed securely against him and the gladiator's footsteps were light so there was no misstep, no stumble that would cause Nasir further pain. And he'd suffered so much already. Somehow, having the Syrian returned to him and so wounded was more terrifying than the concept of him never returning had been.

Now there was the chance that Nasir would die in his arms instead of in the mines. As Agron knelt to gently lower the man onto a blanket laid out for him, he recalled Duro. His brother had fallen into his arms and had looked up at him just as Nasir did in that moment. Agron had watched the life go from Duro's eyes and in a second of panic, he looked for that same thing in Nasir's gaze. But instead the Syrian's eyelids fluttered shut and a noise left him, one that told of pain - but also of life.

He felt a coward. It seemed Nasir had more bravery in the face of his wound than the German did. Would Agron have rather had Nasir die in the mines where he would not have had to witness? He pushed it from his mind. It was a path he would never know, because Nasir was here. In his arms.

Hands more accustomed to wielding a sword than to tending wounds saw to the Syrian's clothes, stripped his upper half to reveal the tear in his flesh. Agron's brows drew together as he looked at it. The skin was blistered and shining. He knew the look of branded flesh; his own arm bore such a wound, long healed. But Nasir's was the angry and red of just-burned skin, a desperate and hasty measure to stop life flowing from body.

Reaching out, Agron touched Nasir's abdomen, just outside of his wound. It drew a hiss from the other man and he lifted slightly, curled in pain. A hand pressed to his chest as Agron eased him back down, leaning over him. "Still yourself, little man," he said gently. He hated to see the ashen face below his own contorted in pain. He was no medicus; he knew nothing of what herbs should be mixed and administered, what should be sprinkled into a drink and poured down a parched throat to remove the agony of this injury. There was little he could do.

But what little there was, he would do it. Agron tore his gaze from Nasir's face and found it resting on Chadara, who stood nearby. She looked stricken not only because of Nasir's wound, but because her Gaul had not returned. "Water," he said to her. "And cloth, to clean the wound." She nodded and went to gather all Agron had requested so that he could turn his attention back to Nasir.

"I could almost mistake you for a gladiator," he said lightly, forcing a grin onto his face, "with a wound like that." Agron wouldn't show his fear or his cowardice to Nasir. He needed strength and support, and Agron would provide.

A breathless noise passed Nasir's lips, something close to a laugh, though it was cut off. "I have been branded as…" He paused to catch his breath. "…as you have."

Agron pressed his lips together briefly and extended his hand to brush the Syrian's long hair from his damp forehead. "You've proved yourself part of this brotherhood more than once," he said. "And you'll wear the mark of it from now on."

Chadara returned with water and cloth. Agron dampened the cloth and slowly, gently began to clean Nasir's wound, and soon the bowl of water was foggy with dirt and with blood. The severity of the wound revealed itself as layers of filth were washed away all by Agron's caring hands. Time passed in silence and Agron thought that maybe Nasir had fallen into unconsciousness - but then his voice sounded again.

"The Romans," he said. "They strung them up in trees." Agron's hand paused and he looked to Nasir's face. His eyes were closed and rolling behind his eyelids, as if he looked up into the trees above and saw what he described. Though his words were confusing, Agron could glean meaning from them. He imagined one of his brothers hung by a rope, dead and dripping blood and swinging in a breeze. It was easy enough to imagine that cruelty from the Roman shits.

"Apologies," Agron said in a whisper, dipping the cloth again into the bowl. Chadara, ever-watchful, had deftly replaced it with one filled with clean water. "I should have been there."

It was exactly as he'd been telling himself as soon as they'd been divided. That he should have gone to the mines. He should have added one more number to their ranks and perhaps he could have helped more of them return from the journey. Maybe he could have prevented this happening to Nasir.

When again Nasir spoke, his words were slurred. No doubt he was fighting to stay conscious. "No," he said, with too much force; the harsh word had drawn pain from his wound. "I would not watch you fall as Naevia watched Crixus."

Agron doubted Nasir would remember saying these things. Things that likened them to Naevia and Crixus, two people that held one another's hearts. But it was enough that he'd said it at all. "Compare me to a fucking Gaul," Agron returned, but his voice was tender. Nasir must have heard the tone, because the smile that came onto his face, though weak, was also knowing.

Both fell silent, and Nasir soon succumbed to sleep. Carefully, Agron dressed the wound with a length of cloth, and though he wanted to remain by Nasir's side until the group moved again, something called him from it: the fucking need to know exactly how the Syrian had come to this.


The surge of relief that had come with seeing Spartacus and the few others back and safe had diminished and had left anger in its wake. The gentleness with which he'd cared for Nasir was gone; Spartacus would get none of it. Agron's feet took him swiftly to where the Thracian stood, seemingly deep in conversation with Donar - but Agron pulled him bodily from it. Grabbed him by the arm and dragged him aside, turning him so they could look one another in the face.

There was a familiar fire inside of Agron, a temper he could do nothing to control, at least not then. Spartacus would need to bear the brunt of it before burning inferno diminished to embers. "So this is what fucking remains of your suicide mission," he spat, shoving at Spartacus only to advance on him again. Donar moved to hold Agron back, but was stilled when Spartacus lifted a hand.

"This is what remains," the Thracian replied, tone even. Agron was breathing more heavily, clenching his teeth, turning from side to side as if meaning to pace, but his body felt leaden - and when he raised an arm to wipe at his brow, he stopped. He stared. Nasir's blood stained the back of his hand. Spartacus was still speaking, but Agron could hardly hear him over the rushing in his own ears.

"The rest were lost in the tunnels," the so-called leader of the rebellion continued, "or fell in the woods as we traveled." The way he was saying it, so calmly, only infuriated Agron further. How could the man speak so evenly when half of their group, half of the men they'd freed from slavery, lay dead between where they stood and the mines? Finally, Agron shifted his gaze from his own hand to Spartacus's face. After, there was only one more moment of stillness before Agron let out a growl and rushed Spartacus, pushing him back against the trunk of a tall tree and pinning him there, his forearm pressed against the Thracian's throat.

Agron's voice was a low hiss that shook in anger. "I told you," he said. "Crixus would see all fall just to save Naevia. And so they fucking have." He pressed closer to Spartacus, but the man made no move to defend himself. "And so Nasir will, if his wound overtakes him." Agron paused and closed his eyes briefly, pressing his lips together and clenching his teeth hard enough for it to hurt. The thought was unbearable. If Nasir succumbed to his wound…

"The worst pain has already passed," Spartacus said, though his voice was strained now, with Agron pressing against his throat. "He is stronger than given credit for."

The assurance made Agron open his eyes again and look at the other man. He'd never meant to imply that Nasir was weak, only that wounds lesser had overcome greater men. Guilt was what would smother Agron's fury, and so it did; he felt guilt for having less faith in Nasir than deserved, and he remembered the guilt he felt in not going to the mines with the rest of them. Agron released Spartacus and stepped back, and when next he spoke it was with gentler tone, but anger remained on the edge of it. That anger could rise again quickly, if called forth. "Tell me how this happened," he said, lifting a hand to point an accusing, demanding finger at Spartacus.

And so all was revealed to Agron. The presence of the Roman soldiers at the mines. The battle in the tunnels and the losses there. Agron listened restlessly, waiting for the part of the tale that he cared most about. Spartacus no doubt hastened to it; there was much to tell, but what Agron needed to hear in that moment was the story of how Nasir had been wounded. Then he might find some peace, or enough of it to bring him back to himself.

"Romans again were upon us," Spartacus said. "Attacked. We fought with diminishing numbers. Nasir took up sword and risked life to save Mira." Agron made a noise in the back of his throat, though what it meant, he didn't know. Perhaps he valued Mira's life less than he did Nasir's, but there was also a part of him that felt proud of the Syrian. He'd fought with honor, it seemed. Spartacus continued. "That wound is what he suffered because of it." Suddenly, there was a hand gripping his forearm. Spartacus was calling Agron's attention to him, and the German's wandering eyes, previously lacking anything to focus on, leveled on the other man's face. "I killed the one responsible," Spartacus said. "Know that, brother."

It was some comfort. Agron turned toward Spartacus and gripped his forearm in return. There was apology now in his voice for his outburst. "Gratitude for returning him to me," he said, the words betraying his true feelings, as if the rest of his actions had not. But in saying this he implied that Nasir was his - and he did mean for the Syrian to be.

"There were some that would have left him behind," Spartacus confessed. "But Naevia spoke for him. She remembered the wounds given Crixus by Theokoles. Wounds survived."

Agron nodded. He too remembered. "And so you closed the wound with fire," he said, helping to finish the tale.

Spartacus nodded. "In a forest full of Romans. Even when burning sword pressed against open flesh, Nasir made no sound to betray our position." At that, Agron tightened his grip on Spartacus's arm, and a grim smile came onto his face. His Syrian had been strong. Stronger than most others would have been.

"Spartacus—" Agron started, but he was quickly cut off.

"Make no apologies to me for this," the Thracian said. "You acted out of concern for Nasir. There is nothing to be sorry for."

But about that, Spartacus was wrong. There was much to be sorry for, though Agron would hold tongue until opportunity arose again to speak what was in his heart. Not only an apology for this, but for dividing the group. For weakening them with his decision to move for Vesuvius instead of the mines. He would not soon forget the mistakes he'd made.

Spartacus clapped Agron on the shoulder. "Let us move far away from this place," he said, "and find a roof to put over our heads."

And so the two parted, both moving to rouse the others. They had some distance to walk still, and each step would take the group further from the horror of the mines and that unforgiving forest and closer to Neapolis, where they would find men to replace their fallen brothers.


Agron's kiss yet lingered on his lips, though the man was gone from his side. Nasir was still stunned. Pleasantly surprised. He'd longed for that kiss and had finally been able to taste it - but there was a bitterness to it. Agron's mission was a dangerous one, one that could easily claim his life, so there had been a 'goodbye' masked in that most tender of kisses. It had been the first time their lips had touched but it could have also been the last. The very idea made him feel as though his heart would stop in his chest.

Because when had he ever felt what he had in the moment Agron had leaned forward and claimed his lips? Freedom had never appealed to him before, but when the collar had been ripped from his throat, the opportunity for this - for tenderness and intimacy not tied to the feeling of obligation - had been opened to him. And now that all had been revealed to him, he wouldn't soon part with it. Not unless he was forced to. Not unless Agron was ripped from him too soon.

That his wound prevented him from accompanying Agron and the rest to the arena in their attempt to rescue Crixus further embittered Nasir. 'This time you stay,' Agron had said, 'and I go.' Now he knew what Agron must have suffered when Nasir had journeyed to the mines. His heart felt heavy, his stomach uneasy, and he lived every moment waiting to see the other man running to him again, waiting for that hand to reach out and touch his face and pull him into another kiss - one Nasir would return, if given the chance.

"You walk as if within a dream," came a voice, and Nasir lifted his head to find Naevia looking at him. His feet had taken him within the temple, toward where he'd lain as his wound was cared for. And by this woman's very hand.

"My mind is within the arena at Capua," he replied. Nasir curled an arm around himself; being pulled from his reverie had reminded him of the pain in his abdomen, made worse even by talking. But he made effort to ensure that pain didn't show on his face.

There was a sudden sadness in Naevia's dark eyes, but behind them, the smallest amount of hope. It was Crixus they moved to rescue, the man that held her heart and the man that had sacrificed himself for her safety. No doubt she was thinking of the very same place as Nasir. It was in that moment Nasir realized that the both of them wanted to be on those very sands, standing next to their men with swords in hand. Either of them would have given anything for that, anything for the chance of one more glance or exchanged smile before the might of Rome came down on them all. But instead they were left behind in this temple to wait and to worry and to wish for what was surely hopeless.

"My thoughts are with yours," Naevia answered gently, though there was no need. "Neither of us will find rest tonight. When sleep evades, perhaps we may find comfort in one another." That was a relief, somehow. Nasir offered a gentle smile that the woman returned with some difficulty, and soon she departed, no doubt to distract herself with something - anything - until it became impossible to do so.

In all of his life, Nasir had never found himself idle. Being a slave had meant a constant flurry of activity, constant orders to carry out. And even when he'd been freed, there had always been something within this rebellion to do. But now he was wounded. Now he had Spartacus himself telling Nasir he needed to rest, and the idea sat uncomfortably with him. Would he simply sit and will himself to heal while Agron and the rest were out risking their lives? No, he would not. He could not.

His sword had not been taken away from him, though it took him some time to find it in these new and unfamiliar surroundings. Consciousness had been fleeting before this; all he knew of the place, really, was the glimpses he'd gotten of the ceiling when the pain of his stab wound pulled him out of feverish sleep. Dragging himself out of the temple in an attempt to join those going to the arena had been the first time he'd stood on his own since the Roman soldier had run him through. Now was not the time for exploration, though. He had other plans.

Nasir's dark face was set and determined. He wouldn't be excluded from these missions. Not from this moment on, and he'd make sure of it. This wound wouldn't hold him back, wouldn't keep him from Agron's side or from Spartacus's, or from any of the other gladiators'. And Nasir felt himself one of them now. His flesh had been branded and both Spartacus and Agron had likened him to one of the brotherhood. He would live up to that no matter what pain it caused.

And it would cause pain. Only hefting the sword made him wince. But he ignored the throbbing and, with purposeful footsteps, made his way outside to where he could swing a sword freely. He recalled training with Agron once, what seemed like a lifetime ago. 'Who do you fight so fiercely, little man?' Agron had asked. The memory of it made him smile even as he positioned himself, sword arm outstretched and gladius held tightly in shaking hand. How defiant he'd been then. And how defiant he was now, risking further injury despite what he'd been told.

But they'd been wrong about him before. They'd thought him nothing but a wild dog, and now he stood among them as one that had sacrificed much and would yet sacrifice more if only asked.

Nasir lunged forward and thrust his sword at an invisible foe. A brief noise of pain passed his lips, but it was the last sound he made. Then, with every intention of proving he could help, could defend those he now cared about despite his wound, he trained into the night, and as he trained he thought he could hear Agron's voice in his ear. 'Who do you fight so fiercely, little man?' was that question again, and Nasir knew his answer better now than he had when he was first asked. 'Any that would threaten harm upon you.'


The temple was filled with light. Nasir had to narrow his eyes, lift a hand to shield them, because it was the kind of sunlight he hadn't seen for some time. For days it had only been shadows from the canopies of trees, thick fog that let through no friendly rays of sun, and then a dark room where his wound had been tended. His wound - he looked down and dropped his hand to touch it, but where it had once been there was only smooth skin. His dark gaze wandered; this wasn't the temple as he remembered it. Underneath him was a soft bed draped in white cloth, glowing faintly in the light. He stood, and the stone floor underneath his bare feet was warm.

"Naevia," he called, the name echoing. He had become accustomed to having her near. She was his only comfort, with Agron gone to Capua. But where was she? "What news? Have any returned?" There was no answer from Naevia's lips. But a voice did sound. A voice he recognized. One that made his heart jump in his chest.

Hands accompanied that voice, touching his shoulders from behind. He stilled underneath them, dark eyes wide. "Nasir." It was only his name, but the tone was unmistakable. Those hands slid down his arms and held tight, using that grip to pull Nasir back against a taller, solid body. Though there was strength behind that touch, it was still tender. "I would have cut through every last Roman shit in this world to return to you," the voice continued, the soft words whispering over Nasir's ear.

Nasir felt out of breath at the surge of relief that flooded him. He had dared to hope for this moment, but part of him had doubted its coming. He wanted to speak, wanted to say the man's name as sweetly as his own had been uttered, but he could not find voice. "What, did someone rob you of your tongue?" the man said, and finally a smile came onto Nasir's face. Now that it had found its place there, it wouldn't soon disappear.

'Agron,' he wanted to whisper or sigh or cry out, though the name never rose to his lips. But no matter; strong hands turned him around and he lifted his gaze to look upon the gladiator, and that sight alone would have robbed him of speech if he hadn't already been silent. The man was bathed in the softly glowing light that surrounded them and he seemed something from a dream or from another world. Agron reached out and touched Nasir's face, cupped his cheek as he always did, and then leaned forward to steal a kiss from his waiting lips.

It was much like the one they'd shared before Agron had disappeared into the night, making his way toward the arena. The kiss was fleeting and gentle. Sweet and a taste of something Nasir had never had before. Though it was like that first kiss, it held no less excitement than that first one had; his heartbeat still quickened and he found it difficult to do anything but stand and receive tender lips.

But when it was done, there was no voice calling for Agron to leave him again. There was only silence, occasionally broken by the sound of their mingled breathing. Because Agron was still close. He still leaned forward, bent at the waist to bring himself down to Nasir's level. When the Syrian opened his eyes, he found blue ones staring back at him. That gaze was a searching one. A questioning one. Agron spoke again. "Won't you give me welcome?" he asked.

Nasir didn't know how to respond. Never before had he not been ordered to do something - but instead, he was being asked. He was being given a choice. Agron was not his dominus, a man that Nasir had had to obey. They were both free men and Nasir could decide for himself what he wanted. Wanted. That too was a new concept. And what did he want? As if it wasn't obvious, as if it hadn't always been obvious, ever since he'd met Agron's eyes and revealed to him his true name.

"Nasir—" Agron began, but no more words passed between his lips. No, they were otherwise occupied in the kiss Nasir pressed to them. And how the Syrian moved in the kiss. Where before he'd been unable to even respond for the shock that froze him at being kissed at all, he now leaned into the kiss, lured Agron into it, savored it for everything that it was. His stomach flipped and he felt weightless, grounded only by the hand still cupping his cheek and the arm that now wrapped around his waist and pulled him closer.

The first taste of Agron's tongue sent a thrill through Nasir, one that parted his lips in a low gasp, and the gladiator took full advantage of that. Agron deepened the kiss and a desperation rose in the both of them, the need to take this further and further, to leave nothing unexplored.

Soon, Agron pulled back from the kiss. His breathing was harsh as he leaned his forehead on the other man's, eyes closed. The hand on Nasir's face shifted, slid back into his hair and then gripped tightly - not enough to hurt, but enough for Nasir to feel it and to react with another low sound in the back of his throat. Agron chased that noise; he used Nasir's hair to gently pull his head back and reveal long neck before ducking down and pressing kiss-bruised lips against warm skin. It pulled another groan from him.

And that seemed to spur Agron on. Soon, Nasir was pushed backwards until his back hit a wall. If he hadn't already been breathless, he would have been then, but already his breathing was fast, labored, difficult to catch. The kiss had done that to him. Still, Agron had his face buried against the Syrian's throat, though his lips began to drag up, tilting Nasir's head back again. The mouth was moving so slowly, so tortuously slowly, in such contrast to how fast he'd suddenly found himself pinned.

Briefly, as he waited for those lips to find destination, he wondered why he felt no pain. Surely he wasn't healed enough for this. Surely he should be doubled over and holding his side - but did he remember his skin being unmarred, untouched by Roman sword—? Those thoughts were chased away. Agron's lips had reached Nasir's chin and then, finally, he was lost in another kiss.

And now, with his body pinned to the wall, he felt the weight of Agron against him. One of the gladiator's legs slipped between his own, pressed against him in a way that made the air rush from him lungs. He was desperate for that contact. So desperate that he lifted his own leg to hook around the one holding him there to the wall and then rolled his hips, slowly, to rub himself against the other man. Agron only encouraged it; he dropped a hand to grab tightly onto the flesh of Nasir's thigh and moved even closer, ensured there wasn't even the smallest amount of space between their two bodies.

"Nasir," Agron groaned into the Syrian's mouth. And then again. "Nasir." And again—

"Nasir!"

He sat up quickly, the abrupt movement sending a jolt of pain through his body. That pain chased away the sound of Agron's voice and the feeling of his body and the taste of his lips and left Nasir cold in the dark temple. There was no bright light, no soft bed, no returned gladiator to call him into strong, whole arms. The realization hurt him more than the wound that still very much marred his dark skin.

"Nasir." His name was called one more time before Naevia rounded the corner. He stood, arm curled around himself, and it was clear in his eyes that he feared the worst. Were they all dead? Had no one returned? Had only some of their number? Had Agron fallen? "Word has reached us from Capua," Naevia said, and she sounded out of breath. "The arena burns."

The Syrian let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. It was according to plan. There was no way for them to know, yet, whether or not their men survived. Nasir sat back down, clenching his teeth against the throbbing of his injury. How he wished to sink back into that dream, to imagine the welcome he might give Agron, but his mind wouldn't allow pleasant thought now. Not while he was waking.

The only thought he harbored was that he would either see Agron soon or never again.