Perhaps after Agron is mobile again, he might come upon Phedre, one late evening. She's by the fire and isn't doing anything but braiding her hair and singing to herself.
She's in a pensive mood these days, and that leads her to sing something old, something she'd almost forgotten.
Skaldic hearth songs, which will be unfamiliar to him in tune, but the language will most certainly carry some resonance: it is Germanic, and is rooted in Agron's maternal tongue.
Perhaps the sight of a woman who is may not be a Northerner herself, given her dark hair, though her skin is certainly pale enough, singing in a language close to home, will intrigue the gladiator sufficiently.
One thing is sure: Death's whore has once met someone... who was very much like him, in many, many ways.
Agron is well intrigued at the sound of so familiar a tongue. In fact, he races toward it's source, surprise clear on his face. "I had not thought meeting another East of the Rhine save Duro, who is yet still lost to me," he says in German, drawing closer. "Unfamiliar song, but such welcome spoken word." He is beaming. Agron is one to treasure the small joys.
Thankfully, in all her years at the Mansion, Phedre has learned the equivalences, between her world's map, and that which seems most commonly accepted, and so the Rhine is familiar to her, and she understands immediately what is said.
"I speak little of your tongue," she replies, once she's stood, as the man is already towering over her lithe figure, "but I was blessed to be taught these songs, when I was in your country, many years ago."
"Native or no, my ears rejoice in the song. I would learn it, if you were inclined to teach?" Agron requests, still smiling. "I am Agron, from East of the Rhine, though of late, from Capua." Escaped from a ludus in Capua, to be specific.
"I do not know this land, Terre d'Ange, nor Skaldi as a name, but your song is yet familiar." Agron looks pleased at this, even still. "How came you here?"
"I came after a long life in my country - I had passed into Terre d'Ange-that-Lies-Beyond, or so I thought."
So many people met, then - Phedre wonders if any of them are still here, and realizes none are. Firekeeper, Henry Fitzroy, Jaenelle Angeline, and Melisande, oh, Melisande.
She's in a pensive mood these days, and that leads her to sing something old, something she'd almost forgotten.
Skaldic hearth songs, which will be unfamiliar to him in tune, but the language will most certainly carry some resonance: it is Germanic, and is rooted in Agron's maternal tongue.
Perhaps the sight of a woman who is may not be a Northerner herself, given her dark hair, though her skin is certainly pale enough, singing in a language close to home, will intrigue the gladiator sufficiently.
One thing is sure: Death's whore has once met someone... who was very much like him, in many, many ways.
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"I speak little of your tongue," she replies, once she's stood, as the man is already towering over her lithe figure, "but I was blessed to be taught these songs, when I was in your country, many years ago."
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She smiles, waves at the seat close.
"I am Phedre, from Terre d'Ange."
She almost hopes he knows what that means, despite their countries being enemies to a certain degree (and not, to another).
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So many people met, then - Phedre wonders if any of them are still here, and realizes none are. Firekeeper, Henry Fitzroy, Jaenelle Angeline, and Melisande, oh, Melisande.
"Yet it may not be so, for many others did not."
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