Fan Fic: madmen who remember
Title: madmen who remember
Fandom: Spartacus: Vengeance
Characters: Agron, Donar, mention of Duro, Crixus and Spartacus, plus random house slaves.
Summary: An exploration of Agron’s mindset between Blood & Sand and Vengeance, after Duro's death.
Warning: Language, violence.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything, obviously. Title from Giovanni's Room, by James Baldwin.
Notes: Inspired by Agron smashing in a Roman’s head in the opening sequence of Vengeance and Mira’s comment that Agron is an “angry boy who can barely piss without splashing everyone about him.” Also mentions the hair cutting. I hope people enjoy, and any comments, critiques etc would be greatly appreciated. This is my first real fanfiction that I’ve posted anywhere (though I have been an avid RPer for some years now), so I hope it’s not too terrible, and I’ve managed to at least capture some of Agron. (I could really ramble on about his character for a lonng time, so I'm trying to keep it brief)
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After the rush and fury of battle, there lingered a silence and a stillness.
Beyond, noises and movement filtered slowly into his awareness; the final groans of the dying, his fellow rebels discussing their success, the huff of his own painting breaths. Warm blood splattered his skin, his back and inner thigh stung with the fire of flesh laid open by steel - he had not felt the blows strike home. During battle he could escape the hollow depths within him, fill it with Roman blood and Roman pain and Roman death. But once all lay dead, there was no defence left for him. Blood taken could not repay blood lost, however much he wished it to be so. Mortal wounds could not be healed.
Standing amid the fallen bodies, he became aware of a Roman lying near his current position, not quite dead and gasping loudly for breath, an underlying wet gurgle hinting that he was not much longer for this world. Agron would help him on his way. Sheathing his sword, he walked forwards and knelt down, altering his hold on the short knife he preferred to use from a loose clasp to a more aggressive grip.
The Roman lifted a hand at the sound of the German’s approach, or attempted to, fingers twitching. “Mercy.” A gasped word exited the dying man’s lips with a spray of blood. It brought a smile to Agron's lips, a hard joyless movement of his mouth and flash of teeth against dirt-covered skin. “As you would show me fucking mercy?” He hissed. “Or any who stand beside me?” A laugh escaped him, equally as joyless as his smile but holding a wilder edge to it. “Look to your fucking Gods for mercy.” No more words were needed. What use did he have for words when he held steel in hand? Savagely he buried his knife in the man’s stomach, ripping the blade out and thrusting it back in again, twisting, feeling the tear of skin, muscle and organs, blood and other liquids coating his hand, spraying up his arms. Something close to joy blossomed, the catharsis achieved by each movement of his hand urging him onwards. Gurgling screams faded to weak rattles and only when they had long fallen to silence did he stop.
As he gave his blade a cursory wipe on short blades of grass near the body, blue eyes darted involuntarily towards the face of the dead Roman. He had died with his eyes open, staring fixedly at the overcast sky through an expression of agony. Agron drew in a sharp breath, and immediately pushed himself to his feet and stepped back, as though he had been burnt. He wasn’t prepared for air stolen from lungs as vivid memories of his brother’s open eyes at the moment of death was forced into his mind. Light-headed, he did the only thing he could think of; lashing out sharply with one leg, catching the side of the dead man’s face with enough force to snap his head over to one side, turning him away. Looking up, Agron became aware of Donar and Spartacus, paused in their collection of weapons to watch him. “The Roman shit refused to die.” He gave a short, harsh laugh and bent down to retrieve the sword from the man at his feet, his fingers moving rapidly, fumbling with the buckle until he finally freed the sheath and was able to place the discarded sword within it.
Straightening once more, he walked towards the next body and willed it to stir. He wished for more blood and with it the erasure of open eyes, staring sightlessly at the sky.
****
He jolted awake with his brother’s name on his lips.
Head snapping up from bowed position; resting on folded arms which in turn were supported by bent knees, he had fallen asleep unintentionally, back supported by a damp, cold wall. Lifting his head, groggily, wincing, Agron found his neck had stiffened while he was asleep, contributing to a dull aching pain in his head and his mouth was dry. A familiar situation these days; sleep did not come when he sought it, only by chance, when he sat down for a few minutes, to eat or tend to his weapons and wounds, or because there was little else to do in these endless days spent underground.
Exhaustion lay heavily upon his mind and body, but in the dark places between sleep and the waking world, his brother waited for him, with soulless, accusing eyes and a gaping wound.
Do you wish your brother dead?
Remembered words spoken a lifetime ago, caged within the walls of the ludus. Lifting bloodshot blue eyes, Agron glanced around at the walls which now held them, the hint of an ironic smile on his lips, which he directed sideways with the barest tilt of his head, as though expecting someone to be sitting there, to receive his smile and hear his thoughts. The smile fell away as he recalled there was no one. For a split second he had almost forgotten, habit convincing him that his brother would always be there. In that moment he had never felt more alone. As long as he and Duro were together they could laugh at the world, share thoughts with a glance and tie one another to their past, to a home, to a family, to a world which had existed before wars and slavery and fucking Roman’s had ripped them away.
Provoked into movement by the agitation of his thoughts, he braced his hands on the floor, and pushed himself to his feet. At his full height, he paused to lean back against the wall, rubbing a hand across his face, and through hair, which was shorter now than it had been, hastily hacked away by a knife welded with unsteady hands. Practicality he would name it now, but in those days when his mind had not been his own, he had acted out of grief and guilt, unable to bear the weight of either, let alone both. Tears in his eyes, a snarl on his lip, he clumsily sheared away the characteristic he and Duro had shared. Duro had always followed him, even in that respect, and in the end, he had died following Agron into battle against the guards of Batiatus. He had felt eyes on him, as his hair fell away, but no one had approached his hunched form and he had been glad for it. Blade in hand, he would not have trusted himself with any who came close, be they friend, foe or fucking Gaul. It seemed a dream now, one he was slowly returning from, and yet it seemed impossible to imagine that there would be a time when he would fully awaken.
Taking stock of his surroundings he finally noticed Donar seated near by, watching him, though the older man quickly averted his eyes when Agron looked his way, only to casually return them a moment later. Groggy for sleep and tied up in his own thoughts, he hadn’t noticed the man before, and felt almost embarrassed that he hadn’t. A nod passed between them; friendly acknowledgment, but as he moved away in search of water, it occurred to him that Donar had been watching over him as he slept. A thin sliver of warmth blossomed inside him and he felt a brief lightening of the oppressive burden which had settled with seeming permanence in his chest.
It lasted mere seconds. Agron’s gaze settled on two house slaves trying to practise with Roman swords, fumbling the moves. This is what my brother fucking died for. Not to taste freedom himself, but to die on the sands of the ludus while house slaves cowered in the shadows and emerged only after blood had been spilt. “Hold it like a sword, not your master’s cock, you useless fucks.” Agron snapped, both slaves pausing to look at him, clearly caught between offence and embarrassment. Under the angry blue gaze of the gladiator, it wasn’t long before one of the men was fumbling with the weapon even worse than before. As his sword clattered to the ground for a third time, Agron made no attempt to contain a derisive snort, shaking his head and moving away, resuming his search for water instead of giving into an urge to bury the fallen sword in the body of it’s newest master.
Retrieving cup of the cleaner water they had managed to salvage, he surveyed the movement of people in their underground shelter, at a loss about what to do next. “Crixus and his men left not long ago, seeking more answers about his woman.” In response to the words spoken behind him, Agron turned to watch Donar’s approach. A spark of anger flared into life at the mention of the other gladiator, a welcome break from grief and he clung to it.
“Fucking Gauls are going to lead the Romans right to us.” He ground out the reply. “And when they get here, they will find house slaves unable to fucking fight.” How quickly grief and exhaustion turned to anger, fuelling his tired limbs and mind with energy as blood began to pump at an accelerated speed. Donar grunted in agreement, nodding his head. “If they do come, we can take some of the Roman fucks with us.” The older man pointed out and Agron felt a grin pull at his mouth as he reached out to clap Donar on the shoulder. “Then let us hope the Gauls do just that. My sword is yearning for Roman blood.”