The Eagle fanfiction 'A Courage of Ruffled Feathers', part 1
Fandom: The Eagle (movie 2011) Marcus and Esca
Title: A Relief Hard to Bear (part 1 of A Courage of Ruffled Feathers)
Part: 1 of maybe 5-6
Word Count: ~1100
Rating: eventually NC-17, as of now PG
Warnings: none as of yet
Summary: Regaining the Eagle of the 9th left Marcus at the very brink of death. Much needs to happen before he and Esca can make it back to Londinium. Or before the Roman realizes, how much the man who had been his slave really means to him, or how much of himself he needs to give up before they can return the Eagle.
Notes: This first part is more like an intro. Following the plotline of the movie until after they have won against the Seal People. From the next part on it will be new stuff.
Comments are of course very much appreciated! :)
A Relief Hard to Bear
Marcus could still remember it in all its detail. The hand buried harshly in his hair, pulling his head back until his neck hurt, baring his throat. The knee pushed against his back, bending his spine, his own knees on the cold ground, kneeling as no Roman should ever kneel before a slave. Helpless, humiliated, betrayed. How he hated Esca then. Had he ever hated anybody as much before in his life, he could not remember.
It carried him through each day, that hate. Gave him the strength to ignore the growing pain in his old wound. Made his eyes seek out the treacherous slave as they had before sought out a trusted ally. How he could have been so stupid, so blind. How he could have patiently knelt in the rain, the knowledge of Esca nearby enough to endure the harassment of the painted people without a word. How he could have believed those words of honour, which where, as it turned out, now only the ruse of a Briton slave. Only a feint, to get into this bleak, forlorn country, to reverse their roles - slave to master and master to slave.
And when the painted people had drunken themselves into the madness of their ritual, he had seen his chance and taken it. He had crept close and, unable to see Esca, had believed him part of it all. Somewhere between them, now one of them, painted himself.
Marcus had watched their bodies rise and fall to the rhythm of their drums. Savage dancers in the flickering light. He thought he saw the shape of Esca's back, bending and turning, but could not be sure, but it made something coil in his stomach anyway. And then he saw the Eagle and forgot everything else. He would take it. Now that he saw it, it would give him strength, he would take it and take it back and kill anybody who dared stand in his way. But they felled him, almost casually, after only a few steps.
When an urgent hand on his shoulder woke him he first wanted to pull back instinctively, avoiding another blow. But then the familiar voice reached his ear and he turned squinting toward it. Esca. His Esca. Not painted. Not the treacherous slave but his trusted ally.
The relief was almost as hard to bear as the despair that had come before it. A sudden filling of his heart so strong, so thorough that he felt he could not breathe and he choked out the words, "I thought I had lost you."
A silent apology in Esca's blue eyes just for the few moments as Esca's hand tightened on Marcus' shoulder. What strength it gave him, this revelation, this look, this touch. How Marcus fought, with Esca by his side and the Eagle in his grasp. Suddenly there was hope again. Hope born of a trust so deep it scared him.
But not even this trust could keep him going indefinitely. His bad leg, cut open once again, grew worse with each day, his body grew colder until the shivering was an inseparable part of him. Only at night, when Esca drew close to him to share both their warmth, it ceased, and with the questionable meat of some strange rodent in his stomach, Marcus fell into exhausted sleep. But the waking came too soon as to have permitted his body much respite.
Esca pushed them on, encouraging, coaxing, assuring that the bellow of the hounds right on their heels was just a ruse of the wind, but the worried set to his brows belied his words. And then his horse fell beneath him. And his arm - the one he wound tightly around Marcus whenever the Roman threatened to slip from the black horse which now had to carry both their weight - it trembled.
Marcus slipped further and further from the world around him. His being was pain, exhaustion, the burning drag of his breath in his throat. By the time Esca was hiding both of them in the river, Marcus' only anchor in the world was the hand tightly fisted into the fabric at his shoulder. Esca's hand. Esca pulling him along, until it became clear that Marcus would not go on. He was at the end of his way. But he was glad that he was able to do at least one more thing before he would meet his forefathers. He could give freedom to one man who deserved it. The man who had proven as honourable in his vow as any Roman ever had, the man whom Marcus with all his heart now called 'friend'.
So Marcus still held the Eagle cradled to his chest. So it would not make it back to Rome. But at least Esca would live. Marcus believed it, had to believe at least in this one thing, because the possibility of Esca coming back for him was too frail to hold onto. So he gladly gave in to unconsciousness as it finally, mercifully took him.
But death did not wait for him on the other side of darkness. The world he knew was still there and his mind was clear. The memory of Esca's touch on the side of his face still lingered, even through all the wet and cold. And he made his decision. He would raise the Eagle one last time, would stand with it as the soldier he had always aspired to be, and he would die with it in his hands. And as the rain passed and the mists rose from the water and brought the lost legionaries with it, he believed it a dream at first.
But Esca, his voice, his valor - it was truth and reality. Marcus did not understand then, how it could have been possible after all that had happened, but somehow he found within him one last reserve of desperate strength. And he took all of it, commanded his legionaries, stood with them, fought with them, killed with them. Against all odds and at the cost of most of the men, both Marcus and Esca prevailed.
But finally, as they had laid out their dead, as they had given them their farewell and set Guern's pyre alight and all had grown still in grief, Marcus' body grew heavy. He had not felt pain nor cold nor exhaustion since they had taken their stand, but as he turned away from the blaze it all came rushing back. Within two steps the exhaustion and injury simply overwhelmed him.
He knew it was Esca who took hold of him and whom Marcus dragged down with him as he crumbled. Then he knew no more.