Fic: You Were Naked, You Were Shamed
Author: rivlee
Title: You Were Naked, You Were Shamed
Rating: G
Characters/Pairing: Agron. Gen.
Summary: For Agron, it's not just hair. Set in between Blood & Sand and Vengeance.
Disclaimer: This is all fiction based off the characters as portrayed in the Starz television series Spartacus. No disrespect or harm is meant or intended. Title from The Messenger.
A/N: Unbeated.
The dagger in his hands was a pretty thing; petite, delicate, bejeweled and probably cost more than his own worth in the fucking Romans’ eyes. More than his life, more than his brothers, with jewels mined and metal made from other foreign lands.
Mira, the former house-slave, insisted his hair must be cut. She knew of the Roman ways and laws outside of ludus and arena walls. His hair marked him as much a slave as any brand. Matted, unkempt, and savage. So insulting to the Roman shits’ senses.
Agron looked at the dagger in his hands and thought of the past. Of a mother who came from a tribe far across the seas, where everyone wore their hair long. She insisted on clean bodies and kept hair, her elaborate braids both functional and beautiful. He remembered his father sitting beside her each night, glowing orange by the fire, unbraiding and brushing out her hair as if it was their greatest treasure.
He remembered being little, wrapped up in his mother’s arms, safe, as she hummed old songs and fixed his hair each morning. The whirlwind of the Holy Days and Festivals when his sisters clamored for the balls and beads to be weaved into the strands of their braids, as he and Duro proudly imitated their father’s hairstyle. They’d both just begun to grow the traditional long beards when the battle came.
He was proud once, of his long hair, back before captivity and slavery. Back when it was clean and shiny and a symbol of status. He wore the matted clumps out of defiance now, still long, though, to show he was free. The short style the Romans preferred was a mark of shame in his father’s tribe. Now, to live, he would have to imitate those he despised.
He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He remembered the air when he and Duro got caught in the battle. It was tense, hard to breathe, copper taste filling his mouth and the smell of death all around him. The woods were sacred and now, forever tarnished. They never had a chance of winning that day, but they could stall the advance. He’d never know desperation until that moment. Never known true fear until he couldn’t watch Duro’s every move.
The meaning of words changed so much in the past year. Even Death itself went from an idea to a personal friend; an ever constant companion whispering in his ear. He felt like the very embodiment of Anger. Even now his thoughts were filled with blood; his fingers twitched, ever eager for action. There was no appeasing it, no fighting it; Agron was forever changed.
It was time to shed the last physical hold over from the past. Buried, deep inside, he could be Agron, brother of Duro, who grew up by the river side and dreamed of his own farm. He could be the young boy sung to sleep in his mother arms, even when he was too big for them. He could be the young man learning their histories from his father, as his own father once taught him.
At the surface he had to be a monster. He had to become the unrepentant savage his enemies claimed him. To fight them he must look like them, even at the cost of his own shame.
He blindly reached up and grabbed the first matted clump of hair with one hand. In the other he grasped the dagger with new purpose. After a murmured prayer to Tyr and Freyja he began his task.
Title: You Were Naked, You Were Shamed
Rating: G
Characters/Pairing: Agron. Gen.
Summary: For Agron, it's not just hair. Set in between Blood & Sand and Vengeance.
Disclaimer: This is all fiction based off the characters as portrayed in the Starz television series Spartacus. No disrespect or harm is meant or intended. Title from The Messenger.
A/N: Unbeated.
The dagger in his hands was a pretty thing; petite, delicate, bejeweled and probably cost more than his own worth in the fucking Romans’ eyes. More than his life, more than his brothers, with jewels mined and metal made from other foreign lands.
Mira, the former house-slave, insisted his hair must be cut. She knew of the Roman ways and laws outside of ludus and arena walls. His hair marked him as much a slave as any brand. Matted, unkempt, and savage. So insulting to the Roman shits’ senses.
Agron looked at the dagger in his hands and thought of the past. Of a mother who came from a tribe far across the seas, where everyone wore their hair long. She insisted on clean bodies and kept hair, her elaborate braids both functional and beautiful. He remembered his father sitting beside her each night, glowing orange by the fire, unbraiding and brushing out her hair as if it was their greatest treasure.
He remembered being little, wrapped up in his mother’s arms, safe, as she hummed old songs and fixed his hair each morning. The whirlwind of the Holy Days and Festivals when his sisters clamored for the balls and beads to be weaved into the strands of their braids, as he and Duro proudly imitated their father’s hairstyle. They’d both just begun to grow the traditional long beards when the battle came.
He was proud once, of his long hair, back before captivity and slavery. Back when it was clean and shiny and a symbol of status. He wore the matted clumps out of defiance now, still long, though, to show he was free. The short style the Romans preferred was a mark of shame in his father’s tribe. Now, to live, he would have to imitate those he despised.
He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He remembered the air when he and Duro got caught in the battle. It was tense, hard to breathe, copper taste filling his mouth and the smell of death all around him. The woods were sacred and now, forever tarnished. They never had a chance of winning that day, but they could stall the advance. He’d never know desperation until that moment. Never known true fear until he couldn’t watch Duro’s every move.
The meaning of words changed so much in the past year. Even Death itself went from an idea to a personal friend; an ever constant companion whispering in his ear. He felt like the very embodiment of Anger. Even now his thoughts were filled with blood; his fingers twitched, ever eager for action. There was no appeasing it, no fighting it; Agron was forever changed.
It was time to shed the last physical hold over from the past. Buried, deep inside, he could be Agron, brother of Duro, who grew up by the river side and dreamed of his own farm. He could be the young boy sung to sleep in his mother arms, even when he was too big for them. He could be the young man learning their histories from his father, as his own father once taught him.
At the surface he had to be a monster. He had to become the unrepentant savage his enemies claimed him. To fight them he must look like them, even at the cost of his own shame.
He blindly reached up and grabbed the first matted clump of hair with one hand. In the other he grasped the dagger with new purpose. After a murmured prayer to Tyr and Freyja he began his task.