The Eagle (Esca/Marcus) - Horse and Rider
The Eagle (movie verse)
Title: Horse and Rider
Spoilers: ~1/3 of the movie (Is there anyone who stopped at 1/3 of the movie?)
Pairing: Esca/Marcus, preslash
Summary: They learn to move in unison.
Word count: ~1500
Rating: PG-13 for mild and vaguely described sexual content
Warning: I can't think of anything at the moment.
Other: prequel to The Blade
My usual apologies for whatever may be wrong with the fic.
Esca isn’t sure what to think. He feels almost as exhausted as if he had gone through the surgery himself. While he was full of anger before, and he is still now, something has changed.
Marcus spends most of the days in bed, his face hardly concealing the agony, his voice begging for water more than ordering for it, and Esca finds himself reacting to it. Only when he already holds a cup to Marcus’ lips, or has already reached out to pull the Roman up from the bed, hate and gratitude emerge as a reminder of his oath.
Esca watches over Marcus in silence, as he has been ordered by the uncle. He learns to discern Marcus humor and to anticipate his every need.
Perhaps it is true that affection grows as you give and not as you receive.
Though Marcus’ face in the crowd of the arena is one of Esca’s most vivid memories - like a painful burst of sun that breaks the clouds and blinds the eye, it’s imprinted as strongly as the last moments with his family - that implies only an oath. It’s an obligation larger than Esca’s life or his contradicting emotions.
Yet upon tending to Marcus’ wound and checking its progress every morning, Esca finds himself wishing it would heal quickly. Upon helping Marcus’ tottering legs each day, Esca wishes they could walk and run. After hearing Marcus’ teeth grit together a thousand times, he wishes to see a smile. It’s like a rope, plaited with many weak threads into one single strong binding. It makes Marcus’ pain his own, though Esca doesn’t wish for it.
As the tide changes several times a day, anger washes the corners of Esca’s conscience, submerges it entirely, and recedes again. And so it is day after day.
Marcus often sits outside, under the afternoon sun. For hours he stares at nothing, and then for hours more he stares down at his stretched leg.
Esca can tell from the way Marcus sits whether the pain comes from the bad leg (Marcus’ body tenses, and his left hands goes down to rub the thigh above the wound. His breath is strained, though Marcus tries to hide it.). He can tell whether the pain comes from disappointment in general (Marcus’ back is rigid like a wooden effigy, his head drops slightly to the right, and then he plays with the crutch).
From time to time, Marcus reaches inside his clothes and pulls the eagle pendant out. He brings it to his lips and kisses it, whispers to it with his eyes closed. Esca doesn’t ask about it.
There are nights when Marcus murmurs his prayers with the eagle at his lips. Esca thinks of his own gods and his tribe, and pretends to be already asleep.
Marcus seems still reluctant to borrow Esca’s shoulder and legs to walk, as if that were something shameful but he has no other choice. A few steps are enough to make Marcus grimace. His face flushes red with anger and pain, and he has to sit down.
“It’s too soon,” says Esca, “the healer said you must still rest.”
Marcus clenches his teeth with more force and in vain tries to stand again.
It gets better with time, and once Marcus can walk with the aid of a stick, he sends Esca to the slave quarters with Stephanos for the night. During the day he still leans on Esca, but at nights they are apart.
Esca can’t sleep.
A change of habit is strange, though he is not sorry to see the Roman less.
Still, they let Esca sleep longer than a slave is used to, and he doesn’t have many chores. He tends to the horses, helps in the kitchen sometimes, and runs on errands only rarely; his main and most important chore is and has always been Marcus.
It’s unusual having nothing to do for hours at a time. Hate for Romans or no, Esca has grown used to watching over Marcus to predict his needs. It’s what Esca has sworn to do, after all. Nothing and no one should make him break his word.
Thus Esca ends up sitting in front of Marcus’ room at night.
Inside, Marcus trains his legs alone. He drags himself across the room, and Esca can imagine how the wounded leg refuses to follow, and how Marcus’ lower jaw shakes with pain.
The sound of wood against the floor repeats between Marcus’ pained grunts, tac-tac, a longer pause and tac again, and Marcus curses, sits on the bed, and throws the stick away. After a while the sounds repeat.
Esca leans on the wall and dozes off, still mindful of every noise. Only if Marcus will fall or cry for him, Esca will rush inside.
Once Marcus is sleeping, Esca returns to his quarters, wondering if he will ever repay his debt and be free, or if he will be forced to follow this Roman forever.
It becomes a habit.
At times Esca overstays and hears Marcus speak in his sleep. It sounds as though Marcus were battling against someone in his dreams. A word or two are discernible, and Esca ponders if he should go in and wake Marcus, but then decides against it each time.
Marcus’ uncle stops in front of Esca one night and glances at the door of Marcus’ room. When Esca gets up, expecting orders or questions, the uncle merely nods and leaves.
And Esca sits down again, feeling his cheeks burn as if the uncle’s nod and raised eyebrow had humiliated him somehow. He doesn’t go to bed at the usual time; long after Marcus has fallen asleep, Esca remains there, driven by a strange stubbornness and anger. He has sworn an oath of honor.
He wakes in the dark at Marcus’ voice, listens, and makes to stand. Then his body slumps back at the recognition.
Marcus hasn’t fallen during night training, and neither is he having nightmares.
It crosses Esca’s mind that perhaps Marcus wouldn’t want him to hear, that perhaps Marcus thinks Esca has returned to the slave quarters. Despite that, Esca’s body remains there as frozen.
He waits until Marcus’ voice quiets, until Marcus’ breaths lose that heated rhythm, and until the rustling of the sheets subsides. He waits until he remembers the floor below him is cold and the wall behind him uncomfortable. Then he slinks away.
The next day Esca helps Marcus wash and dress as every other morning. There is no reason to behave any differently, as he has told himself, and as a slave he’s supposed to keep his gaze down.
The wound on Marcus’ leg is almost healed, he notices. The scab is large, and the tissue around is scarred and ugly, but it’s healing well. It hasn’t reopened or emanated that unpleasant smell since the surgery.
Then one day Marcus walks unaided.
“Esca, Esca,” he says, his voice laden with urgency.
Esca has already been watching Marcus’ way. Helping himself with the stick, Marcus rose from his usual resting spot in the garden, he lifted the stick in the air, and made a step. Of course Esca has seen.
Marcus makes another step and casts the stick aside. His feet move slowly, with a limp, like clumsy wooden trunks pushed forward.
“Marcus?” says Esca and wonders if this is the first time he has called the Roman by the name.
Marcus doesn’t say anything; his gaze darts from Esca to his own legs and back, his mouth opened halfway between laughter and disbelief.
One foot after the other.
He staggers at the end but manages to cross the distance alone. Then he grabs Esca’s extended arm to steady himself, almost crashing into Esca’s chest in the process, and he laughs. He laughs.
Esca can’t help but smile. Another thread between them is woven in against his wish.
“Uncle,” Marcus cries, “uncle!”
Marcus’ arm is wrapped around Esca’s shoulder, but there’s no embarrassment, only joy in it this time, and Esca feels no resentment when he locks his hand behind Marcus’ back to offer support.
“Uncle!” Marcus releases Esca to walk again.
Their gazes meet once more, when Esca catches Marcus’ elbow to help him stand, and he has to ask himself why he has to feel so joyous just because a Roman walks.
From there on, Esca can’t tell whether he has fallen into Marcus’ pace entirely, or if Marcus is slowly adapting to his. When they’re alone, he begins calling Marcus by name. Soon he takes the habit of speaking his mind and talking back to Marcus as well. It’s only about small, unimportant things, and always when they are alone, but Esca’s hate is lulled deeper into sleep each time Marcus listens to him.
They move in perfect unison, like horse and rider. Be it during the hunt, or in the villa, Esca can guess Marcus’ mind by the smallest of hints. The crease of Marcus’ brow, the shift of tension in his legs, the imperceptible change of inclination in his voice.
Like rider and horse they move, and if Esca is the horse, it doesn’t bother him greatly anymore, for he knows that his legs are hale and strong, while Marcus’ legs can barely sustain their own weight.
Title: Horse and Rider
Spoilers: ~1/3 of the movie (Is there anyone who stopped at 1/3 of the movie?)
Pairing: Esca/Marcus, preslash
Summary: They learn to move in unison.
Word count: ~1500
Rating: PG-13 for mild and vaguely described sexual content
Warning: I can't think of anything at the moment.
Other: prequel to The Blade
My usual apologies for whatever may be wrong with the fic.
Esca isn’t sure what to think. He feels almost as exhausted as if he had gone through the surgery himself. While he was full of anger before, and he is still now, something has changed.
Marcus spends most of the days in bed, his face hardly concealing the agony, his voice begging for water more than ordering for it, and Esca finds himself reacting to it. Only when he already holds a cup to Marcus’ lips, or has already reached out to pull the Roman up from the bed, hate and gratitude emerge as a reminder of his oath.
Esca watches over Marcus in silence, as he has been ordered by the uncle. He learns to discern Marcus humor and to anticipate his every need.
Perhaps it is true that affection grows as you give and not as you receive.
Though Marcus’ face in the crowd of the arena is one of Esca’s most vivid memories - like a painful burst of sun that breaks the clouds and blinds the eye, it’s imprinted as strongly as the last moments with his family - that implies only an oath. It’s an obligation larger than Esca’s life or his contradicting emotions.
Yet upon tending to Marcus’ wound and checking its progress every morning, Esca finds himself wishing it would heal quickly. Upon helping Marcus’ tottering legs each day, Esca wishes they could walk and run. After hearing Marcus’ teeth grit together a thousand times, he wishes to see a smile. It’s like a rope, plaited with many weak threads into one single strong binding. It makes Marcus’ pain his own, though Esca doesn’t wish for it.
As the tide changes several times a day, anger washes the corners of Esca’s conscience, submerges it entirely, and recedes again. And so it is day after day.
Marcus often sits outside, under the afternoon sun. For hours he stares at nothing, and then for hours more he stares down at his stretched leg.
Esca can tell from the way Marcus sits whether the pain comes from the bad leg (Marcus’ body tenses, and his left hands goes down to rub the thigh above the wound. His breath is strained, though Marcus tries to hide it.). He can tell whether the pain comes from disappointment in general (Marcus’ back is rigid like a wooden effigy, his head drops slightly to the right, and then he plays with the crutch).
From time to time, Marcus reaches inside his clothes and pulls the eagle pendant out. He brings it to his lips and kisses it, whispers to it with his eyes closed. Esca doesn’t ask about it.
There are nights when Marcus murmurs his prayers with the eagle at his lips. Esca thinks of his own gods and his tribe, and pretends to be already asleep.
Marcus seems still reluctant to borrow Esca’s shoulder and legs to walk, as if that were something shameful but he has no other choice. A few steps are enough to make Marcus grimace. His face flushes red with anger and pain, and he has to sit down.
“It’s too soon,” says Esca, “the healer said you must still rest.”
Marcus clenches his teeth with more force and in vain tries to stand again.
It gets better with time, and once Marcus can walk with the aid of a stick, he sends Esca to the slave quarters with Stephanos for the night. During the day he still leans on Esca, but at nights they are apart.
Esca can’t sleep.
A change of habit is strange, though he is not sorry to see the Roman less.
Still, they let Esca sleep longer than a slave is used to, and he doesn’t have many chores. He tends to the horses, helps in the kitchen sometimes, and runs on errands only rarely; his main and most important chore is and has always been Marcus.
It’s unusual having nothing to do for hours at a time. Hate for Romans or no, Esca has grown used to watching over Marcus to predict his needs. It’s what Esca has sworn to do, after all. Nothing and no one should make him break his word.
Thus Esca ends up sitting in front of Marcus’ room at night.
Inside, Marcus trains his legs alone. He drags himself across the room, and Esca can imagine how the wounded leg refuses to follow, and how Marcus’ lower jaw shakes with pain.
The sound of wood against the floor repeats between Marcus’ pained grunts, tac-tac, a longer pause and tac again, and Marcus curses, sits on the bed, and throws the stick away. After a while the sounds repeat.
Esca leans on the wall and dozes off, still mindful of every noise. Only if Marcus will fall or cry for him, Esca will rush inside.
Once Marcus is sleeping, Esca returns to his quarters, wondering if he will ever repay his debt and be free, or if he will be forced to follow this Roman forever.
It becomes a habit.
At times Esca overstays and hears Marcus speak in his sleep. It sounds as though Marcus were battling against someone in his dreams. A word or two are discernible, and Esca ponders if he should go in and wake Marcus, but then decides against it each time.
Marcus’ uncle stops in front of Esca one night and glances at the door of Marcus’ room. When Esca gets up, expecting orders or questions, the uncle merely nods and leaves.
And Esca sits down again, feeling his cheeks burn as if the uncle’s nod and raised eyebrow had humiliated him somehow. He doesn’t go to bed at the usual time; long after Marcus has fallen asleep, Esca remains there, driven by a strange stubbornness and anger. He has sworn an oath of honor.
He wakes in the dark at Marcus’ voice, listens, and makes to stand. Then his body slumps back at the recognition.
Marcus hasn’t fallen during night training, and neither is he having nightmares.
It crosses Esca’s mind that perhaps Marcus wouldn’t want him to hear, that perhaps Marcus thinks Esca has returned to the slave quarters. Despite that, Esca’s body remains there as frozen.
He waits until Marcus’ voice quiets, until Marcus’ breaths lose that heated rhythm, and until the rustling of the sheets subsides. He waits until he remembers the floor below him is cold and the wall behind him uncomfortable. Then he slinks away.
The next day Esca helps Marcus wash and dress as every other morning. There is no reason to behave any differently, as he has told himself, and as a slave he’s supposed to keep his gaze down.
The wound on Marcus’ leg is almost healed, he notices. The scab is large, and the tissue around is scarred and ugly, but it’s healing well. It hasn’t reopened or emanated that unpleasant smell since the surgery.
Then one day Marcus walks unaided.
“Esca, Esca,” he says, his voice laden with urgency.
Esca has already been watching Marcus’ way. Helping himself with the stick, Marcus rose from his usual resting spot in the garden, he lifted the stick in the air, and made a step. Of course Esca has seen.
Marcus makes another step and casts the stick aside. His feet move slowly, with a limp, like clumsy wooden trunks pushed forward.
“Marcus?” says Esca and wonders if this is the first time he has called the Roman by the name.
Marcus doesn’t say anything; his gaze darts from Esca to his own legs and back, his mouth opened halfway between laughter and disbelief.
One foot after the other.
He staggers at the end but manages to cross the distance alone. Then he grabs Esca’s extended arm to steady himself, almost crashing into Esca’s chest in the process, and he laughs. He laughs.
Esca can’t help but smile. Another thread between them is woven in against his wish.
“Uncle,” Marcus cries, “uncle!”
Marcus’ arm is wrapped around Esca’s shoulder, but there’s no embarrassment, only joy in it this time, and Esca feels no resentment when he locks his hand behind Marcus’ back to offer support.
“Uncle!” Marcus releases Esca to walk again.
Their gazes meet once more, when Esca catches Marcus’ elbow to help him stand, and he has to ask himself why he has to feel so joyous just because a Roman walks.
From there on, Esca can’t tell whether he has fallen into Marcus’ pace entirely, or if Marcus is slowly adapting to his. When they’re alone, he begins calling Marcus by name. Soon he takes the habit of speaking his mind and talking back to Marcus as well. It’s only about small, unimportant things, and always when they are alone, but Esca’s hate is lulled deeper into sleep each time Marcus listens to him.
They move in perfect unison, like horse and rider. Be it during the hunt, or in the villa, Esca can guess Marcus’ mind by the smallest of hints. The crease of Marcus’ brow, the shift of tension in his legs, the imperceptible change of inclination in his voice.
Like rider and horse they move, and if Esca is the horse, it doesn’t bother him greatly anymore, for he knows that his legs are hale and strong, while Marcus’ legs can barely sustain their own weight.