Fire and Water
Title: Fire and Water
Author: ink_n_imp
Person the story was written for: theillusionist
Rating: PG
Summary: Truth is shared in the aftermath of an arena game.
Author's Notes: There was so much more gladiator information I wanted to use in this as it inspired me so, but I had to cut A LOT due to the deadline creeping up on me like a goddamn ninja. I hope you enjoy these even though this story is far weaker in my opinion that I would have liked.
Through a haze of unconscious discomfort, Alexander replayed his victory in his mind's eye--it had been close. The nagas, mad from hungry and mistreatment, had been nearly too fast for him. Through his heavy helmet he had had trouble keeping his eyes on them. With his heavy armor and shield it was a struggle to move as fast as they. His arm spasmed at the memory of their powerful tails whipping him in the back, bringing him to his knees as the crowd roared in displeasure. But high on the adrenaline of the moment, he had fought through that pain, had risen quickly to his feet again, and attacked with his sword. One of the nagas fell. The another striked, biting his unprotected arm.
In the safety of near unconsciousness, he brought his hand to his closed eyes, and grimaced. It had been close. But he had walked out of the arena the victor. The crowd cheered him in their bloodlust at a close match well played. After all, no self respecting crowd who watched the gladiatorial games wanted a fight to be easy. The crowd loved a close call. They loved a near death. They loved the brief flirtation with failure, and the sudden rise to success. They loved uneven odds, and brute strength fighting a quick cunning. He was a gladiator, and he knew how to deliver those things--though today had been more from mistake than planning.
Yes, it had been close.
"Awake yet?" a brusque, familiar voice asked, neither relief or disappointment to be found in the man's tone--only surliness. The voice drew Alexander out of his half-dream.
He opened his eyes to find he was in a barrack cell, the signs of a doctor's visit apparent by the dressing on his shoulder to the incense burning by the window to ward off pestilence. And Nikomedes was at the doorway, his usual glower even deeper, as it was whenever he was particularly worried.
"How are you feeling?" Nikomedes asked as he entered the cell. He was carrying a bowl in his hands, and a cloth over his arm. A spoon handle could be seen protruding from the earthenware bowl.
"I'm fine," Alexander assured him, his voice still coarse from disuse. He spoke the truth--as long as he didn't move his arm or back, the pain was manageable. He had suffered far worse in the arena; this was only a temporary pain, the toll of a fierce fight before an adoring and bloodthirsty public. It was a just reminder of his own mortality, of his age, of his limitations as a rudiarius, a free gladiator.
Nikomedes sat on the edge of his cot, and sighed in his dramatically fake discontent. "Pity, I was hoping you'd be injured enough this time to have finally learned your lesson," Nikomedes scowled. "Instead you just get to lie there as I bring you your after battle gruel. Lovely."
"I knew you cared," Alexander grinned wanly, as he tried to shift to a more comfortable position. He paused, grimacing at the pain, but it soon ebbed back to a mere throb, easily ignored. Nikomedes' lips thinned to a white line.
"I suppose I'll have to spoon feed you too," Nikomedes said, eyeing his bandaged arm.
"Now that I can do on my--"
"Please, let me, I live to serve, after all," Nikomedes drawled as he put the soup down to help Alexander sit up.
Once he was settled into something that resembled comfort, he laid there without protest as Nikomedes brought the hot gruel to his lips, spoonful by spoonful. It was a comfort in and of itself, to be so cared for by someone who seemed to care for no one.
That what was so strange about the two of them after all, wasn't it? He had signed an gladiatorial indenture as a teen, the prospect of injury and wealth more appealing than certain poverty. He had trained as a secutor, the strongest, best armed gladiator class of the arena. He had been a natural at it; his father had always referred to him as an ox of a child, and his brute strength had been useful in his training and in the arena.
Until--
"I know it's considered effeminate to run from one's attackers, but I've had a long chat with myself and we've agreed that survival is always the better outcome. Then again, I'm only a retiarius; I couldn't be considered more emasculated without actually castration," Nikomedes was complaining, and it promised to be one of his better tirades.
Nikomedes had far too much intelligence to be wasted on the arena. He had been a scholar in Greece; a tutor, mathematician, and physician. He had a way with numbers that had boggled the manager, and had in a month caulked up the holes in the accounts faster than a sailor could have done on a ship's hull. But slavery did not sit well with the free-thinking Greek, and his sharp tongue had angered the gladiatorial manager once too often--as a slave, a beating should have sufficed, but the manager had wanted to emasculate the intellectual instead. And so, he dressed him in the cloth of the ridiculed retairius class of fighters, and had thrown him--figuratively--to the lions.
When Nikomedes had proceeded to run circles around two of the best secutors in the training school, humiliating them in turn with his quick wit and handy use of the nets given to him as his only defense, the manager had seen the gold mine instead.
He was one of the most crowd's most popular fighters--they had fallen for the quickness of his mind and moves.
Alexander had to agree. He had been one of the secutors that fought him, after all.
"But no, you just had to fight those beasts, just had to take three on at once! There was so much of your blood on the ground they ran out of sand trying to soak it all up!"
"Hyperbolist," Alexander protested between spoonfuls.
A spoonful of hot gruel was the retort.
"Your friendship is the only thing I have in this world. My friendship with you is the only free act I have as a slave," Nikomedes said, his color rising on the apples of his cheeks as his lips grew thin. "If you find that friendship so distasteful, please, just tell me. You’re a free man, you don't have to hang around here, you know, you don't have to go and save my feelings by getting yourself killed out there!"
It was an old joke between them, but in this moment, it struck Alexander deep, hurt more than the wounds on his arm and back.
"I do it for you," he blurted out, and oh, it was the entirely wrong thing to say to Nikomedes, and at the entirely wrong time, but it was the truth.
"Come again?" Nikomedes asked finally, and there was a low growl to his voice, a cool reason to it that promised ill.
"You're too valuable," he began, and he babbled on as Nikomedes narrowed his eyes. "You'd never be able to buy your freedom, you're too valuable to Flavian. Believe me--I asked him your price," he confessed, daring to look Nikomedes in the eye.
There was a stillness to Nikomedes that was disconcerting. To fill the silence, he talked on.
"Two more fights. Two more prizes, and I'll have enough. I'll be able to buy your freedom, and we leave here together," he explained, and the master plan years in the making was unfurled before the one person who could ruin it all if he objected. All he had to say was--
"Why?" he asked instead.
Finding himself flat footed by his question, he stumbled. "You are the water to my fire," he confessed, and how strange the words felt as they fell from his lips, but still the truth. "I could not live without you."
"You’re an idiot. Fire is destroyed by water, and vice versa. Think about the nonsense coming out of your mouth before you say it," Nikomedes snapped as he grabbed for the bowl and rag.
Though it caused him pain, Alexander reached for him; Nikomedes stilled at the hand on his forearm. "Don't you see--you create borders within which I can burn safely. I dare not cross you," he said, daring to tease him just a little.
"And you make me boiling mad," Nikomedes retorted, but he paused at his own words.
They sat in silence for what felt like too long--the move was Nikomedes' now.
He rose stiffly from his seat, bowl and rag in his hands. A strange emotion crossed his features.
"I'm scheduled to fight two Gauls in the next games," he said, picking a piece of imaginary dust from the rag. "And you're fighting a Macedonian, if I'm not mistaken."
"Good money in that fight, the Macedonian's the crowd's favorite," Alexander lightly noted.
"If you die, I shall never forgive you," Nikomedes said, his back stiffening as he glared. "I can't abide having hopes dashed on the rocks like in some idiotic myth."
"Well, neither can I, so no dying on your part either," Alexander demanded.
Nikomedes hrumphed, but there was a ghost of a smile on his thin, Greek face. "Two more fights? That's at least a month. I'll be beside myself in impatience, my temper will be positively foul, and it's all your fault. You owe me for this!" he threatened.
"With pleasure."
And he meant it wholeheartedly.
Author: ink_n_imp
Person the story was written for: theillusionist
Rating: PG
Summary: Truth is shared in the aftermath of an arena game.
Author's Notes: There was so much more gladiator information I wanted to use in this as it inspired me so, but I had to cut A LOT due to the deadline creeping up on me like a goddamn ninja. I hope you enjoy these even though this story is far weaker in my opinion that I would have liked.
Through a haze of unconscious discomfort, Alexander replayed his victory in his mind's eye--it had been close. The nagas, mad from hungry and mistreatment, had been nearly too fast for him. Through his heavy helmet he had had trouble keeping his eyes on them. With his heavy armor and shield it was a struggle to move as fast as they. His arm spasmed at the memory of their powerful tails whipping him in the back, bringing him to his knees as the crowd roared in displeasure. But high on the adrenaline of the moment, he had fought through that pain, had risen quickly to his feet again, and attacked with his sword. One of the nagas fell. The another striked, biting his unprotected arm.
In the safety of near unconsciousness, he brought his hand to his closed eyes, and grimaced. It had been close. But he had walked out of the arena the victor. The crowd cheered him in their bloodlust at a close match well played. After all, no self respecting crowd who watched the gladiatorial games wanted a fight to be easy. The crowd loved a close call. They loved a near death. They loved the brief flirtation with failure, and the sudden rise to success. They loved uneven odds, and brute strength fighting a quick cunning. He was a gladiator, and he knew how to deliver those things--though today had been more from mistake than planning.
Yes, it had been close.
"Awake yet?" a brusque, familiar voice asked, neither relief or disappointment to be found in the man's tone--only surliness. The voice drew Alexander out of his half-dream.
He opened his eyes to find he was in a barrack cell, the signs of a doctor's visit apparent by the dressing on his shoulder to the incense burning by the window to ward off pestilence. And Nikomedes was at the doorway, his usual glower even deeper, as it was whenever he was particularly worried.
"How are you feeling?" Nikomedes asked as he entered the cell. He was carrying a bowl in his hands, and a cloth over his arm. A spoon handle could be seen protruding from the earthenware bowl.
"I'm fine," Alexander assured him, his voice still coarse from disuse. He spoke the truth--as long as he didn't move his arm or back, the pain was manageable. He had suffered far worse in the arena; this was only a temporary pain, the toll of a fierce fight before an adoring and bloodthirsty public. It was a just reminder of his own mortality, of his age, of his limitations as a rudiarius, a free gladiator.
Nikomedes sat on the edge of his cot, and sighed in his dramatically fake discontent. "Pity, I was hoping you'd be injured enough this time to have finally learned your lesson," Nikomedes scowled. "Instead you just get to lie there as I bring you your after battle gruel. Lovely."
"I knew you cared," Alexander grinned wanly, as he tried to shift to a more comfortable position. He paused, grimacing at the pain, but it soon ebbed back to a mere throb, easily ignored. Nikomedes' lips thinned to a white line.
"I suppose I'll have to spoon feed you too," Nikomedes said, eyeing his bandaged arm.
"Now that I can do on my--"
"Please, let me, I live to serve, after all," Nikomedes drawled as he put the soup down to help Alexander sit up.
Once he was settled into something that resembled comfort, he laid there without protest as Nikomedes brought the hot gruel to his lips, spoonful by spoonful. It was a comfort in and of itself, to be so cared for by someone who seemed to care for no one.
That what was so strange about the two of them after all, wasn't it? He had signed an gladiatorial indenture as a teen, the prospect of injury and wealth more appealing than certain poverty. He had trained as a secutor, the strongest, best armed gladiator class of the arena. He had been a natural at it; his father had always referred to him as an ox of a child, and his brute strength had been useful in his training and in the arena.
Until--
"I know it's considered effeminate to run from one's attackers, but I've had a long chat with myself and we've agreed that survival is always the better outcome. Then again, I'm only a retiarius; I couldn't be considered more emasculated without actually castration," Nikomedes was complaining, and it promised to be one of his better tirades.
Nikomedes had far too much intelligence to be wasted on the arena. He had been a scholar in Greece; a tutor, mathematician, and physician. He had a way with numbers that had boggled the manager, and had in a month caulked up the holes in the accounts faster than a sailor could have done on a ship's hull. But slavery did not sit well with the free-thinking Greek, and his sharp tongue had angered the gladiatorial manager once too often--as a slave, a beating should have sufficed, but the manager had wanted to emasculate the intellectual instead. And so, he dressed him in the cloth of the ridiculed retairius class of fighters, and had thrown him--figuratively--to the lions.
When Nikomedes had proceeded to run circles around two of the best secutors in the training school, humiliating them in turn with his quick wit and handy use of the nets given to him as his only defense, the manager had seen the gold mine instead.
He was one of the most crowd's most popular fighters--they had fallen for the quickness of his mind and moves.
Alexander had to agree. He had been one of the secutors that fought him, after all.
"But no, you just had to fight those beasts, just had to take three on at once! There was so much of your blood on the ground they ran out of sand trying to soak it all up!"
"Hyperbolist," Alexander protested between spoonfuls.
A spoonful of hot gruel was the retort.
"Your friendship is the only thing I have in this world. My friendship with you is the only free act I have as a slave," Nikomedes said, his color rising on the apples of his cheeks as his lips grew thin. "If you find that friendship so distasteful, please, just tell me. You’re a free man, you don't have to hang around here, you know, you don't have to go and save my feelings by getting yourself killed out there!"
It was an old joke between them, but in this moment, it struck Alexander deep, hurt more than the wounds on his arm and back.
"I do it for you," he blurted out, and oh, it was the entirely wrong thing to say to Nikomedes, and at the entirely wrong time, but it was the truth.
"Come again?" Nikomedes asked finally, and there was a low growl to his voice, a cool reason to it that promised ill.
"You're too valuable," he began, and he babbled on as Nikomedes narrowed his eyes. "You'd never be able to buy your freedom, you're too valuable to Flavian. Believe me--I asked him your price," he confessed, daring to look Nikomedes in the eye.
There was a stillness to Nikomedes that was disconcerting. To fill the silence, he talked on.
"Two more fights. Two more prizes, and I'll have enough. I'll be able to buy your freedom, and we leave here together," he explained, and the master plan years in the making was unfurled before the one person who could ruin it all if he objected. All he had to say was--
"Why?" he asked instead.
Finding himself flat footed by his question, he stumbled. "You are the water to my fire," he confessed, and how strange the words felt as they fell from his lips, but still the truth. "I could not live without you."
"You’re an idiot. Fire is destroyed by water, and vice versa. Think about the nonsense coming out of your mouth before you say it," Nikomedes snapped as he grabbed for the bowl and rag.
Though it caused him pain, Alexander reached for him; Nikomedes stilled at the hand on his forearm. "Don't you see--you create borders within which I can burn safely. I dare not cross you," he said, daring to tease him just a little.
"And you make me boiling mad," Nikomedes retorted, but he paused at his own words.
They sat in silence for what felt like too long--the move was Nikomedes' now.
He rose stiffly from his seat, bowl and rag in his hands. A strange emotion crossed his features.
"I'm scheduled to fight two Gauls in the next games," he said, picking a piece of imaginary dust from the rag. "And you're fighting a Macedonian, if I'm not mistaken."
"Good money in that fight, the Macedonian's the crowd's favorite," Alexander lightly noted.
"If you die, I shall never forgive you," Nikomedes said, his back stiffening as he glared. "I can't abide having hopes dashed on the rocks like in some idiotic myth."
"Well, neither can I, so no dying on your part either," Alexander demanded.
Nikomedes hrumphed, but there was a ghost of a smile on his thin, Greek face. "Two more fights? That's at least a month. I'll be beside myself in impatience, my temper will be positively foul, and it's all your fault. You owe me for this!" he threatened.
"With pleasure."
And he meant it wholeheartedly.