(no subject)
aging without mistake
gannicus (ft. melitta and oenomaus), gen, 1143 words
also @ ao3
Gannicus still has trouble thinking beyond the adrenaline, the press of death everywhere, that the arena offers. He focuses on the warm pulse and spray of blood, the sharpness of the blades he holds. It starts out as low-thrumming anger in his fingertips before it settles firmly in his shoulders.
It's not a means of forgetting but a reminder. Her last moments in his hands.
Dirt kicks up. Flurry of feet. There's a spear in the sand, mired with blood where it's been gripped. The tip of the sword slices cleanly across this mostly-dead fuck's collarbone, the slope of his shoulder, the flat of his back. His blood is currant-red.
Gannicus can't even see his face, obscured by latticed steel. Veins sit so close to the surface of his skin. The grip he's got on his own sword is all wrong. His strikes suffer. He can't dodge Gannicus's blows - thigh, knee, ankle.
He's too fucking stupid to take death when it's offered.
He falls to his knees and the chanting rises with his descent. It overwhelms his senses and ends thought. Gannicus doesn't know who's hosting these games. He doesn't care. He thrusts his sword deep into his hollow chest.
His body melts into the dust beneath it. Shouting squeezes out air. Gannicus is trapped there, trying to catch his breath on sun and sand. It used to feel like pure water, thin and clean. One more reason for tomorrow.
He only wants yesterday.
The wine, thick and awful, burns at the back of his throat. Her thighs are wet but he's too drunk to keep it up. Waste of coin.
Gannicus isn't stupid enough to pass out and fall asleep in brothels anymore. The smell makes him want to vomit, to tear the sick feeling out of his stomach with both hands. The taste of perfume and oil is forever on his tongue.
His definition of coward keeps changing, but it always manages to include himself.
He enters the arena at Capua, the walls outside the sands, and the first thing he notices is the coolness that the shade affords. He warms when he steps into the sun, squinting against its harshness.
The brand still feels too new. He doesn't know what brotherhood means.
It's claustrophobic. Romans are pressing in on top of him, on top of the sands. The smell of blood thick in the hot air. Sun winks off the steel, the two swords - dimachaerus, gladius - given to him.
(It hits him later that he was too fucking stupid to know what was happening, what each life and blow of the sword's hilt would lead to. Melitta choking on wine on the floor of his cell, at world's end.)
His thoughts swim with broken Celtic. He's far from home without a purpose, but he watches one crest out of a tangle of voices. Glory. Their Latin isn't sweet and rhythmic. Celtic is home and the water to be found there. Salt like a crust that protects his skin.
He's got nothing now. He plunges the length of his sword through this other fuck's neck - Celt, Gaul, doesn't matter - and it's surprising how easy it is. Nothing exists except this action.
Bringer of fucking death. He can embrace that purpose.
She looks like Melitta. It isn't conscious, just instinct. Dark hair, skin radiating gold - her face is half-hidden by shadow and candlelight. Coin's laid out on the table beside them. Gannicus buries his face in the neck of this girl, so soft and oiled. The skin of her palms is rough and calloused.
Melitta's were damp and betrayed nervousness and guilt. He thinks, sometimes, that he carries that sweat still cupped around his shoulderblades. She is folded into his flesh.
Her hands move down to his hips, gripping even though he needs guidance. Wine courses through him. He stays nestled next to the delicately-wired muscles of her neck. She's strong and alive. His thumb slips against her cheek in an attempt to steady himself. Grasps the cinch of her waist instead.
She didn't choose him. He comes, anyways.
Sprays of sand follow him. He fights for coin and forget-me-nots. He loses himself in the fluid movements of fighting and reading body language. His laughter fills the spaces where nerves and adrenaline should be, where they used to be. He hasn't been scared to die for a long time.
His rudis shifts against his hipbone, presses long trails of Latin into his skin. It was reckless, giving him that much freedom. It was always too much. Reckless is steel and executing this gladiator with both blades moving at cross-purposes at the base of his throat. It's acting without thought and leaving this fuck, headless, on his knees before him.
He used to be, though. The sea would take men and return only their bones. Luring. Being taken from his home wasn't something he heard in his father's stories. His grasp broken from his mother's by a Roman, all red and steel. His tongue was foreign and unwelcome. Her mouth a quiet line, eyes tear-lined.
Father's dead. Mother's dead.
He never learned to fight murmillo or hoplomachus. He has no defences, just the means to attack. He didn't even know where to start with Melitta - her voice, her demeanour, her limp body in his arms as he carried her to the villa. Death is not a man to see fall.
Her body filled the air with smoke and ash. Fire's light held by Oenomaus. It dimmed at Gannicus's touch.
It fears him now.
"Gladiators of the fallen House of Batiatus. Followers of Spartacus," Mercato says.
His head is too split for this. Drank cup after cup of honeyed wine (no bitterness to stop him) last night - all that was left in the brothel. Either way, Mercato's words reform themselves as brothers and he's saying yes before they've even spoken of coin. He's light and he's played executioner before to nameless men.
They are brothers, unnamed.
Men with his freedom have no brothers.
His breath catches in his throat when he sees Oenomaus across the sands. Shackled. The scars extending out from his sternum are wholly visible and Gannicus remembers Melitta's red-rimmed eyes and endless whispered prayers. The joy in her face when Oenomaus's fever broke almost stopped his heart completely.
He'd never seen love like that before. He hasn't since. His mother's face the palest of shadows and it pulls at the very corners of his mind. Her hand cupped his small face. Be strong. It was the last time he heard Celtic that wasn't his own.
Gannicus has never been deserving of love, but behind the hurt and fight in Oenomaus's eyes, he can see its dull shine. Before he raises his blade, the soft glint of Melitta is there. She lives within him.
He breathes deeply and the anger stills itself.
Actions
gannicus (ft. melitta and oenomaus), gen, 1143 words
also @ ao3
Gannicus still has trouble thinking beyond the adrenaline, the press of death everywhere, that the arena offers. He focuses on the warm pulse and spray of blood, the sharpness of the blades he holds. It starts out as low-thrumming anger in his fingertips before it settles firmly in his shoulders.
It's not a means of forgetting but a reminder. Her last moments in his hands.
Dirt kicks up. Flurry of feet. There's a spear in the sand, mired with blood where it's been gripped. The tip of the sword slices cleanly across this mostly-dead fuck's collarbone, the slope of his shoulder, the flat of his back. His blood is currant-red.
Gannicus can't even see his face, obscured by latticed steel. Veins sit so close to the surface of his skin. The grip he's got on his own sword is all wrong. His strikes suffer. He can't dodge Gannicus's blows - thigh, knee, ankle.
He's too fucking stupid to take death when it's offered.
He falls to his knees and the chanting rises with his descent. It overwhelms his senses and ends thought. Gannicus doesn't know who's hosting these games. He doesn't care. He thrusts his sword deep into his hollow chest.
His body melts into the dust beneath it. Shouting squeezes out air. Gannicus is trapped there, trying to catch his breath on sun and sand. It used to feel like pure water, thin and clean. One more reason for tomorrow.
He only wants yesterday.
The wine, thick and awful, burns at the back of his throat. Her thighs are wet but he's too drunk to keep it up. Waste of coin.
Gannicus isn't stupid enough to pass out and fall asleep in brothels anymore. The smell makes him want to vomit, to tear the sick feeling out of his stomach with both hands. The taste of perfume and oil is forever on his tongue.
His definition of coward keeps changing, but it always manages to include himself.
He enters the arena at Capua, the walls outside the sands, and the first thing he notices is the coolness that the shade affords. He warms when he steps into the sun, squinting against its harshness.
The brand still feels too new. He doesn't know what brotherhood means.
It's claustrophobic. Romans are pressing in on top of him, on top of the sands. The smell of blood thick in the hot air. Sun winks off the steel, the two swords - dimachaerus, gladius - given to him.
(It hits him later that he was too fucking stupid to know what was happening, what each life and blow of the sword's hilt would lead to. Melitta choking on wine on the floor of his cell, at world's end.)
His thoughts swim with broken Celtic. He's far from home without a purpose, but he watches one crest out of a tangle of voices. Glory. Their Latin isn't sweet and rhythmic. Celtic is home and the water to be found there. Salt like a crust that protects his skin.
He's got nothing now. He plunges the length of his sword through this other fuck's neck - Celt, Gaul, doesn't matter - and it's surprising how easy it is. Nothing exists except this action.
Bringer of fucking death. He can embrace that purpose.
She looks like Melitta. It isn't conscious, just instinct. Dark hair, skin radiating gold - her face is half-hidden by shadow and candlelight. Coin's laid out on the table beside them. Gannicus buries his face in the neck of this girl, so soft and oiled. The skin of her palms is rough and calloused.
Melitta's were damp and betrayed nervousness and guilt. He thinks, sometimes, that he carries that sweat still cupped around his shoulderblades. She is folded into his flesh.
Her hands move down to his hips, gripping even though he needs guidance. Wine courses through him. He stays nestled next to the delicately-wired muscles of her neck. She's strong and alive. His thumb slips against her cheek in an attempt to steady himself. Grasps the cinch of her waist instead.
She didn't choose him. He comes, anyways.
Sprays of sand follow him. He fights for coin and forget-me-nots. He loses himself in the fluid movements of fighting and reading body language. His laughter fills the spaces where nerves and adrenaline should be, where they used to be. He hasn't been scared to die for a long time.
His rudis shifts against his hipbone, presses long trails of Latin into his skin. It was reckless, giving him that much freedom. It was always too much. Reckless is steel and executing this gladiator with both blades moving at cross-purposes at the base of his throat. It's acting without thought and leaving this fuck, headless, on his knees before him.
He used to be, though. The sea would take men and return only their bones. Luring. Being taken from his home wasn't something he heard in his father's stories. His grasp broken from his mother's by a Roman, all red and steel. His tongue was foreign and unwelcome. Her mouth a quiet line, eyes tear-lined.
Father's dead. Mother's dead.
He never learned to fight murmillo or hoplomachus. He has no defences, just the means to attack. He didn't even know where to start with Melitta - her voice, her demeanour, her limp body in his arms as he carried her to the villa. Death is not a man to see fall.
Her body filled the air with smoke and ash. Fire's light held by Oenomaus. It dimmed at Gannicus's touch.
It fears him now.
"Gladiators of the fallen House of Batiatus. Followers of Spartacus," Mercato says.
His head is too split for this. Drank cup after cup of honeyed wine (no bitterness to stop him) last night - all that was left in the brothel. Either way, Mercato's words reform themselves as brothers and he's saying yes before they've even spoken of coin. He's light and he's played executioner before to nameless men.
They are brothers, unnamed.
Men with his freedom have no brothers.
His breath catches in his throat when he sees Oenomaus across the sands. Shackled. The scars extending out from his sternum are wholly visible and Gannicus remembers Melitta's red-rimmed eyes and endless whispered prayers. The joy in her face when Oenomaus's fever broke almost stopped his heart completely.
He'd never seen love like that before. He hasn't since. His mother's face the palest of shadows and it pulls at the very corners of his mind. Her hand cupped his small face. Be strong. It was the last time he heard Celtic that wasn't his own.
Gannicus has never been deserving of love, but behind the hurt and fight in Oenomaus's eyes, he can see its dull shine. Before he raises his blade, the soft glint of Melitta is there. She lives within him.
He breathes deeply and the anger stills itself.
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