Fic: Ten Thousand Paces (The Eagle, Marcus/Esca)
Ten Thousand Paces
The Eagle, Marcus/Esca, adult, 6,440 words - mostly movie canon, though I borrowed a couple things from the book, and tweaked some details.
Summary: Marcus wants Esca to be truly free, no matter what the cost may be for Marcus.
Notes: Many thanks to misspamela for a wonderful beta, and for enticing me into this fandom in the first place. It's all her fault.
Ten Thousand Paces
by Destina
Winter in Calleva was not so cold as the one Marcus and Esca had passed north of the Wall, but the sharp bite of frost still nipped at Marcus in ways the warm southern climate never had. They wintered at Uncle Aquila's villa, in the same sleeping quarters Marcus had occupied before they began their quest, but now Esca slept and ate beside him as a freeman. His nearness was a comfort to Marcus on the worst nights, when the fire seemed to glow white and give no warmth at all.
If Esca shifted closer on those nights, and if their arms touched as they sat by the fire seeing to their tasks, Marcus pretended not to notice. He tried not to examine too closely the strange sense of longing in his heart. Best not to dwell on things that could not be easily managed, where Esca was concerned; Esca's happiness was more important than any errant desires Marcus harbored. He tucked them away, content to be with Esca, the world before them for the taking.
In the chilly nights, Marcus sometimes dreamed he was back in that northern land with the cold frost-kissed ground beneath him, and his life's blood draining from him in the country of the Seal People. It had seemed then that he should never be warm again, and he sometimes woke to find Esca's hand on his arm in silence, fingers curled around his wrist as if to pull him back to the pile of furs and skins under which he slept, and away from those times which burned hot and strange in the back of his mind. Always, Esca's touch would withdraw in the darkness, having assured him Esca was there.
One evening Marcus woke shivering from a sound sleep, his skin prickled with gooseflesh, and looked to Esca's pallet, only to find it empty. He knew where Esca had gone; it was always the same. When he went to the door and stepped onto the terrace, he could see Esca's still form, small against the elements which battered him. Clad only in a cloak, wind-whipped, Esca stood against the weather like immovable stone. Looking at him, Marcus had a glimpse of what Esca had been before, when Marcus had not even imagined him to exist.
It came upon him, watching Esca stand as a mountain against the howling wind, that he did not know what Esca's future was to have been in the times before his capture, before he had been made a slave. He had never asked of Esca's place in the tribe, if he was to be what his father had been before him, or if one of his brothers would have that honor. Was he to marry? Would he have taken a woman, begun his own tribe? Marcus was ignorant of all the customs of the northern tribes, even after so much time spent among them with Esca at his side.
He could so easily imagine Esca as a chieftain, strong and proud and handsome, leading his people in battle. He had seen Esca fight, seen him kill; he wondered how he could be content, now, making idle chatter with Marcus by their shared fire, or mending broken harnesses and feeding apples to the horses at dusk in Aquila's stables.
He stood, and looked at Esca, and wondered.
Esca would never know the pleasures of hearth and family among his own people, and Marcus for his part could not ever ask him what his dreams of the future once were. Esca would not forget what he had lost, any more than Marcus could stop dreaming of battle, but Marcus would not ever knowingly be the cause of making Esca remember, and causing yet more pain.
It was not his to ask, even if he knew Esca would tell him. Some things were not meant to be shared, even between men who had shared so much else.
As if Esca felt eyes upon him, he turned. Though Marcus could not see his face, he was sure Esca knew him there, and the thought sent an unexpected shiver down his spine. Esca always seemed to know where he was, just as Marcus was now always aware when Esca was not in his presence; it had been so with them almost from the very beginning, but more so since their return from beyond the Wall.
If Marcus was honest, he would admit that truly, he wanted Esca to find him, even in the dark, when none other could see him. This was the nature of what they were to each other; this was why Marcus was troubled to see him so captured by the past.
Slowly, Esca made his way back to the terrace, to the confines of what might be called Rome's outpost, for wherever her soldiers were - past or present - Rome was, as well. Marcus could never deny it; he was Rome's, would always be Rome's, even if she no longer had a useful purpose for him. At the doorway, he stopped, elbow to elbow with Marcus, not speaking. The warmth of him bled into Marcus, filling all the chilled places, and then Esca said, "Come in to bed; you are not suited to the weather."
True it was, and yet Marcus bristled to be called out as something Esca was, and he was not. But Esca's fingers brushed against his own, and then Esca was shedding his clothing, cloak and tunic, sandals, until he was no longer a strange wild thing -- he was just Esca, disappearing into his bedding, only a shock of sandy hair above the furs he slept in.
That night, Marcus did not sleep. He lay in the darkness, listening to Esca's soft, even breathing so near, and thought about the way he had stood in the shadows, embracing the wind. It occurred to him then that perhaps Esca faced the wind because it was something of home; perhaps it was in his heart that he should find his own way, with his people, or somewhere else. Somewhere Marcus could not follow.
The thought gave him pain, and Marcus caught his breath. He knew Esca stayed of his own accord, but there were many reasons a man might stay in a foreign place, and Esca was prey to all of them; duty, obligation, the ties of friendship. Perhaps he did not regard all debts as paid. Perhaps...perhaps he thought Marcus needed him. The idea of it did not sit well with Marcus. Esca should not stay, if what he most wanted was to truly be free. But there was no way to ask it of him; Esca would only set his jaw in that obstinate way of his, and refuse to discuss Marcus' foolish Roman notions.
Marcus had tried to speak of such things before; this was how he knew.
He stared into the darkness, and slowly, a plan took shape, one that would come at a high cost. But he had endured pain before, and for reasons much less dear to his heart.
If Esca wanted to wander, Marcus would not have him tied to a man so wounded he could not make his own way. He would release those ties, and see what would come of it. Esca must be truly free; there was no other way.
**
On the morrow, the lie came easily to him, but was heavy on his heart, once the words were set forth. "Uncle has asked me to see to his business in town," he said, "for he is not as agile as he used to be."
Esca fixed him with a direct stare, so narrow and piercing Marcus was sure it could penetrate down to his very heart. "He seems as robust to me as the first day I saw him."
"Even so," Marcus said, not looking at Esca, for his friend had a way of knowing all things, even the things Marcus most wanted to keep from him. There were so few secrets Marcus had managed to hide; this was one he must try to bury deep.
"As you say." Esca rose and took up his bow. "The hunting will not keep; the boar are plentiful as they move to winter ground."
"I will come with you, next time," Marcus promised. "You know I am loath to miss a hunt."
Esca nodded, the sharp suspicion still in his eyes. "I will return tomorrow by nightfall," he said, gathering his quiver and the pouch in which all Sassticca's provisions had been secured.
"Good hunting," Marcus said, smiling, though the thin line of Esca's mouth told him the smile was not well-received.
When he was sure Esca was well and truly gone, he dug into his much-traveled kit and brought out the old sandals, well-worn and broken in over a million paces with his legion. They had served him well, and he found that they still fit him, eager to mold to his foot as though ready for service once again. He flexed his toes, and dug his fingertips into his sore thigh muscle, willing it to cooperate.
It was time.
Golden fields stretched out in all directions from Aquila's villa, their color dulled by the cold breath of winter. He considered the road, and the field; he was less likely to be seen in the fields, and questioned as to his purpose.
So it was there, at the edge of the road, he limped into the grass and set his teeth, and began to count paces. Two steps, one pace; forward, always forward, as it had once been second nature to him.
He could remember marching quick-step with his legion, 15,000 paces in a day if they were feeling lazy, and yet enough energy to make camp and sing bawdy songs at end of day. He had been free, then, free and young and careless with his appreciation of the gifts of health and life, and now he understood what he had taken for granted.
Below him, his leg cramped, barely 50 paces on, and he panted shallow through his teeth but kept on. He had known pain; he had learned to live with it, work through it. He could keep on.
100 paces, and the field stretched out endless before and behind him. A fire burned at his thigh, its hot tendrils striking out toward his knee, and suddenly his leg gave way, tumbling him into the high grass. He let out a cry and pitched forward, landing on the harsh dead grass, his shame hidden by its height. His hands formed themselves around his thigh, as if to mend it, forging the shattered bits together.
120 paces, and he had fallen to disgrace.
The pain was unbearable, and yet he would bear it. Tomorrow, he would step to the edge of the field, and he would match that pace again. Hot tears wet his face; he paid them no mind, for they were just the aftermath of this small victory, and soon enough he would be strong again, and able.
The sun was high overhead before Marcus dared try to stand, and slinking toward the horizon before he felt ready to walk back to the road. He closed his eyes and pulled his leg along with him like the anchor of some moored ship, striving through sand toward open water.
He managed to make his way home by dusk, and fled to the baths, sitting in the hot water until his skin threatened to slough from his very bones. Weary, he wished for Esca, and then cursed his own weakness. Esca would be riding free under the moon, searching out the winter kill; he would be smiling, triumphant and proud. Marcus wished with all his heart he was there to see it, to stand beside Esca, shoulder to shoulder, as he butchered the kill and brought it home.
Their home. It was a thing Marcus had considered, but he allowed himself to consider it no longer. All his energies must go to one thing, now.
**
The next day was infinitely worse. He managed 100 paces, but it was agony in every step, and his leg dragged along in the dust like a dead thing yet attached to its living host. Still, he did not stop, for it was not in his nature. The field stretched long before him, and with single-minded need, he moved, forcing the leg to accept its punishment, and adapt.
When finally it rebelled and threw him like an angry colt, he rolled in the grass, half-grimacing, half-smiling. The pace was longer; nearly 300 this day, and he would have it increase each day. If only he could find the lies to tell Esca, to ensure his time would be free.
Esca returned from the hunt while Marcus was struggling out of the bath, which was unfortunate timing for all. "Ho, Marcus! The kill is plentiful!" Esca called, rounding the corner, as Marcus lifted his aching leg and stumbled onto the hard floor. In an instant Esca was beside him, saying not a word, although Marcus imagined him clucking like a bird. Marcus was not too proud to accept the towel offered to him, or to place his hand on Esca's shoulder as he made his way from the water's edge.
"What has happened? Shall I call for a healer?" Esca asked, on one knee beside the bench where Marcus had dropped heavily.
"I taxed the wound walking to the village today. It is nothing," Marcus said, though the breath had been stolen from his lungs.
"And it did not occur to you to take a horse," Esca muttered, his careful hands probing at things he had no business trying to mend.
Marcus gently pushed his hands away. "It is well," he said. "I was careless. The bath has restored me."
Esca made a snorting sound, but he stood, and merely looked at Marcus with a mixture of visceral concern and disapproval. Marcus sighed. "You were saying, about the kill?"
"I was," Esca said, still not done conveying his suspicion, but he said nothing more about Marcus' leg, which was a great relief. Instead, Esca turned away and stripped, leaving a pile of clothing on the ground. The suddenness of it took Marcus' breath away, even after so much time spent with Esca. They had never been shy around one another, but sometimes Marcus was caught off guard by Esca's complete lack of modesty.
He gave himself leave to look at Esca as he lowered himself into the bath, at the streaks of dirt crossing his shoulders, the scars on Esca's back, the lines of his tattoos sinking beneath the waters. It came to him suddenly that Esca's body was known to him in all ways, the slopes and curves of it, the hard lines of muscle, as familiar as if he had touched it, known it with his fingertips.
The bench beneath Marcus was solid, and he curled his hand around its edge, gripping tight. He should not consider Esca so. It was not proper. The boundaries were set; he could not touch, could not know him thus.
"Marcus?" Now Esca sounded worried. Marcus glanced up, and met Esca's direct, puzzled gaze. "You are far away."
"It is just the old pain," Marcus said, and it was more true than Esca could ever know.
**
Breakfast the next day was Sassticca's delicious bread, with cheese and wine, and Marcus agonized all through it -- not for his leg, which did not trouble him overmuch, but for how to send Esca from him. In the end, it was Uncle Aquila who saved him from yet another lie.
"Lucius Salica -- my neighbor to the north -- has need of someone to see to his ponies." Uncle dipped his bread into his cup, soaking it with wine, and brought it dripping to his lips. "I have told him that under my roof is one who has a sure hand with the horses, as good as ever I've seen. Esca, are you willing?"
"I will go," Esca said, with a look at Marcus, who found his plate of bread most interesting. "If Marcus has no need of me."
"No," Marcus said, smiling. "I will tend the kill, for it must be salted."
"True enough." Esca's tone was light, but there was more lurking beneath, and it sickened Marcus to think he was known as a liar.
He saw Esca to the stables, saw him on his horse, avoiding his eyes the entire time. "Your limp," Esca said. "It is pronounced today."
"Will you cease with your ministering?" Marcus said, not as exasperated as he pretended to be. Esca's mouth set into its familiar line of stubbornness, a sure sign he was ready to fight, so Marcus slapped the mare on her sleek shanks. "I am well. Be off with you."
Esca gave a curt nod and dug his heels into the horse's sides. Marcus watched him go, math of the hours at the forefront of his mind. He had enough time to help Stephanos salt the meat and begin to cure it, and still take his run before Esca returned.
The steps were not less painful, nor the field less an obstacle than before. The smallest hills seemed as mountains; the tiniest rocks more like walls. Still he pressed on, and passed 400 paces, at the end shuffling, with water streaming from his eyes like a boy who has scraped his knee and wishes nothing more than a soft word of kindness to set him to rights.
Upon his slow return to the villa, Esca waited for him on the low steps, and Marcus stopped in his tracks, his heart sinking. The expression on Esca's face was so placid and blank, Marcus could only guess at the turmoil beneath. Esca did not ask where Marcus had been, although surely Stephanos would have said the salting was done hours before. He said nothing; he only gestured, and Marcus moved closer, until he was within range of Esca's hands.
They sat together on the steps, and Esca bound his painful leg for warmth, bound it almost as he had when they were running desperately for their lives, the Eagle a trust between them. Still Esca did not ask, and Marcus thought he would burst with not telling him.
Esca ran his hand down Marcus' thigh, a gentle touch, almost regretful, and without a word, stood and went in to be about his business.
The night passed slowly for Marcus. Esca did not sit to dinner; he did not come in to bed, and the room was cold and empty without him. There was no idle talk by the fire, no laughter to ease the way into sleep.
This is what it will be like, thought Marcus, when Esca has gone his own way.
The thought left him hollow, as if grief had already carved out its place inside him.
**
There was no need to send Esca on a false errand, since he was nowhere to be found in the morning. Stephanos shrugged when Marcus asked after him, and Sassticca scowled at him in a most accusatory way, leaving Marcus to wonder what Esca had said, and where he had gone. But there was nothing to be done about it, and at least no lie was required.
He made his way out into the sunshine, chilly as it was, and into the tall grass of the far meadow. Soon enough he was shuffling along, slower than the previous days, careful of his aching leg. He closed his eyes and let the sun warm him, let himself slip back into memories of himself as a boy, flying down roads and hills, his legs strong and true beneath him.
Those legs were long gone, and a mere 300 paces into his shuffling run, Marcus stumbled and pitched forward, landing hard on the ground with a grunt. He struck at the ground with a closed fist and leaned forward over his leg, cursing it under his breath with all his might.
A shadow fell at his side, and he opened his eyes to see Esca standing over him. Esca's eyes were very bright, though the look on his face was severe. A lesser man might be frightened of such an expression, but Marcus had seen it many times, though not directed toward himself. That look on Esca's face sent a curious mixture of shame and desire through him, quicksilver and warm, and Marcus turned his hot face away.
"Where did you come from?" Marcus demanded. "I did not ask you to be here."
"I am Brigantes," Esca reminded him. "If I do not wish to be seen, then you shall not see me."
Marcus gave him an impatient look, but had no energy to spare for banter over an obvious truth; his thigh and every muscle connected to it were on fire, and he could barely think for the effort of breathing through the pain. Esca dropped to one knee and placed a firm hand behind Marcus' kneecap, pulling hard enough to evoke an involuntary hiss of pain.
The look Esca turned on him then was full of silent reproach, but Marcus bore it with gritted teeth, for he must not divulge his purpose.
"You will do damage, ere you are not careful. Damage no surgeon can undo." Esca stood, pulled Marcus to his feet with some effort, and without asking, moved Marcus' hand to his shoulder. "We will go together, wherever it is you must go. Or I will return and fetch the horses, and--"
"No," Marcus said, a little desperately, and under his hand, Esca went very still.
Around them, the wind stirred the grass, and they stood silent in the waning warm sunshine, the fields holding the quiet close, as if to share Marcus' secret. Esca turned, and Marcus turned with him, and together they began the walk back to the villa, one step at a time.
It was a long walk, or so it seemed to Marcus. Esca did not speak; nor did he complain at taking Marcus' weight more and more with each tortured step. There was no reproach in his bearing. He merely placed his arm around Marcus' waist, and lent his strength. Marcus was thrown back in memory to their desperate run north of the Wall, and Esca's fierce belief that Marcus could go on, no matter the cost.
Words came to him, excuses, but he abandoned them, left them in the dust of the road as they neared the villa.
It was not until they crossed the threshold, and Esca eased Marcus down upon his own cot, that Esca spoke. "You wish to return strength to this leg, do you not?"
Marcus looked at Esca, marveling that he ever thought of keeping secrets from him, and even at that moment, could not bear to confess all of it. "Yes," he said, offering no more.
"This is not the way," Esca said. He sat beside Marcus on the cot, his expression full of storms. "To build strength, you must train, as we did long ago, after the surgeon struck true into the wound."
"It is much to ask," Marcus said.
"It is not," Esca said softly. He rose from the cot. "Tomorrow, we will begin."
"Esca--" Marcus said, but Esca did not heed the call of his name. He poured a cup of wine, and brought it to Marcus, standing by until he was done. It was so much like those days when Esca had done his bidding, and nothing like it at all; Marcus was again at a loss, adrift in his own confusion.
"Tomorrow," he said, taking the cup. He set it down on the table, and with a last long look at Marcus, he turned to go.
Marcus longed to call him back, but instead he turned his face away, toward the shadows.
**
So it was that they matched pace, Esca and Marcus, in the days leading to spring. The first morning was as all the other days Marcus had toiled without Esca, but now Esca's steps beside him seemed to lighten the burden. In the afternoon, they sparred, Esca giving no quarter and sparing him nothing, and Marcus felt the old joy of using his body as it was capable of. Over the lengthening days, Esca walked with him, then trotted along beside him, and the pace stretched with their efforts -- 1000, then 2000. More every day, until finally Marcus and Esca ran down the long road to Calleva, side by side, grinning at one another as they stepped in unison through the dirt, over the stones, their feet thumping out a rhythm as familiar to Marcus as his own heartbeat.
Each night, Marcus' leg pained him, some more than others, and each night Esca was there with his warm hands and tired smiles, the strength in his touch enough to steer Marcus on to one more day, a hundred more paces. It was good to have him there; Marcus wondered that he had ever tried to accomplish it without Esca's quiet strength beside him.
The hollow place in his heart called out, sometimes, reminding him that it would not always be so with him and Esca, that there was a purpose here Esca could not know, despite his welcome presence -- but Marcus turned a deaf ear, and instead watched Esca run beside him, cheeks red with blood, a gleam in his eye. It was enough, for now.
On the day they managed 7000 paces, they stopped beside the low creek for a quick lunch of dates and cheese, and the last pieces of the chicken Sassticca had boiled the night before. Marcus ate quickly, his stomach greedy for something to fill it, and then loped down to the water's edge. He dropped to his belly and dunked his face in the water, laughing with the pure joy of it, the freedom so much like he remembered from the legions. He had not felt so free since the moment of his discharge from service; he had not realized how much he missed it.
He sat up and wiped the water from his face, to find Esca watching him, a curious sadness in his eyes. "Your leg is holding up well," he said, tucking his uneaten lunch back into his satchel. "Better than it has in many months."
"I feel almost new again," Marcus answered, springing up from the ground. He tested his leg, and found it not even a little bit stiff. "Soon enough we will run the day through, and no stopping!"
"No doubt that is true." Esca stood with him, and added, "Perhaps soon you may accept the commission which surely awaits you, and take command of the Ninth, if it is offered you."
Marcus laughed, for such a thing had never crossed his mind. It was complete foolishness. Nothing of the sort would happen, and he would not want it if it did. But he said none of this. Instead, he turned to Esca with a grin and said, "Let us race to the turn of the creek!"
And they were off, laughing and shoving one another, headed toward the slope of the creek bed, until Esca tripped him -- truly, showing no mercy -- and they tumbled down the slope, one after another like pups barely out of their mother's litter, laughing until the breath was gone from their lungs and they could only swat at each other.
Marcus lay in the sweet-smelling grass and turned his face toward Esca, overcome with the need to see him happy. Esca's smile was wide and generous, and his eyes filled with laughter. It was enough for Marcus; he propped himself up on one elbow, and his hand strayed out of its own volition to brush the wayward hair from Esca's face.
At the touch of his hand, Esca turned his head, nuzzling into Marcus' palm. All around them, winter was softening into spring, the gentle rhythms of growth and new life everywhere in the trees.
"Come," Esca said, his eyes closing briefly, then opening as he sprang to his feet. "It is a long march back."
Marcus smiled, and was on his feet in an instant, no help from Esca required.
Side by side, they made their way back to the villa, and near the end, Marcus broke into a run. Esca, never one to be left behind, put on his own speed, and together they loped into the compound and toward the terrace, looking for all the world like two halves of the same runner. Marcus slowed his pace as they neared the villa. His lungs were stretched, aching for air, and his leg was afire, but he was filled with a strange contentment.
He had done what he set forth to do, and all would be well.
Esca drew to a halt beside him, and together they went the last little way toward Marcus' quarters, neither breathing hard. Esca did not turn toward the villa, but instead moved off toward the slope leading down toward the lake. A strange feeling of foreboding settled in Marcus' stomach. Even so, he was loath to leave Esca's side, and so after a moment, he followed.
At the water's edge, out of sight of the villa, Esca settled into the tall grass, his arms slung over his knees. He set his satchel aside, and waited until Marcus was beside him to say, "So, Centurion, soon you will be ready to resume your duties, will you not?"
The sound of his old title raised the hair on Marcus' arms. Esca had not referred to him so for many turns of the moon, not since before the Wall. He sank down in the grass beside Esca, shifting until he was comfortable, and said, "No, I shall not take up that mantle again."
"Shall you not?" Esca asked, and there was something shrewd and wary in his tone. It came upon Marcus then: Esca thought he planned to leave, to return to duty in the legions, and the thought was so alien to him that Marcus coughed an incredulous laugh.
"I have seen too much of the world," Marcus said quietly. "I shall not stand beneath the standard of Rome again, ready to do battle for her."
Some tension went out of Esca then, and he nodded, the muscles of his jaw drawn tight.
"My leg," Marcus said, running a hand down it. "It will never be as it was, but. I can hold my own."
"You are strong again," Esca said, smiling at him.
"Yes." Marcus raised his head then, and sought Esca's eye. "I am well, Esca, truly. There is no need..." He stopped, at a loss for how to say what was in his heart. "You are not bound to me. If this has kept you...do not stay, on my account."
Esca's expression changed then, dark and stormy as the hills, and he rose to one knee. "Think you this is why I stayed?" he demanded, and Marcus stared at him, at the violent intensity of his eyes, grey-green and wild in the fading light. "For this, you have driven yourself into agonies each evening?"
Marcus could not look away, but his face heated with an unexpected flush, and he said, "Esca, you are free. Truly free. I would not...I cannot hold you here."
"You are a fool," Esca said fiercely, but there was no sting in it, only a fond exasperation. He stood, and extended his hand to Marcus. "Come. Let us settle this."
Once again, as so many times before, Marcus took advantage of Esca's strength and allowed Esca to draw him to his feet. Some spark of heat danced in Esca's eyes, and Marcus found himself short of breath, hope caught at the base of his throat, choking him.
Esca scaled the steps to the villa, and when they had reached Marcus' quarters, he closed the shutters and doors, sealing out the twilight and the wandering eyes of the household. He lit the lamp before turning to Marcus. "Tell me plainly, then: think you I would leave?"
"Only if you wish it," Marcus said, his voice hoarse with want.
"And is this what you wish?" Esca stepped closer, and the heat of him seemed to sear Marcus, bringing a warm flush to his skin.
"No," Marcus said, low, and watched Esca's breath catch, watched him shiver. So, it was not just Marcus. The understanding of this sent exhilaration through him, made him joyful with delight, but --
"Do you plan to return to--" Esca began, but Marcus was already reaching out.
"No," he said. "Never. I have said it, and it is as I have said; I could not."
Not knowing you and your people; not having seen you as I have seen you. These things, Marcus did not say, but Esca seemed to hear them, and his hands settled on the sides of Marcus' face, strong and sure, to draw Marcus down for a kiss.
It was like nothing Marcus had ever known. He should feel shame; he should resist, pull away, but all he had ever wanted was in the rough press of Esca's lips against his own, and in the soft sounds of wanting Esca made as their bodies pressed together.
"Esca," Marcus murmured, his lips still soft against Esca's mouth, their breath mingled in the quiet space between them.
In answer, Esca released him, and just as he had that night not long ago in the baths, shed his garments -- but slowly this time, his eyes always on Marcus.
For his part, Marcus shed his own tunic, then the braccae, his hands shaking as they had not since he was a young recruit, barely sixteen and new to service, afraid of everything to come. And then they were bare to each other, and Marcus looked his fill; all the places he had longed to touch, to place his hands.
He ran gentle fingertips over Esca's shoulder, down his arm to the dark lines of his tattoo, and any words he might have said were lost in his throat, as Esca kissed him again, slow and searching, understanding all Marcus could not say.
Three steps, and they were at Marcus' bed. Esca pushed him back upon it, and smiled the kind of smile Marcus knew well -- the smile of the enemy rising to the challenge, just before blades would meet on the battlefield. His blood ran hot to think of Esca making this challenge.
He fit his hands to Esca's hips, a small grin crossing his face, and Esca shoved his hands away, his eyes alight with a feeling Marcus knew all too well. "The Centurion must be patient," Esca said, settling astride Marcus, his hands on Marcus' chest.
"I am not known for patience," Marcus said, and then, "Esca," because he wanted to say the name, have it be heard. Esca's eyes slid closed.
"Marcus," he said, and the shudder of need that passed through Marcus was his undoing.
Esca took up the small jar of salve he had used so many times to soothe Marcus' aching leg, and coated his fingers with the ointment. When his hand closed on Marcus' phallus, Marcus cried out and arched into him, on the verge of pleading. Esca's cock stood hard against his belly, and Marcus touched his thighs, ran his hands around to the small of his back, watching as Esca bit his lip, no sound betraying him.
Only a moment more, and slowly, Esca sank down upon Marcus, his eyes never leaving Marcus', and then he began to move. To Marcus he was a wild thing, head thrown back, his hands braced upon the flat plane of Marcus' stomach.
"Esca," Marcus whispered, watching the play of muscle beneath Esca's skin, the shifting strength and power. He drew his fingertips across Esca's belly, and narrowed his eyes at Esca's sharp intake of breath, and the way his rhythm faltered as he took Marcus into him time and again. Marcus settled his hands on the narrow join of hip and torso, and tightened his grip there, then stroked up Esca's sides, and down his chest. All the while, Esca moved, slow, and it was exquisite torture, a pleasure so unbearable Marcus thought he might fly apart.
He surged up to catch Esca in his arms, and a tiny smile quirked the corner of Esca's mouth. Must everything with you be a competition, it said, and Marcus wrapped one hand around the nape of Esca's neck, kissed that infuriating smile until it disappeared and Esca's mouth was slack and panting against his own. One hand broad across Esca's back, Marcus matched his pace, thrusting deeper into him, ever deeper. Esca's stiff cock fit perfectly into Marcus' hand, and he stroked it hard, reveling in each stuttered movement Esca made against him in response.
Esca's skin smelled of cool water and smoky lamp oil, and when Marcus pressed his lips to it, Esca arched in his arms, back bowing under Marcus's hands. Marcus closed his fist around Esca's cock and stroked once, twice, his other hand reaching down to where they were joined, until with a full-body shudder and a cry, Esca came.
Marcus forced himself to still, to watch, as Esca swayed, body given over to sensation. He was the most beautiful thing Marcus had ever seen, and he felt no shame in the wave of emotion which washed over him as he avidly searched Esca's face, watched the traces of pleasure play across his features. The tattoos on his arm were like snakes, sinuous and alive, moving beneath the sheen of sweat on Esca's skin.
Esca lowered his head, opened his eyes, and then his hands came to frame Marcus's face before he kissed him. It was so unexpected, so tender, and Marcus gasped Esca's name, pulled him closer, to be nearer still as he spent inside him. Esca kissed him through it, his fingers gently touching Marcus's hair, his face, his shoulders, both of them shuddering with the need of the other, the desire fulfilled and yet still burning within them.
"I am not going," Esca said, and Marcus kissed him, took his mouth as if it was his right.
"Nor will I go," Marcus said, "without you."
"Then we shall stay," Esca said, his hands roaming down Marcus's back.
Yes, Marcus thought, yes, and we will run together, and we will be free.
~end~
The Eagle, Marcus/Esca, adult, 6,440 words - mostly movie canon, though I borrowed a couple things from the book, and tweaked some details.
Summary: Marcus wants Esca to be truly free, no matter what the cost may be for Marcus.
Notes: Many thanks to misspamela for a wonderful beta, and for enticing me into this fandom in the first place. It's all her fault.
Ten Thousand Paces
by Destina
Winter in Calleva was not so cold as the one Marcus and Esca had passed north of the Wall, but the sharp bite of frost still nipped at Marcus in ways the warm southern climate never had. They wintered at Uncle Aquila's villa, in the same sleeping quarters Marcus had occupied before they began their quest, but now Esca slept and ate beside him as a freeman. His nearness was a comfort to Marcus on the worst nights, when the fire seemed to glow white and give no warmth at all.
If Esca shifted closer on those nights, and if their arms touched as they sat by the fire seeing to their tasks, Marcus pretended not to notice. He tried not to examine too closely the strange sense of longing in his heart. Best not to dwell on things that could not be easily managed, where Esca was concerned; Esca's happiness was more important than any errant desires Marcus harbored. He tucked them away, content to be with Esca, the world before them for the taking.
In the chilly nights, Marcus sometimes dreamed he was back in that northern land with the cold frost-kissed ground beneath him, and his life's blood draining from him in the country of the Seal People. It had seemed then that he should never be warm again, and he sometimes woke to find Esca's hand on his arm in silence, fingers curled around his wrist as if to pull him back to the pile of furs and skins under which he slept, and away from those times which burned hot and strange in the back of his mind. Always, Esca's touch would withdraw in the darkness, having assured him Esca was there.
One evening Marcus woke shivering from a sound sleep, his skin prickled with gooseflesh, and looked to Esca's pallet, only to find it empty. He knew where Esca had gone; it was always the same. When he went to the door and stepped onto the terrace, he could see Esca's still form, small against the elements which battered him. Clad only in a cloak, wind-whipped, Esca stood against the weather like immovable stone. Looking at him, Marcus had a glimpse of what Esca had been before, when Marcus had not even imagined him to exist.
It came upon him, watching Esca stand as a mountain against the howling wind, that he did not know what Esca's future was to have been in the times before his capture, before he had been made a slave. He had never asked of Esca's place in the tribe, if he was to be what his father had been before him, or if one of his brothers would have that honor. Was he to marry? Would he have taken a woman, begun his own tribe? Marcus was ignorant of all the customs of the northern tribes, even after so much time spent among them with Esca at his side.
He could so easily imagine Esca as a chieftain, strong and proud and handsome, leading his people in battle. He had seen Esca fight, seen him kill; he wondered how he could be content, now, making idle chatter with Marcus by their shared fire, or mending broken harnesses and feeding apples to the horses at dusk in Aquila's stables.
He stood, and looked at Esca, and wondered.
Esca would never know the pleasures of hearth and family among his own people, and Marcus for his part could not ever ask him what his dreams of the future once were. Esca would not forget what he had lost, any more than Marcus could stop dreaming of battle, but Marcus would not ever knowingly be the cause of making Esca remember, and causing yet more pain.
It was not his to ask, even if he knew Esca would tell him. Some things were not meant to be shared, even between men who had shared so much else.
As if Esca felt eyes upon him, he turned. Though Marcus could not see his face, he was sure Esca knew him there, and the thought sent an unexpected shiver down his spine. Esca always seemed to know where he was, just as Marcus was now always aware when Esca was not in his presence; it had been so with them almost from the very beginning, but more so since their return from beyond the Wall.
If Marcus was honest, he would admit that truly, he wanted Esca to find him, even in the dark, when none other could see him. This was the nature of what they were to each other; this was why Marcus was troubled to see him so captured by the past.
Slowly, Esca made his way back to the terrace, to the confines of what might be called Rome's outpost, for wherever her soldiers were - past or present - Rome was, as well. Marcus could never deny it; he was Rome's, would always be Rome's, even if she no longer had a useful purpose for him. At the doorway, he stopped, elbow to elbow with Marcus, not speaking. The warmth of him bled into Marcus, filling all the chilled places, and then Esca said, "Come in to bed; you are not suited to the weather."
True it was, and yet Marcus bristled to be called out as something Esca was, and he was not. But Esca's fingers brushed against his own, and then Esca was shedding his clothing, cloak and tunic, sandals, until he was no longer a strange wild thing -- he was just Esca, disappearing into his bedding, only a shock of sandy hair above the furs he slept in.
That night, Marcus did not sleep. He lay in the darkness, listening to Esca's soft, even breathing so near, and thought about the way he had stood in the shadows, embracing the wind. It occurred to him then that perhaps Esca faced the wind because it was something of home; perhaps it was in his heart that he should find his own way, with his people, or somewhere else. Somewhere Marcus could not follow.
The thought gave him pain, and Marcus caught his breath. He knew Esca stayed of his own accord, but there were many reasons a man might stay in a foreign place, and Esca was prey to all of them; duty, obligation, the ties of friendship. Perhaps he did not regard all debts as paid. Perhaps...perhaps he thought Marcus needed him. The idea of it did not sit well with Marcus. Esca should not stay, if what he most wanted was to truly be free. But there was no way to ask it of him; Esca would only set his jaw in that obstinate way of his, and refuse to discuss Marcus' foolish Roman notions.
Marcus had tried to speak of such things before; this was how he knew.
He stared into the darkness, and slowly, a plan took shape, one that would come at a high cost. But he had endured pain before, and for reasons much less dear to his heart.
If Esca wanted to wander, Marcus would not have him tied to a man so wounded he could not make his own way. He would release those ties, and see what would come of it. Esca must be truly free; there was no other way.
**
On the morrow, the lie came easily to him, but was heavy on his heart, once the words were set forth. "Uncle has asked me to see to his business in town," he said, "for he is not as agile as he used to be."
Esca fixed him with a direct stare, so narrow and piercing Marcus was sure it could penetrate down to his very heart. "He seems as robust to me as the first day I saw him."
"Even so," Marcus said, not looking at Esca, for his friend had a way of knowing all things, even the things Marcus most wanted to keep from him. There were so few secrets Marcus had managed to hide; this was one he must try to bury deep.
"As you say." Esca rose and took up his bow. "The hunting will not keep; the boar are plentiful as they move to winter ground."
"I will come with you, next time," Marcus promised. "You know I am loath to miss a hunt."
Esca nodded, the sharp suspicion still in his eyes. "I will return tomorrow by nightfall," he said, gathering his quiver and the pouch in which all Sassticca's provisions had been secured.
"Good hunting," Marcus said, smiling, though the thin line of Esca's mouth told him the smile was not well-received.
When he was sure Esca was well and truly gone, he dug into his much-traveled kit and brought out the old sandals, well-worn and broken in over a million paces with his legion. They had served him well, and he found that they still fit him, eager to mold to his foot as though ready for service once again. He flexed his toes, and dug his fingertips into his sore thigh muscle, willing it to cooperate.
It was time.
Golden fields stretched out in all directions from Aquila's villa, their color dulled by the cold breath of winter. He considered the road, and the field; he was less likely to be seen in the fields, and questioned as to his purpose.
So it was there, at the edge of the road, he limped into the grass and set his teeth, and began to count paces. Two steps, one pace; forward, always forward, as it had once been second nature to him.
He could remember marching quick-step with his legion, 15,000 paces in a day if they were feeling lazy, and yet enough energy to make camp and sing bawdy songs at end of day. He had been free, then, free and young and careless with his appreciation of the gifts of health and life, and now he understood what he had taken for granted.
Below him, his leg cramped, barely 50 paces on, and he panted shallow through his teeth but kept on. He had known pain; he had learned to live with it, work through it. He could keep on.
100 paces, and the field stretched out endless before and behind him. A fire burned at his thigh, its hot tendrils striking out toward his knee, and suddenly his leg gave way, tumbling him into the high grass. He let out a cry and pitched forward, landing on the harsh dead grass, his shame hidden by its height. His hands formed themselves around his thigh, as if to mend it, forging the shattered bits together.
120 paces, and he had fallen to disgrace.
The pain was unbearable, and yet he would bear it. Tomorrow, he would step to the edge of the field, and he would match that pace again. Hot tears wet his face; he paid them no mind, for they were just the aftermath of this small victory, and soon enough he would be strong again, and able.
The sun was high overhead before Marcus dared try to stand, and slinking toward the horizon before he felt ready to walk back to the road. He closed his eyes and pulled his leg along with him like the anchor of some moored ship, striving through sand toward open water.
He managed to make his way home by dusk, and fled to the baths, sitting in the hot water until his skin threatened to slough from his very bones. Weary, he wished for Esca, and then cursed his own weakness. Esca would be riding free under the moon, searching out the winter kill; he would be smiling, triumphant and proud. Marcus wished with all his heart he was there to see it, to stand beside Esca, shoulder to shoulder, as he butchered the kill and brought it home.
Their home. It was a thing Marcus had considered, but he allowed himself to consider it no longer. All his energies must go to one thing, now.
**
The next day was infinitely worse. He managed 100 paces, but it was agony in every step, and his leg dragged along in the dust like a dead thing yet attached to its living host. Still, he did not stop, for it was not in his nature. The field stretched long before him, and with single-minded need, he moved, forcing the leg to accept its punishment, and adapt.
When finally it rebelled and threw him like an angry colt, he rolled in the grass, half-grimacing, half-smiling. The pace was longer; nearly 300 this day, and he would have it increase each day. If only he could find the lies to tell Esca, to ensure his time would be free.
Esca returned from the hunt while Marcus was struggling out of the bath, which was unfortunate timing for all. "Ho, Marcus! The kill is plentiful!" Esca called, rounding the corner, as Marcus lifted his aching leg and stumbled onto the hard floor. In an instant Esca was beside him, saying not a word, although Marcus imagined him clucking like a bird. Marcus was not too proud to accept the towel offered to him, or to place his hand on Esca's shoulder as he made his way from the water's edge.
"What has happened? Shall I call for a healer?" Esca asked, on one knee beside the bench where Marcus had dropped heavily.
"I taxed the wound walking to the village today. It is nothing," Marcus said, though the breath had been stolen from his lungs.
"And it did not occur to you to take a horse," Esca muttered, his careful hands probing at things he had no business trying to mend.
Marcus gently pushed his hands away. "It is well," he said. "I was careless. The bath has restored me."
Esca made a snorting sound, but he stood, and merely looked at Marcus with a mixture of visceral concern and disapproval. Marcus sighed. "You were saying, about the kill?"
"I was," Esca said, still not done conveying his suspicion, but he said nothing more about Marcus' leg, which was a great relief. Instead, Esca turned away and stripped, leaving a pile of clothing on the ground. The suddenness of it took Marcus' breath away, even after so much time spent with Esca. They had never been shy around one another, but sometimes Marcus was caught off guard by Esca's complete lack of modesty.
He gave himself leave to look at Esca as he lowered himself into the bath, at the streaks of dirt crossing his shoulders, the scars on Esca's back, the lines of his tattoos sinking beneath the waters. It came to him suddenly that Esca's body was known to him in all ways, the slopes and curves of it, the hard lines of muscle, as familiar as if he had touched it, known it with his fingertips.
The bench beneath Marcus was solid, and he curled his hand around its edge, gripping tight. He should not consider Esca so. It was not proper. The boundaries were set; he could not touch, could not know him thus.
"Marcus?" Now Esca sounded worried. Marcus glanced up, and met Esca's direct, puzzled gaze. "You are far away."
"It is just the old pain," Marcus said, and it was more true than Esca could ever know.
**
Breakfast the next day was Sassticca's delicious bread, with cheese and wine, and Marcus agonized all through it -- not for his leg, which did not trouble him overmuch, but for how to send Esca from him. In the end, it was Uncle Aquila who saved him from yet another lie.
"Lucius Salica -- my neighbor to the north -- has need of someone to see to his ponies." Uncle dipped his bread into his cup, soaking it with wine, and brought it dripping to his lips. "I have told him that under my roof is one who has a sure hand with the horses, as good as ever I've seen. Esca, are you willing?"
"I will go," Esca said, with a look at Marcus, who found his plate of bread most interesting. "If Marcus has no need of me."
"No," Marcus said, smiling. "I will tend the kill, for it must be salted."
"True enough." Esca's tone was light, but there was more lurking beneath, and it sickened Marcus to think he was known as a liar.
He saw Esca to the stables, saw him on his horse, avoiding his eyes the entire time. "Your limp," Esca said. "It is pronounced today."
"Will you cease with your ministering?" Marcus said, not as exasperated as he pretended to be. Esca's mouth set into its familiar line of stubbornness, a sure sign he was ready to fight, so Marcus slapped the mare on her sleek shanks. "I am well. Be off with you."
Esca gave a curt nod and dug his heels into the horse's sides. Marcus watched him go, math of the hours at the forefront of his mind. He had enough time to help Stephanos salt the meat and begin to cure it, and still take his run before Esca returned.
The steps were not less painful, nor the field less an obstacle than before. The smallest hills seemed as mountains; the tiniest rocks more like walls. Still he pressed on, and passed 400 paces, at the end shuffling, with water streaming from his eyes like a boy who has scraped his knee and wishes nothing more than a soft word of kindness to set him to rights.
Upon his slow return to the villa, Esca waited for him on the low steps, and Marcus stopped in his tracks, his heart sinking. The expression on Esca's face was so placid and blank, Marcus could only guess at the turmoil beneath. Esca did not ask where Marcus had been, although surely Stephanos would have said the salting was done hours before. He said nothing; he only gestured, and Marcus moved closer, until he was within range of Esca's hands.
They sat together on the steps, and Esca bound his painful leg for warmth, bound it almost as he had when they were running desperately for their lives, the Eagle a trust between them. Still Esca did not ask, and Marcus thought he would burst with not telling him.
Esca ran his hand down Marcus' thigh, a gentle touch, almost regretful, and without a word, stood and went in to be about his business.
The night passed slowly for Marcus. Esca did not sit to dinner; he did not come in to bed, and the room was cold and empty without him. There was no idle talk by the fire, no laughter to ease the way into sleep.
This is what it will be like, thought Marcus, when Esca has gone his own way.
The thought left him hollow, as if grief had already carved out its place inside him.
**
There was no need to send Esca on a false errand, since he was nowhere to be found in the morning. Stephanos shrugged when Marcus asked after him, and Sassticca scowled at him in a most accusatory way, leaving Marcus to wonder what Esca had said, and where he had gone. But there was nothing to be done about it, and at least no lie was required.
He made his way out into the sunshine, chilly as it was, and into the tall grass of the far meadow. Soon enough he was shuffling along, slower than the previous days, careful of his aching leg. He closed his eyes and let the sun warm him, let himself slip back into memories of himself as a boy, flying down roads and hills, his legs strong and true beneath him.
Those legs were long gone, and a mere 300 paces into his shuffling run, Marcus stumbled and pitched forward, landing hard on the ground with a grunt. He struck at the ground with a closed fist and leaned forward over his leg, cursing it under his breath with all his might.
A shadow fell at his side, and he opened his eyes to see Esca standing over him. Esca's eyes were very bright, though the look on his face was severe. A lesser man might be frightened of such an expression, but Marcus had seen it many times, though not directed toward himself. That look on Esca's face sent a curious mixture of shame and desire through him, quicksilver and warm, and Marcus turned his hot face away.
"Where did you come from?" Marcus demanded. "I did not ask you to be here."
"I am Brigantes," Esca reminded him. "If I do not wish to be seen, then you shall not see me."
Marcus gave him an impatient look, but had no energy to spare for banter over an obvious truth; his thigh and every muscle connected to it were on fire, and he could barely think for the effort of breathing through the pain. Esca dropped to one knee and placed a firm hand behind Marcus' kneecap, pulling hard enough to evoke an involuntary hiss of pain.
The look Esca turned on him then was full of silent reproach, but Marcus bore it with gritted teeth, for he must not divulge his purpose.
"You will do damage, ere you are not careful. Damage no surgeon can undo." Esca stood, pulled Marcus to his feet with some effort, and without asking, moved Marcus' hand to his shoulder. "We will go together, wherever it is you must go. Or I will return and fetch the horses, and--"
"No," Marcus said, a little desperately, and under his hand, Esca went very still.
Around them, the wind stirred the grass, and they stood silent in the waning warm sunshine, the fields holding the quiet close, as if to share Marcus' secret. Esca turned, and Marcus turned with him, and together they began the walk back to the villa, one step at a time.
It was a long walk, or so it seemed to Marcus. Esca did not speak; nor did he complain at taking Marcus' weight more and more with each tortured step. There was no reproach in his bearing. He merely placed his arm around Marcus' waist, and lent his strength. Marcus was thrown back in memory to their desperate run north of the Wall, and Esca's fierce belief that Marcus could go on, no matter the cost.
Words came to him, excuses, but he abandoned them, left them in the dust of the road as they neared the villa.
It was not until they crossed the threshold, and Esca eased Marcus down upon his own cot, that Esca spoke. "You wish to return strength to this leg, do you not?"
Marcus looked at Esca, marveling that he ever thought of keeping secrets from him, and even at that moment, could not bear to confess all of it. "Yes," he said, offering no more.
"This is not the way," Esca said. He sat beside Marcus on the cot, his expression full of storms. "To build strength, you must train, as we did long ago, after the surgeon struck true into the wound."
"It is much to ask," Marcus said.
"It is not," Esca said softly. He rose from the cot. "Tomorrow, we will begin."
"Esca--" Marcus said, but Esca did not heed the call of his name. He poured a cup of wine, and brought it to Marcus, standing by until he was done. It was so much like those days when Esca had done his bidding, and nothing like it at all; Marcus was again at a loss, adrift in his own confusion.
"Tomorrow," he said, taking the cup. He set it down on the table, and with a last long look at Marcus, he turned to go.
Marcus longed to call him back, but instead he turned his face away, toward the shadows.
**
So it was that they matched pace, Esca and Marcus, in the days leading to spring. The first morning was as all the other days Marcus had toiled without Esca, but now Esca's steps beside him seemed to lighten the burden. In the afternoon, they sparred, Esca giving no quarter and sparing him nothing, and Marcus felt the old joy of using his body as it was capable of. Over the lengthening days, Esca walked with him, then trotted along beside him, and the pace stretched with their efforts -- 1000, then 2000. More every day, until finally Marcus and Esca ran down the long road to Calleva, side by side, grinning at one another as they stepped in unison through the dirt, over the stones, their feet thumping out a rhythm as familiar to Marcus as his own heartbeat.
Each night, Marcus' leg pained him, some more than others, and each night Esca was there with his warm hands and tired smiles, the strength in his touch enough to steer Marcus on to one more day, a hundred more paces. It was good to have him there; Marcus wondered that he had ever tried to accomplish it without Esca's quiet strength beside him.
The hollow place in his heart called out, sometimes, reminding him that it would not always be so with him and Esca, that there was a purpose here Esca could not know, despite his welcome presence -- but Marcus turned a deaf ear, and instead watched Esca run beside him, cheeks red with blood, a gleam in his eye. It was enough, for now.
On the day they managed 7000 paces, they stopped beside the low creek for a quick lunch of dates and cheese, and the last pieces of the chicken Sassticca had boiled the night before. Marcus ate quickly, his stomach greedy for something to fill it, and then loped down to the water's edge. He dropped to his belly and dunked his face in the water, laughing with the pure joy of it, the freedom so much like he remembered from the legions. He had not felt so free since the moment of his discharge from service; he had not realized how much he missed it.
He sat up and wiped the water from his face, to find Esca watching him, a curious sadness in his eyes. "Your leg is holding up well," he said, tucking his uneaten lunch back into his satchel. "Better than it has in many months."
"I feel almost new again," Marcus answered, springing up from the ground. He tested his leg, and found it not even a little bit stiff. "Soon enough we will run the day through, and no stopping!"
"No doubt that is true." Esca stood with him, and added, "Perhaps soon you may accept the commission which surely awaits you, and take command of the Ninth, if it is offered you."
Marcus laughed, for such a thing had never crossed his mind. It was complete foolishness. Nothing of the sort would happen, and he would not want it if it did. But he said none of this. Instead, he turned to Esca with a grin and said, "Let us race to the turn of the creek!"
And they were off, laughing and shoving one another, headed toward the slope of the creek bed, until Esca tripped him -- truly, showing no mercy -- and they tumbled down the slope, one after another like pups barely out of their mother's litter, laughing until the breath was gone from their lungs and they could only swat at each other.
Marcus lay in the sweet-smelling grass and turned his face toward Esca, overcome with the need to see him happy. Esca's smile was wide and generous, and his eyes filled with laughter. It was enough for Marcus; he propped himself up on one elbow, and his hand strayed out of its own volition to brush the wayward hair from Esca's face.
At the touch of his hand, Esca turned his head, nuzzling into Marcus' palm. All around them, winter was softening into spring, the gentle rhythms of growth and new life everywhere in the trees.
"Come," Esca said, his eyes closing briefly, then opening as he sprang to his feet. "It is a long march back."
Marcus smiled, and was on his feet in an instant, no help from Esca required.
Side by side, they made their way back to the villa, and near the end, Marcus broke into a run. Esca, never one to be left behind, put on his own speed, and together they loped into the compound and toward the terrace, looking for all the world like two halves of the same runner. Marcus slowed his pace as they neared the villa. His lungs were stretched, aching for air, and his leg was afire, but he was filled with a strange contentment.
He had done what he set forth to do, and all would be well.
Esca drew to a halt beside him, and together they went the last little way toward Marcus' quarters, neither breathing hard. Esca did not turn toward the villa, but instead moved off toward the slope leading down toward the lake. A strange feeling of foreboding settled in Marcus' stomach. Even so, he was loath to leave Esca's side, and so after a moment, he followed.
At the water's edge, out of sight of the villa, Esca settled into the tall grass, his arms slung over his knees. He set his satchel aside, and waited until Marcus was beside him to say, "So, Centurion, soon you will be ready to resume your duties, will you not?"
The sound of his old title raised the hair on Marcus' arms. Esca had not referred to him so for many turns of the moon, not since before the Wall. He sank down in the grass beside Esca, shifting until he was comfortable, and said, "No, I shall not take up that mantle again."
"Shall you not?" Esca asked, and there was something shrewd and wary in his tone. It came upon Marcus then: Esca thought he planned to leave, to return to duty in the legions, and the thought was so alien to him that Marcus coughed an incredulous laugh.
"I have seen too much of the world," Marcus said quietly. "I shall not stand beneath the standard of Rome again, ready to do battle for her."
Some tension went out of Esca then, and he nodded, the muscles of his jaw drawn tight.
"My leg," Marcus said, running a hand down it. "It will never be as it was, but. I can hold my own."
"You are strong again," Esca said, smiling at him.
"Yes." Marcus raised his head then, and sought Esca's eye. "I am well, Esca, truly. There is no need..." He stopped, at a loss for how to say what was in his heart. "You are not bound to me. If this has kept you...do not stay, on my account."
Esca's expression changed then, dark and stormy as the hills, and he rose to one knee. "Think you this is why I stayed?" he demanded, and Marcus stared at him, at the violent intensity of his eyes, grey-green and wild in the fading light. "For this, you have driven yourself into agonies each evening?"
Marcus could not look away, but his face heated with an unexpected flush, and he said, "Esca, you are free. Truly free. I would not...I cannot hold you here."
"You are a fool," Esca said fiercely, but there was no sting in it, only a fond exasperation. He stood, and extended his hand to Marcus. "Come. Let us settle this."
Once again, as so many times before, Marcus took advantage of Esca's strength and allowed Esca to draw him to his feet. Some spark of heat danced in Esca's eyes, and Marcus found himself short of breath, hope caught at the base of his throat, choking him.
Esca scaled the steps to the villa, and when they had reached Marcus' quarters, he closed the shutters and doors, sealing out the twilight and the wandering eyes of the household. He lit the lamp before turning to Marcus. "Tell me plainly, then: think you I would leave?"
"Only if you wish it," Marcus said, his voice hoarse with want.
"And is this what you wish?" Esca stepped closer, and the heat of him seemed to sear Marcus, bringing a warm flush to his skin.
"No," Marcus said, low, and watched Esca's breath catch, watched him shiver. So, it was not just Marcus. The understanding of this sent exhilaration through him, made him joyful with delight, but --
"Do you plan to return to--" Esca began, but Marcus was already reaching out.
"No," he said. "Never. I have said it, and it is as I have said; I could not."
Not knowing you and your people; not having seen you as I have seen you. These things, Marcus did not say, but Esca seemed to hear them, and his hands settled on the sides of Marcus' face, strong and sure, to draw Marcus down for a kiss.
It was like nothing Marcus had ever known. He should feel shame; he should resist, pull away, but all he had ever wanted was in the rough press of Esca's lips against his own, and in the soft sounds of wanting Esca made as their bodies pressed together.
"Esca," Marcus murmured, his lips still soft against Esca's mouth, their breath mingled in the quiet space between them.
In answer, Esca released him, and just as he had that night not long ago in the baths, shed his garments -- but slowly this time, his eyes always on Marcus.
For his part, Marcus shed his own tunic, then the braccae, his hands shaking as they had not since he was a young recruit, barely sixteen and new to service, afraid of everything to come. And then they were bare to each other, and Marcus looked his fill; all the places he had longed to touch, to place his hands.
He ran gentle fingertips over Esca's shoulder, down his arm to the dark lines of his tattoo, and any words he might have said were lost in his throat, as Esca kissed him again, slow and searching, understanding all Marcus could not say.
Three steps, and they were at Marcus' bed. Esca pushed him back upon it, and smiled the kind of smile Marcus knew well -- the smile of the enemy rising to the challenge, just before blades would meet on the battlefield. His blood ran hot to think of Esca making this challenge.
He fit his hands to Esca's hips, a small grin crossing his face, and Esca shoved his hands away, his eyes alight with a feeling Marcus knew all too well. "The Centurion must be patient," Esca said, settling astride Marcus, his hands on Marcus' chest.
"I am not known for patience," Marcus said, and then, "Esca," because he wanted to say the name, have it be heard. Esca's eyes slid closed.
"Marcus," he said, and the shudder of need that passed through Marcus was his undoing.
Esca took up the small jar of salve he had used so many times to soothe Marcus' aching leg, and coated his fingers with the ointment. When his hand closed on Marcus' phallus, Marcus cried out and arched into him, on the verge of pleading. Esca's cock stood hard against his belly, and Marcus touched his thighs, ran his hands around to the small of his back, watching as Esca bit his lip, no sound betraying him.
Only a moment more, and slowly, Esca sank down upon Marcus, his eyes never leaving Marcus', and then he began to move. To Marcus he was a wild thing, head thrown back, his hands braced upon the flat plane of Marcus' stomach.
"Esca," Marcus whispered, watching the play of muscle beneath Esca's skin, the shifting strength and power. He drew his fingertips across Esca's belly, and narrowed his eyes at Esca's sharp intake of breath, and the way his rhythm faltered as he took Marcus into him time and again. Marcus settled his hands on the narrow join of hip and torso, and tightened his grip there, then stroked up Esca's sides, and down his chest. All the while, Esca moved, slow, and it was exquisite torture, a pleasure so unbearable Marcus thought he might fly apart.
He surged up to catch Esca in his arms, and a tiny smile quirked the corner of Esca's mouth. Must everything with you be a competition, it said, and Marcus wrapped one hand around the nape of Esca's neck, kissed that infuriating smile until it disappeared and Esca's mouth was slack and panting against his own. One hand broad across Esca's back, Marcus matched his pace, thrusting deeper into him, ever deeper. Esca's stiff cock fit perfectly into Marcus' hand, and he stroked it hard, reveling in each stuttered movement Esca made against him in response.
Esca's skin smelled of cool water and smoky lamp oil, and when Marcus pressed his lips to it, Esca arched in his arms, back bowing under Marcus's hands. Marcus closed his fist around Esca's cock and stroked once, twice, his other hand reaching down to where they were joined, until with a full-body shudder and a cry, Esca came.
Marcus forced himself to still, to watch, as Esca swayed, body given over to sensation. He was the most beautiful thing Marcus had ever seen, and he felt no shame in the wave of emotion which washed over him as he avidly searched Esca's face, watched the traces of pleasure play across his features. The tattoos on his arm were like snakes, sinuous and alive, moving beneath the sheen of sweat on Esca's skin.
Esca lowered his head, opened his eyes, and then his hands came to frame Marcus's face before he kissed him. It was so unexpected, so tender, and Marcus gasped Esca's name, pulled him closer, to be nearer still as he spent inside him. Esca kissed him through it, his fingers gently touching Marcus's hair, his face, his shoulders, both of them shuddering with the need of the other, the desire fulfilled and yet still burning within them.
"I am not going," Esca said, and Marcus kissed him, took his mouth as if it was his right.
"Nor will I go," Marcus said, "without you."
"Then we shall stay," Esca said, his hands roaming down Marcus's back.
Yes, Marcus thought, yes, and we will run together, and we will be free.
~end~