Archive of Our Own

His own breath is loud in his ears, almost overwhelming the angry shouting in another tongue, echoing all around him. Jensen inhales through his nose to avoid breathing in burlap; he catches glimpses of the fight that rages through the loose weave. Knees aching and wrists chafed, he struggles against his bonds. They've got him trussed like prey; these barbarians have no regard for the rules of war. He'd never even seen the attacker who had knocked him unconscious: desperate and wily, the horde had swarmed over the garrison in the dead of night, and Jensen had taken a blow to the back of the head.

A deafening crash, close by, has Jensen scrambling away, to where he doesn't know; he's light-headed with fear and can't tell up from down anymore, but the noise sounds like wood splintering, swords clashing, men dying, and Jensen does his best to make himself small, tucks his head in while he continues to twist his hands in a vain effort to escape.

They'd taken his sword and shield. He's wearing nothing but his tunic, armor and baldric long gone, no doubt to be melted down and cast into the shapes of foreign gods.

In the commotion, a body falls on Jensen, and for a terrifying second, he feels blood running down his face, and knows that he's done for. But when no wound howls for attention, he realizes it doesn't belong to him, but rather to the savage who'd fallen on him. As luck would have it, the man's dagger is still clutched in a rapidly-cooling hand. Jensen pries the hilt away and turns it, the sharp tip nicking his arm as he saws through the ropes binding his wrists.

When his arms are free, he tears the cloth from his face and sees that he's in the great hall, still within the walls of the garrison. A fire has broken out and the air is thick with smoke. Jensen skirts the edge of the fray toward the door, looking for any shield or sword he can lay his hands on. The fighting is close quarters now, men locked in hand-to-hand combat even as the flames lick higher. The entire fort is likely to go up at this rate.

A glint catches his eye, and Jensen makes his way toward a fallen sword. It's uncomfortably close to the flames, but Jensen darts in and grabs it, hissing as the hot metal scorches his palm. Tearing off a bit of his tunic, he wraps it around the hilt and hefts the blade; the handle bears a familiar stamp: this sword belongs to Lucius. He scans the ground, looking for any sign that Lucius might still be alive, but the raging fire consumes everything in its path. Poor Lucius. He'd been in Jensen's cohort, only seventeen years old, and eager to find his fortune on the frontier.

But there will be time to mourn the dead later; Jensen has to fight if he doesn't want to join them. There's a shout, and Jensen twists just in time to block the crushing blow of an axe, wielded by a wild-eyed barbarian with braided hair and a long beard. Without a second thought, Jensen stabs forward with the dagger he still holds in his left hand, piercing the savage's belly. Blood runs over his hand, and his opponent goes down with a look of surprise. Jensen dances back and then jumps over the prone corpse, out the door and into the main square, where the clear night sky shows a bevy of stars.

Behind him, the warmth of the great hall fire presses him on insistently. All across the square, his brothers are locked in combat with the invaders. Jensen spins, ducks and slashes his way through the throng, until he reaches the entrance to the temple, where the horde has gathered, a foothold it will be difficult to rout. The temple, Jensen realizes, must be how they gained entrance undetected. Its walls enclose a shrine to Minerva, and as the oldest building, its back walls were incorporated into the barrier ringing the fort. No commander had questioned the wisdom of this, however, as beyond this wall, the ground dropped away sharply: between the temple and the river below lay nothing but a sheer cliff. It would have been a foolhardy enemy who'd attempt scaling that.

A foolhardy enemy, or a desperate one.

Sweat stings his eyes as he joins formation, back-to-back and swinging out, defending those who are taking back the temple. The fire's beyond any measure of control, now. The barracks are burning, as is the Commander's office. Come morning, Jensen thinks, there will be a stack of corpses where the buildings used to be, and no place to sleep.

He will take pleasure in ringing the fort with pikes, and each one will have the head of a barbarian gracing its top.

Even now, surrounded on all sides, he's confident of the outcome. Visigoth hordes have nothing on Roman discipline. The Roman army is undefeated; no fort in Europe has fallen to invaders in more than a hundred years. Dacia belongs to Rome, and Jensen aims to keep it that way.

Comrades fall on either side of him, and his arm grows weary, but he fights on. The first rays of dawn break, and birdsong mingles with the cries of the dying. Jensen is one with his sword: no thought, only action. He will bring glory to Rome or die. Dacia will not fall.

He's not sure when he gets hurt, only that it must have been some time before he notices, as the blood pooling at his feet seems to be considerable. And then he feels the wound in his side. He stumbles, sensing a second cut along his thigh, and Jensen goes down, the gray light of morning fading into the gray of unconsciousness.

*

Jensen is dreaming of his mother.

He's four years old, running barefoot across cool tile. He's burying his head in her skirts, smooth silk that slips through his fingers, the scent of exotic spices in the air.

He doesn't want to go. He doesn't want to leave his mama, or live in a big house, or go to school. He wants to stay with her.

She tells him he must be brave and wipes his tears. Cruel hands tear him away from his mother. Rough fingers bite into his arms as he's dragged away screaming. There are tears in her eyes, too. Jensen doesn't understand: if she's crying, why is she forcing him to go?

"Wake up." Something nudges Jensen's side and he wakes with a gasp of pain. Clutching at his side, Jensen notes that his wrist is circled by an iron manacle, which is in turn attached to a long iron chain, and when he tugs on it, the chain proves to be tethered to a ring, bolted to the floor. He tugs on it again, making it clank and making his side flare up in agony.

"What's going on? Who are you? Where am I?"

The man in front of him looks down at the shallow wooden bowl in his hands. He dips a rag into it, then sops the rag over Jensen's ribs, and Jensen screams as whatever-it-is touches the gash in his side.

Black spots speckle the edges of his vision for a moment, and it's only through force of will that Jensen manages to take a breath. Every movement of his ribs pulls on the stabbing, fiery throb centered just below his ribs. His torturer is wizened and gray-bearded, thin as paper and likely as delicate; Jensen could easily overpower him and escape.

Well, he could if every breath wasn't redefining the meaning of the word 'pain.'

The rag gets dipped again, and sopped onto his wound again. This time, Jensen clenches his teeth, but tears are leaking shamefully from his tightly closed eyes.

"Quite the tough little bear, aren't you?" It's a new voice, deeper and younger than the old man's. Something familiar about it, too. The quality of amusement in it, as if the speaker couldn't help but find you funny. "That's some roar you've got. Probably scared the sheep."

Jensen opens his eyes. "Jeff," he says, and then groans as the wound gets bandaged up again. "What's going on?"

"Welcome back to the land of the living, kid."

"Where is this place? Why am I chained up? What happened to the garrison?"

"One question at a time." Jeff sits at the edge of the cot Jensen's lying on and prods at Jensen's side, brows knit. He turns and looks up at the old man, and says something in their native tongue. The old man looks down at Jensen, nods once, and leaves.

Jeff turns back with a smirk. "You're welcome for saving your life, by the way."

"Will you tell me what the hell is going on, or am I going to have to strangle you with this chain?" For emphasis, Jensen rattles his arm, and manages to mostly hide the wince the movement causes.

Laughing, Jeff puts his hands up in surrender. "All right, all right. Looks like you're back to your usual charming self. Guess Fritigern knows what he's doing."

"Yes, please extend my thanks to your witch doctor. While you're at it, tell him that torture and medicine are considered two different things in civilized portions of the world."

Jeff doesn't say anything, just smiles like Jensen's hilarious and gets up. He pours a cup of water and brings it over. "Can you sit up, or do you need help?"

The last thing Jensen needs is more help from this...this barbarian sheep herder. He gestures impatiently and takes the cup, lifting his head a fraction and sipping gingerly from the cup. The water is cold and it's only as it touches his tongue that Jensen realizes how thirsty he is. Half the cup slops down his chin in his haste. He holds the cup out for more and Jeff arches a brow, but refills it just the same.

Once he's done, gasping but quenched, Jensen hands the cup back to Jeff, who's standing there, staring at him.

"Well? Get on with it: clearly you've saved my life for some reason. Judging by the choice of jewelry, I'm guessing I'm not at liberty to leave. Were you so desperate for human companionship that you had to abduct yourself a bed slave?"

Jeff takes a step back, blinking, before his smile hardens into a smirk. "Well, you know the rules of war," he says, and hunches down in front of the hearth, pulling plates down off the table and ladling food from a steaming pot over the fire. "By the Roman code, I can dispose of you as I see fit."

Swallowing down stark terror, Jensen raises his chin in defiance. "I'm not some bit of property to be won; I am a Legionary of the Roman army, and a citizen of Rome. I have rights."

"Yeah," says Jeff, standing up and bringing over a plate. "Just like Dacians have rights? How many prisoners have died in the Coliseum, Jensen? Any guess?"

Taking the offered plate of steaming food, Jensen says, "Mercy is weakness."

"Well, then I guess I'm weak." Jeff sits in a chair next to the fire and begins to eat with his fingers. Jensen isn't surprised that the man's never heard of cutlery. "Truth is, I don't know what I'm going to do with you yet. Arminius was about to strike your head from your shoulders; I stopped him. Now you're my problem, as he so kindly put it."

Feeling not in the least bit hungry, Jensen sets his plate aside. He focuses on the irrelevant details. "Arminius?"

"My brother," Jeff says with his mouth full.

"That doesn't sound like a Visigoth name."

"It isn't. His mother was Roman. Our father let her choose his name. Thought it sounded classy."

"And you?"

"I think it sounds pretentious." Jeff sucks his lower lip, where stew had gotten caught in his beard.

"No, I mean, where does your name come from?"

Grunting and scooping up another handful, Jeff says, "It's a nickname. Really, more of a term of endearment."

"What does it stand for?"

Huffing a laugh, Jeff says, "Like I'd tell you." He looks up and gestures with his besmeared hand. "Not gonna eat?"

"Not hungry."

"I guess being in pain doesn't really whet the appetite." He leans over and snags Jensen's plate, scraping its contents onto his own.

"Yeah, as appetite suppressants go, blinding agony is right up there with, you know, no longer being master of your own fate."

"That's really got you worried, huh?" Jeff's eyes are dancing, though the rest of his face is feigning concern.

"Are you kidding me?"

"Jensen, not everyone enslaves and murders conquered peoples. Some folks just want to live in peace with their neighbors."

"Is that what you call it when you sneak into a fort in the middle of the night and slaughter thousands of soldiers?"

Jeff stands up quick, and Jensen flinches at the look of thunder on his face, but Jeff doesn't strike him, or do anything at all, just stands there, fists clenching and unclenching. After a long moment, he says, "Listen, I got to be up before dawn. Do you need anything before I turn in?"

Jensen turns it over in his head, and he can't figure the angle. Jeff is perplexing in a way Jensen has never encountered before. He's rough where he should be smooth, and gentle where he should be cruel. Shaking his head, Jensen says, "No." It's faint, most of the word staying caught in his throat.

Jeff nods, and picks up the dishes. He's across the hut and out the door in one step. The door bangs shut, and Jensen listens to the sound of the well being pumped, water running, dishes knocking together.

When he comes back in, Jeff looks like his usual, amused self. He kicks off his boots, unbuckles the belt that holds his dagger, and shrugs out of his coat. He's left in trousers and a tunic. Leaning over the bed, he tucks the sheets in tight around Jensen before snagging a pillow. He gives Jensen a lopsided grin before blowing the candle out and settling down on the floor in front of the hearth.

Jensen watches him do all of this in silence. The fire's been banked—the summer heat continues to linger long into autumn in this remote part of the world—and the only sound is the whisper of kindling as it shifts in the grate. The line of Jeff's back is tense in the shadows.

Fixing his gaze on the ceiling, Jensen considers recent events. By all rights he should be dead by now. Doubtless, the entire rest of the Legion's been wiped out as well. For all he knows, he's the only Roman citizen within a thousand leagues. He's lost, alone behind enemy lines.

But he's alive. He'll heal and then, somehow, he'll make his escape. He marched from Rome to Dacia; he can march back.

All he has to do is bide his time. He can do that. He's endured worse.

Restless and hot, Jensen tries to find a comfortable position to lie in, but sleep eludes him. He keeps circling around to what Jeff had said: "I don't know what I'm going to do with you yet." He owes Jeff his life; it's a sensation he'd never anticipated feeling. He'd never anticipated feeling anything about a native, truth be told, good or bad. Dacians had always been rustic simpletons to Jensen, one indistinguishable from the next; either they were to be ignored or, at worst, hunted down and killed at his general's request. Nothing more.

Still, he was in this man's debt, and Jensen's father had taught him that a man always repaid his debts.

Turning to search out Jeff's form in the dark, he says, "Jeff?"

After a moment, a sleepily rumbled 'hmph' comes from that side of the room.

"Thank you. For sparing my life."

Another moment, and another 'hmph,' but this one's quieter, sounds more like 'you're welcome.'

*

The witch doctor is hovering over him when he wakes up next. This time, when he jerks back, the pain in his side has lessened. The old man smiles a toothless grin at him and says something in a language Jensen doesn't understand.

When he doesn't react, the old man gets frustrated and repeats himself, louder this time.

"Look, I don't understand your gibberish. Thank you for healing me, but shouting isn't going to make me get what you're saying. Where's Jeff?"

The door bangs open and the subject of his query appears, carrying an unwieldy package. "Fritigern speaks six languages, you know," he says.

Fritigern turns to Jeff and starts talking, pointing at Jensen and waving his hands emphatically.

"And yet none of them are Latin," Jensen says under his breath. It's daylight again, but he can't tell what time of day it is. The little shack he's being held in is shabby and primitive, but well made. The only light comes from the open door and the hearth. He's assuming it's Jeff's hovel, and it makes Jensen slightly curious: he's never been in a barbarian's dwelling before. It's just as he would have pictured it—if he'd ever cared to imagine such a thing: no windows, no running water, just one room that smells faintly of sheep.

Jeff had always smelled of sheep, as well, when he'd come through the gate. It was one of the first things Jensen had noticed about him, right after his amazing propensity for being irritatingly smug. He had eyes that were always laughing, and Jensen couldn't help but think that he was the subject of Jeff's mirth.

He takes his job seriously, and he won't be ashamed of that. Dacia may be the ass-end of the empire, a backwater province with a wall that signifies the end of civilization, but that just makes guarding it all the more important. Roman military presence guarantees peace for the citizens unfortunate enough to live so near the savage hordes.

Jeff is nodding and responding to the witch doctor, then handing over the bundle he'd come in with. The old man shakes his head and puts his hands out, like he doesn't want it. Then Jeff shoves it forward, insisting. It's a tawdry pantomime that Jensen soon loses interest in decoding. His head hurts, and now that his side has quieted down, the ache in his thigh has announced its presence.

Once more, the old man points at him, does something complicated with his hands and says something loudly. Jeff nods his head and forces the bundle onto him; the old man sighs and accepts it, and then he leaves.

"Sleep well?" Jeff pokes at the fire, stirring it up and setting a pitcher in amongst the embers.

"No."

"Hm, too bad. I did."

"Of course you did, you slaughtered a legion of Roman soldiers, and now you've got yourself a plaything. Why wouldn't you sleep well?"

Dusting his hands on his trousers, Jeff stands up and stretches. "You know, back when you were just a cranky gatekeeper, I wondered what you were like when you were off duty. Turns out you're still cranky."

"Well, now that you've got your answer, there's no point in keeping me. If you'll be so kind as to unchain me, I'll be on my way." Jensen rattles the chain attaching him to the floor.

"We didn't, you know."

"Didn't what?"

"Slaughter the garrison. It's still there, mostly intact. Well, the parts that didn't catch fire."

For the first time in days, hope swells in Jensen's chest. "What?"

"The attack was unsuccessful. That's the consensus among the elders, anyway."

"But…" Jensen swallows, his throat is sore, his mind in turmoil. "How? The last thing I remember, we were being mown down in front of the temple. Dawn was breaking, and more than half of the buildings were alight."

"Hm," Jeff scratches his beard. "Well, I wasn't there at the end, having more pressing matters to attend to," he raises one eyebrow meaningfully.

Jensen shifts under the look, and the mental image of himself, thrown over Jeff's shoulder like a sack of grain, flashes before him. He flushes in humiliation.

"But Arminius says we were routed, shoved back through the temple. The rest of the tribe made it back before nightfall."

"They'll be coming for you, you know," he says, before he can think better of it. "General Septimus will march through the gate and slaughter every man, woman and child from here to Callatis."

"He's certainly welcome to try," Jeff says, voice low and dangerous. "We've been defending these mountains for years. We know every creek, every hilltop, and every cave for leagues. There's a reason Rome built the wall where it is, Jensen, and it's not because they got tired of colonizing and decided to stop."

"Why?" Jensen says, frustrated at the pointlessness, all the lives lost. "Why would you jeopardize the trade routes between your people and the Empire? You came through that gate for months. You grazed your herd in the pastures; I saw you trading in Sarmizegetusa—a Roman city, full of Roman goods and Roman people. I know you don't hate the Empire. Why provoke it, when you knew there was nothing to be gained?"

"Yeah," Jeff says, and sits down heavily in a chair next to the fire. He sounds weary. "I didn't like the idea, either. But when the Chieftain says to do something, you do it." He catches Jensen's eye. "We swear an oath. Fides, right? Loyalty. Absolute obedience. Isn't that how your army works?"

"You couldn't begin to understand the meaning of the sacramentum. No barbarian could," Jensen says, seeing red at the implication that a disorganized band of savages were anything like the well-oiled machine that is a Roman Legion. The honor, the glory, that is pledging one's life to the service of the Emperor. Jensen's known men who would have killed—literally—for the chance to be chosen. That some inbred hillfolk thought they understood the meaning of loyalty was an insult to the very concept.

"Okay, look, let's get something straight right now: you are my prisoner. You are never going back to your garrison; you will never see Rome again. You have two choices," Jeff continues, getting up and starting to pace. "You can stay here, and earn your keep, or I can turn you over to the Chieftain." He looks at Jensen. "And if I do that, you'll wish I'd just killed you instead."

Seething now, all Jensen can do is glare his hatred. Words are strangling him in an attempt to burst forth, but words are a paltry substitute for the itching in his palms, the sheer rage building up behind his breastbone; he curses his body for its weakened state. He wants to choke the life out of Jeff. Fight him until he begs for mercy. Punch him in his smugly gloating face.

"So no more talk about the inferiority of barbarians, the inevitable supremacy of the Roman army, or, for that matter, about the primitive living conditions of shepherds. This is what you've got now. You can thank me or hate me, but the fact is: if it weren't for me, you'd be dead. If you try to escape, you'll be dead within a day. If you're not caught by someone, you'll fall off a cliff or drown in a river. You don't know where you are and you don't know how to get back, so my suggestion is that you make peace with your situation. What's it going to be?"

Jeff stops pacing and puts his hands on his hips. He's staring daggers at Jensen, and there's a small part of Jensen that hates that look. Wants to apologize for being the cause of it.

But only a small part, the rest of him is calmly planning to assassinate Jeff in his sleep.

"All right," he says, and looks down, as if he were actually feeling contrite.

"Good," Jeff says, and like that, he looks like himself again. "Fritigern tells me you're ready to be useful. How are you at cooking?"

By the time Jeff had gotten him home, Jensen was nearly dead. It had been touch and go for a while, and Jeff owes Fritigern so much more than spun wool for the miracle he'd pulled off.

While he hadn't exactly intended to kidnap Jensen on the raid, when the opportunity had presented itself, it had been better than the alternatives.
Still, lack of planning on his part has Jeff scrambling for what to do, once it looks like Jensen's going to pull through. It's true that by Rome's own rules, Jensen's life is forfeit if Jeff so chooses; it's also true that if Jensen tries to flee, he'll be hunted down for sport by Arminius and his men.

But the ways of Rome are not the ways of his tribe, and there is no precedent for owning a slave. Usually, prisoners of war are used as negotiating tools. They're nearly always returned to their families, once peace has been declared. But nothing in the past has prepared Jeff for this situation. It's as unusual as Jensen himself, and just as thorny.

Jeff had been serious about needing help on his farm. Retiring from battle, he'd hoped to give up the political life and live quietly, but as long as Arminius continues to drag Jeff into his pointless raids, Jeff will always be behind on his duties. As it is, he's had to promise Hlodovic half of the barley he reaps, in exchange for his labor, and his shepherd apprentice is the four-year-old nephew of the town's miller. Every able-bodied man has been pressed into the service of the Chieftain; truthfully, Jeff may have to guard Jensen against getting nabbed for other tasks by eager villagers.

Of course, none of that really explains why Jeff doesn't just let Jensen go. Why he couldn't stand by and watch Jensen get slaughtered.

He'd been careful for months, not allowing a whiff of scandal to attach itself to his trips through the gate—overly frequent though they'd been—but now that Jensen is here, there's no avoiding it. Arminius had done everything short of calling him a sympathizer to his face; the inevitable confrontation is going to be ugly, but it would only be worse if Jeff allowed Jensen to escape.

*

After the first week, Jensen's able to move about on his own, and he takes the opportunity to try and break the bolt locking his chain to the floor.

"That's not going to work," Jeff says, and continues sharpening his knife by the fire.

Jensen pretends like he can't hear him, and keeps banging a rock against the floor.

"Where'd you even get that?" Jeff strides over and takes it away from him. "What other contraband have you been squirrelling away?" He shakes the coverlet and a small knife clatters to the floor. He darts a glance at Jensen as he bends to retrieve it. Upon inspection, it's an old, dull knife he uses primarily to stir the fire, but nevertheless: it's a weapon and Jensen's been hiding it. "Going to stab me in my sleep?"

"Would you blame me?"

"Hm," Jeff says, and makes a show of searching every square inch of the cot—inside the mattress, on the floor below it—everywhere a sharp object could be hidden. He comes up empty-handed, beyond the two confiscated weapons, which is a relief.

For some reason, and many may name that reason foolish pride, Jeff has a hard time believing Jensen would actually try and kill him. It seems scarcely believable that his feelings aren't at least a little bit reciprocated. After all, Jeff's wearing them on his sleeve; sometimes it feels like he's all but shouting. How could Jensen not realize?

"Are you going to punish me?" Jensen asks, in the low, teasing voice he used to use while on patrol. It's the voice that had turned Jeff's head, so many months ago.

"I should," Jeff says, and gets up, pausing to let his knees crack. He's not as young as he once was. "But it's unrealistic to think I can keep you on a leash all the time, especially when I have to go out. So I'm going to unshackle you."

A light shines in Jensen's eyes as he takes that in.

"And I fully expect you to try escaping, even though I've already explained the terrain to you. So you're not getting your sandals back. If you make a break for it, you're doing it barefoot."

Jensen lets loose a string of obscenities, the gist of which Jeff gets, even if some of the words are foreign. But he holds still as Jeff unlocks the shackle around his wrist, and once Jeff's done, he chafes that wrist with the opposite hand, looks Jeff in the eye, and runs out the door.

It's twilight, and soon it'll be so dark Jensen won't be able to see his hand in front of his face. Jeff sighs, and starts making dinner.

*

He's long since finished eating. He's cleaned up, made sure the sheep were in their pasture, he's even bathed, but still Jensen hasn't returned. Jeff's getting worried.

The moon has passed its zenith in the sky, and Jeff tosses and turns. He'd been so sure that Jensen wouldn't run.

He whispers a swift prayer to the gods, that wherever he is, Jensen is safe. If he really thinks he can make it all the way back to his garrison, then Jeff fervently hopes it's true.

But Jensen hadn't been conscious for the three-day trek up the mountain. He's never seen how far down the valley really is. Even if he isn't brought down by warriors with a grudge, there are still wolves out there, bears. Worse. Every moment that ticks by lessens Jensen's chance of a safe return.

Jeff gives up on sleep once dawn starts to creep in. He gets up and strips his bedding, intending to boil everything. There are hides to tan as well; winter is on its way. There are provisions to be laid in and at least one section of fence that needs mending.

He's sitting at the table, staring into the fire, unwilling to start the day as if it were just like any other, when the door creaks open and Jensen is there, backlit by the first rays of morning. Jeff springs up and goes to him, examining every scratch and bruise, tilting his head this way and that.

Jensen looks miserable, and it breaks Jeff's heart. Wordlessly, he leads Jensen to the chair in front of the fire, gets a cloth and wets it, begins to clean the worst of the dirt streaks visible on his arms and legs. His feet are cracked and bleeding, and Jeff lifts up first one, then the other, cleaning them as gently as he can.

Fritigern had left some balm for his battle wounds, and Jeff rummages around on the shelf until he hunts it up. It smells atrocious, but it had worked, so he slathers it across Jensen's feet before binding them up in strips of dry cloth.

When he's done, he looks up, and Jensen is staring at him. He clears his throat and stands. "Hungry? There's porridge."
"Please," Jensen says, and his voice is a hoarse whisper. Jeff brings him a bowl, and pours him a glass of water. The relief that had flooded him at the first sight of Jensen has deserted him, and all he feels is tired.

He watches Jensen eat for a while, but there's no delaying the work that truly does need to be done, so he says, "I have to see to the flock. You'll be okay?"

"Yeah." Jensen's not looking at him. There's no more mocking tone in his voice. He sounds flat, like hope has abandoned him. In another minute, Jeff's going to offer to guide him back to the wall, just to stop that resigned stare. He nods, jaw clenched, and leaves the house.

The day is brisk, with a light drizzle that presages the oncoming winter storms. Jeff doesn't let himself think as he works, instead he focuses on the tasks at hand. Soon the fence has been repaired, his grain has been milled, the sheep have been watered and are grazing in their pasture, and Jeff is so weary he can barely stand.

When he makes it back to the house, the first thing he notices is that Jensen is there, still sitting in the chair next to the fire. His shoulders unknot a fraction.

The second thing he notices is that the entire place is clean, and there is something delicious simmering over the fire.

"You cooked?"

Jensen turns to regard him. "If it's a choice between cooking or eating what you make, then yeah, I cooked."

Looking at him askance, Jeff gets down two bowls and hands them over. "It's not that bad. I haven't poisoned myself yet."

"Well, let's not increase those odds." Jensen ladles up a bowl-full each and Jeff digs in.

"This is amazing. What is it?"

Shrugging, Jensen blows on a spoonful that's raised to his lips. "Barley, some of those...whatever they are, root vegetables you had on the counter, a little bit of wine and the leftover lamb from yesterday."

"Turnips."

"Mm," Jensen says, taking another spoonful.

"So, you're good at cooking and you're good at cleaning," Jeff says, waving a hand at the spotless cottage. "What else can you do?"

"Well," Jensen says, and swallows. "I am—was—an engineer. Or nearly so. I was training to become exempt from common duty...before."

Jeff doesn't miss the correction of tense, and the food he'd been so enjoying becomes dust in his mouth. "Engineer, huh? Like, you were learning to build aqueducts and fortresses?"

"Yeah, pretty much. Other stuff, too. Ever since I was a kid, I'd wanted to learn how to build bridges."

Jeff has seen a Roman bridge or two in his travels; he admits they're impressive structures. Laying his spoon on the table, he says, "Well that's great. I have some outbuildings that need repairing. You can draw up the plans."

"Can't wait," he says, dry. Jeff can't help it, he smiles. It's a distant echo of the feisty, sarcastic boy he'd met guarding a wall, but it means that Jensen's not yet defeated. Maybe he'll adapt and come to look upon the village as his home.

Yeah, Jeff thinks to himself, shaking his head. And maybe he'll forgive you for kidnapping him. Maybe he'll want to stay with you forever, and hey: maybe he'll even climb into your bed. Flights of fancy will do him no good, so he refuses to indulge in them.

"Listen, tomorrow night, there's a celebration feast. It'll be good for you to meet people, have people get used to you."

"I thought you said I'd be killed on sight."

"That's a paraphrase. Some of the warriors won't like it, but all the more reason to get them used to it. If you're with me, no one will harm you."

"I'm not really in the mood to celebrate, Jeff."

They'd both stopped eating. Jeff nods, gets up and gathers the dishes. "I know you're not, but if you're going to stay a while, it's important that people know you're with me." He heads to the door and stops, turns back. "Are you gonna stay a while?"

"You know as I well as I do that I don't have a choice."

He hesitates for what feels like a lifetime, but he has to say it. It would never be right, to keep him here against his will. Jensen will never accept this life, and Jeff would never be happy with an unwilling prisoner. He could never be happy if Jensen was miserable.

No matter the cost, Jensen needs to be set free.

"Listen. I— I can guide you back to the wall."

Jensen whips around and stares at him, piercing gaze searching his face. Jeff doesn't know what he finds there, but eventually he says, "Why is that suddenly an option?"

Because I care about you, Jeff thinks. "Because we don't keep prisoners or slaves here. It isn't right."

"But?"

Shrugging, Jeff leans in the doorway and juggles the dishes into one hand. "But nothing. Some people won't like it, but that'll be my problem."

"What's to stop me from coming back with a cohort and annihilating this village?"

"Nothing," Jeff says, and he heads into the yard to wash the dishes.

*

Jeff is exhausted, so as soon as he can, he grabs a pillow and arranges himself on the floor in front of the hearth. As soon as the sun had set, the cold had crept in; there won't be too many more nights he'll be able to do this without more bedding. He makes a note to finish tanning hides tomorrow, if he can.

"You don't have to sleep on the floor."

Jeff turns and looks over his shoulder, where Jensen is sitting on the bed, looking uncomfortable.

"It's okay."

"No but. There's plenty of room, and it's your bed."

"Fritigern said you couldn't be jostled while you're healing." Jeff's heart has picked up speed, even though he knows there's no invitation in Jensen's words. He's just trying to be fair.

"I slid down a mountainside today, I'm pretty sure I'm healed enough to share the bed." He raises one wicked eyebrow, and that look stirs something, deep down. "Unless you kick in your sleep."

Jeff sits up and gathers the pillow in front of him. "I don't know. You'll have to tell me."

Scooting to the far edge, Jensen scoffs. "Right, like you've never shared your bed with someone before."

Jeff gets under the covers and bites back the sigh of relief. So much better than the floor. "Not for a while, no. Not too many folks lining up to be farmers or shepherds nowadays."

"I guess not," Jensen says, quiet, into the dark.

Jeff turns on his side, facing away from Jensen, and closes his eyes against his racing heart. Sleep, though much desired, refuses to come.

"Hey Jeff?"

"Hm."

"Thanks."

None of this has turned out the way Jeff had wanted it to, and Jensen thanking him for offering to do the decent thing just makes him feel ashamed. "Go to sleep," he says, and waits and waits to do the same.

*

"How soon can we leave?" Jensen's at the table, eating porridge like it's going out of style. Jeff scrubs a hand through his beard and contemplates the picture he makes. He aches with the wish that it were real, that Jensen wanted to stay.

"Give me a day, maybe two," he says. "I'll need to arrange for someone to watch the farm. And you're going to need some thicker shoes and a coat. The weather's turning. Plus, we don't want to stir suspicion. If anyone figures out what we're doing, they'll kill us both."

"Are you…" Jensen drops his spoon into his bowl, turns it over and over. Jeff waits for him to finish the thought. "Are you going to be okay?" He looks up and meets Jeff's eyes, and Jeff thinks that there might be a glimmer of concern for him there.

"Don't worry about it," he says, gruffer maybe than he means to. "I'll be all right. But listen, I think we should go down to the village tonight. It'll throw off some of the suspicion. Besides," he says with a widening grin. "There's going to be wine, music. Sweets. Maybe dancing."

"Dancing, huh? Gosh, that sounds tempting." Jensen's grin is matching his own.

"It won't be that bad. Think of it as a story you can tell the soldiers when you get back: how you survived a wild night of barbarian excess. It'll impress all your friends."

"Yeah." Jensen goes back to twirling his spoon through his porridge. "'I witnessed an uncivilized bacchanal and lived to tell about it.' Maybe it'll go into my memoirs."

"See? Things are looking up already."

When they finally arrive that night, the party is in full swing. The bonfire is crackling in the cold night air, and music fights with laughter to be heard. Everyone looks drunk, either on wine or camaraderie—or both.

"Jeff! It is good to see you, come, have a drink." Hlodovic claps him on the back with a meaty hand and then shoves a jug at him. "And who is this with you?" He gestures at Jensen as he sways, still holding onto Jeff like he'd fall over otherwise.

Jeff switches to Latin to make the introductions. "Jensen, this is Hlodovic, the village idiot. Jensen is my, uh, prisoner." Stupidly, he hadn't thought about how he was going to introduce Jensen, and he winces.

"Ah, so you are the little prize Jeff was so eager to win." Hlodovic leers at Jensen and nearly topples over, despite Jeff's assistance. Jensen takes a wide-eyed step back; Jeff doesn't blame him. "A pleasure to meet you. And don't listen to Jeff, he's just being modest: although the competition was fierce, I came in second for the title. Jeff is well-known throughout the land as our dear, brain addled, village idiot."

Snorting, Jeff pries Hlodovic's arm off his shoulder, but he retains the wine jug and takes a long swig. It's fortifying. "Have you seen Arminius? I heard there was much planning to be done."

"Speaking of idiots," Hlodovic says under his breath. And then louder: "He is in his throne room. Where else would he be on such a grand occasion?" He gestures expansively, almost knocking into Jensen. Jeff steps in swiftly between them and steers Jensen in the right direction, handing him the wine.

"Come on," he says, guiding him with a hand at the small of his back. "I have some business to attend to, but the food is this way."

Jensen is staring, as if maybe it really does look like a savage bacchanal. Jeff arches an eyebrow in question, and Jensen shakes his head. "So, does everyone know about me?"

Surprised at the question, Jeff pauses amid the throng of revelers. "Uh." He scratches his beard. "Well, I mean. You were heavy. On the march back. And I needed help carrying you."

Jensen stares at him blankly.

"You were unconscious and we were carrying you on a stretcher. Kind of hard to miss."

Nodding slowly, with a look that Jeff can't interpret, Jensen says, "And no one else took prisoners, or any other spoils?"

"Well," Jeff says, and shifts his weight to one foot. "We took plenty of spoils. Your forts are stocked with enough gold and wheat to supply a small kingdom. We always take what we can carry. That's sort of the point."

"Uh huh," Jensen says. "I see."

Jeff feels like he's being examined. He kind of hopes Jensen does see, but he doubts it.

"Come on," he says, and starts moving toward the big house again. "Food is inside."

They meet up with Fritigern and his son, Alaric, who is kind enough to act as translator for Jensen, while Jeff seeks out Arminius.

"I won't be long, promise," he says.

Shrugging, Jensen pops a date into his mouth. "Take your time. Alaric says he'll teach me some Gothic if I want."

Looking between Alaric, who's grinning, and Jensen, whose lack of expression, Jeff has come know, does not mean that he's not thinking evil thoughts, Jeff gives up. "Don't believe anything Alaric says about me," he says, pointing at the culprit. "And he'll probably teach you all the curse words first, so beware."

"Jeff, your lack of faith in me hurts," Alaric says, and doesn't stop grinning for a second. He might be a doctor's apprentice, but by temperament, Alaric would be better suited as a court jester. Or maybe a solicitor.

"Just calling it like I see it. Fritigern," Jeff says, and performs a short bow to his elder. "I'll be back in a while."

"Go," Jensen says, flapping a hand at him.

Arminius is surrounded by his usual lackeys and sycophants. He's sitting in Father's chair, slumped like a drunkard, but his eyes are watchful. Jeff stands next to Tulga, Arminius' General, and second in command.

"Tulga," Jeff says, and nods curtly.

"Jeff," Tulga replies, just as curt.

"Brother!" Arminius comes over and embraces Jeff as though they'd been parted for years, rather than days. "How are the sheep treating you, eh? Not jealous, now that they've been replaced by a sweet-faced boy?"

His breath is foul, and his implication has the intended effect of making Jeff see red, but he bites his tongue. "Arminius. I see you're celebrating your defeat in customary style. What's next? You going to take on the city of Rome herself?"

Laughing, Arminius slaps him on the back and drags him to the center of the circle. "Jeff, this is why I seek your counsel. You are a bracing tonic to the poor beggars here, who are too afraid to say no to me. Come, have a drink."

He's unceremoniously shoved into a chair, and presented with a flagon. Gundemar, the giant oaf paid to be Arminius' food taster and bodyguard, gives him a beady-eyed glare, but then, Jeff's pretty sure that's the only kind of face Gundemar knows how to make.

"Gentlemen, I raise a glass to you," Arminius says, standing up. He's always loved pageantry and the sound of his own voice. Jeff doesn't let out the sigh he wants to make, but he does make himself comfortable; this is going to take a while.

"Once again, it is the brave few who have beaten back the many. Your children and your children's children owe you a debt of gratitude, for it is through your stout-hearted courage, that a new day will be born. Soon we will be free of the tyranny of these interlopers—"

Jeff abruptly tunes out; he's heard all of this before. And there had even been a time when he'd believed it. His brother has a silver tongue.

From his position on the left side of Arminius, Jeff has a clear view of Jensen, still close to the food-laden tables. He's talking animatedly with Alaric, Fritigern looking on with a grin. Jensen's pointing at objects, and then laughing when Alaric shakes his head. He looks good. Happier than he's looked since this entire thing began.

Jeff allows himself a small smile at the sight.

Once he's taken Jensen down to the wall, it's doubtful if Jeff will ever see him again. Certainly, the trade route to Sarmizegetusa will be closed down, and there's no way Jeff would risk his flock to graze on the other side, even if free passage through the gate were to be reinstated.

What Arminius should be doing, Jeff thinks, as he listens to him drone on, is preparing the village for evacuation. Despite what he'd said earlier, he's not fool enough to believe they can take on a legion, bent on destruction and subjugation. Every settlement between the wall and the sea, should clear out immediately. They should be taking to the hills, finding caves that will keep out the worst of the storms, because Rome is on its way. Anyone who thinks differently is a fool.

Rome's been looking for a reason to renew its assault on the mountains; there are far too many valuable resources for Dacia to remain unnoticed, and Arminius has handed them a golden opportunity. After all, why trade with the locals, when you can simply replace them with 'Roman citizens' who will hand over all the iron ore and minerals Rome could ever want?

"—And that is why Rome will kneel before us, friends. They are weak in their hubris. They will see an easy target in Dacia, but they will be wrong!"

Jeff tunes back in just as a cheer goes up. So many young, naive warriors, seeking fame and honor; they're all going to march right into the mouth of the lion. He looks again for Jensen in the crowd, and it's easy to spot him: his perfectly disciplined posture, neatly trimmed hair, and regal bearing make him stand out. Jeff had known in an instant that Jensen was a model soldier. The first time they'd met, Jeff could see the fire of conviction in Jensen's eyes (hiding deep behind the scorn, of course), and what's more: Jeff knows that in that conviction, Jensen is only one of many. Every pledged Legionary, in every Century, in every Cohort, believes just as passionately. And their collective desire is to do nothing but bring glory to Rome. Not even their own lives are as important to them.

If Arminius thinks Rome will bow under any pressure, he isn't just being foolish, he's being dangerously stupid.

These are the exact reasons, Jeff thinks, that he'd retired. He doesn't have the charisma, or the fiery rhetoric, needed to lead a people. He's not bloodthirsty enough for it. All he wants to do is live in peace. That's not enough for the young men of the tribe, though.

Hence why Arminius is Chieftain, and Jeff is a simple shepherd. It's better for everyone this way.

He's had enough politics for one night, he decides, and strides over to the food, resting a hand on Jensen's shoulder for a moment, before letting it slide off.

"Having fun?" He can see Jensen's had plenty of wine; it makes his cheeks rosy and his eyes bright.

Pointing at a bowl full of dates, Jensen says, "dates" in badly accented Gothic.

"Good," Jeff says, taking a long swig of wine from his own flagon. "How about that?"

He points to a board laden with roast boar. Jensen looks at him, then at Alaric, and back to him. "Pig?" He guesses.

"Close," Jeff smiles and says the right word for it. "What about that?" He points at the bread.

"Bread." Jensen says confidently.

"That?" He points to the wine.

"Wine."

"Me?" Jeff points to himself.

"Sheepfucker," Jensen announces, and Alaric doubles over with laughter. Even Fritigern smiles, toothless and wide.

"Yeah, very funny." He turns to Jensen and says in Latin, "Alaric thinks he's hilarious. The proper term is shepherd."

"What did I say?"

Jeff shakes his head. Alaric is near tears at this point. "Let's just say: you shouldn't use that term in mixed company."

Jensen grins and points to himself. So am I not really Little Bear then?"

Slanting a glance at Alaric, Jeff says, "Oh, no, you're definitely Little Bear. That's actually perfect." And he kicks Alaric in the shin.

*

With enough wine, Jeff finds even Arminius can be tolerated. After a round of introductions and a tour of the house, Jensen had wanted to sit somewhere quiet, so they'd found a patch of grass close enough to the bonfire to stay warm, but far enough away from the others that Jeff could hear himself think. It had the added benefit of being within earshot of the music, as well.

"Your friends are nice," Jensen says. He's leaning against Jeff, listing a bit toward the fire. Jeff knows it's due to the wine, but he's enjoying it all the same. Within two, maybe three sunsets, he'll have lost this forever.

"Hm," he says, noncommittal.

"Why didn't you tell me your brother's the Chieftain?"

Turning to respond, Jeff rests his chin against Jensen's head. "Didn't I?"

"You also failed to mention that you were offered the job first."

"Hm." Jensen smells warm. He smells like home.

"Why'd you turn it down?"

Jeff shrugs minutely, unwilling to dislodge Jensen from his shoulder. When he starts to slide down Jeff's chest, Jeff catches him by the shoulder and holds him up. He leaves his hand where it is once Jensen's righted. "Not interested."

"I don't understand." Jensen cracks a yawn and pulls back to look Jeff in the eye.

They're so close, he can count the freckles sprinkled along the bridge of his nose. Jeff wonders idly if Jensen's people come from the North. He's on the point of asking when they're interrupted.

"Brother!" Arminius sits down heavily in front of them. Reluctantly, Jeff releases his hold on Jensen, who scoots back a bit. Jeff kind of wants to do the same.

"I must speak with you in private." Arminius looks at Jensen meaningfully.

"You can speak in front of him."

"He doesn't understand our tongue?"

Looking over at Jensen's pensive expression, Jeff says, "Only enough to get his face slapped. What is it?"

With a suspicious look at Jensen, he continues, "I have been approached by certain...fellows. You know, dear brother, that these last few winters have seen the encroachment of the Scordisci tribes upon our lands." He spits at the ground. "They drink the blood of their enemies. They've come down from the sea like so many crows, to eat our crops and steal our women."

Jeff doubts very much that crows are after their women, but lets Arminius continue.

"They have become a blight, and if we do not beat them back, soon we will be run off our lands. The lands our ancestors worked hard to cultivate—"

"That's enough rhetoric, Arminius, get to the point."

"—Yes, well. I have been approached by a man who represents a very powerful group." He slides Jensen a glance and leans closer, lowering his voice, as if Jensen could understand him. "There is a Roman General who is planning mutiny. He has offered to ally himself with our cause, brother, and help us rid Dacia of this scourge."

Jeff stares at Arminius for a full minute, dumbfounded.

When he finally gathers his wits, he says, "You're joking, right? You think you're going to invite Rome—the very army you just provoked—into our lands, to help you fight a minor skirmish with a handful of travelers?"

Puffing up his chest, Arminius retorts, "These are no mere travelers. They are hardly passing through. They'll keep coming, Jeff, and coming, and making babies, and settling in the valleys and the plains until soon, you will look up, and no one around you will speak your mother tongue."

"And you somehow believe that you can trust the word of a Roman general?"

"Of course not, I'm not a fool. This is why I need your counsel. I think that, as a sign of good faith, the first act of this Marcellus should be to sack the garrison and restore trade beyond the wall."

Jeff blinks. Jensen's looking at first one, then the other of them, brows knit. Doubtless, the fact that the volume has gone from civil conversation to argument level is a clue as to what's going on. Jeff notices that he's shifted a tiny bit closer to his side. He's grateful for the support.

"You are going to get everyone in Dacia killed, Arminius. Your plan is reckless. No Roman general is going to sack his own people, no matter what he promises you. Did you find out what you'd have to give him in return?"

"Merely safe passage through the mountains, and agreeable terms on iron ore."

"Agreeable terms, huh? For whom?"

Arminius gets up in a huff. "I don't know what I was thinking, extending my consideration to you. You've always been a coward. Father knew it, which is why I am the leader of this tribe. What would you know of advantageous alliances? If it were up to you, we'd all be watching sheep piss in a pasture!"

He storms off, back into the party. Jeff stares after him, and then he starts to laugh, helplessly, at the absurdity. Arminius' plan is so dumb, who knows, maybe it would work. The gods were fickle like that.

"Jeff? What'd he say? What's going on?" Jensen's staring at him like he's sprouted horns.

When he sketches out the general idea of the conversation to Jensen, Jensen starts shaking his head.

"That's a terrible idea," he says. "It's a long-established ploy, to pit neighboring tribes against one another and have them wipe each other out. I guarantee you, if this General Marcellus is offering this to you, he's offering the same deal to the—who is it?"

"Scordisci."

"Yeah. It's the easiest way to get rid of an intractable enemy. Don't let Arminius fall for it, Jeff."

"What," Jeff says, eyebrow arched. "Don't tell me you care about what happens to a bunch of bloodthirsty barbarians."

"I don't," Jensen says. "I mean. Not to Arminius and his men. They killed hundreds of my comrades, Jeff. I'd like nothing more than to see Arminius' head on a pike."

"Then what's with the concern?"

Jensen shrugs, poking a hole in the dirt near his ankle. "You're not all like that." He looks up. "I mean, Fritigern's an okay guy." And he smirks.

And because Jeff is just built wrong, that look causes his heart to bloom open, and he laughs, and falls a little bit more in love with Jensen.

"Come on, let's go home. None of this is going to get decided tonight."

Jensen allows Jeff to help him up, and he stumbles getting to his feet. Jeff catches his elbows to steady him. "Whoa. Too much wine for Little Bear?"

"You know I'm going to find out what that actually means, right?"

"I know you're going to try."

The wind is howling when Jensen starts awake. For a moment, he doesn't know where he is, and it all floods back when he sees Jeff: erstwhile prison guard and would-be king. He never would have guessed, looking at the scruffy shepherd with the teasing eyes, all those months ago, that he'd wake up in the man's bed.

He rolls over and stretches. The wound in his side is healing nicely, and there's only an ache in his leg now. He feels…comfortable. And it makes him uncomfortable to realize how quickly he's accepted the situation. He scrambles out of bed and throws on his clothes, scrubbing his face. He's just hungover; the feeling will dissipate with the haze of last night's alcohol.

Jeff's back is to him, busy at the table. His shoulders are hunched, like he's concentrating on a delicate task.

When Jensen pads over and peers over his shoulder, he sees that Jeff's mending a cloak. Its collar is lined in fur, though the rest is wool. Jeff's biting the end of a thread and mumbling to himself.

"Morning," Jensen says, and Jeff looks up. He sits across from him and helps himself to Jeff's cup. It's full of a bitter herbal tea, but it's hot. Jensen grimaces at the taste.

"This damn needle won't thread," Jeff says, and shakes his hand when he pricks himself.

"Give it here." Jensen takes the thread and the needle, holding them both up to catch what little light there is. "Storm sounds bad."

As if to underline his point, there's a loud crack, and what sounds like a tree, hurled against the side of the cottage.

"Weather's turned faster than I expected," Jeff says. "Gonna make the journey harder going."

"But we can still make it?" Jensen threads the needle and hands it back over.

"Long as the river doesn't rise." Jeff bends to his task again and Jensen watches him for a while. "This is for you," he says. "Traded for it with Alaric. He says to tell you that you're a quick study, by the way." Jeff glances up with a smirk, then concentrates on mending the collar again.

Last night had been…unexpectedly fun. The bonfire and the revelry would have shocked any fine lady or gentleman at the dinner parties Jensen had grown up attending, but for all the lack of polish, Jeff's people know how to enjoy themselves.

And Alaric had clearly loved having a captive audience in Jensen. He's a natural born gossip, and had taken pleasure in recounting stories of Jeff in his salad days. Jensen had listened skeptically to tales of the brave warrior, fending off invading clans and leading armies into battle.

He remembers sitting with him in front of the fire, watching the heated discussion between Jeff and his brother—the Chieftain, which is still hard for Jensen to wrap his head around—about the fate of the clan. It's clear that, if Arminius doesn't respect Jeff's opinion, he's in the minority. All night, people had greeted Jeff with open arms, hearty back slaps and smiles.

Alaric had said that the elders had been against electing Arminius to lead them, but they'd been overruled by the hotheaded youngsters, eager to make their mark. He'd said that with Rome a looming specter, a tantalizing challenge, people were more of a mind for war, and Jeff had always been emphatic about keeping the peace.

Not, Alaric had made it known, that Jeff had any love for Rome. It had been within their lifetimes, Alaric had said, that they'd watched her conquer Dacia, if not by force, then through seduction. Exotic goods and newfangled ways had done more to colonize Visigoth holdings than any show of brute force ever could.

It's why Jeff and the younger clansmen spoke Latin so well, Alaric had said. They'd watched Rome infiltrate beyond its ridiculous wall, one man at a time, for decades. The population of the villages had begun to dwindle, as the siren call of the city lured young folk to a life of Roman decadence.

Those had been Alaric's exact words; they'd surprised Jensen, who by that point—several cups deep into the evening—had come to regard Alaric, if not as a friend, then at least as an understanding ally. It had been easy to forget that the hatred for the 'invaders' was always simmering just below the surface.

Which makes Jeff's reluctance to do battle all the more puzzling. If he feels that way about Rome's influence in the province, why stand by and allow it to continue?

Jensen watches him make painstakingly perfect, tiny stitches, and wonders. He can't figure out what to make of Jeff. A peaceful shepherd, a brave soldier, a loyal clansman. He'd been patient with Jensen, kind when he didn't have to be, even in the face of Jensen's resentment.

Jeff is unlike any man Jensen's ever met—Roman or barbarian.

And, unbidden, another memory from last night: Jeff's warm, solid presence holding him up as Jensen grew drowsy, content and a little bit drunk; their faces so close Jensen had been tempted to lean in, close the distance and kiss him.

Thankfully they'd been interrupted. He doesn’t know what foolish impulse that had been, but he's glad he hadn’t had to test his resolve in refraining from it. He's pretty sure he would have given in.

And the notion is absurd. Jensen's not blind, and despite his years, no delicate virgin; he'd known from the first day he'd met him that he could have Jeff for the asking, but where would that get him? A traitor to Rome, sleeping with a primitive. That would have gone over perfectly with his commanding officer.

Jensen would have been stoned to death in the public square.

"You're quiet," Jeff says. Shaking off memories, Jensen sees that Jeff's finished his mending. He stands up and holds the cloak out. "Here," he says. "Try it on."

Jensen does, fingers fumbling over the unfamiliar clasping mechanism. After a moment spent watching him with amusement, Jeff steps up and knocks his hand away. "Let me." He's close, and the memories of last night are perhaps still clinging to him, because Jensen's heart picks up. He holds perfectly still, can feel Jeff's blunt fingers brush against his neck as he fastens the cloak tight. Their eyes meet and Jensen's sure he's given himself away, but Jeff just nods and takes a step back, breaking the spell. "Looks good," he says.

"Thank you." Jensen looks down at himself. The fur is warm and soft against his face, although it gets tangled in his beard. It's been weeks since he's had a decent shave; he must look like a wild thing.

Clearing his throat, Jeff sweeps the detritus off the table and says, "Storm might be letting up. I'll go see about some boots." He grabs his coat off the hook near the door, and is gone before Jensen can say a word.

The fur brushes against his neck, the ghost of fingers, and Jensen shivers.

*

It's well past dark when the door creaks open, and Jensen's palpable relief curdles in his gut when he realizes it isn't Jeff.

"If it isn't the little hausfrau," Arminius says, stepping across the threshold and bringing the rain with him. Jensen gets up and attempts to block his entrance, knowing that Jeff would be displeased to find his brother here, but he's forced back when one of Arminius' goons pushes the door wider.

"Jeff isn't here," he says, holding his ground against the goon's menacing loom.

"What a shame," Arminius sweeps a glance across the tiny space and when his eyes land on Jensen, it takes an effort of will not to shudder. "Well, I suppose that leaves you and I to get better acquainted." He turns to the goon and barks something; the goon steps back out into the driving rain, and closes the door. "Tell me, little soldier, what would it take to have you bend over for me as sweetly as you bend over for my brother?" Arminius advances on him, and Jensen has to step back or risk touching him.

Soon he's backed into the corner where Jeff keeps his larder. Pots clang as Jensen's shoulder hits a shelf. "Do you always try and steal Jeff's things?" Jensen speaks without thinking, angered more on Jeff's behalf than his own.

Laughing, Arminius boxes him in, arms on either side of his head. "My, quite the tongue on you. No doubt my brother doesn't put it to adequate use." A hand slides down Jensen's side, makes its way to Jensen's hip while Arminius' breath puffs across Jensen's face. "I'm sure I can find one or two more…constructive things for it to do."

Jensen's on the point of breaking the asshole's fingers when the door opens and Jeff barks, "Arminius."

And like that, Jensen's free. Arminius has turned around, scowling, but attentive to Jeff's voice. Jensen's impressed. He'd never heard that tone in Jeff's voice before, but it had half made Jensen want to obey, and he hadn't been the target of it.

"What do you want?" Jeff's look is dark, and even soaking wet, he looks dangerous.

"Planning a journey?" Arminius gestures at the pack laden across Jeff's back.

"It's no concern of yours what I do, brother," Jeff says, with the emphasis on 'brother' making it sound like a curse. He switches to Gothic, and Jensen takes the opportunity to edge away from the larder and the door, making his way to the opposite side of the cottage and trying to remain inconspicuous.

They argue loudly, Arminius gesturing wildly and getting red in the face. Jeff remains calm, and repeats himself several times before he holds open the door. Jensen doesn't need translation for that part.

Glaring poison as he goes, Arminius storms out and the door slams. In an instant, Jeff is at his side, hands clutching Jensen's tunic, feeling his arms, shoulders, skating up to hover over his head for a moment, before dropping away. "Are you— Did he— Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Jensen says. He is, too. But he's glad that Jeff arrived when he did. It would have been hard to explain how the corpse of his brother had ended up on Jeff's doorstep. "Where have you been?"

The clouds dissipating, Jeff's look fades into weariness. "Trading for the things you'll need to make it back down. But it's going to have to wait at least a day, maybe two; the path's washed out, and the river won't be crossable until the rain's died down."

He sits down heavily in the chair next to the fire and pulls things out of the pack he'd brought in. Jensen notes that along with boots, there is rope, a knife, a hunk of dried meat, a handful of apples, and a cloth, tied up at the corners. That, Jeff sets aside on the hearth.

Jensen grabs a towel and offers it to Jeff, kneeling down to help him get his boots off. They're soaked through and, Jensen notices, Jeff's shivering. "Here, let me help you," he says, pushing aside all thought about the delay to his plans, and Jeff's crazy brother, for the time being.

They get Jeff out of his wet clothes, and Jensen takes the towel, starts to chafe Jeff's hands, arms, feet, rubbing briskly until Jeff hisses, and then more gently, until his extremities are warm and pink. He averts his eyes from Jeff's nakedness when he stands, but still catches glimpses of muscled shoulders, flexing under scars. Jeff's hair is dark, and his chest is thickly pelted. He looks slightly wild, Jensen thinks. Half man, half beast, like in the old legends. It wouldn't surprise him if Ovid's tales had originated in these mountains, with men such as these to inspire him.

Quickly shrugging on an old shift, Jeff snags the cloth-bound parcel and hands it over.

"What's this?"

Shrugging, Jeff rummages in a chest until he finds dry clothes. "Open it."

Jensen does. It's a handful of the sweet dates they'd had at the party. They'd been unlike anything he'd ever tasted before. He looks his question at Jeff.

"Saw you liked them," he says.

"Thank you, I— They're like nothing we have back home."

"Hm." Jeff knocks around the larder until he come up with a cup and a pitcher Jensen hasn't seen before. He sits at the table and pours; it's wine, but thickly scented with spice. He swallows down a cupful before refilling it quickly, and repeats the gesture.

Jensen sits across from him and eats a date, then offers them to Jeff, who takes one and pops it in his mouth. For the first time that night, he smiles.

"So what's up with Arminius?" Jensen asks.

"It's the same thing," Jeff says, and sighs. "He's hell-bent on this alliance and he wants my support. I guess the meeting with the council of elders didn’t go so well. They'll only agree to it if I’m on board." Huffing a laugh, he continues, "That didn't sit too well with my brother, who's under the impression that he's the Chieftain of this clan."

"Wow. So, what do you think he's gonna do, if he can't get your support?"

"Honestly? I have no idea. Arminius has never been known for his patience. But then again, he doesn't cling to bad ideas for long. My guess is that this'll all blow over in a day or two, and he'll be back to spouting his slogans and propaganda."

He fills the cup a third time and drinks deeply. It smells good, like the forest, and there's a little bit of something else, something Jensen can't put his finger on. He's smelled it before; it's sweet and rich.

"What are you drinking?"

"Honey mead. It's medicinal. Try some?"

Jensen takes a sip from the proffered cup and his head starts to spin as the liquid smoothes across his tongue. He's thrown into an instant sense memory: emerald velvet under his hands, the thick smell of spice; a sudden spike of dread as it all gets ripped away from him.

"Jensen?" The cup tips from his hand and Jeff grabs it, concern creasing his brow.

Blinking, Jensen says, "I'm okay. Just. I think I've had that before."

Taking the cup back and pouring himself another draught, Jeff says, "Wouldn't be surprised. It's made all over the place, in one form or another. Looked like it hit you pretty rough, though."

"Yeah, I. Guess so." He shakes his head, and then places the memory: his mother's house, when he was a child, before he'd been taken to live with his father. "What spices are used in it?"

"It depends on who makes it, but this batch has apples, coriander and angelica. Made it myself."

Nodding, Jensen says, "It's good." He gets up and gathers the bowls and spoons. "I made dinner."

"Perfect, I'm starving."

*

Under the covers, with food in his belly and a crackling fire in the hearth, Jensen drowses, though he's still distantly on guard against his own strange complacency. He won't allow himself to get used to this.

Jeff lets in the cold air as he climbs in beside him, rustles around to find a comfortable position. His toes touch Jensen's bare shin and he yelps. Jeff laughs. "Sorry, guess I'm still not warmed up yet."

"Do the rains come this fiercely every winter?"

"This is unusually heavy for so early in the season, but when it starts like this, it usually means a mild Yule."

"That doesn't exactly help me any," Jensen says, turning on his side to better see Jeff in the firelight.

"Don't suppose it does, no."

"Do you think Arminius suspects anything? Seeing you with that pack tonight…"

"Arminius is blind to anything that doesn't concern him directly."

"How come—" Jensen breaks off. It's none of his business. He twists onto his back and studies the ceiling.

"How come what?"

"You don't have to talk about it, but I get the sense that your brother's always competing with you." He doesn't mention the ugly things he'd said to Jensen earlier.

He can feel it when Jeff shrugs. "He's the oldest, but like I said: his mother was Roman. I think he's always felt he has to prove that he belongs."

"Is your mother still alive?"

"No." Jensen can hear Jeff's head shift on the pillow. " I never knew her. She died giving birth to me."

"I'm sorry."

"What about you? Your family still alive?"

Before tonight, Jensen hadn't thought of his mother for years. It's funny, how things come up like that. "My father is a senator." He stares at the ceiling for a moment before continuing. "My mother…I don't know."

Jeff is silent, waiting.

"She was. She was a slave. She'd been taken in a campaign, in Gaul. And then bought by a brothel keeper in the city. I learned all of this long after the fact."

He pauses, and can hear Jeff breathing.

"My father became enamored of her, and set her up in her own villa. Kept her on retainer, I guess, for whenever he…"

Jeff reaches across and wraps his hands around Jensen's wrist, squeezes a light pressure, and doesn't let go. It helps that Jensen can't see his face.

"Anyway, she had me in secret. Knew that my father would want a son, knew that my father's wife was barren, and even a bastard son of a whore was still a son. She managed to hide me for four years, but. Well. One day I escaped my nurse and, curious, as children are, ran to greet the stranger at the door."

Jeff's hand slips from his wrist down to his fingers, which he twines with his own.

"I never saw her again, after that. If she lives, it's nowhere near her old villa; I checked." He'd checked before he'd left for this campaign, finally getting the full story out of his stepmother. The place had long been abandoned. "I used to speak Gaulish, I guess. I don’t remember it, really, but I do remember getting chided for pronunciation by my tutors."

"I'm sorry," Jeff says, and Jensen thinks he can hear the weight of more than just condolence in that apology. The fire shifts in the grate, the light flares up bright for a moment, before settling back into the dark. Jensen squeezes Jeff's hand tight and doesn't let go.

*

"He's mad, Jeff. He's gone utterly mad. We have to stop him."

Tulga, of all people, is sitting at Jeff's table, sipping hot herbal tea and pounding his fist to illustrate his point. Jensen is wedged into a corner of the bed, sketching a bridge on a scrap of parchment Jeff had found.

From what little he'd gleaned about Tulga at the celebration, Jensen knows this: he is Arminius' second in command, General of their troops, and usually near mute. He watches Jeff's face try and hide its shock at the old soldier's vehemence.

He'd insisted that Tulga speak in Latin, and while Jensen appreciates the gesture, he wishes he could explain how wasted it is on him. There are few things less interesting than the arcane geopolitical machinations of a backwater barbarian tribe. Jensen fights who he's told to fight, and has never cared overly much about why.

Still, it's mildly interesting to watch Jeff talk the guy down. Jensen bets he'd give any senator a run for his money. Last night's conversation rears its head at the thought of senators, and Jensen sets aside his schematics with a sigh.

He paces to the door and back, again, just for something to do. They've been stuck in this hovel for what feels like weeks now, waiting for the slashing sheets of rain to cease. Jensen's itchy with the need to move. To escape, and not just this place, but his own head.

"Listen," Jensen cuts in, leaning his knuckles on the table. "You took an oath, right?"

Shocked, Tulga looks at him and nods. Jeff leans back in his chair, assessing him.

"To protect the tribe, or to support Arminius?"

"To protect the tribe."

"And what is Arminius doing?"

Leaning forward, Jeff says, "He's putting the tribe in danger."

Jensen stands up. "There you go."

Tulga looks from Jensen to Jeff. Jeff smiles and shakes his head.

"The kid's got a point. What's your plan?"

Looking up gratefully, Tulga elaborates his idea. Jensen goes back to his schematics.

Jeff reluctantly agrees to hear the council's idea, and Tulga says that he can contact the Scordisci. They'll each send a delegate to a mutually agreed upon, neutral location, and an alliance of mutual non-aggression will be formed.

When Tulga finally leaves, Jeff wipes a hand down his face. He looks hollowed out. Jensen gets up and stokes the fire, prepping for the stew they'll eat tonight.

"You did the right thing," he says, when he hands over a plate of steaming food.

Jeff takes it with a nod. "Sometimes the right thing, and the good thing, aren't the same."

"The council is lucky to have you."

Jeff huffs a laugh. "It may look like that today, but let's see what develops tomorrow."

After dinner, Jensen drags out the washtub and sets water to boiling on the hob.

"Jeff, do you have a razor, or a sharp blade?"

Jeff tilts his head from where he'd been dozing on the bed. There's very little to do, trapped in a stone hut in the rain. "Why?"

"I want to shave, in case we leave tomorrow."

"Bit optimistic, aren't you?"

"Do you have one or not?"

Jeff stretches and gets up. "You promise not to gut me?"

"No."

"Fair enough," he says, and ambles over to the shelf that holds his tools. "But I don't have a mirror. I'll have to do it."

"Fine," says Jensen. "Wait. Have you ever shaved anyone before?" Jensen looks him up and down. He doubts if Jeff's ever even cut his hair, let alone his beard.

"Nope."

Jensen weighs his options: risk decapitation or risk looking like a Visigoth when he gets home. "Come here," he says. "I'll show you."

He pours the hot water into the tub and gets a towel and the harsh soap Jeff uses. Jeff watches him do the prep of lathering up the soap. Jensen has to put it on by touch. When he's done, Jeff's grinning at him.

"What?"

"You look like a rabid dog."

"Nice. Here." He sits down and spreads the towel under his chin. "Pull up a chair."

Jensen has him move closer, until his thighs are bracketing Jensen's. Focusing on the task at hand, and ignoring their proximity, Jensen holds the blade out at an angle. "You want to go with the grain." He makes a motion, upwards along his cheek. "Gently. Angle the knife so that you're not cutting, just skimming."

Jeff takes the blade from him. "Lean back," he says. Jeff studies him, and Jensen tries not to twitch. The soap is drying on his skin. Just when he's about to say something, Jeff raises his hand, slow, and cups the side of Jensen's head, tilting it. "Raise your chin."

And then the blade is smoothing across his neck, and up his jaw. Jensen closes his eyes. It'll be a relief to get all of this hair off. He'll feel more like himself. He hears the blade rinsing in the water, and then feels it follow the path it had just taken. More rinsing, and then Jeff pushes slightly, to get Jensen to tilt in the opposite direction.

The pattern repeats: tilt, scrape, rinse, over and over, and Jensen keeps his eyes closed. He senses Jeff's closeness through heat and sound, and swallows around the pounding of his heart.

When he gets to Jensen's upper lip, Jeff shifts, and his thighs press into Jensen's knees. Jensen's hips twitch, and he feels it as the blade nicks him. Jeff hisses. "Hold still," he says. "Almost done."

Jeff's hand is big and warm, where it's threaded through his hair. He feels it like an anchor point, and remembers Jeff's fingers, twining with his own, last night. A flash of how Jeff had looked, naked in the firelight, still shivering from cold. How well formed he'd been, muscles flowing effortlessly beneath the skin. Jensen's eyes flutter open, squinting against the glare, and Jeff's right there, not inches from his face. When their eyes meet, Jeff smiles.

"There," he says, and leans over to rinse the blade one last time. He sits up and takes the towel from Jensen's shoulders, wiping down his face with gentle care. "You're no longer bärchen; you look like your old, cranky Roman self again. Feel better?"

Swallowing, Jensen finds that words won't come. He nods, and Jeff's smile fades as he looks at Jensen again. Jeff's hands pause in their ministrations, and they look at each other for a heartbeat. Jensen thinks of all the things Jeff has done these past weeks: saving his life, nursing him back to health, agreeing to take him home.

Jeff isn't a barbarian. He's gentle, and patient, and kind, and Jensen isn't going to see him again after tomorrow. He leans in and brushes his lips against Jeff's.

After a frozen moment, Jeff is returning the kiss, dropping the towel and cupping Jensen's head in both hands. Jensen opens his mouth, moaning at the feel of Jeff's tongue along his lip. His hands gravitate to Jeff's shoulders, pulling him closer, needing to feel the heat of Jeff's skin.

"Gods, I've wanted you for so long," Jeff says, as Jensen tugs him out of the chair and guides him to the bed. Jensen kisses him again to shut him up—he doesn't want to hear it. Doesn't want to know the truth of it—and they fall on the bed, Jensen reaching for skin, and Jeff unwilling to let go of his mouth. They shed their clothes, come together, fall apart, get tangled up in each other, and for a little while, Jensen's unsure where he ends and Jeff begins.

In the quiet hour before dawn, Jensen watches Jeff sleep, face serene. It'll be the memory he takes with him when he goes.

*

The morning is clear, and Jensen is ready.

Jeff serves him porridge silently, lingering touches and sad eyes that Jensen doesn't—can't—indulge.

"I'm going to go meet with the council. Shouldn't take too long. Be ready when I get back," Jeff says.

Jensen nods, and watches him go.

He tracks the sun overhead, counting down the hours it could reasonably take Jeff to run his errand. He packs the bag Jeff had brought with provisions and steadfastly refuses to dwell on last night. Restless, he scrubs down the hearth, takes down Jeff's knives and sharpens them, one by one. He doesn't make the bed, which had been left in disarray.

When he returns, there's a weight on Jeff's shoulders again. He says, "We're still going, but first I need to meet with the Scordisci contingent. It's not too far out of the way."

"What, today?" Jeff nods, avoiding his eyes. Frustrated, Jensen blows out a breath. He's half convinced Jeff's making excuses to delay him, but that's not fair; it's just bad timing. "I thought they wanted neutral third parties?"

"Guess I was nominated."

"Great. How much of a delay will this be?"

Jeff looks over at him, eyes sharp. "I know you're itching to leave, I'm sorry provincial politics are getting in the way of your plans."

A sick lurching feeling has Jensen reaching out for Jeff, to steady himself, but he pulls back before contact. "No, that's not what. I'm sorry. That sounded insensitive. I know how important this is."

Hlodovic comes in, stomping mud off his boots and rubbing his hands. "Bad day for it," he says, and Jensen gives Jeff a sidelong glance. He doesn't know how much Hlodovic knows.

"Won't be too long. Be sure the sheep make it back to their pen tonight. I'll settle up with you in the morning." Hlodovic slaps Jensen on the back as they leave.

"Don't wear the old man out, eh? Plenty of work needs doing around here."

Jensen nods, an empty smile, a last glance backwards, and then he's on the road that winds down to the valley.

"Where's the meeting taking place?" They've been hiking East for what feels like hours; the forest canopy is dense, though, so Jensen's sense of time may be skewed. It's rough going, Jensen barely able to pick out the goat track Jeff is following.

"The Place Where Three Rivers Meet."

"That's helpful."

"It would be, if you knew where you were."

"Pretty sure the garrison is west."

"Yep."

Jensen's been watching Jeff's back. Somewhere along the way he'd found a walking stick, and Jensen has never realized before just how expressive a walking stick could be. Right now, it's telling Jensen to shut up.

All the rain has made the forest lush and cool. Birdsong is almost a riotous roar, and Jensen can hear the distant calls of larger animals. Ones with claws and fangs. He hurries to catch up to Jeff.

"You know these forests well?" he asks, casting wildly for any safe topic to break the tension.

"Lived here all my life. My father taught us how to navigate these woods when I was a boy. Look at the way the moss grows." He gestures at a passing tree with his stick.

Jensen pauses to examine it. It looks like a tree. "Yes?"

"Moss always grows on the north side of the trunk."

He looks closer. "Really?"

"If you see a bear, don't run."

"Seriously? Bears?"

Jeff stops and turns around. He's smirking, but Jensen can see the dark smudges under his eyes. "Did you think they just grew them in the Coliseum?"

"I don't. I never thought about it."

"Yeah, well, keep a watchful eye. Wolves don't usually approach people in groups, especially not in daylight, but bears are dumb. If you see one coming, yell and make as much noise as you can."

Nodding, Jensen says, "Okay. Are there a lot of bear maulings?"

"There's usually one every year. So far none this year." He quirks an eyebrow and Jensen can't tell if he's fucking with him or not. "Keep up and stay on the trail." And then they're hiking again.

When they arrive, they're greeted by a line of tall warriors, with blue stripes across the bridge of their nose and a solemn air. Behind them is a tent, shaped of animal skins and low to the ground. Jeff nods at each man in turn, then ducks into the tent, saying, "have a seat, Jensen," over his shoulder.

While he does, he has time to think about the iciness of Jeff's demeanor. He gets it; he does. And he doesn't blame Jeff for a single thing. This is all Jensen's fault. It's just. He'd never realized how much he'd come to take Jeff for granted. Not just in the past few weeks, but for months. They'd been…flirting. And Jensen. Jensen's an asshole, because he'd known, and he'd treated Jeff like an animal. Worse, like dirt under his shoes. And he'd been confident that Jeff would always be there.

And now Jeff is gone. Or as good as. And it sucks.

He's getting curious stares from the Scordisci. He sits up straight, smoothes his brow into the pleasantly vacant expression he'd used on patrol. They're equally immobile, and the time ticks away in silence, daylight burning overhead.

It's hard to say what he notices first: the murmuring restlessness of the Scordisci, or the quickening sound of hoof beats. Instantly on alert, Jensen's up and moving for cover, putting himself automatically between the tent and the direction of the sound.

He wishes he had more than a knife on him.

The Scordisci get with the program and fan out. One of them ducks inside, and before Jensen can see him, he hears Jeff's voice, lifted in argument. He comes out, back first, tent flap gliding along his shoulder. Jensen bends and peers around him, and sees that the Scordisci have him at sword point. Jensen strides over and angles himself between Jeff and the sword before anyone can object.

"What the hell is going on?"

"They think I set them up," Jeff says.

"Or they could be setting you up." Jensen's got the tip of a sword poking his sternum. "Any thoughts on what to do next?"

"Well, I'm guessing it would be bad to run."

"Maybe not."

"You shouldn't get into this, Jensen, it's not your fight." Jeff's turned, back-to-back with him now, and they both have their hands up. Jeff says something to the Scordisci leader—Jensen knows he's the leader because he has the biggest beads—in a placating tone.

Jensen can hear the sound of branches breaking and a panting horse behind him, and then "Jeff!" He turns his head to see Alaric, breathless, dismounting while the horse is still in motion. He stumbles into the clearing and is immediately surrounded by a whole bunch of angry Scordisci. "Whoa. I come in peace. Jeff, tell them."

Jeff says something, and they all drop their swords. Jensen lets out a breath, but doesn't take his eyes off the leader. In a fight, he's pretty sure he could take him.

"Alaric, what is it?"

"Arminius. He's led Marcellus' troops into the village; they're sacking the place. We need you."

Jeff swears rapidly, and then translates for the Scordisci. The leader nods, and waves his hand at his guards. Soon, Jeff's mounting a horse, and Jensen says, "You're not going without me."

Pulling up on the reigns, Jeff stops at his side. "You shouldn't be there, Jensen; I don't want to make you a part of this."

And Jensen knows he's right, but all he can think about is Jeff leaving, dying maybe, in this stupid, pointless battle, and Jensen will never see him again. "I'm coming, scoot up." He grabs Jeff's arm and swings up behind him, kicking his heels to make the horse go.

"Damn it, Jensen."

"Just go."

Jeff shakes the reigns, and they lead the way back to the village, a line of Scordisci warriors in their wake.

*

It's pandemonium on the ground. Smoke is billowing up from scores of thatched-roof houses, all ablaze. There's a sea of clashing swords and the howls of dying men. They dismount and Jeff says, "I'm going after Arminius. If we get separated, meet me back at the house."

He follows Jeff into the fray. Neither of them prepared for battle—no sword, no armor. He watches Jeff take down the nearest soldier in three quick blows, pick up his sword and hand it to Jensen. "Here. Get his armor." And then he turns back to the fight, taking on the next soldier, bare handed. Jensen's in awe. He's never seen the like of it; Jeff is a man possessed, and he's dearly glad they'd never met on the battlefield.

In no time, they're both armed and Jensen's wearing a breastplate, with a shield over his arm. He covers Jeff's back as they make their way deeper into the fray. It looks like the fighting is centered on the great hall, and without discussing it, they both aim that direction.

Inside, the smoke is chokingly thick. "Are you sure he's here?" he asks.

Ducking low and taking the steps slowly, Jeff says, "No, but if Arminius means to occupy by force, he'd want to consolidate his position in the most defensible place." The clang of weapons and shouting comes from the throne room, and Jeff darts off. Jensen's about to follow when he hears a cry of terror behind him, and spins to see Fritigern, on his knees before a soldier, hands up in supplication. The soldier's arm is raised to deliver the killing blow, and Jensen springs into action, blocking the sword's downward stroke.

He thrusts his shield at Fritigern, and says, "Get out of here." Fritigern nods, and clutches the shield to his chest. Jensen goes on the offense, beating back the soldier. He holds, unsure what to do next. He doesn't want to kill him, but he can't let the soldier go, either. The soldier takes advantage of his indecision to thrust for his heart, and on instinct, Jensen defends himself, knocking the blade away and striking out, hard. The sword slides easily into the soldier's belly, and he clutches at it, dropping to his knees.

Jensen stands frozen, panting, above him, in sheer disbelief.

"Jensen?" Jeff comes down the steps and into the room. He looks from Jensen to the dead soldier and back. "He would have killed you," he says. It's cold comfort.

"Drop your swords!" A cornu sounds, announcing the presence of a general. The crest of an imperial helmet ducks through the doorway, and General Marcellus sweeps into the room. Instinctively, Jensen stands at attention, and grabs the sword out of Jeff's hand, letting it clatter to the ground.

The classicum sounds next, indicating for soldiers to stand down, and that's when Jensen knows it's all over. They've lost. He ducks his head.

"I am looking for the leader of this rebellion."

Jeff steps forward. "You found him." Jensen turns to him; Jeff's face is set in stone, defiant.

"No!" Jensen steps in front of him, as if he could stop an entire legion. A soldier grabs his arm and drags him aside, Jensen fruitlessly attempting to shake him off.

"As the leader of an insurrection against the rightful Chieftain and ally of Rome," the General proclaims. "You are hereby sentenced to death for treason." Marcellus gestures at Jeff. "Take him away."

"What? No. General, you can't, this isn't—" Jensen's buffeted back as soldiers close around Jeff and shackle him; he doesn't resist. "Sir, please listen to me."

But Marcellus just marches out of the room, ignoring him. The soldiers push him back when he tries to follow. Jensen looks down and notes that, aside from his clean-shaven face, he looks like a barbarian: clad in a shabby tunic and leather trousers, spattered with gore. To anyone looking, he'd appear to be an oddly Romanized savage; albeit one who speaks flawless Latin. As he watches Jeff dragged out in chains, he thinks, for the very first time, that the estimation may not be wrong.

*

The square is deserted, surrounded on all sides by smoking ruins. Jensen staggers out of the great hall, choking on smoke and anger. His mind is a blank. They're going to execute Jeff and he has no idea what to do about it.

He sits on the edge of the fire pit, where just a few days ago, he'd gazed into a bonfire, warm and drowsy, leaning into Jeff's side.

Jensen stares blindly at the pale sky, smoke disappearing into the gray clouds overhead. It's eerily silent, until the scuff of boots, the shifting of wood on stone, announces that he's not alone. He turns, and sees Alaric standing next to him, looking as desolate as Jensen feels.

"They took him," Jensen says, voice rough from smoke.

"I know."

"We need to get him back."

"Yeah."

"How?"

"Come with me."

Alaric beckons, and Jensen forces himself to get up, to move forward. To keep going.

*

They're planning a prison break.

"No no no," Hlodovic is shouting down everyone. "They've set up camp at the base of the mountain. They'll execute him there! We have no time to waste."

"If Tulga's intelligence is correct—"

"Of course it's correct—"

"—Arminius wants a spectacle. They will bring him to the square—"

"—Are you willing to risk Jeff's life on the word of a Roman? No offense, Jensen."

"None taken," Jensen says. "But listen, Tulga's right. They want to make an example of him, so they're going to wait until they can gather tribes from all over. Marcellus is no fool. He wants to strike fear in the heart of every man, woman and child beyond the wall. It's going to be a show of military might."

"Thank you," Tulga says. They're all crowded into the one-room shack Fritigern uses as a hospital: Alaric, Fritigern—who'd cried and kissed Jensen's hand when he came in, only slightly embarrassing—and Tulga, Hlodovic, a handful of Scordisci, and all the walking wounded who'd survived. Tulga had tracked the legion back to their base.

"But I still think Hlodovic's right, we can't take the chance. Look, I'll go down, infiltrate the camp, free Jeff, and we can follow the river back."

"It's too dangerous—"

The Scordisci Chieftain speaks up, cutting everyone off, and Fritigern translates into Gothic. Jensen waits. Alaric leans in and says, "The Scordisci are willing to follow you. They are excellent trackers, and well-known for their stealth."

"Then it's settled," Jensen says. "Let's go."

Alaric comes, too, in case translation is needed. Jensen arms himself from the uniforms stripped off of dead soldiers. He doesn't look too closely, for fear of recognizing some of the dead.

It's full night already as they begin the trek. Tulga takes the lead, and Jensen keeps pace. "You fought bravely," Tulga says. Jensen glances at him. "Roman, Visigoth, it does not matter. You have the heart of a warrior."

"Thanks," Jensen says. He keeps his eyes on the ground, careful not to lose his footing in the dark.

"We were wrong, not to heed Jeff's warning. We will not make that mistake again."

"Your village is destroyed. What will you do?"

Tulga smiles, wry. "What we always do: rebuild. Start again. This is not the first time Rome has burned our houses."

Jensen looks up at that. Tulga sees the question he doesn’t ask.

"Our ancestors came to these mountains many years ago, seeking fertile land and a peaceful existence. Since Rome built her wall, there has been no peace."

The armored breastplate Jensen wears chafes against his neck. It feels like iron, circling tight, making it hard to breathe.

Jensen wonders if it had always felt like that, but he'd never noticed.

They stop just short of the treeline, where Jensen can see the fires of the camp lit, can hear the familiar cadences of soldiers after battle. The Scordisci spread out and disappear. Alaric hunches down with Tulga.

"All right. The prison should be in the Northeast corner of the camp, surrounded by a dozen guards, but not more. The wall will be patrolled by half a score more." Jensen points at Tulga. "We scale the wall, and you hang back, cover our exit route. Are the Scordisci ready to create a diversion?"

Alaric trills a whistle, which in a moment is returned. "Yes," he says.

"Good. Alaric, stay here; you'll be our rally point. Ready?"

"Ready."

It's quick work, breaking through the patrol with Tulga beside him. They wait in the shadows until they hear the war cries of the Scordisci, and then Jensen emerges, blending into a line of soldiers marching toward the mess. He'd stolen a helmet from a patrolman and it obscures his features enough in the dark; Jensen doubts he'll be recognized, Marcellus' troops are fresh from the Alps, and it's unlikely he knows anyone, but it doesn't hurt to be careful.

He breaks off when they near the prison, and Jensen approaches the door. "Stand aside, soldier. Orders of the General."

"I had no such orders, sir."

"Are you questioning Marcellus?"

"No sir."

"Good. The prisoner is to be brought before the General tonight. The execution has been moved up."

"Yes sir," the guard says, and the large ring of iron keys sounds loud as he fumbles the right one into the lock.

The door swings open, and Jensen catches his breath. Jeff's chained to the wall by the neck. His eyes are sunken in shadow, but even so, Jensen can see that both have been blackened. There's a painful looking knot on his jaw, swollen and red. He's favoring his left arm.

"Remove the chains at once, soldier."

When Jeff hears his voice, he whips his head up. Jensen stares at him meaningfully, and he doesn't say anything. When the chains are off, Jensen says, "Let's go, traitor. Your crimes are to be answered for." He grabs Jeff's arm—the right one—and marches him out of the prison.

"No, I won't go, you can't kill me in the middle of the night like a coward. I demand a trial." Jeff's really selling it. Jensen looks him askance, and he winks.

"You think the General has time to waste on barbarian scum like you? Move." He pushes Jeff ahead of him, and he stumbles. When they're out of the line of sight of any guards, Jensen whispers, "Come on, Tulga's this way."

"What are you doing, Jensen? Are you crazy? You'll be caught."

"Not if you hustle. Come on."

They reach Tulga without incident; Jensen can still hear the Scordisci unleashing hell on the other side of the camp.

"Tulga," Jeff says.

"Jeff." Tulga says, and then claps him on the shoulder, and reels him in for a hug. "It is good to see you."

"Save it for later, we gotta go."

There's no way Jeff can scale a wall in his condition, so Tulga goes first and reaches down. Jensen gives him a boost up, and he scrambles over and drops like a stone. Jensen winces in sympathy.

When he makes it over himself, he hears the alarm go up: they've been discovered. "They know Jeff escaped. Run!"

They make it to the treeline, and Alaric is already sounding the retreat for the Scordisci. Jensen doesn't wait around to see if they make it, but he makes sure to keep Jeff in front of him all the way back up the mountain.

Nearly blind with exhaustion, Jensen calls for a rest at the edge of a clear running stream. Like smoke, the Scordisci melt out of the trees and converge on them. Jensen can't believe that Arminius ever thought the Romans could take these guys down.

He kneels at the water's edge. "Jeff, come drink some water."

"I'm fine. We should keep moving."

"You're fine, huh? Your arm's probably broken, and you've definitely lost some teeth. Get over here and drink some water."

"If I sit, I won't be able to get up again."

Thinking that's doubtlessly true, Jensen gets up and crosses over to him. He places his fingertips gently along Jeff's temple and tilts his face up to catch the moonlight, assessing the damage. "Then we'll carry you," he says.

Alaric brings over a cup, and Jeff sips from it haltingly. Jensen takes it and finishes it off.

"I don't think we're being followed," Tulga announces, as he dips his hand into the stream. "We can rest for a bit."

"Come on," Jensen says. He takes Jeff's hand and tugs him down. Wearily, Jeff follows, and when he starts to list to the side, Jensen catches him, tugs him in closer. He wraps his arms around Jeff, gently, and says, "Rest."

"Jensen."

"Hm?"

"Thank you."

"Sh," Jensen says.

*

Fritigern patches Jeff up the best he can.

It's helpful that his office is the de facto headquarters of what Jensen's calling 'the resistance.' Clan leaders and Chieftains from all over have been pouring in over the last few days. They'd been alerted to a major execution being planned by the Romans. Funny how, in the end, it's Marcellus who helps converge a coalition of tribes, all united in their hatred of Rome.

"He says the arm will heal, if I don't move it." Jeff comes out into the sunshine and Jensen hops off the overturned cart he'd been sitting on.

"And how likely are you to follow his advice?"

"I'm a model patient. Fritigern says so."

"You ready for your big speech?"

"As I'll ever be."

They head across the square to the great hall. Which isn't so great anymore, but which is still a place where everyone gathers to hear news.

It's crowded today; the first time since the invasion that Jensen's seen this many people here. It gives him a funny feeling, to see all these faces, filled with hope, looking up at Jeff. It's kind of like the feeling he used to get, seeing his cohort in perfect formation. Kind of like that, but not exactly.

It's something more than that.

He watches Jeff mount the steps, slowly, because he's still banged up. A hush falls over the crowd.

"Friends," he says. "I'm not one for pretty speeches or fiery rhetoric, so I'll keep this short and to the point. I know you all took a vote, and you'd like it if I became chieftain of the tribe."

There's a rustling murmur throughout the crowd. Somebody gives a muted whoop and everyone laughs.

"Well, first I'd like to thank you. Your confidence in me means a lot. But I'm not going to take the job."

The rustling in the crowd gets louder. Jeff raises his good arm to call for quiet. "I won't be Chieftain, but I will become a member of the council. It's a funny thing about Rome," he continues, once everyone's quiet again. "They're aggressive and pompous, sure, but there's been one or two good things to come out of that overgrown city."

Jensen feels the blush rise as people near him turn to smile at him.

"They have this notion of a senate, where people come together, and everyone gets a chance to be heard. I'd like to take that idea and make something like it here. I'd like to expand the council of elders, and open up membership to other tribes. We're going to have a hell of a fight on our hands if we want to keep our homes, and to my mind, we could use alliances."

The crowd begins to stir, the volume of overlapping conversations turns into a dull roar. Jeff waits it out; Jensen can't take his eyes off of him.

"So what do you say? Should we vote on it?"

The crowd erupts into cheers. Everyone starts moving and talking and waving. Jeff smiles, and when he catches Jensen's eye, he grins. Tulga comes up and shouts over the clamor, calling for order. Jeff lets him take over, and walks down into the crowd. He's greeted and hugged and kissed by everyone as he passes. Jensen can see the tension, tight around his eyes, where his bad arm is jostled.

When he finally makes it to Jensen, he says, "Hey kid. What do you think?"

"I think you're a natural-born politician."

"Ouch."

"No, you're right, that was mean. How about: I think you're a natural-born leader of men."

"That'll do."

"You ready to go home?"

Jeff arches a brow. "Are you gonna stay a while?"

"You know as well as I do that I don't have a choice."

"No?"

"No." He steps in close. "My home is wherever you are." Jensen feels like a sap, but he has to say it. Because it's true. He may have had to travel to the end of the world to find it, but for the very first time in his life, he understands what it means to be home.

*

*
Epilogue:

The summer sun beats down on Jensen's neck. He'd been unprepared for the intensity of the seasons, but he'll take this heat over the miserable mud baths of winter any day.

The sheep file through the gate obediently, and Jensen locks them in their pen. On the way up to the house, he encounters Alaric, who's making his way down.

"Alaric," he says.

"Jensen. How's it going?"

"Good. Just finishing up for the day."

"Good timing," Alaric looks back toward the house and leans in confidentially. "Jeff's about ready to tear someone's head off. Go distract him."
"Why me? I'm fairly partial to keeping my head on my shoulders."

Giving him a sly look, Alaric says, "If there's anyone who can calm the Beast, it's Little Bear."

Jensen regrets the day he ever made Alaric tell him the meaning of his nickname. "I'm not little," he says.

"Fine, Big Bear it is. Go make him relax."

"And Jeff's hardly a beast," he adds, an afterthought. But it's mostly lip service to defend Jeff's honor; he's seen Jeff when he really gets going. He's terrifying.

"I'd love to stand here and debate, but I'm late to see Greta." Alaric's been wooing a girl from the Eravisci diplomatic contingent. It's amusing to see him fail to catch her eye.

"Oh yeah? Well, if she remembers your name this time, tell her I said hi."

"You're a charmer."

"No, I'm Bärchen, remember?" Jensen grins. He bets Alaric regrets the day he ever agreed to teach him Gothic.

When he gets home, Jeff is actually pretty wound up.

"What's up?"

Jeff stands up from the table and paces. "The council wants my vote on what to do with Arminius."

Jensen blinks. They'd caught Arminius in the spring, after Marcellus' legion had been recalled. Arminius had been left friendless and begging in Sarmizegetusa. He's been rotting in a dungeon ever since. "What do they want to do with him?"

"Make an example of him," Jeff waves a hand at the fire. "Torture him in the public square, put his head on a pike."

"Sounds good to me."

"He's my brother."

"And you, what, want to let him go?" Jensen sits at the table and snags Jeff's plate, still half full. He helps himself as he watches Jeff pace.

"Of course not, but I can't condone murdering my own kin."

"So, what then?"

"I don't know."

"Well," Jensen swallows a bite of turnip. "Is there a third option? Can we pawn him off on the Scordisci?" They've been guarding the prison he's in now. And they aren't exactly the nicest people around.

"Maybe. I'll look into it." Jeff comes over and kicks Jensen's chair back from the table. Jensen's spoon clatters onto the plate.

"I was eating."

"I know." He steps in between Jensen's knees and rests his hands on Jensen's shoulders.

Jensen tilts his head up. "What else did the council say?"

"They're forming a war plan." He lowers his head until his forehead touches Jensen's. Jensen closes his eyes. "They think they've got a pretty good chance of actually driving the Romans out of the province."

"Seriously?" Jensen opens his eyes. "The entire province?"

Taking a step back, Jeff says, "There are tens of thousands of us now, Jen."

"Wow. It's hard to imagine that many people, all allied against Rome."

"And we've got some pretty brilliant tacticians on our side. With detailed knowledge of Roman military strategy."

Smiling, Jensen gets up and puts his hands on Jeff's waist. He starts guiding Jeff backwards to the bed. "This is true. I hear your tacticians are brilliant. And handsome."

"And humble," Jeff says.

"And you have one or two pretty charismatic leaders."

"I've heard that, yeah."

"You know, where I come from, when there's one man that the others listen to more often, we call him the 'First Among Equals.'"

Jeff tilts his head, bites Jensen's neck, and Jensen shivers. "That's some fancy rhetoric you got there."

Bending his neck to give better access, Jensen sighs. "Well, when the crown fits."

"Maybe I'll save the crown for later." Jeff kicks off his boots and lays down on the bed, pulling Jensen on top of him.

"Yeah, you're right. You've got more important things to attend to right now."

"Uh huh," Jeff says, and then there's no more talking for a while.

[The End]