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From his place on the crest of the hill, he can see the entire camp, and it provides a perfect vantage point to check all possible approaches from the surrounding land. Agron’s gaze skims across the thin rocky road to the East, passes over the other hills that help disguise their position, and finally returns to the scattering of tents below him. Rising sun has roused the camp to activity, and he can see Sibyl tending the fire with some of the younger rebels, instructing them in the ways of day-to-day life.
Nasir had already left their tent when Agron awoke and joined the others, and was, according to a scowling Laeta, on an early-morning hunt with one of the other rebels. She had been haphazardly hauling water back from the stream when Agron had accosted her, although there was more water left in her wake and soaking the bottom of her dress than in the bucket at that point. He’d decided to mount the hill to look for signs of possible attackers, and, though he is loathe to admit it, watch for Nasir’s return.
“Who do you watch for with such purpose?” a familiar voice calls from behind. Nasir. The little man had somehow managed to come up behind him, ever-stealthy as a wild animal. Grinning, Agron turns to meet his lover. When Nasir is close enough, he lifts his face, and Agron lowers his, and they meet halfway in a soft kiss of greeting before drawing back.
“You leave wounds undressed this day?” Nasir asks with evident surprise. Until recently the cloths that bound the large gashes crossing Agron’s skin had been stained with new blood each time they were removed; the wounds never able to fully close under the punishing pace they had been forced to even before the final, disastrous battle with the Romans and their urgent flight. With many days journeying between them and Rome’s armies, they had at last decided to keep camp in the same place for several days, allowing them all much needed rest to balm injuries and grieving souls.
“Need has passed,” Agron answers, adding ” At fucking last.”
Standing before him, Nasir lifts his thumb and tentatively runs it along the ridge of the largest wound, now scarred with pale, new skin, then trails his hand down Agron’s torso, circling around him to thoroughly inspects each injury. “It seems you speak true,” he smiles as he gently takes Agron’ hands in his, the only places still bearing pale bandages. Neither speak of these wounds, a tacit agreement between them; only passing of many days will answer question of their recovery. “It gladdens spirit to see flesh no longer marked so deeply.”
“Would that wounds inflicted on heart could mend so well,” he murmurs. He is painfully aware that Nasir still hurts as a result of his actions, that nightmares of cross and nails have plagued the man’s sleep, and he has sworn to himself and Nasir that he will do all he can to ease ache he causes .
For a while they stay silent, Nasir absently trailing small circles on Agron’s wrist with the pad of his thumb. He appears deep in thought, and Agron refrains from disturbing him. “Time can do much”, Nasir says at last. “But perhaps there lies way to aid in process.” He glances up at Agron, and brings his hand to his lover’s face; Agron takes it as a welcome sign, bending his head so he may bring their lips together.
“There is a thing I would see done, “Nasir says in a low voice when their lips part. “I have long desired it, but I would not have risked you further injury while wounds yet healed.”
“And what is it you desire?” Agron asks huskily, already swooping down to capture the smaller man’s mouth in another kiss….
The next thing he feels is the skull-crushing, bone-chilling pain of Nasir’s booted foot meeting squarely with his crotch. He drops like a stone to the ground, hands instinctively clutching at his balls.
“That is for leaving with Crixus,” he hears distantly through roaring ears, as Nasir hair-flips away down the hill.