Post by Agron on Jul 3, 2017 0:37:56 GMT
i was fool
TO EVER LEAVE YOUR ARMS
The memorial was over, and everyone was retiring to their tents. Agron’s body felt the effects of the abuse it had undergone. The beating. The nailing to the cross. The blood loss. The over exertion back to the rebels camp; for he refused to let anyone fucking carry him. Regardless, he had required the support from another, and that of course being Spartacus. Agron’s eyes had been downcast practically the entire way. In part due to the swelling on his face, but another reason … was for the simple fact that he felt ashamed.
Especially when he was to face Nasir. Nasir; who had embraced him so easily. Absent anger. Absent blame. Only to speak of the gods returning him to his arms. Agron felt … a fool. And now, he was a disabled fool. The use of his hands completely compromised. And thus, his spirits broken. The hour was late and they were in Nasir’s tent. Agron supposed, their shared tent. Though he knew not where he stood with Nasir after what he had done … after having left him.
He wondered in this moment, if it was almost better to have died on that cross, than to return to him in this state. Agron sat on the edge of the bed, not wishing to admit the drain his body had felt. Though, it was hardly a secret given the physical state that could be easily observed. He said nothing. What could he say about all this? He could not stop thinking of the two holes in his hands. His life had been his identity as a warrior. With that identity now stripped from him … he didn’t know who he was. What he was.
The Romans had ensured he would never raise a sword again, nailing his hands rather than the norm of the wrists. Death, a kindness. But kindness was not something to be expected from those Roman shits. "Gratitude," Agron said in a weakened voice, unable to keep the emotion from it. Though he could not look at Nasir. He was too ashamed, of everything. "For aid." For the support, physical as well as emotional that Nasir had immediately offered as soon as Agron entered camp. The Syrian’s heart too strong to give Agron what he deserved: which was nothing at all.
Especially when he was to face Nasir. Nasir; who had embraced him so easily. Absent anger. Absent blame. Only to speak of the gods returning him to his arms. Agron felt … a fool. And now, he was a disabled fool. The use of his hands completely compromised. And thus, his spirits broken. The hour was late and they were in Nasir’s tent. Agron supposed, their shared tent. Though he knew not where he stood with Nasir after what he had done … after having left him.
He wondered in this moment, if it was almost better to have died on that cross, than to return to him in this state. Agron sat on the edge of the bed, not wishing to admit the drain his body had felt. Though, it was hardly a secret given the physical state that could be easily observed. He said nothing. What could he say about all this? He could not stop thinking of the two holes in his hands. His life had been his identity as a warrior. With that identity now stripped from him … he didn’t know who he was. What he was.
The Romans had ensured he would never raise a sword again, nailing his hands rather than the norm of the wrists. Death, a kindness. But kindness was not something to be expected from those Roman shits. "Gratitude," Agron said in a weakened voice, unable to keep the emotion from it. Though he could not look at Nasir. He was too ashamed, of everything. "For aid." For the support, physical as well as emotional that Nasir had immediately offered as soon as Agron entered camp. The Syrian’s heart too strong to give Agron what he deserved: which was nothing at all.