Love Is A Battlefield

[Felix Valerius]

There was something in the pit of Valerius' stomach that had been there since the moment he let Nennius go. He had freed his slave, uncaring about what happened to the rest of them. It was Nennius in particular he had sought out. Nennius that he told to go. And . . . Nennius that was foremost on his mind. He hated it. He hated him. Except . . . not really. Not even close. The consumed thoughts was threatening to impede his position. His support when it came to this war. Valerius was called upon to serve, to lead one of the small factions and of course he couldn't refuse. Besides, it was a welcome thought to be apart from his wife. Yet, he could not help but think of him. Was he alive? Was he dead? Was he to be tortured? Was he far away from the rebellion?

All these unanswered, throbbing questions were answered by the gods. Fortune? Misfortune? Fate perhaps . . . whatever it was, Valerius had been faced with a decision. One he thought he would never have to make. But then, perhaps he already had. By letting Nennius free from his villa, Valerius had made the decision not to go with him. He had stayed as a noble, as someone who would serve in the army to take down the rebels that threatened his people's position. The rebels were the enemy. And thus, Nennius was the enemy. So when Valerius had charged on his horse, tackled down by a rebel . . . he had not expected who that person might be. The man held advantage, striking Valerius so hard, that the helmet dented, and it was forced off his face.

The Noble gripped his sword, holding it out at the ready . . . but it was as far as he had gotten. There, before him, the rebel who had gotten him off his horse, was Nennius. The sight upon him amidst the cries of war, the clanging of metal, and the smell of blood . . . Valerius felt his entire world still. It was a reunion he had long desired; a reunion he had long feared. Everything that had happened, every decision he had made . . . seemed to be set upon this path, to lead to this exact moment. Where, final decision was forced. Valerius just stared at the man; wordlessly. Speechless. It was perhaps the first time that Felix did not even know what expression his own, usually composed face held.

The world ceased to exist, and the sudden urge to approach Nennius and . . . what? Hold him? Grab him? The Roman did not even know. Nor did he have time to deliberate. Though it felt as if time stopped, it had not. And reality came crashing back. Valerius raised his sword, without a moment to waste and hurled it towards Nennius. But not at him. Instead, it struck a Roman directly in the neck; a Roman that had nearly taken down Nennius from behind. There it was. Decision had been made. For Felix Valerius had just killed one of his own . . . to save a rebel. To save Nennius.

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[Nennius]

Love Is A Battlefield Nennius felt the easy way his blade slipped up under the Romans breastplate, plunging through the flesh and disemboweling the man in one clean stroke. He had learned long ago just how easy it was to take another's life. As long as the blade was sharp, it didn't take much effort at all. As the man fell to his eternal sleep in the mud, clear blue eyes looked up through the blood and sweat. The rebels were outnumbered and outmaneuvered, but they all fought with a passion unmatched. Their fight had a purpose. Seemingly out of nowhere, a white horse and rider charged through a clearing and Nennius held his position, blade at hand. When the rider was close enough, Nennius called on all the strength and adrenaline he could to snatch the man by the thigh and waist, effectively throwing him from the saddle. A hard thwack to the animal's hind quarters sent it whinnying for the sidelines, as it was unfair to have such advantage. As the Roman shit fumbled to his feet, Nennius swung the pommel of his sword into an aggressive clash against his helmet.  The ex-gladiator should have been exhausted. He should have been weary and spent, yet the thrill of battle coursed through him like a live wire. This was what battle lust felt like. A grand delusion of a never ending source of strength and vitality. Nennius steadied his feet, small tweaks afforded his brace to grant him a wider range of motion and a greater sense of balance. He lifted his blade with a growl, at least until the man's face came around into view. It was like seeing a ghost, a haunted figure from a lifetime ago. The sounds of war, swords clashing, blood gushing and the cries of the dying were all drowned out by the deafening thumping of his own heart throbbing in his head. It felt as if the whole world fell away and only Valerius and himself remained, two souls on opposite edges of a vast canyon between them. If Nennius reached for him now, could Valerius take that leap from the cliff to meet him halfway?  And as if Valerius had heard his thoughts, he answered. Raising his blade and mowing down a fellow Roman on Nennius' behalf. The soldier collapsed to the ground at his feet, blood pouring from a gaping wound through the throat, Valerius's great Roman sword still piercing the tender flesh. The Roman grasped at Nennius' ankle mere moments before his soul fled for the afterlife. Nennius watched his eyes glaze over with lifelessness and turned back to Valerius, still stretched across that canyon, out of reach. "Dominus.." He misspoke, Valerius no longer held that title, that distinction. Nennius was a free man now, ultimately under the authority of nobody but himself. Old habits die hard, he supposed.

^{tag : Felix Valerius}

[Felix Valerius]

Dominus The word had not been heard by Valerius for time time. And even now . . . there was both a familiarity and foreignness to it. It left Valerius with mixed feelings as he continued to process what had just happened. And in who's presence he was currently standing in. "Are you not a free man?" He questioned rhetorically, wondering what compelled him to state such blunt words. Not ones that held accusation but . . . well, he wasn't even entirely certain was tone was behind them.

He only knew that he had killed a fellow Roman soldier for trying to kill a threat. Yet, that was not how Valerius saw Nennius. He was not a threat. He was . . . so much more. So much more than Valerius could admit. Though perhaps, he had admitted it to himself long ago. "Do not fucking call me that." More blunt words, but ones that held warning. For them both. It was a habit, just as calling Nennius a slave was. But the Roman had forgone that right the moment he freed him from his villa. Now, they were but two man. Facing each other; staring at each other. Waiting . . . for what to do next.

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