(no subject)

[bringer_of_rain]

It is not the road of the arena. It does not tremble underfoot, there are no pillars to shake, no editor to grant award. Neither is the battlefield - he is accompanied by no brave companion, possessed of no noble cause. There is nothing glorious or memorable about this, nothing about which he can be proud.

More than anything, it reminds him of the pits. Brutal, raucous, dark, and he can practically hear the ring of coin as it changes hands. There will be no death and he fights for no master but himself; at the end of the night he will receive his own payment. But he takes no satisfaction in that.

The feel of his body moving, responding. The force of blows and the ensuing pain. These things, while there is no satisfaction, provide a twisted kind of comfort. Tonight, regardless of his payment, he will sleep well.

He feels his opponent's septum crunch under his fist and knows that it's over before the man even falls. He stands under the hot lights, his head tilted back, listening to the crowd. There might be no death here, but underneath everything it's still death that they all want.

So he barely acknowledges the crowd as he leaves the arena, palming sweat and blood away from his face. in a brief moment of quiet and solitude in the room he and the others had been given to prepare in, he leans forward and peers into a dirty mirror, examining the superficial wounds on his face.

This can't be all that he is, at the end of everything.

But he has lost everything else.

Comments

[without_hesitation]

Though she limits visits to the arena to once or twice per month, Ilithyia finds herself desiring visits more often and indulges this night, knowing Albinius is in good hands and will be for several hours more. She has time to spare inside and so, with practiced smile at men she's learned how to well manipulate, she slips inside without having to part from coin and finds a place -- her place -- within the crowd. They move for her, adjusting until she has the seat she prefers, then settle around her.

Unlike the men, she rarely stands, never cheers. That is, until Spartacus enters the ring, and then she's on her feet, leaning forward. Heart thunders behind breast and she knows she will not see his life taken this night, but it reminds her so much of times past.

When it's over, she moves from crowd and down the hall to where she knows he must be. She has little planned, unsure of what she might say or why she feels need to see him, but then she stands in the doorway, looking over his shoulder at his reflection in the mirror.

[bringer_of_rain]

He sees her and feels little surprise. He hadn't seen her in the crowd, but now that he thinks back to what it had been to stand there in the ring, he thinks he might have felt her there, a set of eyes resting on him with so much more familiarity than the others.

Though now he sees more than familiarity there.

He meets her gaze in the mirror and then, without turning, begins to remove the wrappings from his hands. "Did you take pleasure in victory?"

[without_hesitation]

Though it pains her to admit, Ilithyia smiles all the same and says, "Victory well earned." For as much as she yearned for him to fall during his days upon sand, there is no denying his ability as a fighter and there is little sense wishing for the afterlife to call him here in Darrow. His presence in the city, though she has warned others away from him, interests her.

There is much to be learned. More still to entertain her.

"Did you win much?" she asks, amusement evident in voice.

[bringer_of_rain]

"Of coin?" He shrugs. Coin is a minor concern. It always was, after it was no longer a means to find Sura again. "Enough to eat and cover body. What else would I have need of?" He flexes his hands, feeling the burn and ache of bruised knuckles.

"It was not earned. There are few here who could stand against even the weakest of my brothers."

[without_hesitation]

"They are made weak by lack of true competition," Ilithyia agrees, because they stand well against one another, but there are few who might stand against Spartacus. Perhaps Kaine and another she's seen fight once or twice, though she knows not his name.

"Give them steel and they may yet learn." Though she knows such a thing is unlikely to happen.

[bringer_of_rain]

"It seems none do battle with steel in this place." He still hasn't turned to face her, and not because he's afraid to but instead because doing so would feel like granting her a victory of her own. "Unless there exists arena of which I have not heard."

He sighs and closes his eyes. "Why have you come?"

[without_hesitation]

"I come often," she answers, though she suspects he may be asking why she has come here, to this room, to break words with him. There is no answer to such question that either of them will find satisfies their curiosities and so she chooses to respond otherwise.

"It is as close to an arena as there is in Darrow," she continues. "As close as there is to Rome."

And that is as close as she will ever come to admitting to Spartacus she might miss what has been left behind.

[bringer_of_rain]

He coughs a laugh, and finally he turns, looking her over. "This place? Not so many steps above the Pits? Here, you find reminder of glory of Rome?"

He shakes his head. Though it isn't as though he has no sense of what might lead her to feel that way. Regardless, he's almost amused. "You stand a profoundly strange woman."

[without_hesitation]

"Here I find blood and sweat and as close to sand as is offered in such place," Ilithyia answers and finds she cannot help smile that curves lips. His statement should offend and yet it's not the first time she's heard such.

To stand as common in Darrow is the last thing she desires.

"So, yes, it is here I find reminder of what once was."

[bringer_of_rain]

"As do I." He takes a few steps toward her, moving slowly, as if he doesn't trust her not to lunge at him. Though it isn't that. Some other wariness twists at him.

It occurs to him then that he must reek of that sweat and that blood.

"I fought to final breath to escape servitude into which Rome pressed me. Yet arena proved to be salvation as much as slavery." He lets out a long breath. "Here I fight for no master but myself. And yet victory is hollow."

[without_hesitation]

"Hollow?" she asks, watching him move, not straying from her place near the door. Behind her, down the hall, she can hear voices, but no one seems to be joining them just yet. She watches him move, a smile still curving lips.

"You could stand champion again," she says. "With no master to answer to." He is here, she watched him fight, no matter what words he chooses to break, she knows his desire for blood stands as her own.

[bringer_of_rain]

"To what end?" He isn't challenging her so much as asking honestly; he doesn't know, hasn't known from the first, has questioned whether the knowledge is there to be found.

"I fought to see beloved wife returned to my arms. I fought for freedom from chains and heel of Rome. What would I fight for in this place?"

[without_hesitation]

Ilithyia laughs, a sound born of surprise more than anything and she finally steps into the room, closer to Spartacus. "Bringer of Rain, Champion of Capua, Slayer of the Shadow of Death," she says. "Had you won your freedom and that of your wife, you would not have stopped fighting. Perhaps not in the arena, not upon sands, not to the cheering of the crowd, but you would have never stopped."

She's close enough to touch him, but only raises her hand, then drops it once more. "The fight is in your blood."

[bringer_of_rain]

He could knock her hand away. He could grip it again, feel her bones grind together - a thought that appeals. But instead he merely stands, looking at her, hating her but not only hating her, and unable to deny the truth of what she says.

No matter how much he wishes it were no truth at all.

"You know nothing of my blood."

[without_hesitation]

"Then hold gaze and tell me I speak false words," she challenges, though she knows, no matter what he says, she believes her words to be true. Spartacus is a champion, whatever other life he might imagine for himself.

A champion, she finds, she has come to enjoy watching in the arena. "Tell me you don't find pleasure in the spilling of blood."

[bringer_of_rain]

He can tell her no such thing. Of course he does, he always has; he had hated the hand that forced him onto the sands, but he had exulted in triumph there. On the battlefield, the same. In the end he had wanted to be done with war, but his last breath had been spent in killing. In trying to kill.

"You know that I do," he says softly. Against his words from before - but true.

[without_hesitation]

"Knowing something is but one thing," she says. "Hearing words from lips is another entirely." There is true satisfaction to be found in knowing something of Spartacus that he would rather she not know.

There are many things, after all, that Spartacus knows of her. Things she would rather no one in Darrow were to know.

"So you will continue to fight. And I will continue to watch."

[bringer_of_rain]

"And will you celebrate victory? Or hope for defeat?" He's standing too close, he knows that, but he won't move away. It's more than standing his ground, no matter how much he might wish it were so simple. She is holding him there, hypnotized as if by a serpent.

Like a serpent, she might well strike.

[without_hesitation]

It is fair question, though one Ilithyia has no answer for. She still longs to watch him crushed under the heel of Rome, but knows such a thing is no longer possible and as she smiles, her eyes light up. To see him rise against small men brings pleasure she hasn't expected, perhaps more than it might to see him fall beneath their hands.

"Such answer depends on day," she settles on saying, which is close enough to truth as she can give him. It is her whim that brings her here and her whim that decides how she might treat Spartacus at any given moment. She has little to gain from him either way.

[bringer_of_rain]

"Your loyalties are ever fickle." He smiles thinly. "I should expect as much. I take no pleasure, then, in your desire to see victory. And wish dearly that I could deny you pleasure as well."

Except is that true? When he thinks of her eyes on him as he fights... What does he really feel?

[without_hesitation]

"And yet you'll never know if you are denying my pleasure or aiding it, will you?" she asks, still smiling and this time her raised hand does light upon chest, touching gently, fingertips against sweat slicked skin. And that in itself is enjoyable enough, she finds, to deny him the simple knowledge of whether or not he is upsetting her or driving her forward.

She tilts her chin up to look at him and though there is still a smile upon lips, it has softened somewhat. "Your only course of action would be to refuse to fight and we both know such thing will not happen."

[bringer_of_rain]

No, it won't. That, he doesn't resent her for knowing, and when she touches him he presses into it rather than pulling away, his teeth slightly bared.

"What cause do I have to deny myself pleasure?" If this is who he is, perhaps it's best to not flee from it. He feels something dark rise up inside him, the same part of himself that finds meaning and joy in the shedding of blood, and closes his hand around her wrist.

"In driest desert, one must take what water can be found."

[without_hesitation]

His touch, though strong, is not the touch of days past. In Darrow already, he has struck her, bruised her skin, left blood in her hair and though she often expects violence from him, when touch upon chest is not met with such, she cannot help the way her smile grows. Violence is not always unwelcome, but she has greater plans.

"And what it is, exactly, that the Champion of Capua desires?" she asks. "What water does he seek?"

[bringer_of_rain]

He feels as though she's trapped him, backed him into a corner from which there's no escape but to fight. He's sure it's more than a feeling - it's a certainty, knowledge that comes from long experience. He should push away from her without another word, leave her standing and speak to her no more. She should mean nothing.

But he doesn't move away. Instead - suddenly wild, feral - he tangles a hand into her hair, drags her head up and closes his mouth over hers.

When one is thirsty enough, poison will do.

[without_hesitation]

The sound pulled from her is not dignified, a release of what must be many months of fury and disgust and desire, but both her hands go to him regardless. They press to either side of his neck, dragging him as much as he is dragging her. She has not been able to stop thinking of this, memories of gold painted skin, hands on her hips hard enough to bruise, it clouds many waking moments and destroys her sleep.

They have never kissed before and she finds herself caught in it, never wanting it to end.

[bringer_of_rain]

He can imagine how this might go, as his teeth close around her lower lip and bite down. How he might lift her in his arms and carry her to the bench by the lockers, tear away whatever of her clothing is in his way, bury himself to the hilt inside her. Impale her, because somehow he can't bear to do it any other way.

Instead he groans and drags her head back. Distantly, he can hear voices approaching, but they don't matter. He can see how she might be both source of and salve to his pain. And that's more dangerous than anything.

[without_hesitation]

Voices register, but mean little to her as her hands slide down over his shoulders, fingers curling under so nails bite into skin. More than anything, she wants him to take her, here if he must. She wants him inside her again, wants nothing more. There are no consequences here, not as there would have been in Rome, what they do with each other, to each other matters little to anyone else.

His teeth cut into her lower lip and she moans, pressing harder against him, hips surging forward at burst of pain.

[bringer_of_rain]

"Oh, hey."

There is laughter from the door, and as he pulls away he recognizes a few of the other fighters, watching them, arms crossed and amused grins on their faces. For a few seconds he bristles, a mass of confusion and anger, and then turns away from her and from them, grabbing his bag from the bench and heading for the door. He is still stripped to the waist and the night is cool, but he doesn't expect to care when he emerges into it and he doesn't care now.

[without_hesitation]

There is but brief moment during which Ilithyia considers staying right where she is. The men in the door are watching her and she smiles, knowing there is as much pleasure to be taken here -- and less pain, perhaps -- as there is elsewhere. But it is not them she wants, it is Spartacus.

With a smile for the other men, she follows, gown whispering against the ground as she emerges into the night air, gaze trained upon his back.

"You run from me?" she asks, amused.

[bringer_of_rain]

He turns on her, all anger, all fire. She might be a serpent in human skin, but he wore serpents on his breast when he fought, and he won't fear them.

"I do not run." The night is indeed cool, almost cold, but he doesn't feel it. "There are times when audience is less than desirable." This is his own arena, and he wants no witnesses.

Not for the first time, he feels a shameful flush of gratitude that Sura is not here to see him now.

[without_hesitation]

His anger only spurs both smile and action and she crosses toward him, hands pressing to warm, slick skin as she rises onto toes and finds his mouth with hers. She is not so opposed to an audience as he is, but has little concern in their surroundings one way or the other. Her concern -- her only desire -- is for the warmth of his skin, the pressure of his hands upon her. The fire and anger that build in him at every touch and every word from her.

It's a power she enjoys wielding, whatever consequence might follow.

[bringer_of_rain]

The alley in which they stand is dirty, a place for the deposit of refuse, though compared to many of the dung-filled streets of Roman towns it's positively clean. Nevertheless, there's something fitting about these surroundings as he drags her closer, mouth opening against hers. Of all the things he should not want, this is the worst, and some treacherous part of him wants it more than anything.

He shoves her back against the concrete wall and slides a hand down to her hip, growling against her lips.

[without_hesitation]

There is pain as she strikes the wall, shoulder scraping against rough brick, but she pays it little mind, hands roaming over warm, damp skin, nails carving paths across his shoulders. He could take anything from her in this moment, she knows, she could offer no resistance. Should he try to take her life, she might well let him have it.

Her body surges forward, pressing against his and her gown, she knows, will be ruined, but she cares little. She wants him inside her, she wants the warmth of him, the power.

[bringer_of_rain]

His memories of her haunt him - her hands, the taste of her skin, the sounds of her moans and cries and how tight and hot she had been around him. They haunt him and yet some part of him treasures them, holds greedily onto them, and now they come to him again like fever dreams. The sheen of gold on her rounded flesh.

There is no gold now, but he forces her head back and bites at her jaw as he shoves up the edge of her gown, his hand rough on her bare thigh.

"If I sate your hunger," he breathes, "you will still never be satisfied."

[without_hesitation]

The words bring laugh to her lips and she tightens grip on his shoulders, surging forward and reaching down with one hand to help him lift her gown. His teeth against her skin pull groan from her and her hand slips down from his shoulder, over the expanse of his back to drag him yet closer.

"No," she agrees, because his words ring true. No matter what they do here in this moment, no matter how he touches her, no matter how hard he fucks her, she will always want more. "Such truths should not prevent you from trying all the same."

[bringer_of_rain]

He's thinking of blood as he pulls at the little clothing he has on, freeing his straining cock and pinning her to the wall with his hips and hands. He's thinking of blood and gold, which was always what his life was worth to her, her and everyone like her. This might feel like some manner of vengeance, the violence of this moment, except for how well he knows that he's only giving her exactly what she wants.

He hooks her thigh high on his hip and thrusts into her with a snarl. Before he had performed well, but he had only been performing.

This time, neither of them is masked.

[without_hesitation]

He is inside her without warning and Ilithyia's head falls back against the wall behind her, as a startled, pleased moan escapes from between her lips. Not far, people pass by on the street, yet no one looks their way and she knows they would not stop even if they were to be noticed. It is too much, too many months of desire and anger to be truncated by the attention of strangers.

Using her leg and hands both, she drags him to her, fully seated inside her, and when she kisses him this time, there is teeth and tongue and the hand on his hip curls under, nails biting into skin. It is cruel and hard, and more than anything, it is exactly that cruelty she has so desired from him.

[bringer_of_rain]

Before, her pleasure had been a concern of his, even if only in relation to what was required of him. Now he has no reason whatsoever to care, and yet he does, in ways that twist at him and make him feel almost sick. As he thrusts hard into her, fucking her against the wall, he wants her to feel it, and not all of what he wants her to feel is pain.

As if he has something to prove to her. Or to himself.

The fight has intensified everything in him, sending heat through to every sensation, and he knows he won't last long. He doesn't want to. When this is over, he can try to forget.

Even though he knows a vain struggle when he sees one.

[without_hesitation]

She muffles her cry against his shoulder, finding the place where muscle slopes into his neck and biting down hard, though not hard enough to leave a mark. There is pleasure coiling in her already, sending warmth through her body even in the cool air and she presses fingers of one hand through his hair, holding onto him, riding every thrust of his hips.

"Spartacus."

She says it only because she knows it is not his name. Because she knows the power it held over the people of Rome, the fear they felt every time someone spoke it in hushed tones. It holds no power over her, not here in Darrow, and her hips arch toward him as she gasps the name again.

[bringer_of_rain]

He wants to silence her. He wants to steal her words from her, take whatever he can in this moment, so he closes his mouth over hers once more, his teeth against her lips as he impales her body again and again.

He had forgotten how good she felt. He had not wanted to remember.

He won't say her name. But he hisses something enraged and wordless as the pleasure builds to an apex, one hand tangled in the fall of her hair and pulling at her.

[without_hesitation]

Any other words are lost to his mouth, turning into harsh gasps as he drives her back against the wall. It's less a fight than she thought it might be, not a battle so much as a simple entanglement and she doesn't fight against him, instead arching and moving with him. Though it is not a surprise, she's reminded again that, even now, with anger behind each thrust, their bodies move well together.

Breath catches in her chest as she tilts her hips, creating friction, finding exactly what she needs from him and taking it.

[bringer_of_rain]

He doesn't remember coming inside her, before. On the few times he's allowed himself to dwell on those memories, it's struck him as strange that he remembers so much about that night - the pleasure and the way he had been pulled in and lost within it and the horror that had come after - and yet he doesn't remember the moments of his own climax.

Will he remember this later? He has no idea. There is no desire in him to do so. But thought is beyond him. He breathes in hard, rough groans, the movement of his hips stuttering, and with a sound like a wounded animal he releases into her, grateful in that moment for nothing but the fact that his own mind has ceased to function.

[without_hesitation]

Nails drag across skin as she pulls him closer to her without thought and she can feel as he buries himself inside her, his hips losing their rhythm and she presses hard to him as pleasure that's been building finally breaks apart and rips through her. And it is pleasure, as it's been with every movement, behind every bit of pain. Her head falls back against the wall behind her, lips parts as she gasps and muscles tighten with every shudder that courses through her.

There has been no interruption this time, no laughter, no mocking voices. No reason to pull free and rush to defend herself. Instead she feels herself relaxing bit by bit, her breath returning to her.

[bringer_of_rain]

He's lost in what might be bliss, if only because it's a blankness in which, for the briefest of moments, he forgets everything. He feels no warm glow, none of the softness that comes after love.

He feels empty.

With a soft grunt, he pulls out of her, stepping clumsily back and fumbling at his pants. This means nothing. It was bodies and flesh, nothing more.

[without_hesitation]

It surprises her little that he pulls away from her within a moment and as he makes adjustments, she smooths the front of her gown, letting it fall to her feet once more. Another smile curves her lips, more amused than any of the others, and she feels as though she has won some battle that has been ongoing for longer than either of them know.

"Still champion, then," she says as she pushes away from the wall and brushes past him on her way out of the alley.