State of my head

[god_of_the_arena]

Gannicus knows that there are better ways to deal with stress, but he finds none so comforting as the ones he's accustomed to: drink, poor choices, fighting. After hearing of Porthos's returned memories, he dwells on some of his own. He doesn't like dwelling on memories, or much of anything if he can help it.

Thinking of Melitta, of Oenomaus, of Saxa and Sybil and all of his brothers. Nothing good came of that, and yet he could not push memories from mind. So he found distraction.

That distraction leaves him bruised and bleeding, but the other guy looked worse off at the end of it. Still, he'd felt his shoulder pop in a way it shouldn't toward the end of the fight, and though he is almost certain he could fix it on his own, perhaps it would be better to seek more experienced medical attention. Though Porthos could likely help, his mind turns toward another, likely closer.

He finds his way to Candlewood by memory - perhaps impressive, considering the last time he'd been there he'd had a head injury. The day is cold and snow blowing, but he did not the drive to put his coat back on - to do so would mean moving his shoulder more than he was willing to at the moment. It is one thing to push a body past reason in a fight to the death, but the contest had been for catharsis, and now that it was over he sees no need to push the joint beyond capacity.

Gannicus follows someone in, pausing to try to remember how many flights of steps they had gone up, where the door had been. Well, if he made a mistake he could recover. Surely no one here would have a lethal reaction to a knock at the wrong door.

He finds the one he remembers to be Hild's and knocks, hoping she is home.

Comments

[light_of_the_world]

She was cooking. It wasn't a common activity for her, not for king's kin. Brew mead, make cheese, churn butter, help with the harvest, yes. But before Darrow, she had rarely had to make a meal for herself. Now it was a comfort, a way to fill time that might otherwise be consumed with sorrow and worry for a lost friend. Hild could think back to watching the bakers kneed their bread, the cooks choose their spices and when to add them, and mimic their familiar actions.

The simmering stew filled her apartment with warmth and a savory smell that mingled with the usual earthy scent of dried flowers and roots. It was a good, comforting smell, a reassuring warmth. It made her feel that much more welcoming when she answered her door.

"Gannicus." She had a ready, delighted smile for him, pleasure from his unexpected visit obvious. It did not fade even when she noted, in a glance, the drying blood, the ripening bruises, the way he favored his shoulder. "What is all this from?"

[god_of_the_arena]

"Searching for ways to forget," he admitted with a wry smile. "I think my shoulder has popped out. I thought to put it to place myself, but recall how badly that can go wrong." He had seen plenty of men fix their own dislocated limbs, with success and painful failure. He would rather have a mediucs, or someone like Hild, put it to right.

"I hope I am not interrupting badly. I remembered how close you were, and your skill came straight to mind once it cleared."

[light_of_the_world]

Hild admired his honesty and respected it by not pressing further, not yet. Bleeding and in pain on her doorstep was not the way to have a conversation. She stepped back, pulling the door fully open, to let him inside.

"It makes me happy that you thought of me," she admitted. "Come inside. There is nothing that I cannot set aside for a moment."

[god_of_the_arena]

There was no need for him to lie - what judgment would Hild pass that he has not faced from others? He eased inside with her invitation.

"You cook as well?" he asked, grinning when he catches the scent of something good. He could make food edible, certainly, but rarely had much hand in making it more than that.

[light_of_the_world]

"I am learning," she allowed. She was always learning, since she was a child, always observing, but she did not say as much unless she needed help. People acted differently when they knew someone was watching them, when their leaders admitted to not knowing all.

"Maybe if you are a good patient, I will share with you," Hild teased gently. "Sit on the couch. Do you want something for the pain or will you be a man about it?"

[god_of_the_arena]

"Then you are ahead of me," he said, grinning his easy grin. He did not seem overly concerned with whatever pain he felt - he's felt worse. Pain is a sign of life. "I am an excellent patient," he insisted.

Gannicus held his arm in place as he sat on the couch. He gave her a perplexed look when she offered something to ease the pain.

"For this?" He had not had anything to soothe him when he first arrived here, more grievously injured. He would not take something now, for something more quickly solved. "No, save it for someone more in need."

[light_of_the_world]

She smiled and nodded, pleased as always with his easy show of strength. It was something to be admired, something that would have seen him well-placed and respected among the gesiths back home. It was a shame to her that he did not live in her world.

Hild moved behind him, using careful fingers to trace the lines of muscle and bone, find the spot where his shoulder should be and was not. "Ready," she said quietly, only to give him warning. She did not wait for his response but, with only a wrinkle of her nose to show the effort, popped the joint back into place.

[god_of_the_arena]

Gannicus grew more serious, at least for a moment, when Hild moved to begin her work. He relaxed his arm as much as it would so that Hild would not have to fight against unnecessarily tight muscles. He ended up tightening his jaw, just a bit, bracing for the pain he knew was coming.

He had no time to respond before he felt her push. He groaned when the join popped back into the socket, but that was the only voice he gave to the discomfort.

That done, he exhaled heavily. "There," he breathed. His grin reappeared as he looked back at her. "You are far less fussy than the medicus I long tolerated."

[light_of_the_world]

"Was this medicus a man?" Hild countered, teasing. "Those sorts of men are always fussy." There were a few priests, both of Christ and of the old gods, who were learned and straightforward, but for the most part any man with any measure of learning was a preening fool.

"Stay there. I will make you a tea to help with the healing, and care for those cuts."

[god_of_the_arena]

"Yes," he answered. "He was also dealing with pieces of property," he pointed out. "Investments that our master would not take lightly to losing." Some of them had been expensive, and Gannicus had been a proven champion.

"There is tea to help healing?" He was curious - he had not had time to learn much herbal lore before being taken a slave, and after that, such knowledge was not his right.

[light_of_the_world]

She wrinkled her nose at that, the way Gannicus spoke of himself as thing owned, used, sold. Was there that much difference between gladitor and gesith though? The romantic in her, the Anglisc in her, wanted to believe so.

"There is tea for many things," she replied as she moved into the kitchen. It was open, the only thing separating it from the main room being a counter along which stools were lined for sitting. She set a kettle on the stove to boil.

"The muscles in your shoulder, they will be angry from us pushing at them, hot with anger. This tea will help take that heat away."

[god_of_the_arena]

He laughed. "A feeling I am well familiar with," he assured. But it would be nice to have something to soothe that angry ache. All he had before was the earth floor, cool enough to touch that it could sooth sore muscles, or the hot baths.

He seemed content to sit on the couch and watch her work.

"Where do you come from? I heard you once speak of gods... when you last sought to heal me." He grinned at the memory. He'd been sure she was some messenger from the afterlife, sent to guide him to their shores.

[light_of_the_world]

She huffed a soft laugh at that, her words seemingly coming back to haunt her. It wouldn't have been well taken, back home. It would have been used against her.

"They call it England now," she said. "Much north of Rome. My kingdom is Northumbria. We know Rome. Maybe you know of us also, but I do not know what name you may call us."

[god_of_the_arena]

"Porthos showed me a map... my tribe came from a place that is in the country called-- Switzerland?" He was positive that was the name of the country. "I am a Celt of the Helvetii tribe, we called the land something different. A name lost now, I'm told. I know that Rome's reach grew far beyond the span of the life I lived there... but I had not yet heard of slaves coming from a place called England, or anything like it."

[light_of_the_world]

She laughed again in gentle amusement that he should have made friends with Porthos of all people. It was a fitting match, she thought.

"Mm, not slaves," she said. "We do not kneel to Rome. The Britons, once, they took. But the Romans leave many, many years past. Their buildings still stand, but stand empty."

[god_of_the_arena]

"Rome will leave and forget places that do not suit it," he said with a wry smile. Even in his short time there, he knew that much. Rome was a conquering force, but upon facing setback or loss, they would write a different story and spread it as far as they could.

He rubbed his arm, noting a blossoming bruise. It didn't bother him. Every bruise a lesson. "They were at war with my people when I was taken. They prided themselves on gladiators from conquered lands. Batiatus had many in his ludus. I saw Gauls, Thracians, Greeks. Rhinelanders, dark-skinned men from Egypt and beyond."

He flashed a grin. "I took some pride in defeating them all upon the sands."

[light_of_the_world]

She matched his grin, warming to his proud boast. Hild had no doubt that it was true.

The kettle began to whistle and she paused their conversation so she could steep chamomile and lavender. She sweetened it with a little honey.

"This man, Batiatus," she said, carefully copying his pronunciation of the name. "Did he reward you well for your victories?"

[god_of_the_arena]

"Yes, often with wine and eager company." He shrugged. "They were all we had to look forward to, and kept us plied and in competition with each other."

He wasn't a fool, as much as he seemed content to play one. He knew Batiatus made money on their victories, which they never saw, and rewarded them with cheap wine and women already in possession of the household.

"He touted the honor our victories brought the house. I had little care for bringing him honor. I won for the comfort it brought, but the illusions were brief. I was still a slave."

[light_of_the_world]

"And now, not." As simple as that. He had spoken as though he had been freed of his bonds before coming here, but it had not been a freedom he could enjoy. Hild thought then of Gwladus, of her misguided attempt to gift her own slave with unwanted, useless freedom. She wondered if Darrow made it easier, if the strangeness mingled together to something manageable.

But here was Gannicus on her couch, cut and bruised. She thought the strangeness was not so manageable at all.

"You said a little something before of having freedom back home," she said as she prepared a bowl of warm water and herbs. "You did not sound very happy with it either. Or am I wrong?"

[god_of_the_arena]

"I was granted freedom," he confirms. "For my good showing in a primus event, for my victory against many."

He considers his answer before going further. "I had been without freedom so long, it seemed an easier life. We were slaves, gladiators, and the burden of consequence and choice were equally removed from conscience. But with freedom, the weight of every misdeed, of every death, comes to weigh mind. I bore heavy regrets, and always the mark of my enslavement."

He turns his right arm over, showing the large B branded into his forearm.

"Freedom was tenuous - if I lost my proof of it, my rudis, I could be taken a slave again. I could not return home this way, and had no other skill except in killing. What purpose could I serve?"

[light_of_the_world]

She brought both bowl of clean water and mug of tea, set each on the low table before the sofa, the drink nearer to him. She seated herself beside him, one leg drawn up under her, hidden under the long draping of her skirt. Her finger traced one side of the brand, then she took his wrist and gently turned his arm back over. It was a better angle at which to clean the wound at his upper arm.

"I thought to free my slave once." She huffed out a soft, dry laugh and squeezed the excess water from the cloth in one hand. "My, hm, ancillæ," she said, remembering the Latin word that she thought came close. She wiped gently at his cuts and bruises, not for fear of hurting him but not seeing need to exacerbate the wound.

"She was so angry with me. Hurt, that I would .. banish her from my house. Upset that she thought she did wrong. I was trying to show her favor. But it was the same as for you. Her home was a great distance away, she had not seen it in many years. Even if she tried to return, if someone had stopped her on the road, what would she do? We use collars, but take a collar off and another man can put another collar on. All she knew was how to serve me, and how to pleasure men. How could I leave her to that?"

[god_of_the_arena]

"I knew many slaves like that. There was one in our number, Agron, a house slave. He tried to kill Spartacus to avenge his master before he finally decided to join cause." He shakes his head, remembering the tiny Syrian.

He picks up the tea to take a sip.

"You likely did her mercy, in keeping her."

[light_of_the_world]

She laughed again, short and sharp, but not unkindly.

"More than mercy. I paid her," she said. But Hild shrugged, unperturbed by this. She had not questioned this course of action at all when Begu suggested it.

"I wanted for her happiness, Hild explained. "I could not force her to take a gift she did not want."

She tilted her head in curiosity. "Did this Agron truly love his master so?"

[god_of_the_arena]

[ooc: I totally mixed up the darn characters - Nasir is who he's talking about xD Agron is Nasir's lover. SORRY.]

"I don't rightly know - I only heard stories after I joined Spartacus and his men. Nasir was numbered among them by then and wanted to prove himself capable warrior. Many turned from master in favor of what Spartacus promised them. But I imagine many had cause."

[light_of_the_world]

"House slave turned warrior," she murmured thoughtfully. In Hild's mind, it did not seem likely to be a good switch. But there was poetry to it, and the best warriors were made of such stuff.

"There is always cause for men's actions," Hild continued. "But this Spartacus must be very... inspiring, even so."

[god_of_the_arena]

"He was something. Many fell into his cause with no thought of what final consequence it might bring. They felt his anger, felt the injustice, and sought to tip the scales."

Gannicus shakes his head, almost sadly.

"I told him from the start he would get everyone that followed him killed. To make war with Rome in the heart of their own country? Not wise. Not with a people such as them. Even if I admired purpose, I could not help but think to what would happen."

[light_of_the_world]

"The gods reward the bold," Hild countered gently. Still, she paused and cocked her head, lifting a knowing brow at Gannicus. "Sometimes, that is."

She pushed at his hand, curled around the cup, silently encouraging him to drink more as she cleaned her cloth and dabbed at his chest.

"There is a song back home. My... hm, my best friend sang it, said it, played it out with me when we were children with wooden swords and sticks. The story of men who went to war against my forefathers. They lost. They died. But the song..."

She recited a few lines of it, quickly losing herself to the repetitive rhythm and apple-round roll of British on her tongue. "He loved the song. He wished to be such a hero, bright and shining before he died."

[god_of_the_arena]

"The gods piss on us and call it rain," he counters, shaking his head. "I am not sure I can find comfort in them." He rolls his eyes but drinks more tea at her urging.

He listens to the song, though he cannot follow the words.

"My people told such stories. We all dreamed of glory, the gods saw fit that I should find mine in the arena. I chose my fate from there, for better or worse."

[light_of_the_world]

Hild mulled over that with pursed lips. It was not as she had been raised to believe, not how she guided her steps in life. She had a choice to follow her wyrd or run from it, and she had always chosen to follow it, in part because there had been no other reasonable choice in her mind.

"I find comfort in the gods," she said instead, "only because they are fickle and sometimes make strange choices." She poked lightly at his shoulder, not enough to hurt him more, but illustrate a point. "Like us."

[god_of_the_arena]

"You remind me of one lost." He smiles and gives her a gentle nudge in return. "She spoke of the gods, to them, maybe. I never saw point in it, but it gave her comfort."

He finds himself hoping that Sybil lived, that she escaped with her life. He might never know.

"As I said when I met you, they owed me some relief. I could not have imagined it would come in such agreeable shape." He lifts his cup to her in a sort of toast before nursing another drink.

[light_of_the_world]

"A prophet needs the grace of the gods." She said the words casually, realizing only after that most here had never heard her called prophet. Or witch. Not that it mattered in this moment, not that it was a secret to hide, but it might confuse.

Hild tilted her head and gave him a slight grin of amusement.

"Are you calling me a gift from the gods?"

[god_of_the_arena]

"Why not?" he gives her a wink. "One I did not expect, but I am told that is the sort of gift they give."

Gannicus works on finishing the drink she gave him.

"Do you speak to the gods? I have only met two that say they hear their will, that I might have believed. But they were no prophets."

[light_of_the_world]

"To only look at a beautiful woman is a poor gift," she replied. To some maybe it would be enough. Not to Hild.

She tucked her hair behind her ears, considered how to answer Gannicus' question. It was not so much the lying that troubled her as taking on the mantle of prophet again, to be that instead of simply Hild. Eowyn would sometimes give her looks, rare but solemn, as if Hild had spoken some true thing. They did not trouble but tired her, and she did not wish the same from Gannicus. But his faith in gods (and perhaps prophets) seemed weak.

"I do not speak to them, nor do they speak to me," she said. "I only read what they have written, in dreams and in nature."

[god_of_the_arena]

"I would agree, a tease at best. At least they did not present me with a temple virgin." He grins at her, before finally finishing what she's given ihm t drink. He sets the cup aside.

Her explanation makes him nod. "That sounds more like Melitta," he says, her name spoken with a fond, but also sad note. "Sybil sought to hear them. I do not know if they ever gave answer. I thought it wasted, but it gave her and others hope. I cannot begrudge them that."

[light_of_the_world]

"Hope is at times all people have," she said agreeably. "But those who look, or listen, too hard will not see what is in front of them already." Hild had no true gift, she knew, but neither did Coifi, the priest of the great temple, and Hild could always bend the king's ear towards her and away from him.

She nodded in contentment as he finished the drink.

"You will live," she announced. "A while longer."

[god_of_the_arena]

"Not due to a lack of effort on my part," he says with a wry smile. "Gratitude. I am fortunate to count you a friend." He knows there are places he can go for medical attention, but he prefers to come here. He trusts Hild, and her methods are familiar to him.

It certainly helps that she is beautiful.