The Owl And The Warhorse

The healer heard them long before he saw them entering his clearing. Stealth was apparently not one of their main concerns.

"We shouldn't be here," the youngest of them said. "This one's been banned from attending the rituals by the druids."

"This one's a respected healer and a powerful magician," another argued.

"But the druids don't like him."

Tollan, the leader of the pack, decided to cut the matter short. "Shut up. The chieftains respect him and that’s enough for me. How do you think he got that six strand torc?"

Suddenly, the heavy hides blocking the entrance of the hut were thrust aside, startling the youngsters, and the healer stood tall in front of his abode.

"What do you want?" he huffed in an impatient tone.

"Help," the young leader said.

The healer observed the little group of teenagers for a second. A bunch of overgrown boys who thought facial hair entitled them to do whatever stupid thing took their fancy. "What kind of help at this time of night?" Denil was sure this was going to be yet another silly request.

"We need you to chase a spirit."

"A spirit?" Well, that was different. Still silly, but different. "What kind of spirit?"

"A Roman spirit," the youngest chimed. His friends hissed and threw him a few withering glares.

"The spirit of a dead Roman," Tollan corrected. "On the field where the battle was fought this morning. We went there to gather a few heads..."

"And some weapons," a redhead at the back added, quite rudely interrupting.

"...and some trophies," the leader went on regardless. "Except, there's a spirit defending the place."

"He's tall, with white hair and red eyes."

"And he snarls like a beast."

"And his feet don't touch the ground."

"And he nearly hacked off Enid's arm."

Then the teenagers all spoke at the same time, giving more fantastic details and amending each other's descriptions, and Denil just pinched the bridge of his nose, figuring this was going to be a long night. He raised a hand to ask for quiet and the observant leader barked to his friends to shut up.

"You want me to chase the spirit so you can scavenge the battlefield," Denil said for confirmation. Because obviously, looting dead bodies was such a proof of courage and virility.

"Yes."

"And why don't you go ask the druids?"

There was an uneasy silence as the youngsters looked at one another, and that alone gave Denil his answer. For these young men, to go and ask the druids' help would've been like admitting to the whole clan that they were a bunch of cowards. As a half-respected, half-feared outcast healer, Denil was their only viable option. How flattering.

"What do I get out of this?” he finally asked, always pragmatic.

"A share in what we find," one of them proposed, looking up to Tollan.

"And a debt of gratitude," the leader added with a respectful nod of deference for the healer.

Denil's lips quirked up in an indulgent smile; he could just imagine their faces if he told them to get lost and confront their fears on their own. But this Roman spirit story tickled his curiosity, so he went back inside, grabbed his large hooded cape and stepped out again, fastening it into place with a brooch. "Show me the way," he sighed.

He was too easy, he knew that.

The ride through the dense forest took the best part of an hour, during which Denil listened with half an ear to the teenagers narrating the exploits of the clan's brave warriors and sharing the latest pieces of local gossip. As they drew near the battlefield though, the kids stopped babbling and turned very quiet, treading softly and darting worried glances at their surroundings. The group stopped at the tree line, dismounted, and Tollan came to lay a hand on Denil's shoulder, pointing to a spot on the moonlit scene of desolation.

The Romans had been defeated and had carried away as many of their fallen comrades as they could in their debacle, but the plain was strewn with the remains of the battle – torn metal and bodies gleaming dully under the half-moon.

"He's dead," Tollan said very low. "We're sure he's dead... But his body rose and attacked us when we tried to behead him."

Denil bit back the sarcastic remark that came to him. "I'll go and see," he offered instead.

"We’ll come with you," the teenager announced, probably to prove that he wasn't all that shit-scared. His friends looked slightly more hesitant, but one scorching look from their leader and they all pulled out their blades and daggers.

"You stay behind me a few paces," Denil ordered sternly.

They walked cautiously to the place where the boys had last seen the spirit, and sure enough they soon spotted the legionary lying dead on the ground, still gripping his sword tightly. The youngsters stopped eight paces from him, their knuckles turning white on the hilts of their weapons. Denil took the last few steps on his own and crouched gingerly by the corpse.

The Roman did indeed have a striking appearance. He was taller than the average legionary, and in the moonlight his hair seemed bright silver; other than that, though, he looked like an ordinary dead soldier. Denil knelt more comfortably, pulled his cape more tightly around himself and slipped a hand under his armpit to warm his fingertips. Despite the seemingly white hair, the Roman's face, though grimy and partly covered in dried blood, wasn't that of an old man. That of a weathered soldier, yes, but not over forty years old, Denil reckoned. And still really handsome at that.

Really handsome...

Too handsome to be beheaded.

The healer was going to have to come up with some good excuse to oppose himself to the impending decapitation. He looked briefly back at the group of youngsters, who had adopted a slightly more relaxed pose upon seeing that the dead had decided to remain so. It shouldn’t be too hard to make up something.

His eyes strayed back to the legionary. For some reason, it mattered to Denil that the man kept his head and was buried or cremated with a maximum of respect. He didn’t know why, but it mattered.

He leaned over the body and inspected it for injuries that could have caused the death. The helmet was missing, but the skull seemed intact, and the leather and metal armour was battered and cut but still in rather good condition; he couldn't see any significant open wound, apart from the deep cut to the left eyebrow. The fatal blow must have caused hidden, internal damage. Denil pulled his warmed hand out from his cape and reached to stroke the man’s dirty, clammy cheek with his knuckles. He liked his face, the line of his brow, the set of his cheekbones, even the thin lips; the Roman had strong, handsome features, and had probably had a strong character to match. He must've been one fierce warrior. Denil turned the man's head a bit and pressed his fingertips to the side of the neck, out of habit.

Still warm and...

Uh-oh.

Denil froze when he felt blood pulsing feebly beneath the skin.

Shit!

"Healer."

"Y-yes."

Tollan came to Denil's side. "Can we proceed now?"

"Uh... Yes, go ahead. Go, scavenge, but I must stay by this one's side. Make sure he doesn't... try anything strange."

"Is his spirit vengeful?"

"Not if I can help it."

And he had to help it, had to help the injured man. The still very much alive man. There was going to be a slaughter if Denil didn't take the Roman away from these young wolves. Only the unusual appearance of the man, combined to the excited, fanciful imagination of the youngsters, had made them think twice about taking him on.

If the healer told them he was still breathing, they’d rip him apart.

"You do what you have to do, and I'll dispose of him," Denil said. "You can't have his head," he quickly added as the teenager took predatory interest in the legionary's exposed neck.

Tollan seemed put out.

"I'm sorry; I need his head," the healer explained regretfully.

"Do you want us to prepare a pyre?" Tollan offered.

"No, I’ll have to take him back to my place after you've finished here... for a special ritual." Yes, special rituals were always handy like that. The healer just prayed that the soldier stayed as “dead” as he currently seemed until the boys left; he didn’t dare move him about with them around.

So Denil waited by the mercifully unconscious legionary while the teenagers collected all sorts of things and severed a few heads - after the healer checked the corpses for any pesky rebellious spirit of course.

As soon as the young men were out of sight, Denil carried the man to his horse, laid him over the back of his mount like a sack of grain and rode back home, copiously berating himself for being so incredibly stupid. What he was doing was extremely dumb and dangerous, but he just didn't have it in his heart to let the stranger be butchered by a pack of bloodthirsty adolescents. And he couldn’t leave him to die on his own like an animal either.

Denil didn't know exactly how he was going to manage it, but he intended to see to the healing of this legionary and send him back to the place he belonged as soon as possible.

Sure.

It was doable.

Probably.

The fact that the Roman was attractive had nothing to do with anything of course. Nothing at all.

Or not much, anyway.

And it was only because he had to clean the legionary's wounds that the healer was going to undress him. Of course.

Denil went to fetch some water – splashed some on his face – added a few squirts of some herbal decoction of his fabrication, and brought the dish to the bedside. With a soft cloth he started to clean the man's face, neck, arms and hands.

There was no trace of any severe injury, but the soldier's skin was riddled with old scars. The bloodiest wound was the slash across the eyebrow, which had bled freely and must've hindered the warrior's vision in the field. Denil cleaned the gash thoroughly and applied one of his salves. He then felt around the skull for any bruises, and yes, sure enough there was one big bump at the back of the head. There wasn't much he could do about this, but he applied some salve there too.

In Denil's experience, a serious knock to the head could take a few days to kill a man. The Roman might not survive, but the healer still felt he had to try.

Now that he had treated the most pressing injuries, he turned to the rest of the body.

He started with the mud-encrusted caligae, briefly admiring the craftsmanship of the heavy sandals. These Romans were better equipped than any other enemy the tribes had ever known. Every legionary had the same well made and very complete equipment; their army was extremely organised and knew the meaning of discipline, which didn't bode well for Denil's people. The Briton warriors might be fearsome and fearless, but even their war chariots and their mad courage wouldn't mean much in the long run. He had heard of Julius Caesar's conquests in Gaul and of his latest landing on the coast, and he suspected that sooner or later the Romans would make some headway and succeed in invading this land too. If it wasn't Caesar now, it would be another consul in ten years time, and unless all the tribes stopped quarrelling and allied as one army, they would end up living under Rome's yoke.

Denil pondered this as he washed, then felt up the Roman's legs to check for any displaced or broken bone. Very strong legs. And very tanned, up to the edge of the thick woollen tunic. Beyond that they became a more normal shade of skin tone and firm flesh... and oh, hello there!

Denil shook his head to clear his mind of all lewd thoughts; he had to help this one, see to his wounds.

He unfastened the sturdy belt and began to work on the heavy armour. Of course, he was soon struggling with the intricate lacing and cursing for all he was worth. Bloody Romans and their bloody sophisticated trappings. For all the good it did them!

His temper got the better of him and he finally pulled out his dagger, slashed through the leather thongs and got rid of the metal protection with a snarl.

The tunic underneath was coarse, dirty and stank of dried sweat but there were no bloodstains; the healer decided to leave it on the man, figuring it was more important at the moment to keep him warm than to have him clean. He pulled a bit at the collar and slipped a hand between the fabric and the skin, over the man's heart. Still beating faintly and very sluggishly. Denil pushed the tunic up the Roman's torso as far as it would go, and felt for any damaged ribs. He was impressed; the man didn't have an ounce of unseemly fat on him - all well toned muscle and exotic chest hair.

And his ribs seemed fine.

He then checked the arms, shoulders, tried all the joints. All seemed well. So, as far as Denil could see, this giant Roman had been felled by a knock to the head, and he would likely stay unconscious for some time.

Having done all he could do for the injured man, Denil dragged the tunic back down his body and tucked a heavy cover around him. He added a few small logs to his dying fire, and, wrapping his cape more closely around him, made himself comfortable on his sheepskins to try and find some sleep.

For two days, Denil's Roman stayed dead to the world – completely unresponsive save for the faint beating of his heart. During those two days, the healer looked carefully for any sign of recovery; he wanted to believe the gods would grant their favours upon the soldier, and he went about, collecting the herbs, berries and roots that would be needed for his potions, stocking up some provisions in case he had to feed the man back to health. The first morning, a woman came to see him so he could cure a stye in her daughter's eye; he treated the girl outside his hut, claiming better lighting, and he uncharacteristically demanded to be paid with a couple of ducks, which the matron readily promised him. Then he went on a round of all the people who'd ever owed him something and gently asked for payment in kind. On the evening of the second day, though, Denil felt his exertions had been in vain; the man's features were looking more and more drawn and he still couldn't rouse him.

The third day, Denil woke up abruptly from a bad dream just before sunrise. Like the previous mornings, his first impulse was to check on the soldier.

He looked more dead than ever.

With a heavy heart, Denil dressed, stoked the dying embers of his fire, flung aside the hides and opened the low gate to let some fresh air inside the hut. He needed to shake off some of his gloomy thoughts, so he went to the shelter that served as stable for his mare – he groomed her at length and fed her.

Feeling only marginally better, the healer then came to sit on the fat wooden block in front of his abode and watched the beautiful morning sun cast blazing colours in the little clearing around his home. Little pools of light that shimmered, lending playful vibrancy to the grass, to the trees, to Denil's quiet little world.

Soon, he'd probably have to bury the legionary somewhere in the forest.

Not a task he relished.

A ray of sunshine came to spread warmth over his face and Denil closed his eyes, angling his head to get more of it. This was nice. Comforting. Maybe he should bring the dying man outside, so he too could feel the sunshine on his skin one last time.

It seemed like a good idea...

Denil rose from his comfortable seat and walked back inside the hut. At first, he thought his eyes hadn't got sufficiently accustomed to the darkness and were playing tricks on him: the Roman was gone. Then someone grabbed a fistful of his hair from behind and yanked his head back as a dagger was held to his throat: the Roman wasn't gone. The Roman was, in fact, very here, pressing against Denil's back and breathing harshly in his ear. The hand that held the dagger trembled badly and the healer could feel the pounding heart racing too hard in the soldier's chest; if he didn't calm down, this idiot was going to kill himself – after all the efforts Denil had put into his recovery.

The legionary rasped something in a broken voice. Maybe a question, or an order.

Denil held his hands up in a pacifying gesture. "I'm your friend," he offered soothingly – then repeated the words in Latin. The hand that clutched his hair tightened punishingly and the man snarled something else, digging the blade a bit more into the healer's neck, which only served to make Denil gasp in pain and mouth off in irritation.

"Look at yourself, stupid Roman mule! You can hardly stand on your feet. You think killing the man who saved you is going to accomplish something?"

The legionary spat a curse and moved the blade to rest across Denil's lips, even as he leaned more heavily on his prisoner for support.

Denil stayed silent this time, the prospect of having his mouth gain a new pair of lips encouraged him to wait more patiently for the soldier to exhaust himself.

Which happened sooner than both had anticipated. Suddenly, the dagger wavered, nicked Denil's upper lip, then fell to the ground with a loud clanging sound while the man slowly crumpled against his back with a low grunt – Denil had to go down too because the bastard still held his hair in a death grip.

And once again the stranger was unconscious. Denil had a good mind to end up his sufferings and slit his throat right where he lay.

But of course he didn't.

He dragged the man back onto the bed and decided to tie his hands together in front of him this time. Then he repeated the cleansing of the first night, washing away the sweat. He realised the tunic was drenched and had to be removed; he proceeded to cut it open along the seams, so that it could be easily mended. Then he washed all the skin on display.

The Roman was now naked, clean and tied up – and that vision oddly pleased Denil to no end.

He pulled the cover around the man once again, a slight smile forming on his features... until he felt the sting of his split upper lip.

Son of a whore.

Denil stayed home all day after that, keeping an eye on the recovering man. He was sure the soldier was now on his way to health and he intended to be here when the ungrateful bastard woke up – just to give him a piece of his mind.

Late into the evening, Denil held vigil, sat in a corner of the hut. By the orange glow of his fire, he watched the Roman slowly start to squirm and groan uncomfortably until the man finally opened his eyes and stopped moving altogether, seemingly concentrated on taking in his surroundings.

"Good evening," Denil said quietly in Latin.

The Roman turned his head sharply to look at Denil, his eyes incredibly dark and malevolent.

"I don't mean you any harm," the healer went on. "My name's Denil. I’m a healer and I brought you here half-dead from the battlefield three days ago."

The man obviously understood him, because he became agitated at the mention of the battlefield. He struggled to sit up and glared at Denil when he saw that his wrists were bound.

"Untie me or kill me now," the soldier growled, his voice rough and broken. The healer read the anger in his eyes, the bravery in his posture and in his words. He'd been right about this man having a strong character.

Denil rose, came to him, then crouched so that their eyes would be on the same level. "I went to a lot of trouble to bring you here and see to your injuries; I don't want to kill you, I want to help you."

The soldier's eyes narrowed shrewdly. "Untie me, then."

"I don't think so."

"What do you want from me?" the Roman rasped, his strength already fast fading.

"I want you to drink this." He picked up a bowl of thin herbal broth he'd deposited by the bed only a few minutes before, and handed it to the wary stranger. The legionary looked into Denil's eyes, then into the bowl; he gulped dryly, with visible difficulty, but still didn't take the food offered to him. Denil brought the liquid to his own lips, sipped some of it, then handed back the bowl, pushing it into the Roman's hands. "Drink. Slowly."

And the man did as he was told; took a few careful sips that made him wince and cough, then cautious, longer swallows, until there wasn't any broth left.

"Good. We'll see how this goes down, and if it stays in your stomach, I'll give you some more."

The food stayed down, but the man fell asleep. Denil waited some time, roused him for another bowl, then let him finish his night.

Very early the next morning, the healer was woken up by the convalescent.

"Celt," he called hoarsely. "Hey, pale eyes!"

"My name is Denil," the Briton replied grumpily as he rubbed sleep off his face.

"Help me up, Denil. I'm going to piss myself," the soldier stated with feeling.

Denil sighed and got up. He helped the naked Roman out of his bed and was surprised to realise that the legionary was in fact taller than him. He hooked an arm around the slim waist and half-carried, half-dragged the still bound man outside so he could relieve himself.

"So, now that I've seen all of you in action, maybe you could be so kind as to tell me your name," the healer muttered as he lowered him back to his bed.

The stranger mumbled something that sounded like 'Yag'.

"Yag? That's your name?"

"Gnaeus," the man said more loudly.

Egh. Ugly name. Denil considered calling him just 'Roman'.

"Right. Pleased to know you, uh, Gnaeus. How about some more broth?" he said pleasantly.

"No more of that horse piss. Give me some real food," Gnaeus complained.

"Ah, but I'm afraid horse piss is the only thing your stomach can take for the moment. You'll try some bread tonight, but in the meantime you drink this," Denil said, handing the bowl of herbal stew to the Roman.

"Am I your prisoner?" the man asked intently after a few gulps.

"No, just the prisoner of your body's own weakness."

The Roman humphed and drank the rest of his breakfast in silence while Denil cracked a few walnuts for himself.

The morning rolled on eventlessly. Denil went about making some fortifying decoctions to get... Gnaeus... back on his feet, while the latter slept like a log. The healer was eager to nurse the soldier back to health; he was sure he could get the man to talk about the things he'd seen, the places he'd been. Denil was desperate to hear about that part of the world that called itself civilised. He'd always been plagued with a helpless fascination for foreign, distant cultures, which was how he'd come to easily pick up the Latin tongue, and now, here came a unique opportunity to further satisfy his unreasonable hunger for knowledge.

Gnaeus seemed to be an intelligent man, who spoke little but said enough. A sharp mind in a sharp body. If Denil was honest, he had to admit that he liked his Roman. He liked him a lot. Hair-pulling and dagger-wielding notwithstanding.

He was dragged out of his straying thoughts by the sound of Laira stamping and neighing in her stable; the mare was more efficient than a herd of geese at warning him of visitors.

Visitors.

Shit.

He dropped what he was doing, wheeled around to face the bed and pulled out his dagger... only to realise that Gnaeus hadn't been asleep after all. Upon seeing him draw blade, the Roman had scrambled to his feet and fallen into an aggressive stance, apparently ready to take on the healthy, younger, and armed Briton – however sick, bound and naked he happened to be.

Denil would've liked to admire the sight at leisure, but now was not the time.

"Easy." The healer held up a placating hand, even as the thudding hooves already heard outside made him hurry to the soldier’s side. In a swift move, he cut the rope binding Gnaeus' wrists, then handed him the weapon. "Hide." His whisper was urgent but not panicked.

Dark eyes held his own for a second, questioning and wary.

"Trust me," Denil said earnestly.

"Healer!" someone called outside.

Gnaeus' eyes darted towards the doorway then came back to settle on him intently for another endless second. Eyes that were deep and searching – incredibly hard and vulnerable at the same time. There weren't that many options available, given the impossible situation he was in, but even though he was left with little choice, Gnaeus still wanted to decide for himself – he wanted his fate in his hands.

Yet the Roman chose to trust the Briton. He took the dagger and receded into a dark corner. Denil strode outside.

"Chief Maldoran," he greeted the horseman. "I'm deeply honoured by your visit. Is there anything this humble man can do for you?"

"Good day, Healer," the chieftain said. "It is I who've come to see what I can do for you. I heard that you collected your dues lately, and I'd be loathe to remain in debt with a good friend." The man smiled pleasantly as Denil bowed his thanks at the implied mark of favour. "Are you preparing to leave on a journey again?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I was thinking of going on a journey sometime after the equinox," Denil replied, seizing the occasion. After all, he would have to lead the Roman safely back to the coast.

"A strange time to go wandering, young Denil. Growing restless again, are you? In search of adventure? Trust this old man, my friend, take a few women, father children on them and you will get all the danger and trepidation a man needs," the chieftain chuckled good-humouredly.

"I'm afraid I'm not that brave," Denil grinned. Nor so inclined.

"Agh, wise, wise Healer. But to come back to our business, what say you to a stout horse in payment of your good cures?"

"That would be extremely generous of you, Chief." Not to mention exactly what he needed.

"It's a deal, then. Come fetch it when you want."

"Thank you for your regard, Chief Maldoran. I'm in your debt," Denil bowed.

"We're even, I tell you, young Denil. Farewell, Healer," the older man said as he turned his horse back on to the path.

Denil sighed in relief as he watched the horseman amble back into the forest. The visit had been positive though. He'd now have a second horse for Gnaeus, which should make things way easier.

He went back inside the hut, a satisfied smile on his lips. However, the smile turned into a grimace of pain when a strong hand clutched his hair from behind and pulled his head back sharply as a familiar dagger was held surely against his throat.

Son of a whore, not again.

"We've done this already," Denil grated out.

"What did you tell the old one?" Gnaeus purred menacingly, sending puffs of deliciously warm and moist air dancing down the healer's neck. The soldier was still naked of course, and plastered against Denil’s back, but he didn't tremble like the previous day; he was firm and solid on his feet, assured in his hold and in his tone. Denil was absolutely getting all the danger and trepidation he needed – with a healthy dose of arousal thrown in.

Fuck, but the man felt good.

"N-nothing," he stuttered – not from fear, but from trying to hold back a low, insane moan he could feel building up in his chest. The Roman's dark voice was sending shivers trickling down his spine, and he didn't like the way his knees were buckling at the mere idea of having these strong hands holding him captive. This couldn’t be happening.

"What did he want?" Deep, husky tone - words just sliding over his skin, waking up echoes of excitement, like distant peals of thunder.

"To pay me for past services. He's going to give me a horse – a horse you'll use to get back to the coast." This. Couldn’t. Be. Happening!

The dagger was lifted from his neck and he was released slowly. "Why are you doing this? What is it you want from me?" the legionary asked diffidently.

The spell was broken at last and Denil felt free to move; he shrugged off his attacker and wrenched the dagger from his grip, determined to show just who was in charge here. No one dared make Denil weak-kneed against his will. No one dared threaten him under his own roof and pour dirty susurrations in his ear like that. He threw the knife angrily at a corner post, the blade driving deep into the wood, and loomed menacingly over the Roman.

"Cursed mule, don’t you ever try turning a weapon on me again. I'm trying to help you!" Denil spat, heart racing with indignation and lust and just a hint of fear. "I'm trying to save you, and you're too stupid to simply accept it. Do you think you have anything that might interest me?" he asked scornfully, making a great show of eyeing up the soldier. "Don't flatter yourself. I don't want anything from you. The sooner I get rid of you, the better!" With that, he stomped outside, too irritated and too aroused to think clearly.

What really grated was that Gnaeus still didn't trust him. After all he had done, all the risks he’d so rashly taken, Gnaeus still didn't believe that he only wanted to help, with no ulterior motives.

Sure, the Roman was fit and handsome and exotic, but that wasn't why Denil had helped. He'd helped because the man had needed him. The Briton hadn't thought further than that on the moonlit battlefield - there and then, the Roman had needed him desperately. And helping people was what he did. Denil didn't really ask anything in return. He just wanted to do what was right. What could make him hold his head up high, even though his wilfulness had made him an outcast over the years.

Stopping those adolescents from slaughtering an injured, helpless man: that had been right.

And providing shelter and food for Gnaeus until he got better was right, too – though Denil's people would doubtlessly object.

And Gnaeus was intelligent; he should see that it was right.

But then maybe Denil was lending his own thoughts and personal values to this stranger. Maybe Gnaeus would have let Denil be decapitated on that field.

Maybe Denil was a naive, idealistic fool.

A horny one at that.

The Briton stopped pacing in his little clearing and stood there, fists on his hips, eyes furiously staring at the ground. He needed to take his mind off all this. He decided to go for a ride; the stubborn legionary could fend for himself very well, Denil was sure. Without further ado, he untied Laira from where he'd put her to grazing on a patch of already shaven grass by the hut, hopped on her back and set at a trot into the forest.

He only came back at sunset, after an afternoon of roaming his well-known forest and a long moment of watching some children from the village playing and frolicking in the shallow river. They were delightful, evil, little creatures and observing their antics always cheered him up when something troubled him. One day, he intended to have kids of his own. He didn't know how he'd manage that, since he didn't exactly relish the company of women, but he wanted to believe that some day, he'd be a dad.

Having settled his mare for the night, Denil entered his home, teeth gritted; this time, he was ready to fight off any ambush the Roman decided to spring on him – even if he had to harm the man whose wounds he had tended.

The place seemed deserted, though. The fire was burning low and someone had obviously been cooking a meal, but there was no sign of Gnaeus. The healer went to the table, found the herbs he'd been preparing when the chieftain had arrived earlier that day. The Roman hadn't touched any of his medicinal ingredients or decoctions, but from the look of things he'd ransacked his stock of onions and dried meat.

Denil was so wrapped up in taking note of everything that was missing or displaced, that he nearly jumped out of his skin when someone playfully yanked a strand of hair at the back of his head. He whirled around, smacked his leg into the corner of the table, and found himself face to face with Gnaeus, standing tall and insufferably at ease in one of Denil's old pair of breeches.

"Ow! Shit. What's the matter with you and my hair?" Denil griped, one hand covering his scalp and the other rubbing his thigh where he'd bumped it.

"I find it very convenient," Gnaeus said, a teasing twinkle in his eyes.

Right. No dagger in sight. Good.

Denil eyed his breeches critically. "I see that you've made yourself at home. Did I give you permission to rifle through my belongings?"

"I was cold and you cut my tunic; I needed something to cover my freezing ass."

"You still could've asked for it."

"Or you could've given it to me before I had to ask - but you were obviously too busy appreciating the view."

"The view of your skinny Roman ass? Ha! That's a good one," Denil jeered – though he did think it was a fine ass indeed. Not skinny. All taut flesh and well toned muscle, like the rump of a warhorse. But he'd rip his own tongue out before admitting that out loud.

"I made dinner," Gnaeus then announced simply. "With real food."

"Good, I'll eat it while you drink your horse piss," Denil retorted, nodding towards a jug of herbal mixture he'd prepared that morning.

"I don't think so," the Roman challenged, head cocked.

Oh really? Well, the healer had news for him. "For all your attitude, you're still weak as a baby. If you want to regain some strength, you'll drink this."

Gnaeus crossed his arms over his chest.

A stubborn child, if Denil ever saw one. "You'll drink this, if I have to force it down your throat. I'm not ready to put up with you for longer than I have to. You drink it, you get better, you go back home - it's as simple as that."

"I'm still eating half of that dinner," Gnaeus promised, unyielding. "And I'd like to see you try to force anything down my throat, Celt."

"Well, I can always force it up the other end, if you prefer, Roman," Denil purred dangerously.

They got in each other’s faces, standing almost nose to nose, a weird, exciting tension filling the space between them.

The legionary’s eyes were a dark honey colour and they began to crinkle up merrily, even as he tried to keep a straight face. His countenance soon dissolved altogether; he snorted and started to chuckle and shake his head, a set of dimples sweetening his features. He slapped Denil on the shoulder. "Come now, Denil. We can lock horns another time. Let's eat before it gets cold."

And just like that, they sat at the table and ate; Gnaeus even drank the potion – with vocal bad grace.

"So... G-Gnaeus... What do you call this?" the Briton eventually asked, pointing at the unusual mix of food in his bowl.

"Meat and onion," Gnaeus replied, then saw his host scowl at him. "I don't know what it's called. It's edible and it's warm. Does it have to have a name?"

"I just expected more from you so-called refined and civilised people."

"Well don't. I'm infantry, not a senator."

"Obviously," Denil said, throwing a telling glance at the soldier. But the man just grinned, happily munching on his food and obviously proud of his lowly military status; he winked knowingly at Denil who found himself quirking up the corner of his mouth in response.

They finished the dinner in companionable silence, as if they’d actually done it all before, and Denil went outside to clean the bowls in the grass.

"So... Gnaeus..." the healer began as he came back inside.

"What's the matter with you and my name?" the soldier interrupted, echoing Denil's previous recrimination about his hair.

"What?"

"You stumble on it. It isn't so hard to pronounce."

"Well, no... but it's..." Ugly. "...Strange," Denil admitted. "It sounds strange, and not very... uh... not quite..." He was lost for a diplomatic way to put this.

"Try 'Jak'," the Roman offered, his voice taking on a low and warm quality. "That's what my friends call me." The dark eyes fixed Denil for a moment, adding weight to the words.

The Briton smiled and nodded, acknowledging the gift for what it was. "Jak," he repeated. "I like it better." Much better.

Denil was about to pull Jak into a conversation about where he came from, and what he'd seen and done, but the heavy half-circles beneath the man's eyes let him know it was high time this Roman was put to bed. Jak didn't pose any resistance and, confirming the healer's guess, was soon fast asleep.

Never mind. Denil would have all the time in the world to get the answers to his questions. Or a dozen days at least.

The next morning saw them taking a hearty breakfast, and no sooner had Denil put everything away than Jak started complaining about being restless.

"We'll go for a walk," the healer said, gathering his fishing gear. "Exercise, fresh air and sunshine should do you some good."

"I don't care what the weather's like; simply getting out of this steaming hovel is bound to do me good."

Denil cast him a black look. Hovel? The comfortable nest Denil had built for himself, year after year?

"I've been pent up in here for *four* days," Jak argued, refusing to apologise and holding up three dirty fingers to the healer's face – probably on purpose.

"We'll go to the river; I'll do some fishing, and you'll do some extensive washing." The last word ringing almost viciously.

They walked to the river not too far from Denil's home, with the mare in tow. The young man didn’t miss the way the soldier assessed every bush, tree trunk and suspicious-looking foliage for threat, but didn’t comment on it. It was to be expected, after all; Denil trod quietly and simply admired the amount of concentration the Roman was deploying to map the terrain – however useless that happened to be. Denil knew these dense, deserted woods like the back of his hand.

The place the Briton had chosen was bathed in golden sunlight when they got there; the water flowed slower in this segment of the river, lazily spreading wide and thin over its bed of clear pebbles.

"There you go," Denil said. "You wash yourself, your tunic, and my mare, if you please." The request was friendly but clearly brooked no refusal. "I'll be fishing upstream. If Laira starts acting skittish for no reason you can guess, you hide away." This place was too far from the village to be frequented by anyone but Denil, but it was wiser to take no chances. Besides, he wanted Jak to know that he was looking out for him, that he was giving him a means of escape if things turned sour. He stroked the withers of his mare affectionately, patted her flank, then left Jak to his own devices and went further up the river to find deeper waters.

As he trudged along the river bank, the Roman’s voice floated up to him. “Well, Laira my girl, I guess it’s just you and me.” A brief, wet ‘splotch’ sound as the tunic hit the water. “Come here often?”

Denil smiled and lengthened his stride.

Jak was a strange man; at times flippant and full of humour, at others sharp and focussed with a predatory edge to his looks. The Briton wondered if that was how Rome trained its legionaries, or if it was simply... Jak. He reckoned it was the latter.

A few hours, a bath and four fish later, Denil decided he'd had enough and returned to check on the Roman.

A Roman who was currently sitting half naked on a boulder in the middle of the river, ricocheting flat pebbles over the peaceful water surface. One, two, three... Denil counted eight.

"Very impressive," he said, coming to stand next to Jak.

"I'm a natural," the soldier smiled up at him, probably about to launch on a boastful account of some sort when he suddenly stopped short; the second his eyes met Denil's, his expression changed. The immature smugness vanished from his features, abruptly replaced by the kind of wary tension that comes from making a puzzling discovery.

"What?" Denil inquired.

"Nothing."

"What? You look like you've just seen your ancestors," the healer insisted. Jak now averted his gaze from him and Denil really wanted to know why.

"It’s... I've never seen anyone with such frightening eyes," Jak finally said, strangely subdued as he threw another pebble.

"I can't be the first blue-eyed man you've met."

"No. I've seen all shades of blue eyes under the sun. I've seen men with blue eyes dark as the sea, and I've seen men with blue eyes clear as snow. I generally ended up driving my sword through their hearts." The words, so casually uttered, sent an unpleasant chill through Denil. "But your eyes, I find them... frightening. I've never had such eyes looking at me like I wasn't an enemy."

Another pebble glanced off the water.

"And that's frightening?"

Golden brown eyes looked up at him again, boring into him as if in search of something. "Their colour is nothing new to me."

The healer waited for Jak to finish his statement, but the man had said everything he was prepared to say.

And apparently that was it: 'frightening'. The man had marched across whole countries, battled under every sun, taken the lives and hopes of dozens, maybe hundreds of people, and he thought Denil’s eyes were something to be afraid of. Denil didn’t know if he should be proud or chagrined; all in all he guessed it was better than to inspire disgust, though.

"So, we've been living in the same hut for the past few days, and you only realise this now?" the Briton asked flippantly, to lift the disturbing mood.

"Well it's a pretty dark hut."

Denil snorted.

"And there's more light here and now than I've ever seen since I set foot in this cursed country," Jak sighed.

"It is indeed a beautiful day," Denil agreed, tilting his head back to stare up at the azure sky.

"Are you going to bathe?"

Denil grinned at the sky. "Already did." Then he looked down at Jak and his tempting handful of nicely flat pebbles. He stole one and threw it neatly.

One, two, three... Jak counted eight.

"Very impressive," the soldier said.

The ripples smoothed out and both men remained motionless, drifting in strange thoughts.

"It's time to head back home, I think," the healer eventually said quietly.

"Ah, yes. Back to our comfy little hovel," Jak mumbled, getting up rather stiffly.

"You're free to sleep with Laira if you're not happy with my accommodations," Denil muttered as they both waded to the shore.

"No way. She snores even louder than you do."

They collected Jak's tunic from the branch where it was drying, as well as the one Denil had lent him to wear that morning, and decided to mount the mare back to the hut, to spare the soldier's strength. Denil rode in front and soon found out that the close contact with Jak's hot inner-thighs was more than a little distracting.

Not as distracting as the way his hair caught in the man's heavy stubble, though. No matter how much Denil tried to shake his mane free, it always seemed to get tangled in Jak's grey bristles. He began to suspect something when he heard the Roman chuckle behind him.

"You really have a thing for my hair, don't you?" Denil huffed.

"It's entertaining. Long and soft – almost like a woman's," Jak remarked, playing with the strands that danced under his nose. "Don't you ever get flees and lice?" he inquired teasingly, parting the hair to peer at the scalp.

"I'd be a poor healer if I couldn't keep bugs out of my own hair," the Briton sniped. He leaned over Laira's neck to get out of the Roman's reach... and straightened hurriedly back up when he felt warm hands settle possessively on his hips.

"I'm just saying," Jak murmured with a hint of smugness.

"If you like your head attached to your shoulders, I advise you not to mistake me for a woman, Jak," Denil ground out.

"I'll try to keep that in mind."

They got home a little after midday. As Denil tied the mare, Jak announced he was ravenously hungry and headed with intent inside the hut to prepare the fish and plunder the healer's provisions for a meal. Denil let him. After all, he had stocked up on food for that very purpose, and he was glad to see him with such a healthy appetite. Jak was already looking better – definitely not so pale and drawn anymore – and his split eyebrow was healing nicely. He was astonishingly resilient. Or maybe Denil was that good a healer.

After lunch, Jak began rummaging around the place for some time until he finally laid his hands on what he'd been looking for – his equipment. He came outside to sit in the little patch of warm afternoon sun and began to make loud, disapproving noises for the benefit of Denil who was checking on his limited stock of dry, chopped wood. The Briton had a fair idea of what was coming.

"You could've at least been careful with it," Jak fussed, staring mournfully at the damaged armour. "I'm going to have to replace all the laces."

"You were dripping blood and gore at the time," Denil lied. "Taking care of your gear wasn't one of my priorities."

Jak made a great show of looking down at himself, checking for some trace of what might have been a gaping, gushing wound, then raised a mocking, questioning eyebrow at the healer.

"There were too many tight knots. I didn't have the time for that. Nor the patience," Denil defended himself.

"Now that I can believe," Jak snorted.

"Go fuck yourself, Roman."

"I'm afraid I'm not that long, Celt."

Shaking his head in amusement, Denil went to fetch his axe, an insistent grin tugging at his lips, and settled down to split wood in the clearing.

He'd always liked that particular chore and he was good at it – good enough to make it a pleasurable exercise in such fine weather.

He put the first log on the block and soon fell into his well-rehearsed routine.

Easy, precise hits, fully using the weight of the axe head. The swinging, pounding blows sent shocks and vibrations through his frame. Between two logs, he glanced at his Roman friend, who was studiously cutting a thick strip from a piece of hide. And the wood-chopping took up again, slowly warming up every muscle in his body. When Denil fell on gnarled, knotted wood, he hammered a wedge into it with the blunt side of the axe, driving the iron deep through the fibres, pounding it with heavy, rhythmic blows until the log split apart almost effortlessly – aware, all the while, that the soldier's eyes were trained on him. Then he looked up again, and Jak was carefully replacing a severed thong on his armour.

And Denil's axe went back to setting a sharp pace to the afternoon.

Denil took simple pride in his ability to survive; on what he had accomplished until now, on what he accomplished daily. Denil wasn't a warrior, nor an artisan, nor a farmer – he was just a lonely owl, living far back into the forest. Yet he was fit and skilled, not because his trade demanded it, but because he was on his own and simply couldn't count on anyone else to keep him alive.

The way Jak's gaze roamed over him let him know that he wasn't found wanting... in any way. And he took pride in that too.

After a couple of hours, Denil was bare-chested and dripping with sweat, but feeling pretty pleased with the impressive stack of wood piling up around the block. He cast a glance towards his friend with a satisfied smile, only to realise that Jak had disappeared. He frowned worriedly for a moment and let his axe fall into the block, listening intently.

He couldn't hear anything out of the ordinary; maybe Jak had just gone to take a piss. Denil immediately felt foolish for worrying like an old woman like that. He picked up his axe again and set one last log on the block. He hit it with a gasp of effort, then heard an uncannily matching grunt from behind his home.

The kind of lustful grunt that said a man was vigorously taking care of himself.

Denil smiled slyly and finished splitting the log in one blow.

Jak came around the hut, fastening the tie in his breeches with bright eyes and a healthy colour to his cheeks. He threw a sated smirk at the Briton.

"Very impressive," he said, nodding at Denil and his pile of wood.

"I was going to say the same thing," Denil replied with a teasing, slightly lewd glint in his eyes.

Grinning for all he was worth, Jak went back to sit in his spot, took up his armour again and proceeded with the mending.

It took Denil quite some time to neatly store all the chopped wood under his shed and by the time he set the last piece, Jak had finished.

In fact, the Roman had not only finished repairing his armour, but he’d also donned it. And the sight came as a shock to Denil. Somehow, this wasn't Jak anymore. This wasn’t even the legionary he had found seemingly dead in the field. This was the enemy, now expertly wielding the short sword Denil himself had salvaged for him.

And the soldier didn't look like any warrior Denil had seen training before. There was a simple, smooth assurance in his methodical moves; a quick self-confidence that seemed thoroughly ingrained in the man's very limbs. He went through what looked like an overly familiar routine of blows and parries, eyes sharp and concentrated. He wasn't showing off. He was obviously checking that the repaired protection was well strapped into place and didn't hinder his moves. He was obviously making sure the armour would be ready and functional for the next time he needed it.

The Roman looked so different from the Briton warriors. Colder, more calculating. A rigorously trained animal compared to the fiercely wild brutes.

Balls and blade, Chief Maldoran had once said to Denil. That's what the Britons were - balls and blade. Sometimes literally.

This legionary twirling his gladius was somehow less than that. But also much more.

The Roman suddenly stopped what he was doing and met the healer's eyes; the cool, focused look thawed into something friendlier, and Denil was once again seeing his friend.

Jak sheathed the sword and diligently started untying the new laces. Denil came to help.

Their fingers kept brushing and touching, and Jak eventually stared straight into the Briton's eyes, visibly understanding that Denil had mixed feelings about what he'd just witnessed.

"Don't look so appalled, Celt. I'm not that rusty," he said, winking winningly.

Denil untied the last knot and didn't hold back his smile.

"I'm hungry. Let's eat something," Jak proposed genially.

The younger man rolled his eyes at the seemingly insatiable appetite of his friend and followed him inside.

That night, Denil spent some time watching Jak sleep. There was something in this man that pulled at him – other than the obvious physical attraction. Something irresistible. Something that was beginning to frighten him too, if he was honest. Denil wasn't much of a people's person. He always did his best to bring comfort and help to any one who needed it, yes, but he didn't really seek the contact of others. Besides, he was always 'the healer'; different from the rest, easily singled out in a crowd – scorned, feared or respected. Denil had always felt he belonged to this land, but not really with its inhabitants.

And here came this stranger... This total stranger from a land far away, this enemy bent on submitting Denil's people by force. This Roman, whom Denil found it so easy and so natural to talk to, argue with and snipe at, in a matter of days – when he could go for weeks without feeling the need to speak to anyone from his own clan. He would've liked to know if Jak felt it too... this unusual connection.

So Denil watched Jak sleep… and wondered if something extremely stupid wasn’t happening to him

Clouds hung low and grey the next morning, matching the healer's gloomy mood. A diffuse sense of dread, mixed with an unhealthy spike of excitement, knotted his stomach every time Jak looked his way, and he didn't like it one bit. He felt unfairly trapped in his mind, in his heart and in his hut, when all he wanted to do was escape. He wanted carefree, wide open spaces, he wanted his lonely, comfortable routine – not this bittersweet confinement. Anything had to be better than... than falling for this man.

This man who was responsible for all the disturbance in Denil’s life at the moment.

The healer glared at the Roman's back.

"Yes, that's more like it," Jak grouched, eyeing the leaden sky in disgust. "Cursed island."

"As far as I know, no one invited you to invade it," Denil pointed out snidely.

Jak wheeled around sharply, eyes narrowed in challenge; he’d caught on the Briton’s sour, querulous tone.

"You're right. I wasn't invited, I was ordered to."

Before either of them could launch into the impending stormy argument, Laira started stamping outside. Denil marched past Jak, bumping his shoulder on the way out, the sullen look on his face promising that they'd take up this conversation when he came back.

This time, the visitor was the older sister of the girl he'd treated for a stye a few days ago; she was bringing the promised pair of ducks. The healer knew her very well. Freya was seventeen, but looked somewhat younger; she was rather fair and very soft-spoken - and she clearly thought that Denil would make a perfect husband and father.

And strangely enough, for once, Denil felt very happy to see her – thought she looked like carefree, wide open spaces. He smiled at her and was glad to see her blush coyly.

"Good day, Freya. How are you? And how's your sister faring?"

"Good day, Healer.” Freya first respectfully kept her eyes to the ground, then had them settle on Denil's talented hands, then trail up to the bright silver torc gracing his neck, and finally meet his eyes. “We're both faring well, and my mother sends her thanks as well as these in payment," she said, holding up the two ducks in their diminutive wicker cage for inspection.

"Thank you. You'll have to give my regards to your mother," the healer replied kindly. The back of his neck prickled unpleasantly; he was sure the Roman was observing them.

The first drops of rain started to fall, fat and straight, and Denil took the ducks from the girl, then laid a hand on her shoulder and led her to the stable, for cover. Once there, he put the cage down and wrapped an arm around Freya's back because she was shivering. She shivered even more after that.

Huddled under Laira's shelter, they waited to see if the rain would stop. At one point, Denil looked down at the young woman and saw her gazing up at him with wide, adoring eyes. And yes, he began to feel completely disgusted with himself.

"Oh, Healer," Freya murmured, voice slightly quivering. "What happened to your lip, Healer?" She raised a hand to touch his face and Denil wanted to shy away from the contact... but didn't. Jak was bound to be watching. He suffered her to put her cold, damp, little fingers shyly over his lips... and wanted to run when he saw her lovely, hopeful smile.

"Nothing. Just a small cut," he answered as tersely as he dared.

So much for carefree, wide open spaces.

He stared into the trees and tried to look like he wanted to be here with her more than anything else. After a moment, seeing that the rain didn't seem ready to relent, he offered to take her back home on horseback. She accepted, deeply blushing.

He prepared the mare, then helped Freya mount behind him. The girl hesitantly wrapped her slender arms around his waist and Denil felt his heart sink coldly down to the pit of his stomach. He set out at a light gallop, blackly cursing Jak for driving him into this situation.

He deposited the girl safely home, inwardly cringing at her sweet demeanour and heartfelt thanks, then he rode to Chieftain Maldoran's abode to collect the promised horse. He came back to his place, drenched and incredibly sick with himself.

The first thing he saw on entering the hut was Jak, sitting on the bed, carefully mending his military tunic. And Denil instantly wanted to take the piss out of him; the Roman had it coming, anyway.

"Well, well, well, look who's the perfect maid. You cook, you wash, you sew... Do you bear children, too? I might be interested," he sneered.

Jak slowly looked up at him, eyes black and inscrutable; he stopped what he was doing. He got up, tall and dangerous, radiating irritation and frustration. He advanced hostilely on Denil and was soon right in his face.

"Three out of four isn't so bad, don't you think?" he said acidly, the soft menace in his tone daring Denil to push his luck. "And talking about children; how goes the little girl with her ducks? Of age to procreate, is she?" Jak girded cynically.

Shame and anger swamped Denil, making him want to lash out. It wasn’t his fault the girl was assuming too much... Except it WAS his fault. No, in fact, it was the Roman’s fault. He was the one making Denil feel out of sorts. He was the one responsible for Denil making all the wrong choices. If it hadn’t been for those deep brown eyes, Denil wouldn’t have acted so immaturely. The man was influencing him in a way that was clearly unnatural. He was too close. Too tall. Too rough. Too precisely what Denil had never fully admitted to liking. If he touched him... "I don't want to fight with you, Jak," he warned as calmly as he could.

"Oh, no you don't," the soldier agreed sarcastically. "You want something else."

Jak took another step, forcing Denil to back up against the table.

"You want something a little more thrilling, don't you?" he purred knowingly, his eyes shining with something so taunting and sexual that Denil felt breathless. "Nice little women aren't what you want. What you need and crave is a bit of cock up your ass, isn't it? Ever tried Roman cock?" Jak brought his face close to the younger man's ear. "All you have to do is ask, little Celt," he whispered, mockingly conniving.

Loveless bastard. Denil wanted away, away from the burning eyes that saw too much and loved too little. It was unfair... So unfair. Jak was trying to humiliate him, using what should have stayed sacred – the natural attraction between them.

"Just one word and I'll fuck you good and hard. I’ve got what it takes to make you bleat and bray, sweetheart," the obnoxious legionary promised darkly, riling up the Briton for all he was worth.

And Denil's heart turned icy cold at the corrupted endearment, even as his cock throbbed treacherously at the thrilling closeness and the images searing through his mind. He roughly shoved at Jak in warning.

Jak pushed back with one hand, a detestable smirk on his lips. “You so want me to bend you over that table,” he riled.

Denil bit on the inside of his cheek and dug his fingernails into the wood, promising himself that he wouldn’t stoop to the man’s level.

“Come on, little Celt, stop with the coy maiden act,” Jak goaded. “Just come out and say it: ‘Please, fuck me, Jak’,” he breathed, perfectly mimicking Denil’s soft tone and accent.

The gibe was too much. Too close to the truth. Too far from it. And Denil lost his temper there and then. The hard, vicious shove sent Jak staggering back a few paces, and the Briton briefly disappeared into a dark corner of the room.

When he came back into the dim light, he was holding a long sword, face grim and determined; the legionary was going to eat his hateful words.

"Outside," he ordered harshly, picking up the gladius from the foot of the bed and flinging it at Jak. "Outside!"

Jak blinked, stunned into silence. Apparently, he hadn’t expected this particular turn of event. The healer cocked his head and drove the tip of his blade impatiently into the hard packed floor - Jak finally took his weapon and obeyed.

They faced each other in the clearing, swords in hand under the rain.

"You should watch your words around me, Jak. I'm no seasoned warrior, but you're older than me and recovering from an injury, so I'd say this is an even match," the Briton said.

Jak didn't answer – he just observed Denil for a second, then looked at his own short sword and fell into stance.

Denil knew he probably didn't hold his weapon quite right and he knew he was provoking a man who had more experience in such matters than the healer could ever hope to compound, were he to live 200 years. But right now, he really didn't care. Right now he wanted blood.

Drawing on his memories of the few training sessions he'd seen, he advanced and feigned a series of thrusts, to see how the Roman reacted.

Quick as lightning, that was how. Jak was obviously able to anticipate his moves. Either he was very good, or Denil was very bad.

Never mind; ‘Please, fuck me, Jak’ echoed stingingly in his mind.

Balls and blade, Denil remembered. The Romans had been beaten on that battlefield. THIS Roman had fallen once already – surely he could fall twice.

Denil hurled himself forward, engaging in the first real combat of his life.

They exchanged ringing blows. Jak was quicker, but Denil had a longer range. Jak was skilled, but Denil was enraged. When Jak managed to get close enough, he'd block the long sword aside and try to throw punches. When Denil managed to keep Jak at bay, he'd slash wide arcs and nearly cut him into strips. Inevitably, the fight dragged in length; neither could get the upper hand and their drenched clothes slowed them down, doubling the effort every move required.

A kick to the back of Denil's knee sent him tumbling down in the mud. He retaliated by tripping Jak who landed hard on his back. After that, they came to hands, landing glancing blows over slippery, mud-soaked skin. And still neither could win.

They ended up crawling ridiculously in the same miry puddle, both panting too hard to keep fighting. The blind rage and black anger had simply drained from them sooner than they’d thought. A truce was mutely agreed upon and they finally collapsed where they were in utter exhaustion.

The clearing became quiet again, the sweet pitter-patter of the rain only broken by the men's harsh breathing and occasional moans of pain.

"Oh, I'm too old for this shit," Jak groaned, rolling to his side to face Denil.

A wheezing cough was the only reply he got.

"You're not too bad, Celt, I'll give you that," he said. “Howling mad, but not too bad.”

"Shut up, Roman, I'm dying."

They let the rain wash away the grime, then they eventually dragged their aching bodies back inside, shivering so hard their teeth chattered. Jak was sure he'd never been so cold in his life, and shared that piece of information repeatedly. Denil was sure he'd never get dry again, as long as he lived.

Things were a bit awkward there for a moment. They stripped naked, had the fire roaring as hard as it could without burning the whole place down, and sat side by side, sharing the same cloth to dry themselves – in silence.

"With a bit of training, you'd make a good soldier," Jak said, by way of peace-offering.

"I don't want to be a soldier," Denil muttered, trying to find a dry patch on the cover to rub over his still dripping hair.

Without a word, the Roman picked up his half-mended tunic from the bed, motioned to Denil to turn around; he started wringing the long hair with the fabric.

"You shouldn't take everything I say so much to heart," Jak mumbled, at length. "I was just bored and pissed with this stupid weather. I didn’t really mean to offend you."

Denil understood this was an apology of some sort. Insulting things had been proffered, most of them painfully true, but they had crossed blade and Jak was apologizing. Their argument was over; they were going to be friends again. No more bad blood.

So why did Denil feel like the whole issue had been unaddressed?

Jak kept working clumsily at drying the Briton's hair for some time – wringing it, squeezing it, rumpling it, tousling it, and generally making a huge mess of it until Denil let his head sink between his shoulders to stop his friend's vigorous ministrations.

"That better?" the soldier asked.

"Yes. Thank you," Denil replied, taking the tunic from his hands and finishing the job himself.

There was a lengthy, uneasy pause. "I never did say thank you, did I?" Jak finally said very quietly.

The younger man stopped what he was doing. It had never bothered him, really. Jak was a proud soldier; he could understand that the man had a problem when it came to saying thanks. Especially if he had to say it to a blue-eyed healer. "No, you didn't," he admitted, and let the damp garment drop on the bed.

"I should have.” Jak gazed earnestly at him, eyes more eloquent than words. “Thank you, Denil. For everything."

Denil nodded, lips quirking up in a little smile.

Jak cleared his throat, visibly embarrassed by his shameful display of unbecoming sensitivity. Obviously grasping at straws and in desperate need of a diversion, he made free to lift the Briton's chin with his forefinger, inspecting the cut upper lip.

"What happened to your lip? I didn't do that just now, did I?"

"No, you did it three days ago."

"Really?"

"On the first morning you woke up. You tried to shut me up with my own dagger."

Jak scowled slightly. “You do have a big mouth on you, Celt.”

Denil snorted. “Says the man who just riled me into a duel.”

“Big mouth and hot temper,” Jak added, a suppressed smirk ghosting on his lips. His hand hadn’t left Denil’s face and the pad of his thumb came to brush very gently over the still tender scar. His expression turned pained and intent, and his dark gaze left Denil's lip for a second to delve deep into the younger man's eyes. "Sorry," he murmured, voice unusually low and soft. Like he was apologizing for defiling an altar.

Then the rough thumb proceeded to slide caressingly over the cheek... and before Denil knew it, he was responding to the sweetest, gentlest kiss he'd ever been given. A soft touch of lips – hopeful, longing and just a bit desperate. A tender kiss that was so right and so telling that it left no place for doubt.

When they parted, Jak leaned his forehead against Denil's and softly stroked the corner of the younger man's mouth.

"Am I hurting you?" he asked.

Denil couldn't help a chuckle, thinking this was probably the most ludicrous thing Jak could've said, considering his body ached absolutely everywhere from the blows the Roman had dealt.

"No," he answered, and kissed him to prove it.

A hushed moan and Jak was opening his mouth to welcome Denil’s tongue, caressing, soothing. The kiss was unbelievably voluptuous.

“I’m sorry,” Jak whispered breathlessly as Denil bit his lips. “I didn’t mean those words. I... Well, I guess I meant them, but... I want you. Want you to want me like that,” he rushed, sadly babbling.

“I do,” Denil promised, then went back to taking possession of his mouth. Heatedly claiming his very own war hostage.

Unresisting, Jak fell back on the bed, dragging Denil on top of him with a deep purr, and trapped him into place between his knees... They finally, finally tangled and kissed luxuriously, each one fastening hungry hands and thirsty lips to a body he had coveted from the beginning.

"Take it off," Jak rasped, biting kisses down his lover's neck.

"What?"

"The torc. Take it off," the older man said. "I want you naked."

Except Denil never parted from his silver torc – neither to bathe nor to sleep.

The request sounded extravagant, but when he looked into the dark eyes he understood what was asked of him. He pried it off and stared at it for a second, letting his fingers trace the spiralled strands. Jak took it gently out of his hands and laid it somewhere on the bed, then pulled Denil down again and started to kiss the freshly uncovered throat with greedy lips and nipping teeth.

And Denil could've sworn his bones were melting under the heat; he closed his eyes and bore down on his lover's body, moaning avidly as he felt hard flesh getting even harder. Jak grunted appreciatively against his neck, one of his hands raking down the Briton's back to clamp solidly on his ass.

"Well, look who's got the bigger sword, now," Jak whispered smugly, glancing down at their matching erections.

"You're longer, not bigger," Denil contradicted, grinding his thicker shaft punishingly onto Jak's cock.

"Ohhhh yes," the Roman growled in approval.

And during the minutes that followed, they strained together and kissed and held and almost bruised each other. Couldn't get enough of each other. Pushing, pumping and groaning in pleasure until the too strong sensations got the better of their stamina. One after the other, they cried out and came, cocks burning and jerking and pouring slick heat between them, leaving them shuddering and breathless.

So right. They finally felt so right.

Utterly boneless and spent, they promptly fell into a deep, blissful sleep.

When Denil woke up, he was alone in bed, feeling strangely clean and comfortable with a cover neatly tucked around him; he was warm, the fire burned nicely in the hearth and Jak was cooking something that smelled very good. He got up slowly, his body stiff and sore from his earlier exertions, and pulled a pair of breeches on. Rubbing his fingers over the base of his neck that felt unusually bare and cold without his torc, he came to peer over Jak's shoulder at the dinner he was busy preparing.

It might have smelled good but it looked terrible.

"Why didn't you roast one of the ducks on a spit?" Denil asked, scrunching up his nose in aversion.

"I was in a mellow mood; I didn't have the heart to kill the little creatures," Jak replied.

"Well, they can't stay in that small cage all their life, can they?"

"I know." And right on cue, a duck was heard quacking happily in the clearing just as his companion waddled into the hut, shaking his feathered behind. "You should've seen them only a moment ago, they had great fun in the puddles," Jak grinned, clearly amused and wholly unrepentant.

Denil glared at him and shooed the shameless fowl out of his home before shutting the gate to block the entrance.

"This dinner had better be good or you'll sleep under the stars with your new, palmed friends," the younger man muttered.

As it turned out, the dinner was very good, and Jak and Denil devoured it with relish, until both stared predatorily at the last share of food at the bottom of the dish.

"I'll make you a deal," Jak proposed reasonably. "I'll trade you this for a night in my bed."

"Which happens to be MY bed," Denil sputtered, outraged.

"Deal!" Jak declared; he snagged the pot unceremoniously and gobbled down what was left under Denil's very eyes.

The thieving bastard! If it hadn’t been for his convalescent ass... The Briton got up and stomped out of the room to go clean his sadly empty bowl.

Despite the easy bantering mood during dinner, though, the rest of the evening was more subdued and somewhat more awkward. Jak took up the mending of his tunic once again and Denil remained seated in front of him, a bit at a loss for something to do with himself. He watched in wonder as the calloused fingers manipulated the thread and needle with odd grace; there was so much about Jak that intrigued him. Then his gaze fell on the torc that the Roman had made him surrender, and Denil realised he still didn't know how to feel about that.

He eyed his most prized property lying on the table by his lover's elbow for long minutes... Denil wasn't a vain man, but this torc had been a gift he'd always valued greatly; the token of a chieftain's esteem and appreciation. In the eyes of his people, the necklace was a solid, ringing proof of his worth, and while he wasn't arrogant or stupid enough to consider the ornament as some sort of glorious achievement in itself, it mattered to him that it was treated with respect. It mattered that it stayed in his possession. It was the mark of the kind of man he was proud to be. He didn't know if Jak understood that, and it made him uneasy.

After a while, he got up and went to check on the horses – and saw that Jak had already fed them. The rain had stopped and the night had settled in. The ducks were huddled together near the stable, just outside their wicker cage, their beaks tucked under a wing. No one needed Denil’s help apparently.

He stayed in the clearing, though; he sat on the damp wooden block and watched the moon cast silver blotches on the ground in between clouds.

...Imagined how it would be once the Roman was gone.

In a week at most, he would be fit enough to travel.

It was the faintest vibration of air that told him he wasn't alone anymore; he moved over to the side of the block so that Jak could sit.

"It's a noble piece of craftsmanship you have here," the Roman said, handing back the torc. “Beautifully fine and stalwart. Are you a prince of blood or something?”

Denil snorted.

"Yes, I figured as much," Jak mumbled good-humouredly. "One day you'll have to tell me how you came to deserve it."

"It's a long story." Yet Denil could exactly remember the look of gratefulness and respect in the eyes of the chieftain who'd given it to him. Making him feel like he was more than just a useless outcast.

"And you know, far be it from me to judge or criticize," his friend went on, "but for all its elegance, symbolism and money worth, I still think it covers too much skin." The sidelong glance was warm and lingering. "There are things the shiniest silver and purest gold can simply never hope to match."

The crickets chirped and Denil worked to get his voice back. "Is this a compliment?"

"Could be." Jak got up, making a great show of wiping the dampness off his ass. "But I'll hang you with your own entrails if you breathe a word about it to anyone – beasts included."

With that, the Roman went back inside, the very image of casual dignity.

When Denil finally decided to follow him into the hut, he found Jak in bed, lying on his back, his hands knitted behind his head – the man obviously naked under the covers.

"I thought I was getting my bed back for the night," Denil observed dryly.

"You are. With me in it." Jak patted the bedding invitingly.

With a long-suffering sigh that wasn't all that much heartfelt, the Briton laid his necklace carefully aside, stripped and got into bed, mindful of not tripping on the conspicuous bowl of oil on the floor. As he wriggled to get comfortable, his lover turned on his side and watched him with intent. Denil finally found a position that suited him in the narrow bunk, and crooked a finger at Jak who'd been patiently waiting for some sort of permission to pounce.

"What's the oil for?" Denil asked as innocently as possible, when he came up for air.

"A little peaceful invasion, if you agree," the older man replied guilelessly.

"Peaceful invasion, eh?"

"Thorough inland reconnaissance... Scouting the terrain... Getting familiar with the natives..." Jak teased between kisses. Denil chuckled and in a matter of seconds, his lover was unashamedly petting and licking as much skin as two hands and one tongue allowed; the Briton was adamant a man's nipples were not meant to withstand such wet, single-minded devotion.

"I've never tasted such smooth skin on a man before," Jak whispered, nibbling at Denil's chest. "I love it." The nibbles turned into kisses that strayed up to his lips. "I love you."

"Because my skin feels good?" Denil derided, lost in sensations.

"No, because you're an argumentative bastard," Jak sniped. His hands trailed over Denil's body, already well learned in all the hard curves and taut planes. "A really, really beautiful, argumentative bastard," he added caressingly. He bit tenderly at the stubbled jaw, and dragged his teeth over to the lush lower lip. He nipped and sucked at it, and murmured, "I love you, Denil."

Such intimate worship in the simple words – Denil had never heard anything comparable. In fact, if truth be told, he’d never actually believed in any declaration of love, from anyone – until now. And for the first time in his life, he was thinking of building up the nerve to say the words back. He kissed Jak deeply, figuring that was as good a start as any.

“I thought my eyes were frightening,” he eventually nagged.

“They’re frighteningly beautiful,” Jak corrected unabashedly. “They’re brave and wise and beautiful, and they see through everything – that’s what’s frightening. You see right through me.” He kissed him again, very carefully...

...then slowly suckled and licked his way lower and lower down his body, dipping a hot tongue into his navel, swirling it across his belly, driving it deep and wet into the fold where groin met thigh. Denil thought he could suffer the sweet, burning torture silently... until the rasping, damp warmth stroked his balls hungrily and a shameful mewl escaped him.

"Aaaaah, that's better," Jak gloated evilly.

"Bastard. I... Oh... Oh yes, just like that," Denil grunted as his cock was tongued and nibbled. He spread his thighs eagerly and his fingers came to tangle in the short silver strands. "Please, take me deep in your throat. Please," he moaned, canting his hips and pressing down on Jak's head.

"Pushy Celt," Jak groused as he prepared to obey his lover's orders.

"Babbling Roman," Denil slurred as he felt his cock sink deep inside his lover's mouth. This time he didn't hold back his gasps and groans, and let Jak know just how much he appreciated his attentions. It was so good, so fabulously intense. He arched back in pleasure and tried not to thrust too hard into the scorching, silky wetness perfectly wrapped around his shaft. He was going to die. He was going to come in his lover's mouth and die in his lover's arms, and right now, this seemed like the highest state of bliss Denil could ever hope to reach.

Except Jak stopped what he was doing and Denil's cock slipped out his mouth, throbbing, shiny and really frustrated.

"No! Jak, son of a whore, finish me!" Denil cried out in disbelief, tightening his grip on his lover's head.

"Later. Later, I promise," Jak tried to soothe, voice breaking. "Want you now, Love. Need you now." Searing kisses trailed up Denil's stomach, chest and chin to end their course on his lips. "Please."

"I hate you," the younger man croaked, closing his eyes in surrender.

"No, you don't," Jak cajoled, suppressing a besotted smile. He leaned over the side of the bed and dipped his fingers into the waiting bowl, then came back to lavish restive caresses and slip an oiled finger inside his lover. "You love me. I know you love me,” he whispered huskily. “And this is going to be the best fucking you've ever had, and you'll never want anyone but me for as long as you live," he promised, gasping as he pushed a second finger in and felt the tightness that awaited him. He grazed a sensitive spot deep within, and Denil shuddered helplessly, bucking to take more of him.

"So beautiful," Jak murmured to himself.

"Babbling!" Denil retorted, writhing on the already retreating fingers.

Jak scooped up more oil and fisted his cock with a grunt, making sure he was slick and ready for his lover, then kneeled between Denil's open thighs. He leaned forward and dropped a quick kiss on his lips.

"Do you want it like this, on your back?" he whispered, his voice low and rough.

"Just fuck me before I have to do you an injury," Denil growled, locking his thighs around Jak’s waist.

"How sweet." Jak positioned himself and pushed, breaching his lover gradually but surely.

Denil gasped and tensed a bit, his muscles too little used to the exertion, and Jak stopped. A warm hand came to stroke the younger man’s side, his hip, his inner-thigh, a thumb dipping beside his balls to rub distracting circles. "Trust me, Love," the legionary breathed.

What a stupid thing to say. Of course Denil trusted him. Always had. Almost right from the start. Jak was, in fact, the man he trusted the most, Denil came to realise. And there could be only one reason for that.

"Jak, I think I love you," Denil rasped awkwardly.

And Jak shivered slightly and closed his eyes... When he opened them again, they were bright and teasing.

"You don't happen to say this because I've got my cock half-way up your ass, do you?"

Denil grinned, "Could be."

"Mmmm, Denilim, you'll be the death of me," Jak purred lovingly as he thrust slowly into the welcoming heat.

"Oh yessss..." Denil groaned.

Jak went deep, drowning him in perfect pressure with thorough and unhurried strokes, until his eyes were rolling back ecstatically in his head and his skin was crawling with luxurious shivers. He was being stretched and filled to his limit, and he had no words to describe how exquisite it felt. He wanted to scream but was too completely taken to do much more than gasp and thrust back to impale himself further.

And Jak took his time loving him, reducing him to speechlessness with how well he used his cock, his hands, his lips, his whole body to pleasure Denil's senses and woo Denil's heart.

It shouldn't have been like that. This wasn't the fucking he’d been led to expect.

Fucking shouldn’t and couldn’t be so achingly intense and slow and loving.

This was love-making and it was going to kill him as surely as a sword through the heart.

But it didn't matter anymore, because it was too late, anyway. Jak had been right. Denil would never want anyone else – and his sexual skills didn't even have anything to do with it.

"Please..." Denil moaned wretchedly, not knowing exactly what he was begging for.

It seemed Jak knew, though. He began thrusting harder and sinking deeper than ever, making Denil throw his head back and claw at the bedding wantonly. Making him cry out and curse at the sensations that wrecked his sanity. Soon, Jak was ramming into his ass with pure abandon and Denil felt this impossible scream building up inside him again.

But then everything stopped, and he was left hanging over the edge of the abyss, utterly lost.

Jak’s cock left him and he all he was able to do was croak a pathetic, “No...”.

“Sshh, turn around, Love,” Jak soothed. “Turn around. On your hands and knees.”

It took several tries for Denil to get his limbs to work, but when he finally got into position, his lover slid right back in again, eliciting a soft grunt of relieved pleasure from both men.

Oh yes, nothing like it. He never wanted to be without this.

“So perfect,” Jak whispered, raking burning fingertips down Denil’s spine.

He gave a smooth, careful thrust – reassuring, reclaiming. Followed by another, instinctive and assertive. And then a more forceful shove that struck that special spot inside his lover and made him whimper in delight. Denil let his head drop between his stretched arms, fighting for breath as each push brought him closer, made him more desperate. He needed more, much more. And he wanted it all. Wanted it now. “Harder,” he grunted – a hoarse, pleading sound.

Jak clutched his hips in a stronger grip and gave him harder. Reaching so deep Denil’s eyes watered, ramming so hard he could barely breathe, fucking him so good he wanted to die like this. Every powerful thrust shattering him. He was drenched in sweat, he was dizzy and he was loving every second of it.

Then the rhythm faltered and an arm snaked around his shoulder, a hand sank in his hair; he was slowly pulled upright, still on his knees, still impaled on Jak’s cock. The strong arm wound across his torso, holding him plastered to his lover’s chest, while the hand just threaded through his hair, half possessive, half reverent. A shuddering pause in the storm. The delicious pounding had stopped in his ass, but was everywhere else in his body. Over the deafening rush of blood in his ears, he heard Jak panting against his neck. Felt Jak’s heart hammering against his back. And he couldn’t help being glad that he wasn’t the only one feeling out of his depth, feeling wrung out and ripped apart. He reached over his shoulder and found Jak’s cheek, hot and sweaty; he stroked it clumsily, then let his fingers trail further back and grab at the nape. Such wonderful closeness. Jak mouthed the inside of his wrist, laboured breathing gushing over the sensitive skin. Had anything ever felt so good?

“I love you,” Denil murmured. And Jak’s cock jerked inside him in response, making him smile even as he moaned.

Burning lips and rasping stubble then trailed over his shoulder, up to his neck, where his lover licked the already damp skin. It almost distracted Denil from the calloused hand that drifted down to his groin. First ignoring his cock, the hand came to stroke and cup his balls lasciviously. Played lovingly with them, sending shivers and sparks all through Denil’s body. Then with excruciating slowness, almost one finger at a time, it wrapped itself carefully around his shaft and squeezed, wringing a helpless, amazed gasp out of him.

His lover jerked him off expertly, building up the pleasure endlessly, the rough fist surely coaxing the orgasm out of him. His whole world narrowed down to Jak. Jak’s hand on him, Jak’s cock inside him, Jak’s kisses on his neck.

Jak branding him. Making him his.

His head fell back, finding unexpected support in the hand tangled in his hair... and the scream that felt like it had been gathering in his lungs ever since he’d met Jak, finally came out as a roar. Denil came hard, semen splattering over his stomach, over Jak’s hand, his whole body quivering and his ass clenching, making Jak yell against his skin as he reached climax, too.

Shattered yet complete, they gracelessly collapsed in a heap on the bed. Sticky, sweaty, smelly – they really didn’t care.

They kissed lazily, all sloppy tongues and tired lips; it seemed to be the only meaningful thing they could do after such an encounter. Jak eventually fell asleep, his hand still cupping his lover’s cheek.

But Denil stayed awake. Tried to make some sense of it all. Tried to find out how he was supposed to go on without this.

No one had ever made him feel like that before. No one had ever made him feel so whole and so loved. And Denil clung to this feeling, refused to open his eyes, because nothing would ever be the same again. What he had, here and now, would dissolve as soon as he let reality in again, as soon as he moved out from this bed. He fell asleep nevertheless, listening to his lover's breathing and knowing the morning would bring unpleasant decisions.

And of course, he was the first to wake up at sunrise. He stayed motionless for some long minutes, just letting his mind drift over the last few days he’d spent with the man who now owned his heart.

It didn’t take long for him to come to a decision. It was more the decision that came to him, really. The options were simply too few.

He finally felt at peace and let himself relish the moment, taking in the sensations. Jak was lying half on top of him, softly snoring in his ear, covering Denil with a proprietary leg thrown over his thighs and a possessive hand over his right nipple. 'Invasive' was one way to describe the man. It made Denil smile... until it made him scowl – Jak was no light weight.

He nudged and pushed, and his lover eventually rolled off, snuffling and mumbling. Denil got up, aching everywhere, even in places that hadn't had any reason to ache in a long time – namely his ass and his heart. Fortunately the healer now knew exactly what he had to do to make both aches stop.

Kick the Roman out of his life.

It was the wisest, safest, most logical thing to do. Jak had to leave, anyway. Caesar must be regrouping his troops near the coast by now, and Jak had to be there and accounted for. Ergo, Jak had to get his ass off Denil's bed, pack up his armour and gladius, and just go. Today if possible.

Go back to his Roman life. Go back to his killing, maiming... invading, peaceful or otherwise. Go back to fucking up other people's lives.

Denil had done his duty, done what was right, and he'd probably never fully recover from it. He now deserved some peace.

Denil looked at the man sleeping in his bed. Unawares. Handsome.

No one had a right to be in such a ragged, dishevelled state and still be so handsome.

'Too handsome to be beheaded'.

Exactly.

Denil's life was going round in small, pointless circles ever since he'd stumbled across this stranger, and he had to change that.

Jak finally woke up, grunted, scratched his ass, complained about his aching joints, his aching limbs, his aching dick, for all of which he blamed Denil, and then had the nerve to come and sit at the table expectantly, asking the younger man what was for breakfast.

Yes, it was high time for the bastard to be on his way, Denil thought.

"Today, I'll lead you to the battlefield where I found you."

"Hey, by the way, how did you find me? I thought you said you weren't a soldier."

"Never mind why I was there, Jak. It's a long story. The only thing that matters is for you to be able track your way back to your camp. Do you think you can do that if I show you where the battle took place?"

"Sure," Jak said tersely, eyes narrowed and searching, then glanced down at the bowl of broth Denil put in front of him. "You don't lose time, do you?"

Denil didn’t care for the accusation and the hurt he could hear behind the words. Just ripples on a pond. Jak had no right to guilt him – he was just a stray Denil had taken pity on.

"There's no point in losing time. Caesar will be gathering his brave legionaries and sending them to some other part of the world to pillage, ransack and invade in the name of Rome. Surely you don't want to be stuck here with me while your brothers in arms are having fun, do you?"

They exchanged strange, fetchingly casual stares.

"I guess not," the Roman concluded, and drank his last dose of ‘horse piss’ without further comment.

Life pretended to take up its normal course again as if nothing had happened, and later that morning, they set out for the field, with Jak riding Denil's new horse.

"I mean, 'Aris Boch'! What kind of a barbarian name is that for a horse?" the Roman whined at length on the way, to fill the uneasiness. He then proceeded to bore Denil to tears with a comprehensive enumeration of all the names of all the horses, mutts and swines he had ever been acquainted with. There were quite a few.

When they arrived at the field, Denil was almost glad for the chilling silence with which Jak met the sight of his army's defeat. There wasn't much left to be seen, but the soldier obviously recognized the place – probably saw his comrades still standing there and fighting for their lives. Jak didn't go far off into the field and kept within reasonable distance from the tree line. At one point, he dismounted by a ditch and skidded into it. He fished a helmet out of the mire, looked inside, then threw it back into the stagnant water. Not his helmet.

"Where did you find me?" Jak then asked.

Denil pointed to the exact place where he'd first seen the legionary. The place where he'd sat for something close to an hour by the unconscious man, discreetly keeping track of the feeble heartbeat while the adolescents scavenged and decapitated.

It seemed like a lifetime ago.

Jak went to crouch right where he had indicated and that was unsettling. If he had known... If he had foreseen all the pain the battered, dirty soldier would bring him. And all the pleasure.

The incredible, heart-soaring feeling of belonging.

After a few minutes, Jak came back and mounted again, eyes hard and thoughtful.

"Did we... Did the Roman army suffer severe losses?" he asked.

"I think so, but I can't tell for sure."

Jak sighed in acceptance. "It's all the same anyway. Too many of my friends are probably roaming the Elysian fields by now. As it should be."

"They've just crossed the threshold to their next life," Denil reassured him.

"That's what you Celts believe, don't you? That we just go from one life to the next."

"It's why we don't fear death."

"Yes, I've seen that for myself," Jak nodded. He then turned his horse back into the trees, back the way they'd come. Denil followed.

"Will you be able to track your way to Caesar's camp?" he asked after a moment.

"You really are in hurry to see me leave. Am I that bad a lover?"

"No." Exactly the contrary, in fact, if the Briton had to tell the truth.

"Am I a bad guest?"

"Well, you do whine a lot for a weathered soldier," Denil pointed out lightly.

"You should feel flattered; I only complain when I feel at ease with people."

"That's very nice, but maybe I'm getting sick to the back teeth of having you around. There are things I should be doing instead of seeing to your petty needs." Denil didn't know exactly what he was supposed to be doing, but he was sure he could find something less painful than falling in love with Jak.

"Oh and what is it that Denil The Great Healer has to do, that could be so important? Flaunt his ass to anyone who'll spare him a glance? Oh no, wait – you’re already doing that," the soldier mocked.

"Watch your words, Jak," Denil ground out, setting Laira at a trot.

With a swift kick to his horse's side, Jak went after him, got ahead of him and turned bridle to block the way. "What if I don't want to leave?" he challenged, nearly menacing.

The words struck a painful chord in the Briton's chest. A stupid echo of a fleeting, silly thought that had crossed his mind this morning when he’d made his decision. What if Jak could stay? What if he CHOSE to stay? Denil's hands tightened on the reins and the mare pranced in reaction.

"Why would you want to stay?"

Jak shook his head in annoyance, eyes darkening with anger. "Let's not play this pointless game, Denil; I really have no patience for it. We both know why.” He nudged the horse closer until he was beside the younger man, facing him, less than an arm’s length away. Looking for all the world like he wanted to peg him into the ground. “I love you,” he snarled, accusing. “More than I can remember loving anyone else before. That’s why.” He proudly pulled himself to his full height on the back of his mount. “And I'm not going to grovel at your feet simply to make you feel wanted. You know where my heart is, so just tell me up front where yours is," he demanded.

So uncomplicated. Jak made it all sound so incredibly and so stupidly obvious, put like that. Child’s game.

Jak loved him and wanted to stay.

And Denil searched for a valid reason why this was impossible.

“How can you stay?” he blurted out. “Caesar...”

“Leave Caesar the fuck out of this, will you?” Jak snapped. “Caesar got me killed! I should have DIED on that battlefield and I still don’t know how I didn’t. Don’t know what kind of magic spells and enchanted horse piss you used, but I’m here – alive when I shouldn’t be.”

“Well excuse me for saving your life,” Denil grated.

“Exactly! MY life.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?!” Denil cried out, incensed.

“It means that from now on, I do whatever *I* want to do. Means I’m neither taking orders from ambitious consuls, nor from flirty, flaky Celts.”

“You miserable...”

“Shut up, I’m not finished!” Jak barked, and Denil clamped his mouth shut with an ominous click, lips pinched and thunder rolling in his eyes. “Denil, I have no ties,” Jak explained, his voice gentling. “The Legion has been the only family that there ever was for me. How sad and warped is that? Don’t answer that,” he interrupted, efficiently staving off any potential smart comment from the Briton. “Denil... I’m dead. Stepping on to my new life, like you said. I’m dead and I’m free, and I’m yours. If you’ll have me.”

A pregnant pause stretched between the two men.

“Are you finished?” Denil asked, all unflappable dignity.

Jak waved a hand, signalling him to have at it.

Jak - who loved him. Had husked the words in the heat of the moment, in the dark of night... and was now sort of throwing them in his face again – in broad daylight this time. And Jak wanted to stay. Probably intended to share Denil’s bed for the rest of his life.

Why were they arguing, again?

Denil stared into the trees, trying to look thoughtful, but really trying to get a grip on his galloping heartbeat.

So obvious...

“I think I’d like you to stay with me," he finally announced magnanimously. “But I’m not going to declare mad, passionate love to you just to make you feel wanted. And I will make you pay dearly for ‘flirty’ and ‘flaky’.”

A slow smile crept up on Jak’s features. A winning smile that crinkled the corner of his eyes and made him look utterly irresistible. He laid a hand on Denil’s knee and leaned forward to drop a very soft kiss on his lips. “I look forward to it,” he whispered, devious hand crawling up a muscular thigh.

The soldier then turned Aris Boch back on track and the horses once again fell into step, side by side.

After a minute spent imagining just how he was going to exert slow, maddening revenge on his wayward partner, Denil regained composure and cleared his throat. "I think we'll have to leave this place for some time," he announced. "We’ll attract less attention if we keep moving from one town to the next. If we stay here, some people might get a good look at you and recognize you, or at least spot you for what you are."

"And that is?" Jak taunted.

"A son of the Roman Bitch."

Jak grinned, "I do have the natural, regal elegance of my race, don't you think?"

"No, I think you have short hair, brown eyes and tanned skin."

"Ah, but you love me nonetheless."

"Sometimes."

"I could let my hair grow," Jak mused.

"You'd just look silly."

"Hey, I could do a good Celt," he promised indignantly.

"I thought you already were," Denil said, all innocent eyes and dirty smirk. “Doing a good Celt, that is.”

Jak's laughter rang out in the forest until he grabbed the back of Denil's head to give him a tongueful of Roman affection.

"You should teach me your language, Denilim," he said amorously. “I picked up a few things in Gaul, I should be able to pick up a few things here too, with the help of a kind and patient teacher.”

Denil smiled at the alien term of endearment – at least he hoped it was an endearment. "I suppose you're right. Here's your first lesson, then." He pronounced a short sentence in his native language.

"Right..." Jak repeated the words painstakingly. "What does it mean?"

"'I love you, Denil'," the Briton admitted shamelessly.

Epilogue

"We might be doing them a disservice," Denil said thoughtfully.

"They'll be perfectly happy here," Jak promised, with long-suffering patience in his voice.

"They're on their own and they're both males, they can't even have ducklings." It seemed awfully cruel to leave them behind.

"Quit fussing, Denil. I'm sure they can have lots of fun nonetheless." Jak's furtive sidelong glance at Denil was teasing and just a bit lewd.

The Briton scowled and turned on his mount to look back at the pair of ducks on their lonely pond.

"We can't take them with us. They'd be miserable," Jak argued reasonably. "And may I remind you that you were the one who wanted to roast them only two weeks ago?"

"You may not," Denil sniffed loftily.

The men rode in companionable silence until they exited the forest and came to a crossing of paths.

"So where are we going?" Jak asked.

Denil looked right, left and front, and no direction seemed more advisable than the others. "I don't know. Any ideas?"

"Well, I know of a very nice little town in the south of Gaul, called Arelate. Sunshine, cicadas, good food," the Roman started to enumerate.

"I know of a place to the west of here where they worship the Goddess Sulis and her hot springs," Denil proposed, a hint of a smile gracing his lips.

"Hot springs? You mean... As in hot baths? And you're only saying this fucking NOW?!" Jak emphatically turned his horse to the west. "I can't believe I've had to wash in that freezing little brook for over two weeks when you knew all along where to find some hot springs."

"That freezing little brook did things for your nipples," Denil pointed out, unrepentant.

"It didn't do squat for my balls, thank you very much."

"I think your balls are fine," his lover soothed. "I'll tell you about the legend around those springs, shall I?"

"Oh, not another old woman's story..." the soldier whined.

"Listen, you'll like it. So, it's the story of Prince Bladud..."

"Ugh. What kind of an ugly name is that, 'Bladud'? You Celts are terrible with names."

"Oh, you think 'Gnaeus' sounds better?"

"It so does!"

"Doesn't."

"Does."

"Jak, believe me, it doesn't. Now, on to the story of Prince Bladud..." Denil said, ignoring the way his lover rolled his eyes.

The end

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