Chapter Text
Fili struggles to remove his wet and dented cuirass. His numb fingers slip on the leather ties that he meticulously maintains. The wetness is thick and slick with gelatinous patches that he refuses to think about.
“Here, lad, let me help you with that.”
Dwalin steps close and pushes Fili’s shaking hands away.
“You’ll have to repair this,” Dwalin says looking at the sharp dent in one place. It causes the damaged plate and those adjacent to it to no longer easily fold and slide over one another.
Fili nods noncommittally; his eyes are far away. The sharp tang of steel, blood, and woodsmoke surrounds him.
The desire to go home wells in his chest; the desire to go somewhere where the smells of flames and metals are comforting and homely. Where fire warms his mother’s well-appointed home in Castra Bonnensia and heats the forge outside where he had spent many long hours.
“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.” Dwalin’s voice cuts through Fili’s haze for a moment.
“Thanks.” Fili’s voice is rough.
He is grateful that his uncle was able to pull what strings he could to make sure that Fili would be in a century with men from his part of the world. Thorin had tried to get Fili assigned to a legion near Rome; safe and far from the building tensions on the borders of the empire. Any posting that was not on the frontier was safe. Rome was comfortable and they had no significant enemies. There were only those like the local tribes who refused to submit to the Empire.
It was not unheard of for family members to find themselves in the same legion, the same cohort, the same century, or even the same tent party. Fili thinks of Dwalin and his brother Balin, of the three brothers in their cohort, Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur. Thorin had wanted to have Fili assigned to the VIII Augusta, the legion he commanded, in Argentorate, Gaul, or to the Praetorian Guard.
He was unsuccessful on both counts. Thorin had not exactly supported the current emperor early on, and the emperor had a long memory. He was not about to allow Thorin to gather his family and friends around him, just in case. Thorin had been able to ensure that Dwalin–one of his long term friends–was in the same century so that someone would be there to watch Fili’s back. And that was how Fili, named Felix because his parents could believe their luck when he had been conceived, found himself stationed in Eboracum, Britannia; the edge of the world; hell.
Well, not quite hell.
At least not now.
Fili’s hand drops to the wooden handle of his sword.
“Who’s out there?” he hisses. He dare not speak any louder. It would not the first time if it was an animal in the brush and he was overreacting.
No one speaks, and the rustling ceases. Fili straightens from his defensive crouch and loosens his grip on the sword, but his eyes still strain to see anything in the darkness that lingers on the far edges of firelight. He breathes deeply to calm his pounding heart.
He drops his head back and closes his eyes. He quietly tells himself that it was nothing.
When he opened his eyes a flash on the edge of his vision has him swearing and reaching of sword, but before he can loosen it from its sheath, he finds himself standing face to face with the man responsible for the noises in the forest.
His dark hair hangs loose around his shoulders. His chest is bare, and streaks of dirt obscure the blue lines that swirl across his pale skin.
Fili rolls his shoulders stiffly. “How’d you make out?”
Dwalin shrugs. “A few bruises, nothing major. None of the bastards even got close to getting a swing at me.”
Fili nods and his gaze slides away, “I got distracted, and…” he gestures to the cuirass and spreads his hand.
Dwalin’s hand on his head drags him back into the conversation. Dwalin pulls him close. “You can’t get distracted like that.” His tone and his face are grave. “Not here, not north of the Vallum Antonini, not ever.”
“I know.” Fili does not meet Dwalin’s gaze; his cheeks flush.
“I mean it,” Dwalin says seriously. “I don’t want to be responsible for writing to your uncle. I also cannot be responsible for what he would do. He might drag his whole damn legion up here against orders.”
Fili huffs a laugh. Thorin would do just that. It was only Thorin’s skill in battle and commanding his troops that had landed him as Legate. “I’ll do my best to make sure that you don’t have to worry about my uncle.”
“Good.”
Dwalin returns to inspecting his own armor. He is oiling the leather fastenings when he speaks again. “It was that boy, wasn’t it?”
“Hmm?” Fili is stretched out on his bedroll. He looks towards Dwalin with heavy lidded eyes that threaten to drag him under at any moment.
“What distracted you–it was that Pictish boy wasn’t it?” Dwalin’s gaze fixes on Fili.
“His name is Cilead,” Fili says thickly.
Fili had stumbled over the other man’s name the first several times he tried to pronounce it. And he would occasionally get it wrong every once in a while, in the following weeks. Cilead’s Latin was halting and thickly accented. The harsh sound on the end of Felix was swallowed in his mouth resulting in a name that was softer and quite different from the one that Fili had grown up with.
“Close,” Cilead says with a smile.
Fili rolls onto his back in the grass. “I’m never going to get it.” He squirms away when Cilead pokes him in the ribs. He closes his eyes against the harsh, low light of the sun.
“You’ll get it.”
“I doubt it,” Fili pouts.
Cilead’s eyebrow quirks suggestively. “Maybe you need an incentive?”
Fili opens his eyes, “Oh?”
Fili is jerked from his memories when Dwalin’s foot shoves him. The other men have returned to the shared tent and are quietly going to about their own business or laughing quietly together.
“See, distracted,” Dwalin says matter-of-factly. “This isn’t good for you. Not up here.”
Fili shrugs. “I’m going to the praetorium.” He pushes himself to his feet and walks out into the light rain that has started to fall.
“Why are you so upset?” Cilead asks from his perch in the spreading branches of a yew tree.
Fili pulls his cloak tightly around his shoulders and looks up at Cilead, “Why is it always raining?”
“It’s only Taranis,” Cilead says simply leaning back to look up through the branches of the broad tree. “And this is a good rain.” He holds his hand out to catch some of the rain dripping from the needles of the tree, but he does not elaborate on what makes it a good rain.
Fili shuffles his feet in the damp grass. “Why don’t you come down here?”
Cilead’s stare reveals what he thinks of that particular question. “It’s raining. See the puddles. No puddles up here.”
Fili releases his grip on his cloak and reaches for the trunk of the tree.
Torches hiss in the rain and the roads between the white tents are practically empty as the soldiers have retreated to the warm, relative safety of their tents.
Fili’s skin rises in goosebumps in the cold rain, but he thinks of Taranis rather than cursing the damp as he would have done once. The praetorium is in the center of the marching camp. It is the officer’s headquarters, but it is also where the standards are stored in their own tent. He pushes the flap aside and finds it nearly empty. Another soldier is placing an object at the base of the aquila, which stands in the center of several poles topped with the signs that identify their legion. There is their eagle, ten signums , one for each cohort, their spear heads, gold-toned hands, and philareaflashing in the firelight, the red signum with its image of bull flutters gently.
At the feet of the standards are a myriad of objects that glisten darkly. Some have been hastily wiped cleaned, but some are still wet with the blood of their previous owners. He had never liked stripping dead enemies of their earthly goods. He always thought of how devastated his mother would be if he was killed and there was nothing to send back to her. He twists the silver signet ring on his pinky. The stiff flesh with whorls of blue paint and ink is always reluctant to relinquish its earthly belongings.
Fili traces Cilead’s tattoos with a finger. “What are they?”
It is a rare warm and sunny day near Eboracum and they are taking advantage of it having ridden far out into the moors. Cilead raises up onto an elbow. “Hm?”
“Or are they just patterns?” Fili’s eyes flick up to meet Cilead’s for a moment.
“This one is a raven,” Cilead gestures.
Fili squints and furrows his eyebrows in confusion.
Cilead points, “See. Here is the head with its beak and an eye…”
As Cilead speaks the animals appear before Fili’s eyes. “They’re beautiful,” he breathes and presses a gentle kiss to Cilead’s ribs where the raven rests.
Cilead chuckles softly and a warm shiver of pleasure ripples down Fili’s spine.
Now Fili’s lips trace the entrancing coils as they define and obscure the lines of Cilead’s chest, his abdomen, and lower.
A cold, painful, shiver wracks Fili’s body.
He turns away.
His fingers find the amulet his mother gave him before he left home. He kept it tucked beneath his tunic—out of sight. She had told him about these men who came to their neighborhood and told everyone about a god who claimed that he was the only God. Fili did not believe it—how could there only be one—but he had accepted her gift and her insistence that it would help keep him safe. From what he had heard this new religion that his mother spoke of was less secretive and bloody than Mithraism, a monotheistic religion that was incredibly popular among his fellow soldiers. They had even sacrificed a white bull in the middle of Eboracum the previous summer. Despite this Fili had told his mother to keep her ideas to herself; just in case.
Thoughts of home fills him with a new resolve, and a desire for a place where he feels safe. And that is not here in the marching camp.
He strides purposefully towards the Porta Principalis Dextra where he finds Bifur and Bofur on guard. Bofur deftly sweeps away the dice away in an effort to look busy and official.
“Oi, it’s only you!” Bofur smiles and drops the dice back to the overturned tree trunk. “Fancy a game?”
“Not today.”
“You could double your paycheck,” Bofur replies with an enticing wiggle of his eyebrows.
Fili snorts. “Or I could lose my paycheck and that is far more likely.”
“Oh, well then,” Bofur props his feet up and looks to his brother for a second, “What brings you out of your tent then?
The sound of the light rain changed when Fili slipped into the forest. There was the hollow sound of heavy, gathered drops of rain hitting broad leaves; the swish of wet grass and fallen leaves from previous years as Fili’s feet part them to make room for themselves. When he first arrived in Britannia the dark forests unsettled him. But they had become home. He feels a deep sense of peace when he stands under the broad branches of yew and oak.
He does not look for Cilead.
Cilead always finds him.
Always .
Fili never wonders how that is, but he does appreciate it.
He does hope that Cilead is already waiting for him. Bofur could only cover for Fili for so long and his watch did not last all night.
“Fili,” Cilead’s voice breaks the quiet of the forest.
Fili lets go of the breath that he had not realized that he was holding.
Cilead’s clothes are dirty. He clearly did not take the time to clean up after the skirmish that afternoon. Amid the streaks of dirt and sweat the white bandage on Cilead’s arm stands out; bright in the darkness.
Fili touches Cilead’s bandage, a concerned expression on his face.
Cilead shrugs and shakes his head. “Not bad.”
Fili nods. He suspects that it is worse than Cilead is letting on, but he can be sure that it is not life threatening. Fili looks closer; he sees the smudges of blue where the paint had not been thoroughly removed. He rubs at one such smudge splashed across Cilead’s cheekbone alongside a purpling bruise.
Cilead jerks away.
“Et tu?” Cilead pulls at Fili’s stained and dirty red tunic. “Videor te… ,” he says haltingingly, “percussit.” And you? I saw you get hit.
“Armorum meorum,” Fili explains gesturing to his torso. “My armor. I will have to fix it, but I am fine if a bit bruised.”
Cilead’s face darkens. “I didn’t see who did it, but if I had …”
Fili shakes his head sadly. “I would be walking through battles unscathed and then people would know and this would have to end. I would be watched at the very least and at the worse they would assume that I was passing information along.”
“You should stay with me.”
“Non possum. I can’t, ” Fili shakes his head.
“Sed,” Cilead touches Fili’s cheek. “Custodiat te possem. But I could protect you.”
Fili’s smile is sad. He shakes his head.
He traces Cilead’s lower lip with his thumb. “We’re together now. Can we just focus on that?”
Cilead nods, but it is clear that he is not about to let the topic go. It has come up with increasing frequency over the past few weeks. But for now, they set that argument aside.
Their joining is fierce with more than a dash of pain on both sides. Fili’s fingers dig bruises into Cilead’s thighs. Cilead almost draws blood when he bites down on Fili’s shoulder to muffle his cries. They both seek affirmation that they are each alive and breathing.