Sarica. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
legislatory) wrote2022-05-16 06:03 pm
legislatory) wrote2022-05-16 06:03 pm
Entry tags:
fic.
title: Your Ego Does
word count: ~890
rating: Teen+
warnings: N/A
summary: They will never again be able to meet off the battlefield, when it's their blood that has been spilled.
author's notes: Written for the "unnecessary force" prompt for![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
genprompt_bingo, round 22. AU of a PSL continuity.
__________
The tent he enters is at the centre of the temporary military base they’ve built at the south-side of the Capital, first stop on the way to Reece. Two fully armoured soldiers are standing guard, one on either side of the tent’s opening. Inside, the general is conversing with one of his lieutenants, while, on a makeshift bed in the corner, Timachus is sitting, elbows on his knees, completely bent in over himself and visibly roughened up, more than expected even, though perhaps Sarica simply doesn’t know him that well anymore. Maybe he can’t tell what to expect at this point.
The man did run away with all his slaves. Like they were his own.
As soon as he notices his presence, the general turns away from his officer and salutes him, palm to his chest, fist in the sky. Legislator, he says. Sarica doesn’t reciprocate, because across the room, Timachus has finally woken up enough to raise his head and fix his blue eyes on his old lover, one painted black along the brow. They’ve certainly beat him up good.
Sarica remembers shouting things at this man that don’t matter now, not in the big picture, he remembers the intoxicating sensation of raining blows down over his upper body, deliberately avoiding his face, because it was always so pretty, wasn’t it? Look at him now. Look at them both.
Timachus says his name. Sarica doesn’t say his. He just says, it’s only a matter of time before we capture your little fire priest, too. Implied, he’s no soldier. Timachus doesn’t react beyond the way his eyes, still huge and blue and all-encompassing, search Sarica’s face with that well-known frown of his that means, he’s coming to his own conclusions.
“You’re lying, Sarica,” he eventually answers him. Sarica wants to kiss him, then. He wants to kiss him so hard that it bleeds, bite his lips, claw his scalp. Where are all his slaves now? All the king’s slaves. “I can tell.”
Because, implied.
Lips twisting into a displeased snarl, Sarica turns towards the general and the lieutenant, waving them off with an impatient gesture. They bow their heads and venture outside, there’s enough to do anyway, the fire priest is still on the loose and no doubt looking for his mate now, yes? It’s a matter of time.
Honestly, he doesn’t care if the whole Capital burns to the ground, ashes and coal, if that’s what it takes to even their scales.
Once the general and his entourage is gone, Timachus gets to his feet, towering over Sarica like a granite column but looking as unthreatening as always. Gentle, good Timachus who wouldn’t hurt a fly, but who would apparently steal his property and run away with his new lover in tow into enemy country.
Possibly, Sarica has underestimated him.
“I hear you’ve found a new lover,” Timachus says after a moment of intense eye contact. As he says it, he looks away. Of course, he has his sources and his network, slaves help each other out, they cover for each other, and they keep each other’s secrets. How many slaves in this city know the exact location of Otanius, the fire priest, at this very moment? Isn’t it infuriating to think about? Sarica smiles.
“Meaning we both moved on,” he replies. “To greener pastures.”
A pause. They’re both trying to gauge the layout of the territory between them, what’s left of the fields and forests that once grew there.
“Is he good for you?” Of all the things Timachus could ask, he asks the one thing that doesn’t wield a blade. His voice is subdued, soft, the same voice in which he once recited poems, right before getting fucked out of his mind by a room full of men whose only connection to him was Sarica.
Do you see the difference, Anakin had asked.
Sarica does.
“He listens for my voice when he needs guidance,” Sarica hears himself replying, quite frankly. Licking his lips, he angles his head, so Timachus might put them on eye level, if he tilts his head just right. Does he expect him to do so? He would have, back in the day. “Do you still listen for my voice sometimes, Timachus?”
Timachus does tilt his head, the other way, so he somehow manages to seem endlessly smaller than Sarica, as if he’s looking up at him, and really, that is how it’s always been between them, when you think about it. Never with the challenges that Anakin brings, where Sarica has to learn to fly and jump and crawl. Never like that. Always this.
“I hear your voice in my nightmares, Sarica,” Timachus says after a few long, tense moments in which his subtly changing expressions have already said the same thing a hundred times. It isn’t contempt, it’s something much more dangerous. Indifference.
You’re nothing but backdrop now, it means.
Staring at him, Sarica hears the approaching footsteps of a soldier, heavy boots, dirt squelching around the edges. The general stops next to him and whispers something in his ear, though Sarica doesn’t hear a word. He doesn’t follow because it’s important, what would he know about that? No, he follows because then it doesn’t look like he’s running.
Timachus just sits down on the bed again and waits for news.
word count: ~890
rating: Teen+
warnings: N/A
summary: They will never again be able to meet off the battlefield, when it's their blood that has been spilled.
author's notes: Written for the "unnecessary force" prompt for
genprompt_bingo, round 22. AU of a PSL continuity.__________
The tent he enters is at the centre of the temporary military base they’ve built at the south-side of the Capital, first stop on the way to Reece. Two fully armoured soldiers are standing guard, one on either side of the tent’s opening. Inside, the general is conversing with one of his lieutenants, while, on a makeshift bed in the corner, Timachus is sitting, elbows on his knees, completely bent in over himself and visibly roughened up, more than expected even, though perhaps Sarica simply doesn’t know him that well anymore. Maybe he can’t tell what to expect at this point.
The man did run away with all his slaves. Like they were his own.
As soon as he notices his presence, the general turns away from his officer and salutes him, palm to his chest, fist in the sky. Legislator, he says. Sarica doesn’t reciprocate, because across the room, Timachus has finally woken up enough to raise his head and fix his blue eyes on his old lover, one painted black along the brow. They’ve certainly beat him up good.
Sarica remembers shouting things at this man that don’t matter now, not in the big picture, he remembers the intoxicating sensation of raining blows down over his upper body, deliberately avoiding his face, because it was always so pretty, wasn’t it? Look at him now. Look at them both.
Timachus says his name. Sarica doesn’t say his. He just says, it’s only a matter of time before we capture your little fire priest, too. Implied, he’s no soldier. Timachus doesn’t react beyond the way his eyes, still huge and blue and all-encompassing, search Sarica’s face with that well-known frown of his that means, he’s coming to his own conclusions.
“You’re lying, Sarica,” he eventually answers him. Sarica wants to kiss him, then. He wants to kiss him so hard that it bleeds, bite his lips, claw his scalp. Where are all his slaves now? All the king’s slaves. “I can tell.”
Because, implied.
Lips twisting into a displeased snarl, Sarica turns towards the general and the lieutenant, waving them off with an impatient gesture. They bow their heads and venture outside, there’s enough to do anyway, the fire priest is still on the loose and no doubt looking for his mate now, yes? It’s a matter of time.
Honestly, he doesn’t care if the whole Capital burns to the ground, ashes and coal, if that’s what it takes to even their scales.
Once the general and his entourage is gone, Timachus gets to his feet, towering over Sarica like a granite column but looking as unthreatening as always. Gentle, good Timachus who wouldn’t hurt a fly, but who would apparently steal his property and run away with his new lover in tow into enemy country.
Possibly, Sarica has underestimated him.
“I hear you’ve found a new lover,” Timachus says after a moment of intense eye contact. As he says it, he looks away. Of course, he has his sources and his network, slaves help each other out, they cover for each other, and they keep each other’s secrets. How many slaves in this city know the exact location of Otanius, the fire priest, at this very moment? Isn’t it infuriating to think about? Sarica smiles.
“Meaning we both moved on,” he replies. “To greener pastures.”
A pause. They’re both trying to gauge the layout of the territory between them, what’s left of the fields and forests that once grew there.
“Is he good for you?” Of all the things Timachus could ask, he asks the one thing that doesn’t wield a blade. His voice is subdued, soft, the same voice in which he once recited poems, right before getting fucked out of his mind by a room full of men whose only connection to him was Sarica.
Do you see the difference, Anakin had asked.
Sarica does.
“He listens for my voice when he needs guidance,” Sarica hears himself replying, quite frankly. Licking his lips, he angles his head, so Timachus might put them on eye level, if he tilts his head just right. Does he expect him to do so? He would have, back in the day. “Do you still listen for my voice sometimes, Timachus?”
Timachus does tilt his head, the other way, so he somehow manages to seem endlessly smaller than Sarica, as if he’s looking up at him, and really, that is how it’s always been between them, when you think about it. Never with the challenges that Anakin brings, where Sarica has to learn to fly and jump and crawl. Never like that. Always this.
“I hear your voice in my nightmares, Sarica,” Timachus says after a few long, tense moments in which his subtly changing expressions have already said the same thing a hundred times. It isn’t contempt, it’s something much more dangerous. Indifference.
You’re nothing but backdrop now, it means.
Staring at him, Sarica hears the approaching footsteps of a soldier, heavy boots, dirt squelching around the edges. The general stops next to him and whispers something in his ear, though Sarica doesn’t hear a word. He doesn’t follow because it’s important, what would he know about that? No, he follows because then it doesn’t look like he’s running.
Timachus just sits down on the bed again and waits for news.