Archive of Our Own

Houseficlet: In the Forest (An Annals AU)
STATUS: Unpublished. Original dated 7/14/07, revised and expanded 2/10/08.
TITLE: In the Forest
AUTHOR: nightdog_writes
PAIRING: James, yet another version of an ancient House
RATING: PG-13.
WARNINGS: None.
SPOILERS: No.
SUMMARY: James has a new master.
DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em. Never will.
AUTHOR NOTES: This tiny ficlet was sparked by a line in my Annals IV, in which Gregorius admitted that he wished at one time that he had been raised by his mother's people. Here is that version of Gregorius, and how he and James might have met. This is essentially an AU of an AU. 754 words.
BETA: Silverjackal, with invaluable drive-bys by other intrepid First Readers.

"One day I told him I wished my mother had gotten away, that I would rather have been raised a barbarian than carry his name forward."
~ Gregorius Aquilinus, The Annals: Part Four of An Irregular Series

In the Forest

The mound of furs and blankets stirs, and a low moan arises from it. The Anglish warrior chieftain smiles; it appears his prisoner will live after all. The chieftain lowers himself gingerly to the ground -- his right leg aches in this cold weather, and the frost has settled in his bones. The prisoner moans again, and the warrior pulls one of the thick woolen blankets away from the man's face.

Dark, fever-bright eyes glitter back at him, but the captive is sweating and that's a good sign. The chieftain wrings a little cool water from a wet cloth onto the man's lips, and the prisoner closes his eyes for a moment in relief. A few drops splash onto the metal collar around the captive's neck, showing up as black spots against the iron. The slave opens his eyes again -- they are brown, the same color as a hawk's eyes, and they lock onto the chieftain's own. He wonders idly if the Greek (for that is the language the prisoner has been speaking in his delirium) was born into servitude.

"What ... where am I?" the captive whispers, and that's a good sign too. He's speaking Latin now, probably in the belief it's the only tongue he and his captor have in common.

"With my tribe," the chieftain answers in fluent Greek, and quickly hides a smile at the man's look of surprise. "You were wounded in the battle." Although it wasn't really a battle, he thinks with some amusement. More of a slaughter. The merchant train had been led by fools; they'd ignored the advice of the Roman garrison and taken the shorter, more dangerous route through the forest. He dismisses the thoughts, and carefully unties the poultice from his captive's right shoulder.

"My ... the rest of the ... company?"

"Dead," the Anglish warrior announces matter-of-factly as he inspects the wound. The edges of the healing flesh are pink, and there's no discharge or stink of corruption. The few left died screaming as we nailed them to the oaks in Tiw's sacred grove ... but you do not need to know that now.

The slave grimaces, whether in relief or pain, the chieftain cannot tell. The warrior replaces the poultice, making a mental note to add poppy syrup to the tribe's next trade mission to the garrison. For now the tea of white willow bark will have to suffice.

"And myself?" he whispers. The tribal chieftain grins, baring his teeth.

"Well, you are alive for one thing," he says. "And we're going to keep you that way. Your personal belongings indicate you are a healer, and thus valuable to us. Besides, it is clear from your body that you have already been marked by the gods and are under their protection -- it would be bad luck or worse for us to kill you now."

The captive blinks; it's clear he doesn't understand the chieftain's reasoning. The warrior frowns. How could the man not know? He lifts the blanket a little more to expose the slave's groin.

"Your manhood," he says. "It is maimed and not as other men's. Surely you were marked as a god's own in your mother's womb, for no one would have submitted to this willingly."

"My -- " the slave looks down, seeming to see his own penis, mutilated as it is, for the first time. "You think -- " And then he begins to laugh, softly at first, then louder and louder.

The Anglish chieftain with the bright blue eyes leans back a little, unable to hold back his own amusement.

It will take me a while, he thinks, to become accustomed to this slave's odd sense of humor. He will dwell in my tent, and tell me of other lives.

His prisoner quiets again and sinks back into sleep. The tribal leader nods in satisfaction.

One of the packhorses in the merchant train had been carrying scrolls, their cases wrapped tightly in oiled skins as protection against the elements. There were scores of them, some covered in maps of foreign lands, others bearing illustrations of odd animals and birds, never before seen in these northern forests. Most were written in Latin, and some in Greek, but others were in unknown languages, strangers to the chieftain's mother tongue.

The warrior chief will order the scrolls brought to his tent tomorrow, when the captured slave is more awake.

Perhaps the slave will know some of these new languages.

Perhaps ... he can teach them to his new master.

~ the end.