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The servants’ quarters of the Dimitrou estate were hardly low-brow. Whilst they were made from local wood rather than stone and sported no artistry or additional luxuries owned by the richer family to whom the servants belonged; they were incredibly well crafted.
Whilst Persephone was the last person to understand woodwork or smithing, she was a perfectionist in essence of how she went about her own duties and tasks. Which meant that she was both observant and paid great attention to the finer details of what it was she witnessed. Ergo, even she could spot the difference between a structure that had been put together with small gaps or angles that didn't quite fit and the kind of construction that was to be beheld of the Dimitrou servants’ quarters. Finely fitted, with each beam of timber in wall, ceiling and floor fitting together in careful unison, it was clear to see that - while she had no idea how it had been done or in what manner and with what tools - the building was a mark of the mastery of the province. The Dimitrou were famed for their woodwork and their horses... the stables boasted flesh that supported one whilst the servants’ quarters advertised the other, to be sure.
Whilst this was her first visit in person to the servants’ quarters since she, Iason and Demetrius had arrived in Meganea, it was not the first time she had checked in upon the man she now came to visit.
Since their advent in the Dimitrou estate, Persephone had ensured that the man had been given quarters in which to sleep and that food was sent to him regularly - outside of meal times if required, due to his injury and his need to build strength. And she had queried the man directly regarding warmth and bedding when she had seen him in the grounds of the estate. What he had been doing in between those times, Persephone was unaware. Not because she did not care, but because she had assumed him to be doing little but resting in order to recover his health.
Now, Persephone visited in person. With some bandages and some ointment that she had been assured by the slave who had fetched it from the market was particularly good at diminishing the likelihood and appearance of scars, Persephone made her way down the corridor of the servants outhouse on the estate in search of the man who had saved her life, so that she might repay him just a little in the care she could offer to his arm.
Not wanting to appear arrogant, as no formal arrangements had been made as to Demetrius' servitude to herself, and he was not a national of the country she still (technically) ruled, Persephone forewent simply walking into the room she had been told was assigned to Demetrius, and raised a hand to politely knock, seeking entry.
As soon as two, sedate little knocks had been administered upon the door, she lowered her hands to beneath the wide ceramic dish she held that contained the ointment and a small water skin, both hidden from view by the cloth bandages she had draped upon the top.
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This character is currently a work in progress.
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The servants’ quarters of the Dimitrou estate were hardly low-brow. Whilst they were made from local wood rather than stone and sported no artistry or additional luxuries owned by the richer family to whom the servants belonged; they were incredibly well crafted.
Whilst Persephone was the last person to understand woodwork or smithing, she was a perfectionist in essence of how she went about her own duties and tasks. Which meant that she was both observant and paid great attention to the finer details of what it was she witnessed. Ergo, even she could spot the difference between a structure that had been put together with small gaps or angles that didn't quite fit and the kind of construction that was to be beheld of the Dimitrou servants’ quarters. Finely fitted, with each beam of timber in wall, ceiling and floor fitting together in careful unison, it was clear to see that - while she had no idea how it had been done or in what manner and with what tools - the building was a mark of the mastery of the province. The Dimitrou were famed for their woodwork and their horses... the stables boasted flesh that supported one whilst the servants’ quarters advertised the other, to be sure.
Whilst this was her first visit in person to the servants’ quarters since she, Iason and Demetrius had arrived in Meganea, it was not the first time she had checked in upon the man she now came to visit.
Since their advent in the Dimitrou estate, Persephone had ensured that the man had been given quarters in which to sleep and that food was sent to him regularly - outside of meal times if required, due to his injury and his need to build strength. And she had queried the man directly regarding warmth and bedding when she had seen him in the grounds of the estate. What he had been doing in between those times, Persephone was unaware. Not because she did not care, but because she had assumed him to be doing little but resting in order to recover his health.
Now, Persephone visited in person. With some bandages and some ointment that she had been assured by the slave who had fetched it from the market was particularly good at diminishing the likelihood and appearance of scars, Persephone made her way down the corridor of the servants outhouse on the estate in search of the man who had saved her life, so that she might repay him just a little in the care she could offer to his arm.
Not wanting to appear arrogant, as no formal arrangements had been made as to Demetrius' servitude to herself, and he was not a national of the country she still (technically) ruled, Persephone forewent simply walking into the room she had been told was assigned to Demetrius, and raised a hand to politely knock, seeking entry.
As soon as two, sedate little knocks had been administered upon the door, she lowered her hands to beneath the wide ceramic dish she held that contained the ointment and a small water skin, both hidden from view by the cloth bandages she had draped upon the top.
The servants’ quarters of the Dimitrou estate were hardly low-brow. Whilst they were made from local wood rather than stone and sported no artistry or additional luxuries owned by the richer family to whom the servants belonged; they were incredibly well crafted.
Whilst Persephone was the last person to understand woodwork or smithing, she was a perfectionist in essence of how she went about her own duties and tasks. Which meant that she was both observant and paid great attention to the finer details of what it was she witnessed. Ergo, even she could spot the difference between a structure that had been put together with small gaps or angles that didn't quite fit and the kind of construction that was to be beheld of the Dimitrou servants’ quarters. Finely fitted, with each beam of timber in wall, ceiling and floor fitting together in careful unison, it was clear to see that - while she had no idea how it had been done or in what manner and with what tools - the building was a mark of the mastery of the province. The Dimitrou were famed for their woodwork and their horses... the stables boasted flesh that supported one whilst the servants’ quarters advertised the other, to be sure.
Whilst this was her first visit in person to the servants’ quarters since she, Iason and Demetrius had arrived in Meganea, it was not the first time she had checked in upon the man she now came to visit.
Since their advent in the Dimitrou estate, Persephone had ensured that the man had been given quarters in which to sleep and that food was sent to him regularly - outside of meal times if required, due to his injury and his need to build strength. And she had queried the man directly regarding warmth and bedding when she had seen him in the grounds of the estate. What he had been doing in between those times, Persephone was unaware. Not because she did not care, but because she had assumed him to be doing little but resting in order to recover his health.
Now, Persephone visited in person. With some bandages and some ointment that she had been assured by the slave who had fetched it from the market was particularly good at diminishing the likelihood and appearance of scars, Persephone made her way down the corridor of the servants outhouse on the estate in search of the man who had saved her life, so that she might repay him just a little in the care she could offer to his arm.
Not wanting to appear arrogant, as no formal arrangements had been made as to Demetrius' servitude to herself, and he was not a national of the country she still (technically) ruled, Persephone forewent simply walking into the room she had been told was assigned to Demetrius, and raised a hand to politely knock, seeking entry.
As soon as two, sedate little knocks had been administered upon the door, she lowered her hands to beneath the wide ceramic dish she held that contained the ointment and a small water skin, both hidden from view by the cloth bandages she had draped upon the top.
He'd spent much of the voyage to Athenia attempting to sleep and failing, the nightmares that being back on the rocking waves for the first time since his initial captivity bringing back nothing but horrors. It was the main reason for his lack of activity around the estate aside from venturing out every so often to breathe in fresh air and force his body to move. He'd only seen his travel companions rarely in the time since, content to rest as long as they would allow him before deciding what he ought to do next. There was a sort of unspoken expectation that he would stay with them, he had no other employers, and if the fief needed someone to serve as a guard or even work the fields, he was sure some of the farm boy's memories would return if asked of him.
Awake for once thanks to the latest meal that had been sent in to him, he gingerly held his arm close to his chest to prevent the skin that was just mending together again from pulling too much. As far as injuries went this was nowhere near the worst he'd seen, and he was only being overcautious because he could afford to. Had he been in Athenia still he would have been back in the arena by now, against Gaios' wish most likely, but he wasn't close to death from this.
The knock on the door was a surprise, and as he stood gingerly he was glad he'd put on one of the tunics Iason had gifted him and that they were close enough to the same size it wasn't too short or long to trip over. His expression as he saw who stood on the other side of his door could have only been quantified as surprise to see the queen, and he belatedly gave an awkward bow.
"Your majesty, how can I be of service?"
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This character is currently a work in progress.
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He'd spent much of the voyage to Athenia attempting to sleep and failing, the nightmares that being back on the rocking waves for the first time since his initial captivity bringing back nothing but horrors. It was the main reason for his lack of activity around the estate aside from venturing out every so often to breathe in fresh air and force his body to move. He'd only seen his travel companions rarely in the time since, content to rest as long as they would allow him before deciding what he ought to do next. There was a sort of unspoken expectation that he would stay with them, he had no other employers, and if the fief needed someone to serve as a guard or even work the fields, he was sure some of the farm boy's memories would return if asked of him.
Awake for once thanks to the latest meal that had been sent in to him, he gingerly held his arm close to his chest to prevent the skin that was just mending together again from pulling too much. As far as injuries went this was nowhere near the worst he'd seen, and he was only being overcautious because he could afford to. Had he been in Athenia still he would have been back in the arena by now, against Gaios' wish most likely, but he wasn't close to death from this.
The knock on the door was a surprise, and as he stood gingerly he was glad he'd put on one of the tunics Iason had gifted him and that they were close enough to the same size it wasn't too short or long to trip over. His expression as he saw who stood on the other side of his door could have only been quantified as surprise to see the queen, and he belatedly gave an awkward bow.
"Your majesty, how can I be of service?"
He'd spent much of the voyage to Athenia attempting to sleep and failing, the nightmares that being back on the rocking waves for the first time since his initial captivity bringing back nothing but horrors. It was the main reason for his lack of activity around the estate aside from venturing out every so often to breathe in fresh air and force his body to move. He'd only seen his travel companions rarely in the time since, content to rest as long as they would allow him before deciding what he ought to do next. There was a sort of unspoken expectation that he would stay with them, he had no other employers, and if the fief needed someone to serve as a guard or even work the fields, he was sure some of the farm boy's memories would return if asked of him.
Awake for once thanks to the latest meal that had been sent in to him, he gingerly held his arm close to his chest to prevent the skin that was just mending together again from pulling too much. As far as injuries went this was nowhere near the worst he'd seen, and he was only being overcautious because he could afford to. Had he been in Athenia still he would have been back in the arena by now, against Gaios' wish most likely, but he wasn't close to death from this.
The knock on the door was a surprise, and as he stood gingerly he was glad he'd put on one of the tunics Iason had gifted him and that they were close enough to the same size it wasn't too short or long to trip over. His expression as he saw who stood on the other side of his door could have only been quantified as surprise to see the queen, and he belatedly gave an awkward bow.
"Your majesty, how can I be of service?"
Feeling a little out of sorts as she was born of a position that would rarely interact with a servant within their own territory, so to speak, least of all seek one out independently for a particular purpose, Persephone's training to remain calm and serene in both face and temperament came to her rescue and ensured that such uncertainty didn't appear in her eyes or the turn of her mouth as she smiled kindly to the man who appeared on the other side of the door.
Looking a little rumpled but at least with a healthy colour to his face, Persephone held the bowl in front of her, raising it just slightly in an indication of her purpose.
"Actually," She began when he asked if he could be of service to her. "...I thought that I might be able to offer an act of gratitude to services already rendered?" She asked with a hint of amusement at her own candour.
One of her slim fingers lifted from the rim of the bowl, pointing towards his torso and, in an abstract sense, the room beyond.
"If you would permit me... I can rebandage your wound?" Her gaze dropped to his arm, though the tunic was sleeved to his elbow so it was unable to see what kind of damage still lingered upon his upper arm.
Whether it was healing or not, however, she held with her a shallow bowl of water and several towels and bandages that she might be able to use to clean and re-secure his injury. Her fingertips shifted on the bowl a little in a betrayal of her awkwardness standing in his doorway.
"...or I could leave you the supplies for you to tend to it yourself?" She offered, in the hopes of giving him an avoidance of the situation that he could utilise without offending her, should he wish to avoid any more of her attempted at healing...
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This character is currently a work in progress.
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Feeling a little out of sorts as she was born of a position that would rarely interact with a servant within their own territory, so to speak, least of all seek one out independently for a particular purpose, Persephone's training to remain calm and serene in both face and temperament came to her rescue and ensured that such uncertainty didn't appear in her eyes or the turn of her mouth as she smiled kindly to the man who appeared on the other side of the door.
Looking a little rumpled but at least with a healthy colour to his face, Persephone held the bowl in front of her, raising it just slightly in an indication of her purpose.
"Actually," She began when he asked if he could be of service to her. "...I thought that I might be able to offer an act of gratitude to services already rendered?" She asked with a hint of amusement at her own candour.
One of her slim fingers lifted from the rim of the bowl, pointing towards his torso and, in an abstract sense, the room beyond.
"If you would permit me... I can rebandage your wound?" Her gaze dropped to his arm, though the tunic was sleeved to his elbow so it was unable to see what kind of damage still lingered upon his upper arm.
Whether it was healing or not, however, she held with her a shallow bowl of water and several towels and bandages that she might be able to use to clean and re-secure his injury. Her fingertips shifted on the bowl a little in a betrayal of her awkwardness standing in his doorway.
"...or I could leave you the supplies for you to tend to it yourself?" She offered, in the hopes of giving him an avoidance of the situation that he could utilise without offending her, should he wish to avoid any more of her attempted at healing...
Feeling a little out of sorts as she was born of a position that would rarely interact with a servant within their own territory, so to speak, least of all seek one out independently for a particular purpose, Persephone's training to remain calm and serene in both face and temperament came to her rescue and ensured that such uncertainty didn't appear in her eyes or the turn of her mouth as she smiled kindly to the man who appeared on the other side of the door.
Looking a little rumpled but at least with a healthy colour to his face, Persephone held the bowl in front of her, raising it just slightly in an indication of her purpose.
"Actually," She began when he asked if he could be of service to her. "...I thought that I might be able to offer an act of gratitude to services already rendered?" She asked with a hint of amusement at her own candour.
One of her slim fingers lifted from the rim of the bowl, pointing towards his torso and, in an abstract sense, the room beyond.
"If you would permit me... I can rebandage your wound?" Her gaze dropped to his arm, though the tunic was sleeved to his elbow so it was unable to see what kind of damage still lingered upon his upper arm.
Whether it was healing or not, however, she held with her a shallow bowl of water and several towels and bandages that she might be able to use to clean and re-secure his injury. Her fingertips shifted on the bowl a little in a betrayal of her awkwardness standing in his doorway.
"...or I could leave you the supplies for you to tend to it yourself?" She offered, in the hopes of giving him an avoidance of the situation that he could utilise without offending her, should he wish to avoid any more of her attempted at healing...
Demetrius blinked for a moment in confusion. When they were on the boat with limited options, he had accepted her help without questioning why a monarch would want to assist a gladiator, there had been no other choice. But now, in the home of her betrothed where she would be at lowest a baroness and at highest still a reigning queen, the fact that she was offering to further assist him now was a surprise. The suspicious former slave in him wondered what it meant and what she wanted from him, if accepting her help now would mean that he was somehow further in her debt than he already was. Instead, he simply nodded and stepped back from the door, opening it wider to allow her access.
"I would be glad for your help, if you are willing to provide it your majesty."
It felt so strange to be speaking with a queen. He was a farm boy from Olbia, so far outside of what her realm of knowledge or care would bother knowing that he was endlessly amazed at how far away he had ended up. If he'd been gifted foresight as a child he would never have thought that he could end up here, in the home of a baron with a queen before him ready to help him rebandage his wounds. Moving to sit upon his bed, he shrugged off the top half of his tunic around the wounded shoulder to reveal the injury, still bandaged from the last healing attempts. There was a moment of frozen hesitation as he realized that he'd just started to undress in front of royalty, an awkward flush on his cheeks as he sat there in silence for a few seconds and hoped she didn't care.
"If you would prefer to leave the supplies, I can sort it out. The only difficult thing is re-dressing it. But I don't want to impose.."
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Demetrius blinked for a moment in confusion. When they were on the boat with limited options, he had accepted her help without questioning why a monarch would want to assist a gladiator, there had been no other choice. But now, in the home of her betrothed where she would be at lowest a baroness and at highest still a reigning queen, the fact that she was offering to further assist him now was a surprise. The suspicious former slave in him wondered what it meant and what she wanted from him, if accepting her help now would mean that he was somehow further in her debt than he already was. Instead, he simply nodded and stepped back from the door, opening it wider to allow her access.
"I would be glad for your help, if you are willing to provide it your majesty."
It felt so strange to be speaking with a queen. He was a farm boy from Olbia, so far outside of what her realm of knowledge or care would bother knowing that he was endlessly amazed at how far away he had ended up. If he'd been gifted foresight as a child he would never have thought that he could end up here, in the home of a baron with a queen before him ready to help him rebandage his wounds. Moving to sit upon his bed, he shrugged off the top half of his tunic around the wounded shoulder to reveal the injury, still bandaged from the last healing attempts. There was a moment of frozen hesitation as he realized that he'd just started to undress in front of royalty, an awkward flush on his cheeks as he sat there in silence for a few seconds and hoped she didn't care.
"If you would prefer to leave the supplies, I can sort it out. The only difficult thing is re-dressing it. But I don't want to impose.."
Demetrius blinked for a moment in confusion. When they were on the boat with limited options, he had accepted her help without questioning why a monarch would want to assist a gladiator, there had been no other choice. But now, in the home of her betrothed where she would be at lowest a baroness and at highest still a reigning queen, the fact that she was offering to further assist him now was a surprise. The suspicious former slave in him wondered what it meant and what she wanted from him, if accepting her help now would mean that he was somehow further in her debt than he already was. Instead, he simply nodded and stepped back from the door, opening it wider to allow her access.
"I would be glad for your help, if you are willing to provide it your majesty."
It felt so strange to be speaking with a queen. He was a farm boy from Olbia, so far outside of what her realm of knowledge or care would bother knowing that he was endlessly amazed at how far away he had ended up. If he'd been gifted foresight as a child he would never have thought that he could end up here, in the home of a baron with a queen before him ready to help him rebandage his wounds. Moving to sit upon his bed, he shrugged off the top half of his tunic around the wounded shoulder to reveal the injury, still bandaged from the last healing attempts. There was a moment of frozen hesitation as he realized that he'd just started to undress in front of royalty, an awkward flush on his cheeks as he sat there in silence for a few seconds and hoped she didn't care.
"If you would prefer to leave the supplies, I can sort it out. The only difficult thing is re-dressing it. But I don't want to impose.."
When given leave to step within the room, Persephone did just that, her gait and pace one of its usual grace and elegance. If she were nervous about stepping into a room with a man alone, she gave no outward signs of it.
For there was much in her life nowadays that behaved in a manner she was not used to. She had slept in a bed with a man, revealed her naked skin before him... She had sailed the seas as she had never done before and lived within the small and constrained rooms below the deck of a vessel that could not support the number of additional passengers it had been forced to take on. She had been taught a little archery. She had been brought into the home of a baron to whom she could do little by way of recompense.
In a strange sort of way, she was little different from the man before her; in a situation she had never been placed in previously and entirely out of her depth in how to handle it. Perhaps it was this similarity between them that made her calm to be in his company, despite its unfamiliarity as a situation.
She smiled kindly when he accepted her help and then the lilt of her lips stretched wider when the man sat upon his cot and started to disrobe. Whilst it was a sight that she was certainly not familiar with this close, Persephone had seen gladiators fight, naked to the waist, at the games and knew the appearance of a nude male torso. What she was not so used to was the concept of that torso being so very close to her own body and hands.
Yet, any nervousness that might have existed was squelched by the way in which Persephone had tended to her father for several months and even once to Aimias, long ago, when he had suffered an accident. Persephone was not skilled at healing, but she was a woman who a tender heart most of the time and would break to aiding someone even if it went against social expectation and might appear perverse in the eyes of those who followed decorum to the letter.
Instead, Persephone was welcoming to the idea of throwing such procedure through the window if it led to the better health and healing of one who had given her her life and freedom back in Athenia.
When the man became clearly awkward and suggested that she, instead, leave the supplies, Persephone moved to sit beside him, her actions speaking more of her determination to help him than any words could.
"I am not so gentle as you might think me." She told him, assuring him that her gentlewoman sensibilities were not to be offended. "I have seen that of a man's body before. You shall not offend me."
What he did do, however, Persephone realised as she set aside the little bowl of water and the cloth that she had brought with her upon the thin mattress of the cot and reached for the linen that had been wrapped around his shoulder, was shock her.
Witnessing gladiators at a distance, it was only dark streaks of sweaty sand or crimsons slashes upon skin that were viewable from the highest royal box. Scars and markings that marred the skin even in its non-conflict state were invisible so far away. And her knowledge of the male body so close was limited to men of noble status, with far fewer whitened slashes borne into their skin.
Her eyes wide as she inspected Demetrius's back and shoulder in a way that a darkened ship's cabin had not permitted her before, she breathed a low and slow exhale at the history of violence that it told. She tried not to stare as she took down the bandage that was wrapped around his shoulder and across his chest to hold it in place, but her surprise and fear of such marks were clear to be witnessed upon her face.
"How long were you a gladiator?" She asked the man, in a low voice that also betrayed the notice she had paid to his wounds...
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This character is currently a work in progress.
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When given leave to step within the room, Persephone did just that, her gait and pace one of its usual grace and elegance. If she were nervous about stepping into a room with a man alone, she gave no outward signs of it.
For there was much in her life nowadays that behaved in a manner she was not used to. She had slept in a bed with a man, revealed her naked skin before him... She had sailed the seas as she had never done before and lived within the small and constrained rooms below the deck of a vessel that could not support the number of additional passengers it had been forced to take on. She had been taught a little archery. She had been brought into the home of a baron to whom she could do little by way of recompense.
In a strange sort of way, she was little different from the man before her; in a situation she had never been placed in previously and entirely out of her depth in how to handle it. Perhaps it was this similarity between them that made her calm to be in his company, despite its unfamiliarity as a situation.
She smiled kindly when he accepted her help and then the lilt of her lips stretched wider when the man sat upon his cot and started to disrobe. Whilst it was a sight that she was certainly not familiar with this close, Persephone had seen gladiators fight, naked to the waist, at the games and knew the appearance of a nude male torso. What she was not so used to was the concept of that torso being so very close to her own body and hands.
Yet, any nervousness that might have existed was squelched by the way in which Persephone had tended to her father for several months and even once to Aimias, long ago, when he had suffered an accident. Persephone was not skilled at healing, but she was a woman who a tender heart most of the time and would break to aiding someone even if it went against social expectation and might appear perverse in the eyes of those who followed decorum to the letter.
Instead, Persephone was welcoming to the idea of throwing such procedure through the window if it led to the better health and healing of one who had given her her life and freedom back in Athenia.
When the man became clearly awkward and suggested that she, instead, leave the supplies, Persephone moved to sit beside him, her actions speaking more of her determination to help him than any words could.
"I am not so gentle as you might think me." She told him, assuring him that her gentlewoman sensibilities were not to be offended. "I have seen that of a man's body before. You shall not offend me."
What he did do, however, Persephone realised as she set aside the little bowl of water and the cloth that she had brought with her upon the thin mattress of the cot and reached for the linen that had been wrapped around his shoulder, was shock her.
Witnessing gladiators at a distance, it was only dark streaks of sweaty sand or crimsons slashes upon skin that were viewable from the highest royal box. Scars and markings that marred the skin even in its non-conflict state were invisible so far away. And her knowledge of the male body so close was limited to men of noble status, with far fewer whitened slashes borne into their skin.
Her eyes wide as she inspected Demetrius's back and shoulder in a way that a darkened ship's cabin had not permitted her before, she breathed a low and slow exhale at the history of violence that it told. She tried not to stare as she took down the bandage that was wrapped around his shoulder and across his chest to hold it in place, but her surprise and fear of such marks were clear to be witnessed upon her face.
"How long were you a gladiator?" She asked the man, in a low voice that also betrayed the notice she had paid to his wounds...
When given leave to step within the room, Persephone did just that, her gait and pace one of its usual grace and elegance. If she were nervous about stepping into a room with a man alone, she gave no outward signs of it.
For there was much in her life nowadays that behaved in a manner she was not used to. She had slept in a bed with a man, revealed her naked skin before him... She had sailed the seas as she had never done before and lived within the small and constrained rooms below the deck of a vessel that could not support the number of additional passengers it had been forced to take on. She had been taught a little archery. She had been brought into the home of a baron to whom she could do little by way of recompense.
In a strange sort of way, she was little different from the man before her; in a situation she had never been placed in previously and entirely out of her depth in how to handle it. Perhaps it was this similarity between them that made her calm to be in his company, despite its unfamiliarity as a situation.
She smiled kindly when he accepted her help and then the lilt of her lips stretched wider when the man sat upon his cot and started to disrobe. Whilst it was a sight that she was certainly not familiar with this close, Persephone had seen gladiators fight, naked to the waist, at the games and knew the appearance of a nude male torso. What she was not so used to was the concept of that torso being so very close to her own body and hands.
Yet, any nervousness that might have existed was squelched by the way in which Persephone had tended to her father for several months and even once to Aimias, long ago, when he had suffered an accident. Persephone was not skilled at healing, but she was a woman who a tender heart most of the time and would break to aiding someone even if it went against social expectation and might appear perverse in the eyes of those who followed decorum to the letter.
Instead, Persephone was welcoming to the idea of throwing such procedure through the window if it led to the better health and healing of one who had given her her life and freedom back in Athenia.
When the man became clearly awkward and suggested that she, instead, leave the supplies, Persephone moved to sit beside him, her actions speaking more of her determination to help him than any words could.
"I am not so gentle as you might think me." She told him, assuring him that her gentlewoman sensibilities were not to be offended. "I have seen that of a man's body before. You shall not offend me."
What he did do, however, Persephone realised as she set aside the little bowl of water and the cloth that she had brought with her upon the thin mattress of the cot and reached for the linen that had been wrapped around his shoulder, was shock her.
Witnessing gladiators at a distance, it was only dark streaks of sweaty sand or crimsons slashes upon skin that were viewable from the highest royal box. Scars and markings that marred the skin even in its non-conflict state were invisible so far away. And her knowledge of the male body so close was limited to men of noble status, with far fewer whitened slashes borne into their skin.
Her eyes wide as she inspected Demetrius's back and shoulder in a way that a darkened ship's cabin had not permitted her before, she breathed a low and slow exhale at the history of violence that it told. She tried not to stare as she took down the bandage that was wrapped around his shoulder and across his chest to hold it in place, but her surprise and fear of such marks were clear to be witnessed upon her face.
"How long were you a gladiator?" She asked the man, in a low voice that also betrayed the notice she had paid to his wounds...
He felt a relief as she reassured him that she hadn't been offended by the removal of his tunic, body finding a relaxed sort of posture that he tried to keep the awkwardness from as she sat so close to him. For all he had become used to women touching and leaning and making their advances, flirting for the amusement of their husbands on occasion, this was different and he wasn't entirely sure how to handle this kind of companionship. It couldn't be called friendship because how could someone like her consider someone like him anything more than what he was, and she certainly didn't have the kind of expectations of him that the other women he'd sat so close to him had.
It was through some small blessing of the gods that he didn't flinch away when she helped him remove the sling and bandages, so many years of captivity and fighting having left him with little comfort at the touch of another human. The wound in his shoulder was showing signs of healing at last. This one wouldn't leave scars anywhere near as bad as some of the others, luckily it was more of a surface wound that had slashed at skin instead of deep through to muscle. He was fortunate that the only reason this one truly needed a sling was because of the positioning, it would continue tearing and slow down his recovery if he didn't keep still, but it wouldn't risk losing him the use of his arm as some in the past had.
The reaction to his scars was not lost on him, and he had to press his lips together in a line to hide any other response he might have given. People like her came to watch him do the very thing that had given him a good many of these wounds. Perhaps it would be good for her to see that none of it was faked for their amusement, they weren't just actors to limp off and then stand up straight and shake hands to congratulate one another on their performances. Every man she had seen fighting before was fighting for his life. He knew for a fact she had been to a few of his own battles, but what need was there for her to remember him before now. Each white line across his skin was proof that he had survived, and even now as the newest one healed there was continued assurance of that survival.
"If I've counted the years right, about fourteen years. I think it was just passed my sixteenth birthday when my masters tired of beating me themselves and decided to make a sport out of it and let someone else do their dirty work."
If he'd been anywhere else but in this exact situation, he might have tried to soften his tone, kept the bitterness from his voice at the memory of his old owners. It was pure luck he had survived and managed to continue from his younger days, much less some of the other wounds he'd attained. Along with the lashes that had left white stripes across his back, there were others oddly shaped from the knives and swords and other medley of weapons that had slashed against his skin. One in particular along his abdomen should have been a death blow, would have been if someone had not been in the right place to stem the flow of blood in that back alley of Athenia.
"I earned enough to buy my freedom just almost two years ago."
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He felt a relief as she reassured him that she hadn't been offended by the removal of his tunic, body finding a relaxed sort of posture that he tried to keep the awkwardness from as she sat so close to him. For all he had become used to women touching and leaning and making their advances, flirting for the amusement of their husbands on occasion, this was different and he wasn't entirely sure how to handle this kind of companionship. It couldn't be called friendship because how could someone like her consider someone like him anything more than what he was, and she certainly didn't have the kind of expectations of him that the other women he'd sat so close to him had.
It was through some small blessing of the gods that he didn't flinch away when she helped him remove the sling and bandages, so many years of captivity and fighting having left him with little comfort at the touch of another human. The wound in his shoulder was showing signs of healing at last. This one wouldn't leave scars anywhere near as bad as some of the others, luckily it was more of a surface wound that had slashed at skin instead of deep through to muscle. He was fortunate that the only reason this one truly needed a sling was because of the positioning, it would continue tearing and slow down his recovery if he didn't keep still, but it wouldn't risk losing him the use of his arm as some in the past had.
The reaction to his scars was not lost on him, and he had to press his lips together in a line to hide any other response he might have given. People like her came to watch him do the very thing that had given him a good many of these wounds. Perhaps it would be good for her to see that none of it was faked for their amusement, they weren't just actors to limp off and then stand up straight and shake hands to congratulate one another on their performances. Every man she had seen fighting before was fighting for his life. He knew for a fact she had been to a few of his own battles, but what need was there for her to remember him before now. Each white line across his skin was proof that he had survived, and even now as the newest one healed there was continued assurance of that survival.
"If I've counted the years right, about fourteen years. I think it was just passed my sixteenth birthday when my masters tired of beating me themselves and decided to make a sport out of it and let someone else do their dirty work."
If he'd been anywhere else but in this exact situation, he might have tried to soften his tone, kept the bitterness from his voice at the memory of his old owners. It was pure luck he had survived and managed to continue from his younger days, much less some of the other wounds he'd attained. Along with the lashes that had left white stripes across his back, there were others oddly shaped from the knives and swords and other medley of weapons that had slashed against his skin. One in particular along his abdomen should have been a death blow, would have been if someone had not been in the right place to stem the flow of blood in that back alley of Athenia.
"I earned enough to buy my freedom just almost two years ago."
He felt a relief as she reassured him that she hadn't been offended by the removal of his tunic, body finding a relaxed sort of posture that he tried to keep the awkwardness from as she sat so close to him. For all he had become used to women touching and leaning and making their advances, flirting for the amusement of their husbands on occasion, this was different and he wasn't entirely sure how to handle this kind of companionship. It couldn't be called friendship because how could someone like her consider someone like him anything more than what he was, and she certainly didn't have the kind of expectations of him that the other women he'd sat so close to him had.
It was through some small blessing of the gods that he didn't flinch away when she helped him remove the sling and bandages, so many years of captivity and fighting having left him with little comfort at the touch of another human. The wound in his shoulder was showing signs of healing at last. This one wouldn't leave scars anywhere near as bad as some of the others, luckily it was more of a surface wound that had slashed at skin instead of deep through to muscle. He was fortunate that the only reason this one truly needed a sling was because of the positioning, it would continue tearing and slow down his recovery if he didn't keep still, but it wouldn't risk losing him the use of his arm as some in the past had.
The reaction to his scars was not lost on him, and he had to press his lips together in a line to hide any other response he might have given. People like her came to watch him do the very thing that had given him a good many of these wounds. Perhaps it would be good for her to see that none of it was faked for their amusement, they weren't just actors to limp off and then stand up straight and shake hands to congratulate one another on their performances. Every man she had seen fighting before was fighting for his life. He knew for a fact she had been to a few of his own battles, but what need was there for her to remember him before now. Each white line across his skin was proof that he had survived, and even now as the newest one healed there was continued assurance of that survival.
"If I've counted the years right, about fourteen years. I think it was just passed my sixteenth birthday when my masters tired of beating me themselves and decided to make a sport out of it and let someone else do their dirty work."
If he'd been anywhere else but in this exact situation, he might have tried to soften his tone, kept the bitterness from his voice at the memory of his old owners. It was pure luck he had survived and managed to continue from his younger days, much less some of the other wounds he'd attained. Along with the lashes that had left white stripes across his back, there were others oddly shaped from the knives and swords and other medley of weapons that had slashed against his skin. One in particular along his abdomen should have been a death blow, would have been if someone had not been in the right place to stem the flow of blood in that back alley of Athenia.
"I earned enough to buy my freedom just almost two years ago."
Persephone's long and delicate fingers unfurled the bandaging from Demetrius' skin. The pieces that had been wound around his chest and over his shoulder were easy enough to remove but, when it came to the layers flattened over his bicep where his wound had been sustained the linen stuck and clung to the healing scabs and blood of his injury. Wincing a little, but with eyes of a determined healer, Persephone peeled them away with a delicacy designed to limit the pain.
When she was done, Persephone cast aside the dirty pieces of the bandage to the mattress beside her, avoiding laying the areas stained brown upon the bedding, keeping them folded in upon themselves. She then turned her attention back to his arm.
Whilst she was not a healer, Persephone knew well enough that shades of scarlet over the scabbed and congealed injury were a good sign. And anything that possessed the colour of white, yellow, green or black was to be thought upon as malignant and infected. So far, Demetrius' wound had healed well, for there was no sign of parasite or infection.
Turning to the bowl she had brought with her, Persephone picked up a small ball of linen and dipped it into the cool, fresh water. When it was sodden, she raised it back out and applied pressure to send trickles of it back into the clear contents of the dish. She glanced up at Demetrius as he answered her question of how long he had been a gladiator...
Fourteen years.
He had to have been skilled to have lasted so long. Persephone was no expert on the event or sport, but she had seen the bouts, the fights. She knew how easy it was for a man to lose his life in the arena. For him to work for so long and - despite marks and scars as souvenirs - remain in one piece was either testament to his own skill or his will to survive. Possibly a little of both.
"You were a slave...?" She asked softly, prompted by his reference to masters. She didn't fall about herself to offer feminine sympathy or pander to his tale of abuse. She knew that slaves were not always treated well by their masters. She wasn't so wholly ignorant as to not be aware of such things. And whilst she had never ordered a slave flogged or beaten for a misdeed, she knew well enough that there were palace slaves back home that would have received the punishments their chief slave deemed appropriate when they made a mistake.
Instead of offering false empathy or cajoling the man like a mother might a little chick, she simply prompted him with easy questions...
It might have seemed odd to an observer, that they were only now having this sort of conversation. The two of them had been within the company of one another for weeks and this was not the first time that Persephone had helped to tend to the man. She had felt responsible for his injury and, given there was no other woman to heal his wounds aboard the ship from Athenia, she had taken on the duty that she was perhaps not qualified for but open to performing.
Yet they had not talked during the voyage. He unsure of his future, perhaps uncomfortable in her presence... and she, grief-stricken at the loss of her family and home had fallen into a sort of ghosting existence. Where she was present but her mind was gone. In the darkness of the cabins below the ship's deck, they had said barely a handful of words to one another and nothing of a personal nature. Now, they had that opportunity. And Persephone found herself curious to know him...
Persephone pressed the damp cloth she now held to Demetrius's skin. She worked the piece in soft circles, lifting the dried blood and any scabbed skin that was due to be relieved from the healed skin below. Occasionally, a piece came off prematurely and left a growing tinge of red, but Persephone was careful not to cause any real bleeding. It was best that the old blood and skin was removed if the wound was to heal. Even she, with her very basic knowledge of anatomy, was aware of that much.
As she worked, she was gentle. Whilst her fingers, with a determined and direct touch, held the top of his shoulder so that he did not move, or pressed to his skin so that she could better see what was he and what was dirt, the other hand that actually worked upon the wound was barely a whisper. She took longer to complete the task because she did it softly, not wanting to cause unnecessary pain. What was she to do for the rest of the afternoon? Why would she not offer up whatever time she had to this man who had helped to save her life.
When he spoke of having earnt his freedom her next words were a simple statement. They held no judgment or chastisement but they did offer a certain amount of curiosity...
"You continued at the arena. Even after you were free?"
Persephone set aside the piece of wet linen, now stained pink, upon the discarded linens and reached for a second piece. She soaked it like the first and turned back to his arm, working once more at the skin that now glistened with clean, fresh water.
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Persephone's long and delicate fingers unfurled the bandaging from Demetrius' skin. The pieces that had been wound around his chest and over his shoulder were easy enough to remove but, when it came to the layers flattened over his bicep where his wound had been sustained the linen stuck and clung to the healing scabs and blood of his injury. Wincing a little, but with eyes of a determined healer, Persephone peeled them away with a delicacy designed to limit the pain.
When she was done, Persephone cast aside the dirty pieces of the bandage to the mattress beside her, avoiding laying the areas stained brown upon the bedding, keeping them folded in upon themselves. She then turned her attention back to his arm.
Whilst she was not a healer, Persephone knew well enough that shades of scarlet over the scabbed and congealed injury were a good sign. And anything that possessed the colour of white, yellow, green or black was to be thought upon as malignant and infected. So far, Demetrius' wound had healed well, for there was no sign of parasite or infection.
Turning to the bowl she had brought with her, Persephone picked up a small ball of linen and dipped it into the cool, fresh water. When it was sodden, she raised it back out and applied pressure to send trickles of it back into the clear contents of the dish. She glanced up at Demetrius as he answered her question of how long he had been a gladiator...
Fourteen years.
He had to have been skilled to have lasted so long. Persephone was no expert on the event or sport, but she had seen the bouts, the fights. She knew how easy it was for a man to lose his life in the arena. For him to work for so long and - despite marks and scars as souvenirs - remain in one piece was either testament to his own skill or his will to survive. Possibly a little of both.
"You were a slave...?" She asked softly, prompted by his reference to masters. She didn't fall about herself to offer feminine sympathy or pander to his tale of abuse. She knew that slaves were not always treated well by their masters. She wasn't so wholly ignorant as to not be aware of such things. And whilst she had never ordered a slave flogged or beaten for a misdeed, she knew well enough that there were palace slaves back home that would have received the punishments their chief slave deemed appropriate when they made a mistake.
Instead of offering false empathy or cajoling the man like a mother might a little chick, she simply prompted him with easy questions...
It might have seemed odd to an observer, that they were only now having this sort of conversation. The two of them had been within the company of one another for weeks and this was not the first time that Persephone had helped to tend to the man. She had felt responsible for his injury and, given there was no other woman to heal his wounds aboard the ship from Athenia, she had taken on the duty that she was perhaps not qualified for but open to performing.
Yet they had not talked during the voyage. He unsure of his future, perhaps uncomfortable in her presence... and she, grief-stricken at the loss of her family and home had fallen into a sort of ghosting existence. Where she was present but her mind was gone. In the darkness of the cabins below the ship's deck, they had said barely a handful of words to one another and nothing of a personal nature. Now, they had that opportunity. And Persephone found herself curious to know him...
Persephone pressed the damp cloth she now held to Demetrius's skin. She worked the piece in soft circles, lifting the dried blood and any scabbed skin that was due to be relieved from the healed skin below. Occasionally, a piece came off prematurely and left a growing tinge of red, but Persephone was careful not to cause any real bleeding. It was best that the old blood and skin was removed if the wound was to heal. Even she, with her very basic knowledge of anatomy, was aware of that much.
As she worked, she was gentle. Whilst her fingers, with a determined and direct touch, held the top of his shoulder so that he did not move, or pressed to his skin so that she could better see what was he and what was dirt, the other hand that actually worked upon the wound was barely a whisper. She took longer to complete the task because she did it softly, not wanting to cause unnecessary pain. What was she to do for the rest of the afternoon? Why would she not offer up whatever time she had to this man who had helped to save her life.
When he spoke of having earnt his freedom her next words were a simple statement. They held no judgment or chastisement but they did offer a certain amount of curiosity...
"You continued at the arena. Even after you were free?"
Persephone set aside the piece of wet linen, now stained pink, upon the discarded linens and reached for a second piece. She soaked it like the first and turned back to his arm, working once more at the skin that now glistened with clean, fresh water.
Persephone's long and delicate fingers unfurled the bandaging from Demetrius' skin. The pieces that had been wound around his chest and over his shoulder were easy enough to remove but, when it came to the layers flattened over his bicep where his wound had been sustained the linen stuck and clung to the healing scabs and blood of his injury. Wincing a little, but with eyes of a determined healer, Persephone peeled them away with a delicacy designed to limit the pain.
When she was done, Persephone cast aside the dirty pieces of the bandage to the mattress beside her, avoiding laying the areas stained brown upon the bedding, keeping them folded in upon themselves. She then turned her attention back to his arm.
Whilst she was not a healer, Persephone knew well enough that shades of scarlet over the scabbed and congealed injury were a good sign. And anything that possessed the colour of white, yellow, green or black was to be thought upon as malignant and infected. So far, Demetrius' wound had healed well, for there was no sign of parasite or infection.
Turning to the bowl she had brought with her, Persephone picked up a small ball of linen and dipped it into the cool, fresh water. When it was sodden, she raised it back out and applied pressure to send trickles of it back into the clear contents of the dish. She glanced up at Demetrius as he answered her question of how long he had been a gladiator...
Fourteen years.
He had to have been skilled to have lasted so long. Persephone was no expert on the event or sport, but she had seen the bouts, the fights. She knew how easy it was for a man to lose his life in the arena. For him to work for so long and - despite marks and scars as souvenirs - remain in one piece was either testament to his own skill or his will to survive. Possibly a little of both.
"You were a slave...?" She asked softly, prompted by his reference to masters. She didn't fall about herself to offer feminine sympathy or pander to his tale of abuse. She knew that slaves were not always treated well by their masters. She wasn't so wholly ignorant as to not be aware of such things. And whilst she had never ordered a slave flogged or beaten for a misdeed, she knew well enough that there were palace slaves back home that would have received the punishments their chief slave deemed appropriate when they made a mistake.
Instead of offering false empathy or cajoling the man like a mother might a little chick, she simply prompted him with easy questions...
It might have seemed odd to an observer, that they were only now having this sort of conversation. The two of them had been within the company of one another for weeks and this was not the first time that Persephone had helped to tend to the man. She had felt responsible for his injury and, given there was no other woman to heal his wounds aboard the ship from Athenia, she had taken on the duty that she was perhaps not qualified for but open to performing.
Yet they had not talked during the voyage. He unsure of his future, perhaps uncomfortable in her presence... and she, grief-stricken at the loss of her family and home had fallen into a sort of ghosting existence. Where she was present but her mind was gone. In the darkness of the cabins below the ship's deck, they had said barely a handful of words to one another and nothing of a personal nature. Now, they had that opportunity. And Persephone found herself curious to know him...
Persephone pressed the damp cloth she now held to Demetrius's skin. She worked the piece in soft circles, lifting the dried blood and any scabbed skin that was due to be relieved from the healed skin below. Occasionally, a piece came off prematurely and left a growing tinge of red, but Persephone was careful not to cause any real bleeding. It was best that the old blood and skin was removed if the wound was to heal. Even she, with her very basic knowledge of anatomy, was aware of that much.
As she worked, she was gentle. Whilst her fingers, with a determined and direct touch, held the top of his shoulder so that he did not move, or pressed to his skin so that she could better see what was he and what was dirt, the other hand that actually worked upon the wound was barely a whisper. She took longer to complete the task because she did it softly, not wanting to cause unnecessary pain. What was she to do for the rest of the afternoon? Why would she not offer up whatever time she had to this man who had helped to save her life.
When he spoke of having earnt his freedom her next words were a simple statement. They held no judgment or chastisement but they did offer a certain amount of curiosity...
"You continued at the arena. Even after you were free?"
Persephone set aside the piece of wet linen, now stained pink, upon the discarded linens and reached for a second piece. She soaked it like the first and turned back to his arm, working once more at the skin that now glistened with clean, fresh water.
It was a testament to how accustomed to pain he was that as she pulled the bandage from his arm there was only a slight twitch in the corner of his lip. He was used to the rough handling of his fellow fighters, bandaging each other up so they could be ready and solid enough to go back at it the next day. In all of his time in the arena the longest break he had taken had only been recent, since the gash in his abdomen had been doled out, after the day her engagement had been announced. It had been only a few days later that he found the pirate and tried to challenge him, desperate to try to end him and nearly losing his life instead.
The lack of work from that injury had been what spurred his acceptance of the contract that led him to the palace that fateful night. This injury was still an angry red, skin that had been sewn back together, dark red scabbing, and muscles that had not yet healed. He shouldn't have fought that night, it was the reason he had been too slow and gained the injury she tended to now, but he'd been foolish and afraid. Afraid that he wouldn't have enough to free her if he found her, afraid he would have to dip into what he had saved in order to feed and care for himself while he could not fight. It had been a hellish existence and now while he might have been safe, he had no idea what would become of him now.
"Taken from home by pirates. They burned everything. Killed everyone they didn't think they could sell." His voice was stiff now, holding back emotion he would not share, not with her or anyone else for sixteen years now. Ever since he had been separated from his brother and Olena, he had spoken rarely if ever of his past to others, preferring silence and action instead of dredging up the pain.
Perhaps it was the care she gave to his wound, or the closeness of a woman who didn't seem to want something from him, or that she was actually asking questions. The fact she was taking time to tend to him, more than was necessary as he well knew, was slowly helping ease his nerves though the line of his body was still tense. He hadn't told anyone like her who he was looking for, but with such power and reach perhaps there was something that could be done.
"I had no other skills. I wouldn't remember how to farm anymore. And I needed to save whatever I could." Dima took a deep breath, unaccustomed to speaking so much and feeling exceedingly uncomfortable doing so. His accent had never faded and Greek still felt rough on his tongue. "In case I ever find my brother. Or the girl who was to be my wife. They were taken with me. We were..separated." No use going into the horror of that night on the boat. The way Theron had tried to cover his ears and hold him close while Olena screamed in pain. It was all he could do to forget it, but every nightmare was the same.
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It was a testament to how accustomed to pain he was that as she pulled the bandage from his arm there was only a slight twitch in the corner of his lip. He was used to the rough handling of his fellow fighters, bandaging each other up so they could be ready and solid enough to go back at it the next day. In all of his time in the arena the longest break he had taken had only been recent, since the gash in his abdomen had been doled out, after the day her engagement had been announced. It had been only a few days later that he found the pirate and tried to challenge him, desperate to try to end him and nearly losing his life instead.
The lack of work from that injury had been what spurred his acceptance of the contract that led him to the palace that fateful night. This injury was still an angry red, skin that had been sewn back together, dark red scabbing, and muscles that had not yet healed. He shouldn't have fought that night, it was the reason he had been too slow and gained the injury she tended to now, but he'd been foolish and afraid. Afraid that he wouldn't have enough to free her if he found her, afraid he would have to dip into what he had saved in order to feed and care for himself while he could not fight. It had been a hellish existence and now while he might have been safe, he had no idea what would become of him now.
"Taken from home by pirates. They burned everything. Killed everyone they didn't think they could sell." His voice was stiff now, holding back emotion he would not share, not with her or anyone else for sixteen years now. Ever since he had been separated from his brother and Olena, he had spoken rarely if ever of his past to others, preferring silence and action instead of dredging up the pain.
Perhaps it was the care she gave to his wound, or the closeness of a woman who didn't seem to want something from him, or that she was actually asking questions. The fact she was taking time to tend to him, more than was necessary as he well knew, was slowly helping ease his nerves though the line of his body was still tense. He hadn't told anyone like her who he was looking for, but with such power and reach perhaps there was something that could be done.
"I had no other skills. I wouldn't remember how to farm anymore. And I needed to save whatever I could." Dima took a deep breath, unaccustomed to speaking so much and feeling exceedingly uncomfortable doing so. His accent had never faded and Greek still felt rough on his tongue. "In case I ever find my brother. Or the girl who was to be my wife. They were taken with me. We were..separated." No use going into the horror of that night on the boat. The way Theron had tried to cover his ears and hold him close while Olena screamed in pain. It was all he could do to forget it, but every nightmare was the same.
It was a testament to how accustomed to pain he was that as she pulled the bandage from his arm there was only a slight twitch in the corner of his lip. He was used to the rough handling of his fellow fighters, bandaging each other up so they could be ready and solid enough to go back at it the next day. In all of his time in the arena the longest break he had taken had only been recent, since the gash in his abdomen had been doled out, after the day her engagement had been announced. It had been only a few days later that he found the pirate and tried to challenge him, desperate to try to end him and nearly losing his life instead.
The lack of work from that injury had been what spurred his acceptance of the contract that led him to the palace that fateful night. This injury was still an angry red, skin that had been sewn back together, dark red scabbing, and muscles that had not yet healed. He shouldn't have fought that night, it was the reason he had been too slow and gained the injury she tended to now, but he'd been foolish and afraid. Afraid that he wouldn't have enough to free her if he found her, afraid he would have to dip into what he had saved in order to feed and care for himself while he could not fight. It had been a hellish existence and now while he might have been safe, he had no idea what would become of him now.
"Taken from home by pirates. They burned everything. Killed everyone they didn't think they could sell." His voice was stiff now, holding back emotion he would not share, not with her or anyone else for sixteen years now. Ever since he had been separated from his brother and Olena, he had spoken rarely if ever of his past to others, preferring silence and action instead of dredging up the pain.
Perhaps it was the care she gave to his wound, or the closeness of a woman who didn't seem to want something from him, or that she was actually asking questions. The fact she was taking time to tend to him, more than was necessary as he well knew, was slowly helping ease his nerves though the line of his body was still tense. He hadn't told anyone like her who he was looking for, but with such power and reach perhaps there was something that could be done.
"I had no other skills. I wouldn't remember how to farm anymore. And I needed to save whatever I could." Dima took a deep breath, unaccustomed to speaking so much and feeling exceedingly uncomfortable doing so. His accent had never faded and Greek still felt rough on his tongue. "In case I ever find my brother. Or the girl who was to be my wife. They were taken with me. We were..separated." No use going into the horror of that night on the boat. The way Theron had tried to cover his ears and hold him close while Olena screamed in pain. It was all he could do to forget it, but every nightmare was the same.
Persephone was soft and gentle as she worked. She was probably not as efficient, nor as helpful as a real physician would be - someone who knew wounds and knew how to bind them tight or work them clean. She was too delicate in how she approached it, making it take three times as long as an experienced healer might take. Yet, she was fastidious and diligent in her self-claimed duties as his nurse and was able to see to him just as well... even if it did take so much longer.
As he talked, she kept her eyes on her work, not wishing to upset him or make him feel spectated upon as he opened up about his history. She allowed him to speak, not pushing or questioning and only glancing up if he fell silent or on the very rare occasions that he flinched from her touch over a sensitive bit of flesh.
Having not ever been wounded like this before, Persephone did not comprehend the strength it took for Demetrius to remain still as she tended to him. She knew only that he had been very brave to risk incurring it in the first place.
Saddened by his admittance that combat and violence was all that he knew how to do, Persephone swallowed and carried on about her work on his arm, using several pieces of fresh linen before she considered the wound clean enough to wrap once more. It was likely that this would be the final bandage, that it would be healed enough to be left to the cool air once this one was removed. But it was better safe than sorry when it came to the infections that could fall upon those out of favour with the Gods.
At least this time she would not have to bandage the strips around his chest and shoulder. The joint seemed secure enough, despite bruising and the large cut was the only piece of the injury that still needed the protection of white linen...
It was as she was taking up a little roll of just such fabric that Demetrius voiced his searching for his brother and betrothed. The sorrow and determination in his voice - not to mention an edge that seemed tinged with hopelessness - tugged at her heartstrings and Persephone was quick with her response...
"The Athenian Senate holds records..." She began, tugging the end of the linen beneath his arm and winding the roll around beneath his bicep and up and over the cut in its first cycle. "...of all those who arrive and depart from the ports. It also has trade manifests of slaves and who owns what..." She glanced at him for a moment as she continued to weave the linen around his wound, pulling on it so that it would hold firm. The first few she had done for the man had fallen to pool around his elbow. She had learnt from that. "The records are sealed to all those without royal blood but... I could send a message for you? Ask one of my trusted senators to look?"
The slave manifests would be unlikely to mention slaves by name but there was always a basic description... height, gender, distinctive features or wounds that might affect the value of the sale. Not to mention their origin. It wouldn't narrow down the search to specific individuals but it would give him a short list to investigate.
She owed her life, in part, to this man... She felt it was only right to take this small risk for him...
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Persephone was soft and gentle as she worked. She was probably not as efficient, nor as helpful as a real physician would be - someone who knew wounds and knew how to bind them tight or work them clean. She was too delicate in how she approached it, making it take three times as long as an experienced healer might take. Yet, she was fastidious and diligent in her self-claimed duties as his nurse and was able to see to him just as well... even if it did take so much longer.
As he talked, she kept her eyes on her work, not wishing to upset him or make him feel spectated upon as he opened up about his history. She allowed him to speak, not pushing or questioning and only glancing up if he fell silent or on the very rare occasions that he flinched from her touch over a sensitive bit of flesh.
Having not ever been wounded like this before, Persephone did not comprehend the strength it took for Demetrius to remain still as she tended to him. She knew only that he had been very brave to risk incurring it in the first place.
Saddened by his admittance that combat and violence was all that he knew how to do, Persephone swallowed and carried on about her work on his arm, using several pieces of fresh linen before she considered the wound clean enough to wrap once more. It was likely that this would be the final bandage, that it would be healed enough to be left to the cool air once this one was removed. But it was better safe than sorry when it came to the infections that could fall upon those out of favour with the Gods.
At least this time she would not have to bandage the strips around his chest and shoulder. The joint seemed secure enough, despite bruising and the large cut was the only piece of the injury that still needed the protection of white linen...
It was as she was taking up a little roll of just such fabric that Demetrius voiced his searching for his brother and betrothed. The sorrow and determination in his voice - not to mention an edge that seemed tinged with hopelessness - tugged at her heartstrings and Persephone was quick with her response...
"The Athenian Senate holds records..." She began, tugging the end of the linen beneath his arm and winding the roll around beneath his bicep and up and over the cut in its first cycle. "...of all those who arrive and depart from the ports. It also has trade manifests of slaves and who owns what..." She glanced at him for a moment as she continued to weave the linen around his wound, pulling on it so that it would hold firm. The first few she had done for the man had fallen to pool around his elbow. She had learnt from that. "The records are sealed to all those without royal blood but... I could send a message for you? Ask one of my trusted senators to look?"
The slave manifests would be unlikely to mention slaves by name but there was always a basic description... height, gender, distinctive features or wounds that might affect the value of the sale. Not to mention their origin. It wouldn't narrow down the search to specific individuals but it would give him a short list to investigate.
She owed her life, in part, to this man... She felt it was only right to take this small risk for him...
Persephone was soft and gentle as she worked. She was probably not as efficient, nor as helpful as a real physician would be - someone who knew wounds and knew how to bind them tight or work them clean. She was too delicate in how she approached it, making it take three times as long as an experienced healer might take. Yet, she was fastidious and diligent in her self-claimed duties as his nurse and was able to see to him just as well... even if it did take so much longer.
As he talked, she kept her eyes on her work, not wishing to upset him or make him feel spectated upon as he opened up about his history. She allowed him to speak, not pushing or questioning and only glancing up if he fell silent or on the very rare occasions that he flinched from her touch over a sensitive bit of flesh.
Having not ever been wounded like this before, Persephone did not comprehend the strength it took for Demetrius to remain still as she tended to him. She knew only that he had been very brave to risk incurring it in the first place.
Saddened by his admittance that combat and violence was all that he knew how to do, Persephone swallowed and carried on about her work on his arm, using several pieces of fresh linen before she considered the wound clean enough to wrap once more. It was likely that this would be the final bandage, that it would be healed enough to be left to the cool air once this one was removed. But it was better safe than sorry when it came to the infections that could fall upon those out of favour with the Gods.
At least this time she would not have to bandage the strips around his chest and shoulder. The joint seemed secure enough, despite bruising and the large cut was the only piece of the injury that still needed the protection of white linen...
It was as she was taking up a little roll of just such fabric that Demetrius voiced his searching for his brother and betrothed. The sorrow and determination in his voice - not to mention an edge that seemed tinged with hopelessness - tugged at her heartstrings and Persephone was quick with her response...
"The Athenian Senate holds records..." She began, tugging the end of the linen beneath his arm and winding the roll around beneath his bicep and up and over the cut in its first cycle. "...of all those who arrive and depart from the ports. It also has trade manifests of slaves and who owns what..." She glanced at him for a moment as she continued to weave the linen around his wound, pulling on it so that it would hold firm. The first few she had done for the man had fallen to pool around his elbow. She had learnt from that. "The records are sealed to all those without royal blood but... I could send a message for you? Ask one of my trusted senators to look?"
The slave manifests would be unlikely to mention slaves by name but there was always a basic description... height, gender, distinctive features or wounds that might affect the value of the sale. Not to mention their origin. It wouldn't narrow down the search to specific individuals but it would give him a short list to investigate.
She owed her life, in part, to this man... She felt it was only right to take this small risk for him...
Somewhere he had gotten lost in his memories, forgetting who he was with and where they were. In front of him he felt as if he could see them all again, Olena and Theron, his parents, their village, memories from so long ago he wasn't entirely sure they were real. He had no guarantee that if he ever saw them again he would recognize them. Certainly they would be hard pressed to know him as he looked now. He was no longer the farm boy with soft blonde curls and eyes full of innocence, his skin was darker and the scars that marred them deeper than any he might have incurred in farm life.
Even if he asked to be relieved of his tasks as a soldier or guard, asked instead to be allowed to work a field and farm again he didn't know if he would remember how. And so unless one day fate decided that he did not have to fight for his life any longer he would continue to work in what he had been forced to know. Protecting these people at least seemed far more worthwhile than killing in an arena or operating as a sell sword. At least with them he was not being asked to go out and murder for a small profit, and that was a relief in itself.
As the queen bandaged him and spoke quietly he pulled himself back to the present where he had no doubt been awkwardly silent for far too long, shifting his arm and checking the bandaging with a nod of approval. This would do to hold things steady and hopefully be the last time he needed such tending to for a while, the wounds were healing better than he could have hoped for after the conditions they had been in when they left Athenia. It was the offer that was made so softly that seemed a dream that prompted him to speak once more.
"You would do that?" The disbelief in his tone was clear, eyes narrowed slightly in suspicion as he wondered what else might be asked of him if he agreed and she searched for his family. After a moment he came to the decision he'd known he would. Even if she asked for something else, demanded his life be forefit to her service in order to find them or at least hear their fates, he would give it willingly.
"What would you need to know? They would have been taken sixteen years ago. From the north, Cimmerians."
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Somewhere he had gotten lost in his memories, forgetting who he was with and where they were. In front of him he felt as if he could see them all again, Olena and Theron, his parents, their village, memories from so long ago he wasn't entirely sure they were real. He had no guarantee that if he ever saw them again he would recognize them. Certainly they would be hard pressed to know him as he looked now. He was no longer the farm boy with soft blonde curls and eyes full of innocence, his skin was darker and the scars that marred them deeper than any he might have incurred in farm life.
Even if he asked to be relieved of his tasks as a soldier or guard, asked instead to be allowed to work a field and farm again he didn't know if he would remember how. And so unless one day fate decided that he did not have to fight for his life any longer he would continue to work in what he had been forced to know. Protecting these people at least seemed far more worthwhile than killing in an arena or operating as a sell sword. At least with them he was not being asked to go out and murder for a small profit, and that was a relief in itself.
As the queen bandaged him and spoke quietly he pulled himself back to the present where he had no doubt been awkwardly silent for far too long, shifting his arm and checking the bandaging with a nod of approval. This would do to hold things steady and hopefully be the last time he needed such tending to for a while, the wounds were healing better than he could have hoped for after the conditions they had been in when they left Athenia. It was the offer that was made so softly that seemed a dream that prompted him to speak once more.
"You would do that?" The disbelief in his tone was clear, eyes narrowed slightly in suspicion as he wondered what else might be asked of him if he agreed and she searched for his family. After a moment he came to the decision he'd known he would. Even if she asked for something else, demanded his life be forefit to her service in order to find them or at least hear their fates, he would give it willingly.
"What would you need to know? They would have been taken sixteen years ago. From the north, Cimmerians."
Somewhere he had gotten lost in his memories, forgetting who he was with and where they were. In front of him he felt as if he could see them all again, Olena and Theron, his parents, their village, memories from so long ago he wasn't entirely sure they were real. He had no guarantee that if he ever saw them again he would recognize them. Certainly they would be hard pressed to know him as he looked now. He was no longer the farm boy with soft blonde curls and eyes full of innocence, his skin was darker and the scars that marred them deeper than any he might have incurred in farm life.
Even if he asked to be relieved of his tasks as a soldier or guard, asked instead to be allowed to work a field and farm again he didn't know if he would remember how. And so unless one day fate decided that he did not have to fight for his life any longer he would continue to work in what he had been forced to know. Protecting these people at least seemed far more worthwhile than killing in an arena or operating as a sell sword. At least with them he was not being asked to go out and murder for a small profit, and that was a relief in itself.
As the queen bandaged him and spoke quietly he pulled himself back to the present where he had no doubt been awkwardly silent for far too long, shifting his arm and checking the bandaging with a nod of approval. This would do to hold things steady and hopefully be the last time he needed such tending to for a while, the wounds were healing better than he could have hoped for after the conditions they had been in when they left Athenia. It was the offer that was made so softly that seemed a dream that prompted him to speak once more.
"You would do that?" The disbelief in his tone was clear, eyes narrowed slightly in suspicion as he wondered what else might be asked of him if he agreed and she searched for his family. After a moment he came to the decision he'd known he would. Even if she asked for something else, demanded his life be forefit to her service in order to find them or at least hear their fates, he would give it willingly.
"What would you need to know? They would have been taken sixteen years ago. From the north, Cimmerians."
Persephone had a contradictory reaction to Demetrius' sudden interest in what she was saying. Clearly, he had been swirling in his own thoughts, his gaze dimmed and glazed as he looked inwards rather than upon the room around him. She had not wished to disturb him, saying nothing beyond her own offer and tending to his arm. But the man came alive again as her words registered with him. His body seemed to turn and she almost lost hold of the bandage but was able to snag on. She caught the strip of linen by the fingertips and was quick to fasten it into place, not wishing for him to lose the now secure bandage.
When he asked whether she would do such a thing to aid him; to help him find his brother, her emotions were two-fold. One, she was surprised by the violence of his reaction. Whilst she could understand love for a sibling and the desire that he must have to find his brother, she had never known true loss herself. Not in the way that he had. She had suffered through the death of relatives. But there was no coming back from that. No chance of the return of loved ones. It was only in the power of Demetrius' voice and his ardent emotion that she realised just how being separated from someone could be more painful than losing them to Hades altogether.
The contradiction to this emotion was surprise that he should hold with such shock. Whilst Persephone knew there to be people in the world that had limitations to their kindness; who were only willing to accept the duties of aiding other people if it tied in with their own plans, in this Persephone could not truly understand Demetrius' distrust.
She had only to send a letter and have someone search for the records. It would be perhaps an afternoon's work for someone - not even herself - but that was all. How could so simple a task of writing a letter be seen as such a grand gesture? She couldn't even be assured that such efforts would meet with success...
In this, Persephone felt it was important to moderate Demetrius' expectations. Having secured the bandage around his arm she raised her hands, palms out, in a quelling motion.
"I can't be assured that it will work, you understand." She told him. "I do not know many truly loyal to me still in Athenia and even those that I ask might not be able to investigate as openly as they might need." She smiled, a light frown of confusion showing her naivete in human apathy. "But if the letter reaches them and they are able to look... it is but a letter I have sent. I owe you far more than that, surely?" The corner of her mouth curled and her shoulders rose in a soft almost-shrug. To her, human kindness was simple.
With the details that Demetrius rote off quickly, Persephone's expression turned series, her mind focusing on remembering the details. She nodded as he recited them.
"I'd need to know whatever you can tell me. The year they might have arrived in Athenia, their ages, physical descriptions, distinctive features. If you know the name of the slaver or the ship that may have sold them, that would help too." She glanced around the room for some parchment or clay. "Perhaps if you wrote them down?" She offered, attempting to be helpful and forgetting for a moment the chances of the man being literate.
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Persephone had a contradictory reaction to Demetrius' sudden interest in what she was saying. Clearly, he had been swirling in his own thoughts, his gaze dimmed and glazed as he looked inwards rather than upon the room around him. She had not wished to disturb him, saying nothing beyond her own offer and tending to his arm. But the man came alive again as her words registered with him. His body seemed to turn and she almost lost hold of the bandage but was able to snag on. She caught the strip of linen by the fingertips and was quick to fasten it into place, not wishing for him to lose the now secure bandage.
When he asked whether she would do such a thing to aid him; to help him find his brother, her emotions were two-fold. One, she was surprised by the violence of his reaction. Whilst she could understand love for a sibling and the desire that he must have to find his brother, she had never known true loss herself. Not in the way that he had. She had suffered through the death of relatives. But there was no coming back from that. No chance of the return of loved ones. It was only in the power of Demetrius' voice and his ardent emotion that she realised just how being separated from someone could be more painful than losing them to Hades altogether.
The contradiction to this emotion was surprise that he should hold with such shock. Whilst Persephone knew there to be people in the world that had limitations to their kindness; who were only willing to accept the duties of aiding other people if it tied in with their own plans, in this Persephone could not truly understand Demetrius' distrust.
She had only to send a letter and have someone search for the records. It would be perhaps an afternoon's work for someone - not even herself - but that was all. How could so simple a task of writing a letter be seen as such a grand gesture? She couldn't even be assured that such efforts would meet with success...
In this, Persephone felt it was important to moderate Demetrius' expectations. Having secured the bandage around his arm she raised her hands, palms out, in a quelling motion.
"I can't be assured that it will work, you understand." She told him. "I do not know many truly loyal to me still in Athenia and even those that I ask might not be able to investigate as openly as they might need." She smiled, a light frown of confusion showing her naivete in human apathy. "But if the letter reaches them and they are able to look... it is but a letter I have sent. I owe you far more than that, surely?" The corner of her mouth curled and her shoulders rose in a soft almost-shrug. To her, human kindness was simple.
With the details that Demetrius rote off quickly, Persephone's expression turned series, her mind focusing on remembering the details. She nodded as he recited them.
"I'd need to know whatever you can tell me. The year they might have arrived in Athenia, their ages, physical descriptions, distinctive features. If you know the name of the slaver or the ship that may have sold them, that would help too." She glanced around the room for some parchment or clay. "Perhaps if you wrote them down?" She offered, attempting to be helpful and forgetting for a moment the chances of the man being literate.
Persephone had a contradictory reaction to Demetrius' sudden interest in what she was saying. Clearly, he had been swirling in his own thoughts, his gaze dimmed and glazed as he looked inwards rather than upon the room around him. She had not wished to disturb him, saying nothing beyond her own offer and tending to his arm. But the man came alive again as her words registered with him. His body seemed to turn and she almost lost hold of the bandage but was able to snag on. She caught the strip of linen by the fingertips and was quick to fasten it into place, not wishing for him to lose the now secure bandage.
When he asked whether she would do such a thing to aid him; to help him find his brother, her emotions were two-fold. One, she was surprised by the violence of his reaction. Whilst she could understand love for a sibling and the desire that he must have to find his brother, she had never known true loss herself. Not in the way that he had. She had suffered through the death of relatives. But there was no coming back from that. No chance of the return of loved ones. It was only in the power of Demetrius' voice and his ardent emotion that she realised just how being separated from someone could be more painful than losing them to Hades altogether.
The contradiction to this emotion was surprise that he should hold with such shock. Whilst Persephone knew there to be people in the world that had limitations to their kindness; who were only willing to accept the duties of aiding other people if it tied in with their own plans, in this Persephone could not truly understand Demetrius' distrust.
She had only to send a letter and have someone search for the records. It would be perhaps an afternoon's work for someone - not even herself - but that was all. How could so simple a task of writing a letter be seen as such a grand gesture? She couldn't even be assured that such efforts would meet with success...
In this, Persephone felt it was important to moderate Demetrius' expectations. Having secured the bandage around his arm she raised her hands, palms out, in a quelling motion.
"I can't be assured that it will work, you understand." She told him. "I do not know many truly loyal to me still in Athenia and even those that I ask might not be able to investigate as openly as they might need." She smiled, a light frown of confusion showing her naivete in human apathy. "But if the letter reaches them and they are able to look... it is but a letter I have sent. I owe you far more than that, surely?" The corner of her mouth curled and her shoulders rose in a soft almost-shrug. To her, human kindness was simple.
With the details that Demetrius rote off quickly, Persephone's expression turned series, her mind focusing on remembering the details. She nodded as he recited them.
"I'd need to know whatever you can tell me. The year they might have arrived in Athenia, their ages, physical descriptions, distinctive features. If you know the name of the slaver or the ship that may have sold them, that would help too." She glanced around the room for some parchment or clay. "Perhaps if you wrote them down?" She offered, attempting to be helpful and forgetting for a moment the chances of the man being literate.
He had to work to calm his heart as she tried to temper his expectations. Though he had never allowed them to get too high, the thought of even knowing if his family was still out there somewhere, even hearing someone else speak their names might be enough to give him some peace. He prayed to the old gods every day asking for some kind of sign of them, whether they were alive or dead all he wanted was to know. Some sort of closure that could give him the strength to continue.
As she secured the bandage and lifted her hands he shifted so he could better look her in the eye, to try to gauge her reactions and see if this was a cruel trick of fate or a true chance at hope. Nodding in understanding as she reminded him that the pull she had over the country was far less than it had been, he knew that it might not work and this too might end in a dead end like the many other attempts he had made to find them. But it was better than walking through the docks every chance he got to look in the slave pens, half hoping half dreading seeing one of them inside.
"Any effort your majesty would be beyond what I could repay. To know even the smallest detail...it would be relief."
The details she needed were easily recalled, and he was prepared to rattle them off as he had many times before when she spoke of writing it down. His complexion was not well suited to a flush, so it might have been easily missed as he looked down at his hands upon his lap and shook his head. In his youth he'd been able to write simply enough, and had been working on learning more between his time in the fields, but no one in Greece knew the characters he did, and he had never learned to read or write the foreign tongue. Not that he had ever really been given a chance to do so.
"Forgive me, but I cannot. Anything I write could not be read, and anything written by others I could not read. A slave is not given the luxury of education." Dima shook his head, clearing his throat before looking back up at her, making the suggestion before he considered whether or not it was appropriate or if some other servant should be called in to take his words instead of her. "I could tell you, if you would write it."
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He had to work to calm his heart as she tried to temper his expectations. Though he had never allowed them to get too high, the thought of even knowing if his family was still out there somewhere, even hearing someone else speak their names might be enough to give him some peace. He prayed to the old gods every day asking for some kind of sign of them, whether they were alive or dead all he wanted was to know. Some sort of closure that could give him the strength to continue.
As she secured the bandage and lifted her hands he shifted so he could better look her in the eye, to try to gauge her reactions and see if this was a cruel trick of fate or a true chance at hope. Nodding in understanding as she reminded him that the pull she had over the country was far less than it had been, he knew that it might not work and this too might end in a dead end like the many other attempts he had made to find them. But it was better than walking through the docks every chance he got to look in the slave pens, half hoping half dreading seeing one of them inside.
"Any effort your majesty would be beyond what I could repay. To know even the smallest detail...it would be relief."
The details she needed were easily recalled, and he was prepared to rattle them off as he had many times before when she spoke of writing it down. His complexion was not well suited to a flush, so it might have been easily missed as he looked down at his hands upon his lap and shook his head. In his youth he'd been able to write simply enough, and had been working on learning more between his time in the fields, but no one in Greece knew the characters he did, and he had never learned to read or write the foreign tongue. Not that he had ever really been given a chance to do so.
"Forgive me, but I cannot. Anything I write could not be read, and anything written by others I could not read. A slave is not given the luxury of education." Dima shook his head, clearing his throat before looking back up at her, making the suggestion before he considered whether or not it was appropriate or if some other servant should be called in to take his words instead of her. "I could tell you, if you would write it."
He had to work to calm his heart as she tried to temper his expectations. Though he had never allowed them to get too high, the thought of even knowing if his family was still out there somewhere, even hearing someone else speak their names might be enough to give him some peace. He prayed to the old gods every day asking for some kind of sign of them, whether they were alive or dead all he wanted was to know. Some sort of closure that could give him the strength to continue.
As she secured the bandage and lifted her hands he shifted so he could better look her in the eye, to try to gauge her reactions and see if this was a cruel trick of fate or a true chance at hope. Nodding in understanding as she reminded him that the pull she had over the country was far less than it had been, he knew that it might not work and this too might end in a dead end like the many other attempts he had made to find them. But it was better than walking through the docks every chance he got to look in the slave pens, half hoping half dreading seeing one of them inside.
"Any effort your majesty would be beyond what I could repay. To know even the smallest detail...it would be relief."
The details she needed were easily recalled, and he was prepared to rattle them off as he had many times before when she spoke of writing it down. His complexion was not well suited to a flush, so it might have been easily missed as he looked down at his hands upon his lap and shook his head. In his youth he'd been able to write simply enough, and had been working on learning more between his time in the fields, but no one in Greece knew the characters he did, and he had never learned to read or write the foreign tongue. Not that he had ever really been given a chance to do so.
"Forgive me, but I cannot. Anything I write could not be read, and anything written by others I could not read. A slave is not given the luxury of education." Dima shook his head, clearing his throat before looking back up at her, making the suggestion before he considered whether or not it was appropriate or if some other servant should be called in to take his words instead of her. "I could tell you, if you would write it."
Persephone watched as the light had filled Demetrius' face and heart and hoped so fervently that she hadn't just raised his hopes to have them dashed like on the rocks at the coastline. This man to whom she owed so much was the last she wished to harm in so cruel a way. She had made the offer because she had naturally wanted to help. And she would make it again solely on the off-chance of such a miracle. But, as it was, she now knew that she should have perhaps approached the subject with a more cautious tone.
Despite all hindsight though, Persephone could not regret making the offer. The way that hope seemed to infuse the man (whether false or not) was a beautiful thing to see and only told Persephone just how much the gladiator-come-guardsmen must love his brother and betrothed. It was enough to see Persephone a little jealous. Despite all the horrors of the world, Demetrius still tried...
It was humbling.
When he appeared suddenly awkward at her suggestion, Persephone realised her mistake. Her fingers brushed to her lips in a moment of shocked apology and she shook her head to discard any of his own contrition. He didn't need to apologise - it was her stupidity that had had her suggest such a thing without thinking it through. She could not blame him for that.
"No, but of course. That was my foolish suggestion." She told him. She looked around for something to write with but of course found the chamber of an illiterate servant to hold nothing for writing letters or notes. Instead, she reached out to squeeze Demetrius' hand, emboldened by their limited time together to breach that wall of personal space. Just for a second and a show of compassion.
"We shall meet again at the estate when you are dressed and well." She told him. "I shall write all the details you can give me and we will send the letter together?"
As Persephone tilted her head in query, her long dark hair fell over her shoulder and her eyes were bright with innocent friendship. It had been a long time since she could break this boundary with a stranger and be truly friends with them. To be open with them without a plan or agenda for their future - be it enemies, marriage or otherwise. In this room there were just two friends, offering to help one another.
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Persephone watched as the light had filled Demetrius' face and heart and hoped so fervently that she hadn't just raised his hopes to have them dashed like on the rocks at the coastline. This man to whom she owed so much was the last she wished to harm in so cruel a way. She had made the offer because she had naturally wanted to help. And she would make it again solely on the off-chance of such a miracle. But, as it was, she now knew that she should have perhaps approached the subject with a more cautious tone.
Despite all hindsight though, Persephone could not regret making the offer. The way that hope seemed to infuse the man (whether false or not) was a beautiful thing to see and only told Persephone just how much the gladiator-come-guardsmen must love his brother and betrothed. It was enough to see Persephone a little jealous. Despite all the horrors of the world, Demetrius still tried...
It was humbling.
When he appeared suddenly awkward at her suggestion, Persephone realised her mistake. Her fingers brushed to her lips in a moment of shocked apology and she shook her head to discard any of his own contrition. He didn't need to apologise - it was her stupidity that had had her suggest such a thing without thinking it through. She could not blame him for that.
"No, but of course. That was my foolish suggestion." She told him. She looked around for something to write with but of course found the chamber of an illiterate servant to hold nothing for writing letters or notes. Instead, she reached out to squeeze Demetrius' hand, emboldened by their limited time together to breach that wall of personal space. Just for a second and a show of compassion.
"We shall meet again at the estate when you are dressed and well." She told him. "I shall write all the details you can give me and we will send the letter together?"
As Persephone tilted her head in query, her long dark hair fell over her shoulder and her eyes were bright with innocent friendship. It had been a long time since she could break this boundary with a stranger and be truly friends with them. To be open with them without a plan or agenda for their future - be it enemies, marriage or otherwise. In this room there were just two friends, offering to help one another.
Persephone watched as the light had filled Demetrius' face and heart and hoped so fervently that she hadn't just raised his hopes to have them dashed like on the rocks at the coastline. This man to whom she owed so much was the last she wished to harm in so cruel a way. She had made the offer because she had naturally wanted to help. And she would make it again solely on the off-chance of such a miracle. But, as it was, she now knew that she should have perhaps approached the subject with a more cautious tone.
Despite all hindsight though, Persephone could not regret making the offer. The way that hope seemed to infuse the man (whether false or not) was a beautiful thing to see and only told Persephone just how much the gladiator-come-guardsmen must love his brother and betrothed. It was enough to see Persephone a little jealous. Despite all the horrors of the world, Demetrius still tried...
It was humbling.
When he appeared suddenly awkward at her suggestion, Persephone realised her mistake. Her fingers brushed to her lips in a moment of shocked apology and she shook her head to discard any of his own contrition. He didn't need to apologise - it was her stupidity that had had her suggest such a thing without thinking it through. She could not blame him for that.
"No, but of course. That was my foolish suggestion." She told him. She looked around for something to write with but of course found the chamber of an illiterate servant to hold nothing for writing letters or notes. Instead, she reached out to squeeze Demetrius' hand, emboldened by their limited time together to breach that wall of personal space. Just for a second and a show of compassion.
"We shall meet again at the estate when you are dressed and well." She told him. "I shall write all the details you can give me and we will send the letter together?"
As Persephone tilted her head in query, her long dark hair fell over her shoulder and her eyes were bright with innocent friendship. It had been a long time since she could break this boundary with a stranger and be truly friends with them. To be open with them without a plan or agenda for their future - be it enemies, marriage or otherwise. In this room there were just two friends, offering to help one another.