TW: death, violence, nonconsensual kissing, Ancient Greece/Rome!AU

The clouds above him are gathering.

Alexandros looks up, watches them spell out a fate which they (he) cannot escape and fears for his life. His fingers tremble and he grips the dagger in his hand tighter to steady them. The steel digs into the flesh of his palm and he feels trickles of blood sliding down his wrist.

The gods have forsaken them and without them Alexandros thinks (knows) they might not survive.

Alexandros raises his bloody hand and salutes the sky.

+

Alexandros had expected the Romans to be like a storm (like the dark clouds above; bringing hail and rain wherever they go).

They weren't.

He expected a raging storm of soldiers tearing their homes apart. A wild fire of destruction searching for a path between the twist and turns of dead bodies and blood stained marble stairs. He expected to hear screams in the night and hear the clashing of swords.

(He doesn't hear anything).

When the Romans came, they were like a breeze (like the breeze that woke Alexandros every morning and blew air into his lungs – this time it only took).

+

The fight is lost before it starts. The Romans believe in strength in numbers and for the first time, with the legion standing in front of the gates, Alexandros is there to witness it. He has heard of the stories (everyone has – they've become legends), but it is something else to see your end approach in the form of hundreds of soldiers.

Alexandros feels the dagger lay heavy in his palm and hears his sword clink against the edges of his belt. There's no armor to wear and he knows that he (all of them, all of them) stand out against the sea of battle ready soldiers.

It's never really a battle to begin with, but Alexandros raises the dagger above his head and rests the tips of his fingers against the hilt of his sword anyway.

(Years later people will call him a hero, but in that moment he's a fool).

+

Alexandros pulls a muscle while he's scrambling for an escape. His fingers dig into the dirt beneath him when he topples over and hits the soil with a dull thud. His ears ring from the impact (from the screams, from the clashing of blades, from everything) and when he tries to pick himself up, he can't.

His arms protest and they feel like they're aflame. He knows he can't be far off as the world around him burns, as his life turns to ashes behind him and becomes nothing more than ruined houses and broken bodies.

He looks at his palm and sees red lines of wounds that haven't healed. He doesn't know where his dagger is, but he figures it's lodged somewhere in a shield or (and if he's lucky – if the gods haven't completely abandoned his cause) in a leg or an arm.

Alexandros looks up at the sky and all he sees is smoke.

+

He doesn't know if it has been mere minutes or hours, but Alexandros keeps still as he lays on the ground. His breath is shallow, but steady and he knows he isn't going to die. He also understands that his body is exhausted and that the shoulder wound and the cut across his face don't help his situation (during a fleeting second Alexandros wearily thinks that maybe all his energy seeps out of the wounds, along with blood, to stain the ground).

He hears the march of the soldiers and he hears their swords as they sheath it. He smells death around him and he smells the grass close to him (it's a stark contrast that leaves him dizzy and guessing). He sees the smoke slowly disappear and he sees the clouds hanging in the dark grey sky.

The marching stops a few meters to his right and he holds his breath. His heart hammers against his ribs as if it's trying to escape (he cannot even feel joy that for the moment his heart is still beating).

Alexandros is not one to stand down from his battles, but he knows when he has lost (although he doesn't know how he could have ever competed in this one) so he swallows his pride and tries to slow down his heart and closes his eyes tightly.

He hopes (prays) that there's enough wreckage around him for him to not stand out. He hopes that the blood from his shoulder and face are enough to make him look believable. He keeps his breathing to small, shallow inhales and exhales, to try and conceal the rise and fall of his chest.

He hopes and he prays but the gods have forsaken him and the Latin words are all but spit at him.

+

Ross' heart sings in his chest. For duty, for fatherland and for the enemies at his feet. His face glows with something close to pride and his sword shines crimson.

He pulls the fallen (but alive, somehow still breathing right there on their battlefield) man upright in a swift movement and he presses his hands to his throat with his fingers staining red. He watches him for a moment and it's just a shadow of a human concealed by caked layers of blood on his skin.

Ross touches the man's pulse with his thumb and it's a steady beat (that's gradually rising; thud thud, thud thud thud thud) beneath his hold. He lets his fingers travel upwards and swipe along his cheeks; his fingers come away unclean.

There's a buzz alive beneath the soldier's skin and there's a grin pulling at his lips. It's adrenaline, he knows (it has to be). There's no attraction (there cannot be), but he kisses the man on the lips anyways (he tastes of blood).

''Is this now what you, you and your people, expected? Did it never become clear to you that your resistance was merely foolish behavior?'' Ross presses his lips to the man's again; for every single word he says to him.

He doesn't know why he does it, but he digs his fingers into the man's skin and doesn't let go. He can hear his legion, his soldiers, the men who would die for him, mutter among themselves but none of them speak up.

The man (the enemy – he reminds himself) doesn't struggle (Ross knows he can't possibly try and resist with his fingers at his throat; one movement away from slicing open the artery there) so Ross kisses him again.

''Did you expect us to just abandoned our plans?'' His words are whispers against skin and the man's eyes are closed. Ross' fingers wind into his hair and tug at the small braids hidden there between curls.

''Behavior like this won't be allowed to go unpunished by the empire.'' And it hadn't. The world around Ross was set ablaze and everywhere one was to look there'd be carnage. It was how the Roman army went to work; there are no half way done jobs.

(He doesn't say by me, because Ross doesn't know if he means it).

Ross brings up his sword, watches the metal shine as the light reflects off of it, and places it against the man's cheek. He cuts a small line down his cheekbone and he watches the blood flow from the fresh wound.

(A crimson river staining the land and their clothes, seeking cracks in the ground like soldiers sought them in the armor of their enemies).

''Did you think you would've defeated us? Slain those who the gods clearly favor?''

There's a pleading look in the man's eyes and somehow Ross thinks that if he was to kill him now, he'd be doing him a favor, but he's no man of favors and he lets his hands drop away from the man's battered face.

''Was that it? Was it idiotic pride that kept you here?'' There's no answer and Ross just nods, he didn't expect one.

He turns back to his men and nods towards the man. It's not a request for them to finish him, but most would see it as worse than death. Capture.

+

Alexandros struggles, but it has no use. The soldier's grip on his arm is like iron; clamped around his bicep with the fingers digging into his bare skin. For a moment (a moment that feels like a century – parched throat, sore feet), he wonders where the sleeve of his tunic has disappeared to, but his thoughts are stopped when a hand lands roughly between his shoulder blades.

It sends him stumbling with his left foot getting caught on a root of a tree. Alexandros looks at the tree and the earth beneath as he goes down and thinks maybe, just maybe, mother earth – Gaea – would save him when the gods gave up on him. Just as he's about to whisper pleads into the dirt of the earth, an arm winds around his middle and pulls him back up. Only specks of dirt remain on his clothing as he's dragged along again.

It's the same warrior hold, but a different person. Alexandros knows because the way the other's feet strike the earth is lighter now (more like a predator and less like prey) and a grin is pressed to the back of his neck. He can feel a shiver crawl up the length of his spine and he wants to pull away.

He struggles, but it has no use. The grip doesn't falter, but the grin does. Lips go down and then the puffs of breath on his skin vanish too (and it isn't like he misses the presence, but it doesn't help with the loneliness that settles in the pit of his stomach).

+

That night Alexandros dreams of fire and death.

He dreams of a spark running up along his fingers and his arms, but it doesn't ignite. He can feel the escape race through his veins and feels the fear in his bones.

He dreams of no return.

+

In the morning, he's woken by a hand resting on his chin. The pad of someone's thumb presses against his bottom lip and when he opens his eyes (with exhaustion shaking his mind and leaving him hazy), he's met with a curious face.

It's the same man as before, but there's no more (actual) blood on his hands and his armor is gone. He looks almost normal (almost like he hasn't burned down a town, almost like he isn't shaped by evil deeds) with blue eyes and short, dark hair and it surprises him slightly.

The sword still swings from the man's hip and Alexandros feels himself freeze (with his blood turning to ice). The man doesn't remove his hand, just taps his fingers against his cheek, almost like he's waiting for something (anything at all).

Alexandros wants to say something, but nothing comes out. All he can do is meet the man's gaze and watch him as intensely as he's being watched. The Roman's eyes remind him a little of the glaciers he has read about (all icy blue and hard and cold).

Then the man finally pulls his hand away, nods (to someone – to himself) and turns around to disappear behind the flap of the tent.

Alexandros doesn't get up, merely presses his own hand to his cheek and hopes the phantom feeling of the fingers can be replaced by his own.

+

Alexandros expects a lot from the man the next time he comes to see him. He expects to be stabbed, to be killed (or worse), to be enslaved, anything, but the Roman surprises him and merely sits next to him on the makeshift bed and touches his cheek occasionally.

It's a quiet that he isn't accustomed to with Romans, but it is a quiet he welcomes with open arms. The Roman doesn't try to speak to him and doesn't attempt to ask him anything about him or his people (although Alexandros guesses that no one wants to know about a dead man, his dead people and his burned down home anyway).

+

The Roman's eyes become less like glaciers and more like rivers.

+

He loses track of time and he almost never sees the light of day. The few occasions he is allowed out, it is for brief seconds before he's returned to the calm shadows of the tent. He wonders why the Romans are still here, before he realizes he doesn't even know where here is.

There's no way for him to tell the time and he doesn't ask the Roman how many days have gone by. He wants to, but something in his stomach turns upside down as he thinks of how many months it could be or years.

Alexandros doesn't know what day it is or what month when the Roman first speaks to him (but he knows it's spring because the sun is warm as it slithers through the fabric of the tent and he could see flowers grow when he went outside).

The man places his hand on Alexandros' knee and draws letters with his index finger. As he finishes the 'a' he turns to him and waits. He waits for something that Alexandros doesn't know about and he wants to say something; anything, but he doesn't know if his voice still works so he keeps silent. Then the Roman draws his hand between his own before placing it on his knee (armor clad this time).

And Alexandros wants to understand (afraid of punishment, afraid of death, needing of communication), but he doesn't. Not until the Roman finally speaks: 'show me your language'. And Alexandros doesn't know why, because he has seen the scripts around the tent and he knows the man speaks Greek, but he complies.

He starts with 'α' and only stops when he reaches 'Ω' and he can see the sky become dark outside.

+

Alexandros spells his name on the elbow of the Roman ('Αλεξανδρος') and he gets an answer ('Ross').

+

Somewhere along the road he learns more Latin and their conversations flow slowly but become easier with time and practice. Ross lets him outside more often and it's winter now. The snow is cold but he dips his hands down to gather some of it anyway. Then there's a hand on his back and cold fingers sneak underneath his tunic and Alexandros lets them.

It spreads a slow, easy kind of familiarity in his gut and he lets the tension bleed out of his shoulders. He's told that it has been close to eight months and he swears it had been just one. The pain still burns in his stomach and still makes it hard to swallow when he thinks of it, but he knows it's not a lie as he looks at his palm and only sees faded white lines.

Ross squeezes his shoulder and his sword clicks against his armor, before he goes off to keep to his duties. It's not the first time he's been alone, but it is the first time there are no thoughts (not even one) about just running away into the forest, he can see at the edges of the camp. He just lets the snow drop from his hands and watches it fall.

It's not home, Alexandros is reminded of that every day, but he doesn't really have a home anymore (this has to do).

+

They leave the next week and Ross tells him in hushed whispers that they're needed for another battle, another adventure, another victory.

Alexandros presses his hand to his stomach and wonders how someone can see destroying so many lives as a victory.

He still wraps himself around Ross that night and kisses his cheek and his brow. He touches the sides of the other's face and his collarbone with his fingertips and lets his heartbeat lull him to sleep.

(This has to do).

+

Alexandros sits outside one night and just listens to Roman soldiers sharing stories by moonlight and too much wine. He hears story after story of battles and wars and he never saw himself as much of a soldier, but by the end of the night he knows he couldn't even have ever been one (it's not for him).

He drowns the glass of wine, that went untouched most of the night, and looks up at the sky. The clouds are dark and spell out a fate that is not his, but will affect him anyway.

+

''Was it pride?''

''A man's pride should be a point of advantage, not his weakness, Ross.''

''Was it loyalty then, Alexandros?''

''It was the need to survive. Isn't that what we are all trying to do in the end?''

''Not the empire. She wants to shine. Shine brighter than Apollo makes the sun glow.''

''An impossible goal.''

''She wants to be remembered. For centuries.''

And because Alexandros doesn't want to say: and she will be remembered for the blood she shed and the lives she ended and the cities she left in ashes, he says; ''For glory'' instead.

Ross kisses him (he tastes of blood).

+

There are rebels up north, Alexandros is told, and they need to be dealt with. Ross doesn't look scared and Alexandros guesses that he hasn't got anything to be afraid of. Romans seem undefeatable, so much that sometimes he likes to believe that they are invincible.

Ross grins at him, presses his face to the back of his neck and his fingers card through his sweaty strands of hair. His fingers get caught on the tangles in his hair like waves breaking on the rocks and Alexandros feels the corners of Ross' mouth go up.

Ross longs for battle (and he knows most Romans do – they're restless otherwise).

+

Ross heart sings in his chest and he can't stop the excitement that grows at the prospect of battle. It's the months of going without any fights, going without the blood rush of here, right now, dead or alive, that leaves him riled up. That leaves him breathlessly waiting for bloodshed.

He presses a kiss to Alexandros' forehead and slips out of bed. He dresses quietly and leaves no message (there are no words for what he wants to say – all he has left to say is poured into the kiss).

He leaves and above him the clouds are gathering.

+

Ross' heart sings in his chest like a siren and then it stops. The gods have forsaken him (them) and his palm bleeds red. He lets the air fill his lungs (one last time) and he gives back what he's taken so many times (breath – life).

+

Alexandros knows Ross won't be remembered, not as an individual. Not as someone who had his own dreams and ambition and personality. He will just be yet another victim, will add up to the total of countless and fade.

He will too and it's the sad truth.

+

Ross doesn't return and Alexandros leaves. He looks up at the sky, but there are no clouds.

Credit to Oneese on Ao3

>  the title is a phrase written down by Seneca, it translates to: 'fate leads the willing soul, but drags along the unwilling one'