He had been sent to the capitol city of Taengea because he was the least conspicuous of them all. While he wasn't familiar with the city at all it was easy enough for the Lord Iason to send him with a missive to the servants who kept the Dimitrou residence in Vasiliadon to allow him to stay while he did his business for the family. The goal was simple enough, he had to gather information and see what was being said about the goings on in Athenia. If there was any news about the survival of the royal family or who had taken control it was his task to discover it and bring back the reports to Meganea.
Orienting himself in a strange place wasn't uncommon for the former slave turned gladiator turned...bodyguard of sorts. He'd been walking the streets for the past few days to get his bearings, listening in before he decided on a whim to head toward the docks to pick up what bits he would be able to glean from the sailors. Perhaps some perfectly timed questions would allow him to discover what they needed to know. It was a place he hadn't yet explored, so it wasn't a surprise to Dima when he found himself turned around and in an alley instead of at the actual dock yet, though the scent of the sea and the sound of gulls told him he was close.
The last thing he expected as he prepared to step out of the narrow street and around the corner was a small body slamming into his own. With a grunt of pain as she collided with the shoulder that was still bandaged and sore from the injury he'd sustained on the night they fled the palace, Dima grimaced even as he reached out on instinct to steady the offender and looked down to see who had been in such a hurry.
In that moment he could have sworn his heart stopped. Her red hair though filthy and tangled was strikingly familiar as were the rest of her features. Perhaps the gods were tormenting him and he had actually been knocked to the ground or was hallucinating, but she was solid and warm beneath his touch and even if she wasn't her, she looked too much like her for him to ignore her plight which was becoming clearer by the second. The angry shouts and the state of her, the rubbing on her wrists where shackles he was all too familiar with had been gave away her station immediately, and without any further hesitation he whipped off the simple cloak he'd thrown over his shoulders and wrapped it around her instead.
Instinct kicked in and he took her hand to drag her back down the alley the way he'd come after pulling the hood up to cover her distinctive hair.
"Trust me." The words were uttered in a language it had been long since he'd used, nearly two decades between him and the village that had raised him. With that, he kept her hand in his and made a beeline back toward the Dimitrou home where they would be safe.
Thousands and thousands of thoughts ran through her mind at once. He looked far too clean to be concerned with the state of her dress. Someone like him should have been far more disgusted that she was this close to him, pressed against him in her filth. He was the kind of man how would turn her in, should have grabbed the dirty wrists and turned her back towards the slavers who were after her. There must have been a bit of panic on her face, and she was sure she looked like a feral dog, ready to be put down by those after her.
But instead of notifying the guards, he was whipping off his cloak and throwing it over her shoulders. She wanted to say something, anything, to this man who she couldn’t help but feel a connection to him. Staring at his eyes, she could have sworn she had seen them before, had stared at them for hours without looking away. In her life, she had dozens and dozens of eyes she had looked at in her life. But these… she knew these.
How did she know them?
The shouts drew her attention back to the task at hand-- disappearing from the slavers who were after her. The panic was back, and he was pulling the hood over her hair to further disguise herself. She was dragged deeper into the alley, but now, she wasn’t alone.
He spoke, in a language that she only heard in her dreams. But he didn’t give her a chance to respond, didn’t give her a chance to question how he knew a language of old. Instead, she was pulled along with him, no longer fighting the idea of trusting him. Not when the tone in his voice was one she knew so well.
She did exactly as he asked, trusting him as the weaved through the city, putting distance between themselves and the slavers.
Dodging between houses and streets, sticking as much as they could to alleyways until they were in a crowded enough road that they would blend in, Dima kept his protective grip on the woman and tried to keep any sense of panic or discomfort off his face. For all anyone looking at them could tell, they were just poor man and woman walking together hand in hand, the stag brooch on the cloak the only thing that gave an idea of where they might belong. Iason had given him the brooch to show those who were hesitant to talk or let him in places, a sign that he served the royal house.
Only when they had reached the wealthier district where the mansion could be found and turned on a quiet street did he finally slow his frantic pace. Now that she was out of immediate danger he had to know, had to see for himself if all of his longing and searching was finally over or if he had simply found someone who looked like her. Either way, he would not regret his actions. If he could help anyone escape the horrors of slavery, he would always take that chance, whether it was for an old love or not. About sixteen years had passed between them if he'd counted correctly, years that had made him unrecognizable from the boy he'd been when he looked in the mirror. No doubt the same could be said for her.
He turned to her as they rounded a corner, a back way he'd discovered that would lead them to the servant's entrance to the Dimitrou house and well shielded from the rest of the world passing by. Releasing her hand, Dima looked at her face intently beneath the hood before reaching up to push it back so he could look at her properly, looking for a girl he'd known once beneath the layers of age and dirt and pain. The eyes were right, and the color of her hair, though she was shorter than he remembered before reminding himself that he'd grown far taller and stronger than he'd been when they were last together. He wanted it to be her, so badly perhaps he was tricking himself.
"What is your name?" He asked the question in Greek this time, unsure if she'd understood his hushed request when they first began to ran or if she'd simply jumped at the chance for an escape.
Olena was sure that she’d never been to this kingdom before. But she had been bought and sold so much in her youth that it was difficult for her to keep it all in line. And the fog that she had once lived in due to the opium had made everything blend together. Each port looked the same, all the men became one. It wasn’t out of the ordinary for her to feel confused by her surroundings, so she had to let herself trust this man— something she didn’t usually do.
Men had rarely done right by her.
She didn’t think of the cost of going with him, of what he may ask of her once they reached their destination. There was a faint awareness that this could be worse than what she may have had to dealt with if she had gone back to the slavers. Olena couldn’t help but feel… safe, wrapped in the scent of him. Men had never made her feel safe, even when she thought she had found a safe place to land. And yet, following him blindly, the foreign girl didn’t care too much about what may have happened after.
As they wove their way through the city, she could barely keep track of where they were going. But it was obvious that he had an idea of where they were, or how to avoid the slavers and continue deeper into the city. Suddenly, she realized they were moving into what was the wealthy part of town. Immediately, she felt out of place as they slowed. Her hand was released and she stepped back, putting some distance in between them. She took a moment to take him in, to try and get an idea for exactly who he was. His clothing was clean, but not overly expensive. In her time among the wealthy, she had learned early on to spot the signs of fine clothing and where she should focus her time. The broach seemed a bit out of place in its wealth, meaning he was obviously associated with money but didn’t have any of his own.
His question, asked in Greek, took her a moment to register. He was staring at her, intense and hopeful. She was too confused by the language switch to think about much else. “No, no, no.” She was speaking her native tongue, obviously alight with something. ”You do not get to bounce around languages and simply expect me to give you a name. ‘Trust me’ you say. Not until you tell me where you learned that.” Her hand prodded his chest, her petite frame small against him. But that didn’t stop her from pushing again.
Releasing the hood as she stepped back away from him, Dima searched her face for signs of familiarity, a little hint of recognition. She needed a bath, and several good meals before he could see for certain the traces of the girl that he had known so long ago, but there was something there that he couldn't shake. Especially with the way she was now very aggressively shoving at him and scolding in a language that felt foreign to his ears but familiar to his heart.
He couldn't help the slight smile as she demanded to know where he'd learned to speak the language. If he looked carefully he could see some of the same wrinkles around her eyes that her mother had shown once, but maybe that was still wishful thinking. Allowing her to attack as much as she felt necessary, he took a moment to gather his thoughts before giving a shrug.
"Home. I learned it at home."
It felt like a foolish answer, his tongue almost thick as he thought over the words before finally saying them aloud. He was so out of practice it felt as if he would never be able to manage to wrap his mind around it again, but part of him knew he would never forget. Never forget the lullabies, the jokes, the laughter. Even the scolding and the curses and the simple names for things were slowly coming back as he struggled to make himself understood and communicate in a tongue that had been dead to him.
"What is your name?"
This time he asked in their native language, trying to meet her eyes with his own to see if he could find any spark of recognition in her own. Trying to hold back any relief and joy until he was certain, Dima wondered now what that girl he had last seen would think of him now. What would she say to this man standing before her with blood on his hands and years of pain and suffering between them. He wasn't the boy who had promised to marry her once, he wasn't even the man they had expected him to become. He was a murderer, a killer for sport and pay. He was not who she deserved.
Her blue eyes flashed with suspicion as he seemed to be trying to figure out exactly what to say. There was a chance that he could lie to her, could try to pull a quick one on her to try and take advantage of her. After all, it was obvious that she was desperate to get away. He could tell her whatever he wanted to try and convince her to follow him blindly. In her desperation, she wouldn’t have argued with him. There was an odd look in his eye— eyes she could swear that she had seen hundreds of times before. She had taken a leap of faith with his words, and to have him revert to Greek (a language that felt thick on her tongue) felt a bit like she was getting played.
Pushing him a time or two more, he finally revealed how he learned the language. Home.
She hadn’t thought about home in a while, simply because it has been a painful memory. Thinking of everything she had lost at home made her ache, made her wish she hadn’t even bumped into him to begin with. What were the odds that she would end up finding someone who was from the same country she had been. It was such a small area, decimated by pirates. Who was he? Did she know him from her past?
His gaze grew intense, and she felt a bit uncomfortable with how she appeared. It was apparent that even if he had been from her village, he had somehow escaped the slave life that she had been so forcefully involved in. If he had been taken that day, he would have been on the boat, would have heard the shame she endured when she was raped. A part of her didn’t want to reveal herself, didn’t want him to put the pieces together to figure out just how broken she was. Arms came around her torso, hugging the cloak closer to her body, as if it would offer one more layer of protection from her shame. Lying to him was an option, but she didn’t think she could. Not when there was a chance that he could at least give her hope.
Brushing a piece of hair aside revealed a thin scar on her right forearm, one she had received as a child. It was small, the jagged edges of a wound caused by slipping on wet rocks in a river, she didn’t think twice about it as she tucked her arm back into her body. ”I was known then as Olena, although I have gone by a few different names since.” Her eyes were on his, searching for any sign of recognition that he knew the name.
There was fear in her expression as she pushed him again, pulled that cloak closer around her and it pained him to see her shrink from him in such a way. Whoever this was, whatever had happened to her had not been kind over the years and he hated to think of anyone being hurt. The memory from the boat flashed back unbidden and he burned it away just like he did every time and shoved it further away into the recesses of his mind. Just like always.
His eyes locked on that scar as her arm lifted. Everything that had happened before suddenly seemed to move as if in slow motion and instantly Dima was no longer Demetrius, he was Dmytros, back on the banks of that river where they'd shared their first kiss. Back in those fields that he had expected to work for the rest of his life with her by his side. He didn't need to hear her say it, but the name falling from her lips was all at once a miracle and a nightmare. She couldn't know what he'd become.
"Olena."
Saying the full thing was almost impossible, he hadn't said her name out loud in years. He'd thought it an immeasurable amount of times, but there had never before been a time when he truly thought he would ever see her again. All that remained now was for him to return the favor, to share his own identity and the reunion he'd longed for, dreamed about, would finally come to pass. And yet he couldn't make the words happen. He'd always wanted this, had thought about the many ways they would come together again, but now the opportunity was before him he couldn't make it happen.
He gestured slightly toward the Dimitrou manor, tearing his gaze from hers and trying to force his feet to move in the direction of the goal. Looking at her in this state hurt, and he averted his eyes, keeping his own pain hidden. He had to get her off the streets, convince her to come with him so he could protect her from the world like he'd promised so long ago.
She couldn’t help but softened a bit when he finally said her name. Half of her life had been spent studying men, learning the tell tale signs of their emotions. It was always important to be able to tell when a man was going to snap, going to lash out against you verbally or physically. With this man, she was on her guard, unsure how much she should trust him. But he stared at her arm, which caused her to look down at it, too.
The flash of recognition wasn’t lost on her.
And yet, there was something he was hiding. She knew those eyes, knew that pain— it was a copy of her own. He knew her, of that she was certain. But the fact that he wouldn’t share his identity hurt. If they were from the same village, he would have known her family, would have been on the boat that day. He would have his own scars to heal from. And yet, it appeared that he wanted nothing to do with the old life they had both been ripped from. Her arms moved around herself once more, but this time, to protect herself from emotions she had never expected to feel again.
Heartbreaking loss.
”Both would be nice, I suppose.” She said softly, still using the common tongue they shared. ”But what is it going to cost me? You are incredibly handsome, so I suppose you’ll expect at least a bit of physical satisfaction.” Her comment gave a brief insight into what her life had really been like. ”Though I would recommend allowing me to bathe before you seek payment— I am certain the smell would ruin any sexual pleasure you found from the experience.” There was a bit of sadness in her voice, only recognizable by someone who would have been just as broken as she was. A bitter acceptance of the lot she’d been given in life.
And maybe she was a bit bitter because he knew exactly who she was and she was still having a hard time placing him.
As relieved as he was that she was agreeing to come with him, the way she expressed her expectations forced his feet to still once again and he felt as if ice had encased his entire body. If this was her way of telling him her past miseries, he could only imagine the worst from the way she phrased it. For a long beat he didn’t move until he noticed the pain of his injured shoulder from the tenseness he’d been holding himself with. She would never be used again, over his dead body would anyone touch her without her desire. And to ensure that he had to move, had to get her out of sight and convince her to stay with him until the memory of her had faded from the eyes of those searching or he could take her elsewhere.
”I won’t ask anything of you.”
His voice was clipped as he started moving again, confused and hurt but strangely flattered by how easily she called him handsome. But if she thought of him this way, thought he would only help her in exchange for whatever pleasure he could get out of the moment, what kind of a monster must he appear.
”You can bathe, eat, and rest here as long as you like.”
The back door of the Dimitrou mansion opened easily for him and he stepped back to allow her in first before following and closing the door behind him. A maid he’d become familiar with during his stay looked up from the simple meal she was preparing with a smile that faded into an arched brow. The older woman clearly had opinions on what he had just brought into her domain but to her credit aside from pursed lips and a simple greeting she kept it to herself.
”You’re back early, Demetrius. Find what you were after already?”
Dima shook his head and kept his eyes firmly away from Olena, now that his Greek name has been used. It could always be a coincidence, but knowing how clever his old love was she could come to it if she chose. It was after all very close to his own true name, perhaps the reason they hadn’t bothered to fully rename him like some of the others. Switching back to Greek he addressed the woman before him and prayed the one beside him wouldn’t flee or fly into a rage.
”Can we have a bath, please Nisa? And I’ll need a fresh set of bandages, they’ve come undone again.”
He almost looked insulted that she would even think to offer repayment for what he had done for her. Olena wanted to scoff outright, because even through the dirt and lost weight, she didn’t think she was that unattractive. Most men were drawn to her looks, when she wasn’t covered in filth and piss. Her red hair had lost a bit of its shine due to dehydration and malnutrition, but it was still bright and striking. And her body may have been thin, but there were curves behind the tattered chiton. She almost berated him for his comment, for the offended way he seemed to take her offer. But there was a look, broken and guilty, that stopped her.
Not only did he know her, she surmised, but he remembered the night on the boat. Gods, he was probably embarrassed by the contact.
The manor was obviously that of a wealthy family, one she was sure would not be pleased to learn that an escaped slave was in their presence. But the man must have been a servant or in the employment of them, because he used the back entrance and certainly was dressed too plainly to be the owner of the estate. Her eyes surveyed the kitchen area, looking for exits and threats before focusing back on the pair on the room.
Demetrius…
No.
Her already pale face blanched further as guilt washed over her. And then, sadness. She had seen him hundreds of times in her dreams, had spoken with him almost every day of her life. And yet, she had never pictured him like this. His face was leaner, his stance harder. His eyes seemed a bit colder, and perhaps that was why she didn’t recognize him right away— she didn’t know his eyes to have the capacity to look like that. And what was worse was that he knew who she was. That had been what he’d recognized, and yet he said nothing. As if he was obviously ashamed of what she had become. She suddenly felt small, suddenly felt more alone than she had before. If she knew nothing else, Olena was sure that this man had been the love of her life, and that he wanted nothing to do with what she had become.
Life wasn’t fair, it seemed.
If he was determined to keep his distance, she wouldn’t be the one who pushed him. Not yet, anyway. ”A bath would be most appreciated, Miss.” The Greek was thick on her tongue, but it was impossible to know if it was from the grief that was threatening to push her over the edge or from the foreign feel of it on her lips.
The words were out of his mouth in their native language, addressed obviously to Olena though he hadn’t yet turned to look at her. Nisa had begun clicking her tongue at him over needing the bandages redone yet again, grabbing his uninjured arm and dragging him to the table to sit, fidgeting with his tunic until the clasp at his shoulder was undone and the material fell away, exposing half of both his chest and back as she unwound the bloodied cloth. He was a warrior, a gladiator, pain was something he was far more accustomed to than he had ever thought he might be. But in the past when he’d been wounded, there had always been medical attention shortly after. This deep cut from the sword of one of the attackers had gone with minimal cleaning and care for a week on the boat, and even now physicians watched it for infection.
Looking up to Olena, he knew the expression in his eyes was one of shame and sorrow. He had never wanted her to see him like this, know him like this. For all he had always wished her back in his life, he hadn’t truly thought about what she would think of him. She hadn’t recognized him until Nisa said his name, which meant he was as different as he’d been afraid of. The older woman gestured to a seat across from Dima, pointing to the simple bowl of olives and platter of cheese she had been working with.
”Sit dear, eat. A friend of our lad is a friend of us, and you’ll want a proper bath before dinner is prepared.”
He appreciated her restraint in asking questions, though his blue eyes were avoiding meeting her own quizzical gaze, turning instead to focus on Olen.
”I didn’t want you to be ashamed of me...and finding you, the shock, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you right away.” Dima winced as the final wrap of cloth tugged at the scab covering part of the wound, gritting his teeth as it was finally yanked free and Nisa moved off to find clean water and bandages to wrap him in. ”I missed you.”
His words felt empty. But he had seen her face, must have read her body language too, to know that she was upset about learning that he hadn’t told her sooner. And, to be honest, she wasn’t quite sure what he was apologizing for? Was it for not telling her sooner? Or was it for something else? But she didn’t really know what else he would be sorry for.
It wasn’t like this was directly his fault.
She was silent as he was made to sit, as his wounds were unwrapped and exposed. But it wasn’t just his wounds, it was his scars. His whole body was covered in them, making it obvious that while her life had been bad, he hadn’t been in this life for long. They both seemed to have more to share. When she was instructed to sit, Olena outright ignored the suggestion. Instead, when the woman moved away to gather supplies, she allowed her hand to softly touch one of the scars on his back. Her hand trailed along the edges, butterfly light.
Olena heard his words, eyes still focused on his back and its wounds. Her heart softened, and she let out a little laugh. Leaning forward, she pressed a gentle, hesitant kiss onto his uninjured shoulder before she moved back to face him, pressing herself into space in between his legs. She chose their native tongue, preferring the privacy that it provided. ”I am more ashamed that you had to see me like this, Dmytros.” She used his full name, not wanting him to think that there was a chance she didn’t finally know the truth. ”I thought you dead. Saw you in my dreams every night. Spoke with your ghost when things got tough. I thought…”
She rarely cried, but her eyes were watering. Staring down at his hands, Olena didn’t want him to see her feeling so exposed and weak. ”I had given up hope of ever finding you alive. That my punishment in this life was having to live without you.” She didn’t think she could look him in the face, didn’t think he could handle seeing as she felt so utterly broken. His scars may have been external, but hers ran far deeper.
Dima started down at his hands instead of meeting her eyes, keeping still and feeling incredibly self conscious as he felt her gaze on him. What was she thinking now? Did she still think him attractive or was he not who she’d wanted him to be? Perhaps she would have preferred he remain a stranger. The light brush of fingers along the ridges of his scars made him flinch but then he stilled, eyes falling shut as she traced the story etched in his skin.
Her laugh still sounded like music, and as she pressed her lips to his shoulder he felt as if he could break then and there. His head bowed forward more and he squeezed his eyes to hold back tears, only looking up when she settled before him, watery gaze meeting hers finally. Shaking his head, he waited for her to finish speaking before wrapping his arms around her tightly, not caring for the filth she was coated in or the blood that would drip on her chiton.
For sixteen years he’d waited for this moment, to hold her close to and have her safe in his arms once again. His grip was tight and her body felt so frail and breakable against his own. It hadn’t always been this way, there had been a time they were both strong and healthy. He’d had the body of a farmer not a warrior, she had been happy and well fed.
The gladiator didn’t let go until the awkward cough behind him reminded him that they were not alone. Sheepishly unwinding his injured arm from Olena’s waist, he allowed Nisa to dab at the cut, a clean slice with grisly looking edges thanks to the lack of care. His other arm remained tightly around her, holding her close selfishly until she chose to pull away.
”I looked for you. Every time I passed through the markets I looked. I was saving to try to buy your freedom ever since I bought my own.”
There wasn’t an expectation of more contact between them. She didn’t think that he would grab her, not looking the way she did. Not smelling as horrible as she did. And yet, his arms wrapped tightly around her petite frame. She sighed into his shoulder, her arms coming around him tentatively. She knew she was disgusting. And yet, he wanted to hold her close. He pulled her in with such force that it was hard for her to hold back.
Wetness fell against his shoulder as she tried to learn the new curve of his neck. Far stronger than he had ever been as kids, she didn’t recognize him. But there was a warmth she knew. One that kept her safe when had night terrors. One that had guided her through her first times. One that had laughed and made her happy. She had loved him. And that was still there.
As they were reminded of company, her cheeks flushed as his grip stayed on her side, keeping her close. ”I have only been in Greece for the last 2 years, Dima.” She told him quietly, her hand moving to his hair to brush the blond locks away from his face. Olena gave him a smile, her forehead against his. ”I’ll be wanted for a while.” She whispered in their language, afraid of what the woman would think if she knew. ”You took a risk by bringing me here.”
She allowed him to be patched up, but when she tried to pull away for his grasp. He tightened a bit on her, and she stopped trying after that. Olena was sure he was barely standing the stench, but she was glad to have him back. ”I missed you too.”
Her comment that she would be wanted for a while had him frowning and he shook his head as if to deny it was true. He knew it was, and that the ones who had intended to buy and sell her would be looking for a long time, but they had a way out. If he could keep her hidden in the manor until there was a chance to get back to the country home, no one would be able to find her there. What he'd come to know of the Dimitrou family was that they were very much not like other nobles and royals he had met along the way, he didn't imagine they would press him too much if he brought her back. And if they did, it would be easy enough to slip away into the night. His loyalty to them only extended so far as his gratitude, and he would do anything it took to keep Olena safe now that he had her back in his arms.
"You'll be safe here. Stay inside until we can get out of the city and then we can be free together as we once were." His promise was punctuated with a smile, one of the most genuine, warm, and relieved expressions of joy that had crossed his face in years. As soon as his bandaging was finished, Dima stood and held out a hand to help Lena up as well. Nisa had whispered a reminder that there was a private bath on the property and given a pointed look. The older woman might not have known what was happening, but she was not blind to the familiarity between them.
"Come, let's get you cleaned up."
Guiding her through the halls, it didn't take long before they found themselves in the small chamber that housed the Dimitrou bath and Dima only released her hand to busy himself with lighting the fire to warm the water. A clean brown but serviceable chiton had been handed to him silently as they descended which he set aside now next to a sheet of linen for drying off. Once the fire was going, he turned back and hesitated, unsure if he should stay or go. He didn't want to let her out of his sight, but he didn't want to impose, didn't want her to think he only wanted to stay and watch her wash. Too many years had passed between them for him to presume anything.
"I can..ah, I'll be right outside. If you need me."
Olena wasn’t sure how she could be close to him like this, not with her past staring them so obviously in the face. Her life had been harsh, and even know that his had, too, it still felt incredibly wrong to need him to hold her. She had spent the majority of her time on her back, legs spread for other men who paid for her company.
And here was Dima, a man who had, at one time, been the only man she ever wanted in her life. They had made promises to each other, had thought that life would be spent creating a home together. Instead, they had been violently separated from each other, the shame of her rape heard by everyone on the ship. When she had tried to pick up the pieces of her dignity, a part of her preferred to think of him as dead. If he was dead, she didn’t have to explain the weeks and weeks of systematic breaking. She didn’t have to explain her time as a concubine, or the loss of a child she had thought she’d wanted.
She certainly didn’t want him to know of her addiction, for the product that numbed her mind and made it easier. It had been weeks since she had opium and the craving was still there.
Once his wound was dressed, she followed him to the bath house, glad they didn’t have to leave the premises. A metal tub and cold water would have been enough, but as she walked into the room, she couldn’t help but think back to her time elsewhere, when rooms like this were common for her. As he lit the fire, she watched him, trying to figure out what was going through his mind. There had been a time when they could just look at each other and know what the other was thinking. Now, that was gone. He was a mystery to her.
His suggestion at leaving brought a soft laugh to her lips. ”You speak of life together, yet flee at the idea of seeing me naked.” While she wasn’t exactly sure how she felt about this, Olena knew that he would see her as she was at some point. If he was going to run, it would be better to be now then when she was more dependent on him.
Pulling the chiton off over her head, she tossed it into the fire, never wanting to see it again. Standing in his line of sight, her own scars were on display. Stretch marks across her flat, malnourished belly showed the signs of a pregnancy, one she wasn’t sure she was ready to tell him about. Across the front of her legs were thin, even burn marks, old and healed. A brand on her hip, the freshest of wounds, was still red and painful looking. Her back was a maze of jagged lashes, all in various stages of healing. He could make of her scars what he would.
All were signs of a sex slave.
Turning to the water, she said nothing as she carefully stepped in, settling into the warm, blissful water with a sigh. ”Only leave if you do not plan on coming back. I do not wish for you to go.” She told him softly, body now hidden in the ripples of the bath.
Dima's expression shifted, softening and no longer trying to hide the pain as her tone settled on him. Instead of leaving he remained, silent and still as she removed the chiton and burned it. He wasn't sad to see it go, but the sight of it barely registered as instead her own past came into plain view. Instead of shying away, leaving like he'd offered or at the very least hiding his gaze he kept his focus on her, taking in every scar, the brand, the marks on her stomach. It was something he'd seen only on women who'd borne children and that was the hardest part for him to deal with.
Ever since they were children the plan had been for them to be married. The children she was going to carry were supposed to have been his. Theirs. They were going to raise them on the farm, working the fields and feeding the animals as they had done when they were younger. It was supposed to be idyllic. Like their lives before the raiders came and ruined everything, killing and breaking everything that had been good, taking away the future they had barely had a chance to dream of.
His eyes had closed and when he opened them again she was in the water, her past hurts hidden by the ripples with the light of the flames flickering off of them. From this angle he could see the girl he'd chased into the river so many times before, the same as always before. Dima reached down to untie his sandals, discarding them and walking to the edge to sit, slipping his legs into the water so he could be closer to her.
"I only wanted to give you time. Privacy. I remember how hard that was to find."
Heaving a sigh, he stared down at the water's surface, quiet again as he watched it dance. Age settled over him and in the reflection he saw a face that he was no longer familiar with. There were lines, deep set around his mouth and forehead and his brow seemed perpetually furrowed, eyes that had seen too much and cheeks that were beginning to show stubble since he last shaved. There was nothing he could recognize about the boy he had been, it was no wonder she hadn't known him.
She was glad that he hadn’t left, that he had done as she had hoped and looked over her body fully. Things that would be hard to tell him were out in the open. And maybe, when they both were ready, she would tell him about her senator. About a man who had shown her kindness in his own way, who had bought her for himself, conceived a child with her, only to die on her.
The child followed shortly after. A child that never drew breath outside the womb.
For now, she was content to just let the warm water lap around her. When he slipped his feet into the pool, she dunked under the water, soaking her matted hair so that she was no longer filthy. Coming back above the surface, she heard his words, and didn’t say anything as she moved closer to him. She claimed a spot between his legs, elbows resting on his knees, head against her own crossed arms. ”Privacy, I had plenty of. Good company was something I longed for.” She let her look her over again, watching his eyes as he searched for the question he wished to ask.
Instead, he spoke of her not recognizing him, a familiar pang in her chest at the hurt that was there. ”Dima, to do what I’ve done over the past lifetime… I thought you dead because it was easier than thinking I betrayed every promise I ever made to you.” She still wasn’t totally sure that this was real. ”When it was bad, when it was good, I would see you. And talk to you. I thought it was your ghost, but it was just my mind escaping, it would seem.” Her fingers drew small patterns in the hair on his legs, wet trails around hard muscles. ”I never could imagine you as a warrior. You were always softer. Rounder, like your father had been. Hair fair lighter. And your eyes were always… gentler. It helped with the pain of not having you.”
She wasn’t ready to tell him about the opium. That she had become addicted because her mind often found him quicker that way.
A wry chuckle escaped his lips and he shook his head, looking down to meet her eyes as he spoke. ”I don’t think anyone has considered me good company in a long time.” One shoulder lifted in a shrug and as she propped herself against his legs he reached out to brush a water droplet from her cheek, though his hands with their callouses felt too rough against her skin. ”Though some did occasionally pay for the privilege.”
It was obvious his last word was dripping in sarcasm, a snarl barely contained as he remembered the parties. The women and men who fawned and groped, who all wanted the bragging rights of having had him. It was nowhere near the levels that Olena had been submitted to, he at least had the ability to refuse, to walk away. The gladiator worship that was so rampant in Athenia had always confused and disgusted him. Killing a man in an arena for sport, it was hardly the sort of thing he had ever imagined he would end up doing.
”I only stayed alive because I wanted to find you.”
How different their coping mechanisms and reactions to this trauma were, she had been his only driving hope but for her he needed to be dead. More rage at the men who had taken their past from them bubbled in his chest and on instinct one hand landed over where the long deep scar on his stomach was hidden by his tunic. One day he would find the man responsible. And he would kill him.
”I never imagined me as a warrior either. But life doesn’t give us much choice.” her comment about his eyes stung, to know he was so different from the boy she’d known, the man he wanted to be. Both hands found her cheeks and for a moment he held her gaze, keeping her still to look at her before he finally released her. ”Never apologize. Not now. Everything else? Before this? Forgotten. It doesn’t matter. Only now, and moving on.”
Olena enjoyed the deep rumble of his laugh, a timber she hadn’t expected to warm her core like it did. She sighed, her head falling on top of her arm in contentment. ”I always preferred your company. You made me happy then. And I am happy now, too.” it felt weird to say, because only hours before, she had been running for her life. She didn’t want to be happy and yet, here she was.
”Something we never thought we would have in common.” She allowed her feet to touch the bottom, standing now instead of floating. Still, her petite frame only exposed her shoulders. Her hand moved to his face, enjoying the rough feel of his skin against her hand. It was foreign compared to what she knew of him. And she found herself growing more and more interested in the man he had become. ”But no more, right? We will have that in common now, too?” She asked gently, her smile sweet.
She was almost embarrassed by her lack of faith in him. But he had been the love her of life, her soul’s other half. And as she systematically raped, abused and broken down, the idea that he was alive for her to have to think about only made it worse. Because this was a moment she was grateful for, but also one she was dreading. He would learn it all, would know that she’d been bought and sold and whored out. That she had watched her sister die a whore’s death. How could he care for someone who had lived the life she had?
A part of her didn’t want to know what he really thought of her.
She missed his hands the moment he released her. Had he not been injured, she would have pulled him into the water with her. Instead, she rested her head back in his leg. ”Okay. No more. You are real. And, for the time being, I am free.” Her chest felt light saying that. So light that she giggled childishly. ”This is a wealthy home, Dima. Did you suddenly become a rich man?”