Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Author Notes: Set after the Vengeance finale 'Wrath Of The Gods.'

A FEAST, AND FAST, OF EVERYTHING

Unlike some of her kin, Saxa did not speak the common tongue. Lugo taught her spare words, so she could grasp meaning when life was threatened. But most talk by the rebels was all noise to her. She only glimpsed fragments, snatches of what was whispered and hissed between them. She missed much, she knew that. She was told no confidences, no secrets. She and her kin were the muscle and strength instead.

They had always been so. They struck hard with fist and blade. They were like fire through straw – unstoppable and chaotic, no reason, no words. Yet it had not been enough to overpower the mighty feet of Rome. Saxa and her people were caged and chained until those with plans and measured words freed them. Agron became their voice and ear to Spartacus, revealing a chance to crush Romans. It was all Saxa needed to hear.

She fucked, she drank, she fought. She followed leads she saw sense in. She watched the rebels and picked out patterns. Naevia was Crixus' woman, both covered in scars, seen and unseen. Saxa knew well the look in Naevia's eyes. Crixus and Agron breathed fire at each other. Spartacus' word meant most. Mira was one of few to change his mind.

Saxa had hated Mira. This woman whose words held weight, clinging to Spartacus' way, her fucking bow.

But battle made friends of everyone. And Mira had sat with her, taking care to teach her words and sentences. Nasir had sat with them too, eager to learn German for his lover, and happy to help Saxa in return. Saxa kissed them both in thanks, laughing at Agron's expression. Still she preferred speaking German, like water flowing from her lips. But she could now grasp more common tongue; she could string words together like unwieldy beads on string. Thanks to Mira, Saxa's world was more than scraps. She could feast on meaning.

Mira had told stories of the rebels, revealed reasons for their sharp edges and fire. Who Spartacus had been, his heart torn out by Romans, and how he had vowed to burn them to ash in return. He had done so, and more. Mira had claimed she was not Spartacus' heart, that no one could be again as his rage and grief ran deeper than a well, never to be refilled. How Naevia and Crixus' love had been both curse and blessing. How Agron's brother had fallen in his place and how Agron had then nearly drowned in Roman blood until Nasir.

Once Saxa had thought Agron and Nasir's love a problem. Agron was fury and battlelust, truly her kinsman. But care for Nasir held him back, like chain or Roman.

Mira had said "Look again. Nasir brings light to Agron's despair, as Naevia does for Crixus."

Saxa had sneered. Fucking made her blood hot, but she did so unchained. Laying waste to those who'd crushed her kin and bound her was what she sought most. It was glorious. All should seek the same.

"We do," Mira had replied. "Only now Nasir lifts the shadows of Agron's heart and gives him purpose – a reason to survive."

Saxa had snorted, disagreeing, but had watched Agron. His anger was still present, banked and seething, and he still fought for assaults on Romans rather than waiting or drawn-out plans. Only he had someone to return to. He fought, cutting down Romans for the brother they stole, but also so they'd not take Nasir from him. Nasir did the same, vicious and determined as any German. They fought for each other.

Crixus and Agron weren't so different. Mira had grinned.

"Don't tell them that."

Saxa glared at the moon. Mira didn't grin now.

She had not known Mira long, and for many days they had been at each other's throats. But she had tasted the girl's lips in victory and had seen her stand at Spartacus' side, his equal in strength of mind. She had fought beside men, like Saxa.

Saxa had watched Spartacus' grief, the shaking care he'd taken in attending to Mira's body. Mira had claimed she did not hold Spartacus' heart. But Spartacus had looked like part of him now lay trampled.

Nemetes was wrong; Spartacus was no fool. And Mira should not have been left unmourned, even with battle approaching.

Even Gannicus, one who long sneered at Spartacus' aim, had spoken to Nemetes like he knew nothing. Saxa had smiled quietly and the champion had held her gaze. Mira had teased her for her like of Gannicus, saying he never settled long between a woman's legs. Saxa had laughed, for neither did she. She stood beside her kin, their equal in battle. Gannicus was strong, had walked free of the arena. He would be her match.

He spoke no German and her common words still faltered. But they understood each other. Their eyes met often.

Naevia had spoken scraps of Gannicus's story, of what she knew from others' whispers – how he was a champion like Spartacus, how he drowned in wine and women, how he held one man above all others. Now Oenomaus was gone. What was left of Gannicus's heart?

Saxa remembered some women of her homeland, who had loved too much or too many, who had split families and villages, who had caused wars. She had always thought such women weak. She had thought Mira to be one of them, until words had stopped being obstacle and veils had lifted.

Mira had loved, knowing her target hopeless, but also knowing she gave him something to hold onto. She'd spilled blood for him, had died for him. Spartacus was right to shed tears for her, to retrieve her and build her a pyre.

Saxa held tight to the joyful feel of Mira's lips on hers, to the victory they'd shared. To the patchwork Mira had helped pull together for her, the understanding she'd slivered with common tongue and rebel stories.

Saxa lingered, thoughts caught on Mira, and mouthed private words for her, common and German. She felt Gannicus's eyes on her.

She wondered what he held tight to – Oenomaus's strength of friendship, his hard-won freedom.

He wore his mourning as openly as his love of wine and women. Saxa felt her own grief wound widen in her heart. Agron and Crixus fought for the living, as their lovers did. Gannicus and Saxa fought for the dead.

-the end