There were always more who needed attention and calming words. Sibyl pressed cold hands to bloody wounds, all thoughts of dominus wiped out by blood and death. The smell of life passing blotted all else from mind. Sibyl prayed silently, or whispered over those who shared faith and asked for words given.

"You speak to the gods," one man gasped out. "Your words have meaning."

Sibyl closed his eyes herself.

Laeta's wound healed well, despite cold and unfriendly surroundings. And there was fire and fight still in her, a blessing. Laeta's smile was a secret. It caused Sibyl to smile also.

Spartacus continued to visit Laeta regularly. Sibyl continued to pray.

Her mind was full when a man with scars on his cheek and a blue cloth tied to arm grasped her. The touch made stomach drop and she attempted to pull away, but his grip was strong and he leaned close, his breath causing her to shudder.

"I would seek audience," the man breathed, meaning clear in closeness and eyes.

Sibyl shook her head. "Medicus waits for me, I am needed."

"My need is greater."

Amongst so many rebels, despite Spartacus's words, some still took what was not offered. Sibyl's throat trembled and she prayed fervently, words spilling forth from lips. "Angerona has been with me since first his touch was on my skin, so Diotimos claimed. He said I bore her mark upon mouth and would bring relief to those deep in sorrow and pain. But he died before me, was his blood a sacrifice demanded?"

The man frowned at her words, at her glassy eyes, and his grip lessened. Sibyl's words continued. "I ask for strength, for the way to be clear. I open veins for Spartacus, for his success. Do you desire more? I would know the path you wish for me. I stand alive because of your blessings, because of answers you send me on two feet with swords in hand. I ask..."

She kept her gaze fixed on the man, prayers and wonderings flowing. There were voices close by, and when the man turned towards them, Sibyl wrenched away and ran. She collided with Agron. His hands steadied her, his touch a jolt but not unpleasant. He frowned at what he saw in her eyes, and glared over her shoulder.

"You take fucking liberty?" he snarled.

"She was willing," the man insisted. "Though her mouth runs mad."

Sibyl glanced upward at Agron, at the strength and size of him, at the anger tensing jaw and fists. Yet Nasir felt safe and content with him, and mourned his absence. Agron was a blessing, and an answer too, Nasir's answer. Sibyl relaxed, inch by inch, in his presence and stood firm.

"See yourself from fucking sight," Agron ordered.

The man spat at Sibyl's feet but left swiftly. Sibyl sighed out remaining tension and thanked the gods before turning to Agron.

"Gratitude."

Agron nodded and measured her with his eyes a moment. "You share Nasir's tent?"

"Shelter and companionship gratefully received," she replied.

Agron looked as though questions twisted in him but would not be spoken. Sibyl found she had no words herself to offer. What lay between him and Nasir was a thing far from her own experience. And the gods stayed silent. Perhaps that was answer enough, that it was not her wound to heal.

"Medicus needs me," Sibyl broke the silence.

"I will see you to him."

He was silent as they walked, though she sensed his thoughts were busy. He wore a face like that of Nasir's, pained and lost. She prayed for them both.

Later, when returning to Nasir's tent, she saw Agron and Nasir's profiles inside, words exchanged between them. They were not touching, but neither were they shouting. Sibyl thanked the gods and watched only a moment more. It was not hers to witness. She retreated to a larger tent, packed with cold figures. Laeta was wrapped in Spartacus's arms, shivering but not alone. Saxa whistled and held an arm wide in invitation. Sibyl smiled in weary gratitude, too frozen to be shy; Saxa's offer was a great kindness as death stalked the snow. She huddled at Saxa's side and felt the press of frigid skin and hair laced with ice. But there were also blankets and arms around her and warm breath on her face that did not turn stomach. A blessing indeed.

She did not ask about Gannicus, though she greatly wished to. Was he patrolling? Seeking companionship elsewhere? There was sadness to Saxa, though it did not consume her.

Sibyl slept, head on Saxa's shoulder. Diotimos greeted her in dreams, whole and scarred, holding keys which he pressed to her hand.

"Open eyes, Sibyl."

Gannicus appeared to absent himself more often. Sibyl worried and prayed and tried to seek him, but he was always elsewhere. Nasir offered only that Gannicus continued to follow Spartacus's lead. For that, Sibyl was grateful. Nasir also offered what he knew of Gannicus's story – that he had lost a great friend and that he carried even greater guilt. Sibyl thought of what she'd seen in Gannicus's eyes. Was this another wound she was not to tend?

Her eyes were open – Gannicus was as lost and hurt as so many of them. And if he did not wish to be found, he wouldn't be.

She sat beside Saxa, drinking broth. Saxa thrust sword handle to Sibyl's hand. Sibyl stilled, it was an echo of her dream, paired with memory in Diotimos's voice. The gods were whispering once more.

"It is not my weapon," she managed to oblige.

"Prayer cannot shed blood." Saxa was insistent. "And Romans will not pause for it."

And Saxa did not wish Sibyl to fall? A blush long absent spread across Sibyl's cheek, and she accepted the short sword, securing it at waist. Saxa held her close, her lips firm on Sibyl's brow. Her touch was relief and care, and Sibyl accepted both. She wished to seek more.

The gods were smiling. Or was that Diotimos?

Saxa's kiss melted snow.

-the end