vita & thracius i.

Vita

It is the height of summer, and a lurid heat weighs over the vineyards. Slaves work up and down the rows of grapes, harvesting enormous baskets of deep purple fruits, overseen by more experienced slaves who know which bunches to leave to more fully ripen. Full baskets are carried to slaves who pluck each grape from its stem, their reddened fingertips flying. In large basins, others stomp and crush the fruit with their feet,

but all of this is happening some distance away, closer to the villa near the river.

In the city, Vita sits in her atrium, listening to the gurgle of fountains more than she listens to the slave standing with a slate near her perch, recounting the debt owed by the merchant standing before her. Her tunic is tied around her torso, beneath breasts and over waist, with intertwining cords that stand brightly against the deep, rich color of the long garment. Her hair is braided and looped and pinned upward, a breeze cooling the back of her neck. She is sipping wine, of course, her attention wandering, one hand idly toying with an earring.

Thracius

A gentle summer's haze hangs over the rolling hills of Mediolanum's countryside. The vines have grown so tall that there is shade between them except when the sun is directly overhead. There are broad leaves to be worked around, dark fruit to be sussed out -- sometimes more by touch than by sight, low on the trellises, deep in the rustling green.

A slave's experienced hand reaches into the greenery. She brushes something cold and wet and viscous; thinks it rotten fruit and sighs, knowing they will have to search the entire vine now for signs of disease and pestilence. She pulls her hand back but the fluid on her fingertips is too dark, too opaque, sticking and stranding. Her heart takes a lazy somersault in her chest. She reaches into the vines again, pries the gnarled stems apart --

A basket of grapes strikes the ground. Ripe fruit rolls every which way. Screaming, the slave runs from the vines. Heads turn in her wake, consternated. A slow, shocked crowd begins to gather.

--

Some distance away, and some hour or two later, a sudden commotion outside the city residence. A horse and rider pulling up short, a hurried message passed to the slaves that guard the door, and from them to the slaves that serve the house, and from them to the slave -- singular, educated, trusted, a proper Greek slave and nothing at all like those ignorant barely-tamed savages recently brought and bought from the frontiers who stomp her grapes and scrub her plates -- who runs her household and aids her in all her affairs, as once he aided her dearly departed husband.

It is he who comes now, brushing aside the indignant merchant, approaching her seat and bending to her ear. He murmurs. She learns of the news from her country villa, the body discovered in the vineyards, who was so filthy and mangled that at first they all thought he was some runaway slave or fugitive Gaul. Then they saw the rings on the fingers, expensive and numerous and distinctive.

Not some nobody after all but a somebody, indeed -- Fabius Carpinatius Quintillus, son of the governor. That the jewelry was left on his corpse was an indication that this was a deliberate killing, and not a robbing gone wrong; that the identifiable, bejewelled corpse was left in her vineyard was, perhaps, an indication that this was a framing. Or, at the very least, a misdirection away from the true guilty parties.

Vita

The walls and gates around the widow's townhome are an oddity in Mediolanum: higher than others, harder to get into, more guarded. Merchants, petitioners and others do not come and go as freely as they might to another. Everyone who lives here knows that the walls were raised and the guards added after the husband died three years ago, and it was curious then. As years went by and the widow did not remarry, it seemed less strange. After all: she has no sons.

Inside the garden, the widow sips her wine, though she can hear the commotion not so far. She is aware of slaves passing whispers from one to the other, just as she is aware of the merchant trying to explain why he cannot yet pay in full, just as she is aware that Doros is favoring his left leg, the one with the ankle that pains him when he stands for a long time. He is baldheaded and no warrior, and his slate is no shield, but he does not complain about his ankle and he does not ask to sit, and she knows exactly what he will say to this debtor, so of course she is not listening very closely.

Athamus is younger, and she thinks he may have once been considered Doros's son, but that was before she was married to the man who used to own them. He has no head for numbers and ledgers, but he can do the things that Doros cannot. Such as run her household.

He pauses near her until she flicks a finger to beckon him, and then he leans down, murmuring. Her head tilts. She listens, her eyes focused on a bird taking flight from a tree at the corner of her garden. He tells her about the vineyard, the body, the identity of the body's previous owner. She sighs, and waves Athamus away, tipping her head back to finish her wine. She rises, causing Doros to briefly pause and causing the merchant's nostrils to flare.

The widow turns to the merchant:

"You will pay what you owe me in seven days in coin, your ship, or one of your sons."

The merchant stares at her, agape, as she leaves.

"Send him away, Doros. He has much to consider."

--

Hours have passed. A messenger has already returned to the villa, ahead of the widow. They have to prepare for her, for one thing, and then they had to do what was necessary with the body. She doesn't want the harvest interrupted, so the area where the body was found has been roped off. It is well past sunset before the slaves stop working in the field where they know there is a corpse. They have maintained silence outside of themselves, and the messenger to the city.

None of them understand their mistress, but they fear her.

--

It is quiet at the villa when she arrives, and twilight has fallen. There is a hustle and bustle at first. There is food to eat. There are matters to attend to and questions to ignore. Even more time passes before the villa becomes truly silent with the sleep of many. And well into dark, the widow walks out towards the vineyard itself, bare feet brushing over soft sweetgrasses, rustling less than the edge of her tunic against the ground. She is quite far from the villa before she melts into the shadows themselves, slipping down to all fours, wearing fur instead of linen, trotting through the masses of grapes still on the vine as she approaches the body.

And begins to sniff.

Thracius

The body is gone.

It seems impossible. The area is roped off. She has guards, even if they are slaves. And it is dark -- deeply, truly dark here in the fields, shrouded by the vines, far from the city and its torches, the road and its occasional weary traveler. No one could have possibly found the carcass and spirited it away in this lightlessness, though clearly someone must have: the body was still here hours ago at dusk, bloating after a day in the sun, discolored, stinking.

The stink is still here, fetid and wet. The copper of blood, the rich stink of offal, the sick-sweet smell of putrefaction. Something else too, wild and musky. Unfamiliar in the specific sense; familiar in the general. Another wolf.

"You'll have to pardon me for sullying your territory," says a voice in the shadows; low, euphonious, marked by just a hint of accent. "I had no idea another wolf was domina of this estate. Though I should have guessed."

Vita

She still smells the blood. And the slaves, and the grapes, and the earth, and the nearby river, but -- she can still smell the body. The death. The man he once was, unfamiliar to her as he was. She can smell it, but she cannot see it.

It is not there.

Vita growls, low. There is another scent, too, stranger even than the corpse. Her fur bristles, black as shadow. She chuffs breath out, snarls.

But she does not speak to him thus. She rises again, instantly, to her full height -- not towering, but in this day and this age, considerable for a woman. Her dark hair cascades now, let down from its braids. No earrings hang from her lobes anymore. She still wears her long, jewel-colored tunic, roped around her midsection. A breeze moves her hair over pale shoulders.

"You are not yet pardoned," she says evenly, but not yet aggressively. "I will extend you the courtesy of assuming my markers have faded in my time away." There: she isn't calling him a liar. Courtesy, see?

"Show, name, and explain yourself, stranger."

Thracius

For a moment, the silence is complete.

Then a soft rustle of grape leaves; sandal on earth. A shadow separates from the rest and becomes a man, or at least something man-shaped. He is tall and lithe, clean-limbed, moves with a sinuous strength. Even in darkness she can see he is no true roman, at least not by blood. His lineage rises from some low barbarian stock. By the look of him and by the roughness and plainness of his clothes, he is no more than a generation or two from slavery himself. Perhaps less.

"I am called Thracius," he says, "and I was hired to dispose of a man. And his body. Which I was quite specifically instructed to leave in these fields. I fear you must have made enemies."

Vita

Despite the cool of evening brought on by breeze over the river, the widow does not wrap her arms around herself. But then, she wouldn't; the heat of rage lies on her, and comes from within her, suffusing through her blood and muscle, floating to her skin. She feels no chill.

He shows himself, and names himself, and explains himself. Without bristle or tooth. She notes this.

"Hmm."

At first, this is all she says. Then, after a moment of thought:

"I will not ask you to dishonor yourself by giving a name, but was your patron in this endeavor a wolf as well?"

Thracius

"No."

A few moments of pause.

"I think he was a bloodsucker, actually."

Vita

From the movement of her head and the exhalation that follows, one can intimate a searing bit of profanity that doesn't actually take form.

Still: she doesn't look terribly concerned. Nor angry. She nods her head in the direction of the villa, reaching for her tunic, lifting it slightly to walk without dragging the fabric. "Come, then. Better to discuss this over wine than out in the field."

Thracius

He remains where he is, still as the eye of a storm. "Wouldn't the lady's servants grow suspicious?" he inquires. "Or the lady's husband, perhaps."

Vita

"Slaves," she corrects him, "whose suspicions are as much my property as their tongues." And: "The lady's husband might, but in the spirit world, such suspicions will hardly serve him."

She turns and begins walking.

Thracius

"It's unwise to trust the fear of slaves," he observes. "Someone might exploit that."

To all but the keenest of ears, his footsteps would be inaudible. Yet this time he does follow, threading between the rows of winegrapes, pacing a stride or two behind her.

"Should I offer my condolences or my congratulations?"

Vita

She smells him following, more than hears him. That's enough for her. She does glance back at him once, though. She seems to have no trouble finding her way in the dark.

"It depends on what becomes of this bloodsucker, I imagine," she answers,

clearly not thinking he means her late husband.

Thracius

"I meant the death of your husband," he replies. "As for the bloodsucker, I could eliminate the problem for you. For a reasonable fee."

Vita

"As I said, we'll discuss it over wine," says the widow, and that is all.

They are not far from the villa. It is dark inside, but she does not fumble for a lanturn as they go inside. It is larger than her townhouse, more open to the agrarian beauty of its surroundings. A fountain gurgles and splashes in the darkness; the moon overhead illuminates the surface of the water, its reflection shattered into a thousand silver pieces.

It smells good here, despite the number of slaves sleeping... wherever it is they sleep. Flowering vines and sweet-leafed trees, the soft brush of their footfalls over worn stone pathways. From what he can see from starlight and moonlight, her tunic is deep blue, indigo, almost violet. She tempts the ire of royalty. Her hair is dark, especially in this light, but in sun it might have warmer strands, not black but deep, rich brown. Her skin is not the ivory of someone who never goes outside, but has a warm glow to it that is dampened by night.

She smells clean, too. Probably visits the baths nearly every day. Oils her skin, scraped away by slaves.

She is a wealthy widow.

--

They go inside, and she finds wine to pour for both of them, seemingly unbothered by doing it herself. Surely she could call a slave. She doesn't.

When she sits, lifting her own wine to sip, she says: "Tell me what became of the body."

Thracius

That she is wealthy is evident from every iota of her person and property. From the sprawling vineyards to the cool corridors of her home, from the dye of her tunic to the cut of her hair -- every detail whispers of privilege, of access to wealth that might even rival that of the great families.

Her unlikely guest is quite different. His tunic is plain and undyed; the leather belt that cinches it is nearly as battered and as old as the sandals on his feet. He wears trousers tied below the knee like some common soldier or field laborer. A short blade at his waist. Heavy bracers, sturdy enough to block a blade in a pinch.

He does not smell clean. Neither do his clothes. There is no property to speak of.

--

The wine in the cups must be her own vintage, and is likely to be finer than the swill he would ordinarily down. Nevertheless there's little hesitation when he picks up one of her heavy, well-crafted cups, drinking so deeply a trickle spills. He catches it swiftly, though, with a deft turn of his hand. Then he sits as well.

"Tell me your name first. I think I've divulged enough to earn that much."

Vita

He's an assassin. He was honest about that, at least. Of course he has nothing else. People of privilege don't tend towards such professions.

At least, not in her experience.

--

They drink from the same bottle. She watches him drink, rather than sip, as though he is thirsty for water, too. She wonders. She sips. She offers nothing more.

A flick of her eyebrow, but she doesn't disagree. "Vita," she says, and takes another drink.

Thracius

He hardly acknowledges the name he'd gone out of his way to request. Another drink, and then he sets the cup aside.

"I tossed the body in the river. Unweighted. It'll float ashore in a day or two. People will recognize it even after the fish have been at it. Carpinatius Licinus should still raise quite the fuss. Just not at you."

Vita

Her eyebrows raise. "And what do I owe you for this favor? Surely your patron won't be pleased."

Thracius

He waves it off. "Consider it an apology for trespassing on your territory in the first place. Though my offer to switch allegiances stands."

Vita

A small smirk. "Your offer to increase your profits stands."

Thracius

He lets out a short laugh. "I'll not deny it," he replies, "but at least the cause is noble. Alliance with a cousin of the blood, and all."

Vita

The smirk remains. She sips her wine, and when another mouthful has trickled down her throat, she leans over the table, whispering with a cocked smile: "Why don't we just kill it? No coin, no deals? Just the hunt."

Thracius

He does not lean forward to meet her. He remains where he is, a slow smirk crooking his mouth in turn.

"Because, unlike the lady, I haven't a vineyard and a villa. The coin and the deal keep food on my table and a roof over my head. And I assure you, hunting for every meal and sleeping in a cave are only entertaining until the first killing cold."

Vita

This makes her laugh. She leans back again, tips her head back, chuckling as she reaches for her wine again. "How soft we are, now. Seeking coin, and silks, and -- wine," she observes, twirling some in her cup. She drinks.

"Why not simply join my household? Stop chasing these deals. Killing for coin instead of meat or sport. What a waste of such... evidently brutal talents."

Thracius

A tilt of his head, amused and quizzical. "How generous you are with your patronage and trust. I am flattered; but of course, the trouble is that one so quickly grows tame. If one day you should tire of the arrangement, I might be in trouble indeed."

Vita

She makes a noise -- an exhalation, but one that comes from her throat. It could be a word in another language, perhaps, but more likely it's just a dismissive sort of sound. "You speak like you are not a wolf," she tells him, taking another sip.

"I wasn't speaking of patronage," she goes on, setting her wine aside for a moment, though her fingers still rest on the cup as her eyes return to him. "But: you do not want to hunt for your meat or sleep in a cave, you do not want to be 'tame'. What is it you do want?"

Thracius

"Perhaps I am exactly as I wish to be," he counters. "Perhaps I already have all that I want. Why are you so certain I'm looking for something more?"

Vita

This time her hand leaves her glass. She puts them both up, palms outward. "Just an offer," she says, lightly. Her hands lower again. "I suppose I should simply learn to take 'no' for an answer."

Thracius

"Ah, but it wasn't a 'no'," replies her somewhat ungracious guest. "It was a 'pay me, and I'll kill him for you'. Or with you, if that is what you prefer."

Vita

The corner of her mouth quirks. "I see no need to pay you for a task I can accomplish." Her voice is light, seeming amused, as she lifts her glass to her lips again. "That's why I thought my offer was so generous."

Thracius

He laughs -- "I've certainly no doubt you could accomplish this task... if you knew who this thorn in your side is, and where he hides."

Vita

She feigns a hurt expression. "You doubt I can discover it? How many enemies do you imagine I have? You wound me, Thracius." She drinks.

Thracius

She might not drink so thirstily as he, but she more than makes up for it in frequency. He watches her sip again, then smirks. "I don't doubt you could discover anything you wanted, given enough time and effort. But why waste such precious commodities? I'm reasonable and fair. I'll even offer you a discount, in honor of our shared blood."

Vita

And he's missed the drinking she's done in the afternoon and evening, too. Granted, shifting back and forth out in the vineyard certainly took the warm glow off of the world, which is why she's pouring herself more wine even as he responds to her. He has not yet finished his cup. Yet.

"Perhaps," she says, noncommittal. "Those negotiations are better done with Doros, however. We can discuss it -- your prices, fairness and discount included -- with him tomorrow." She flicks her eyes at him, anticipating argument. "Doros, too, shares our blood, though of a different lineage than my own. In case you were concerned that his fear of me is not great enough to risk trust. We will see if there is coin to spare for your skills, or simply your information.

"For now," the widow goes on, "drink. Sleep here, tonight, or in any nearby cave you can find, if you prefer. "

Thracius

This brings the first true laugh, full, straight from the diaphragm. It is wholly possible his delight comes more from the promise of pay, however tenuous. The killer-for-hire downs the rest of his cup in a swallow, then reaches to the jug for more.

"The summertime caves aren't so objectionable, but I would nevertheless be grateful for the lady's hospitality. Perhaps she has a spare bunk in the servants' quarters."

Vita

A disgusted sort of look on her face, brief and then gone. " You are not a slave, you are a wolf. You will be treated as one." She drinks, downing her cup in a few swallows. It takes a few seconds, her throat moving to absorb that rich red fluid that gives the world such a soft haziness at the edges, that blunts even the sharpest twists of the knife. "There are a few slaves awake even now. They will see to your needs."

Thracius

"Then," he rises, refilled cup in hand, "I am indebted to your generosity. We'll continue our discussions in the morning, domina."

Vita

He rises and she drinks her wine. She seems intent on staying where she is for now, sipping from her cup, perhaps to finish the jar alone, by candlelight.

There are, as promised, slaves still awake. They are young ones, three of them, all around the age of ten or so. They don't look exhausted: perhaps they sleep by day. They are dressed more simply than their adult counterparts, even, in short, rough tunics that have clearly been handed down and repaired more than is warranted. All have hair shorn close to their head, and it makes it difficult -- especially in the darkness -- to guess at their genders. They are in a hallway not far from where Vita took her wine with Thracius, playing a little game with stones until they sense him and scrabble to their feet.

One darts behind the others and goes back to Vita, and he hears their whispered voice, the widow's calm one. There's no sharpness in how she speaks to the little slave who goes to her, just confirmation. And when that one returns to the others, two of them lead him to a room. It is no bunk of slaves, but a room that perhaps was Vita's own when she was married, though now of course she would occupy her husband's chambers. The two children scurry here and there, making sure he has a bed, bringing in a jar of water and setting it next to a large, shallow bowl for him to use for washing, drinking.

They do not speak to him, even if spoken to. Their eyes are wide and bright and intelligent, even if their hands and feet are dirty.

Thracius

That he is served by children is somewhat unexpected, as late as it is. He does not converse with them any more than they do with him. He lets them prepare the bed and the water, and then he herds them out of the room -- pausing, in his own moment of generosity, to hand them each a brass sestertius. Perhaps their domina will allow them opportunity to spend it. He doesn't know; cares little.

With the doors closed he explores the room rather shamelessly, peering in the chests and the cabinets, investigating whatever traceries and clues he might find toward the identity and personality of his hostess. Eventually, his curiosity sated or at least blunted, he pours water into the washing-bowl and strips to the waist; scrubs dirt from his hands, arms, and as much of his torso as he can manage without splashing everywhere; scoops water over his head and the back of his neck.

Clean(er), he dries himself on his tunic, which he then hangs up to dry on the sill of the open window. Climbing into bed is a delight. The sheets are finely woven; the mattress -- well; there is a mattress, for one, when he has grown quite accustomed to sleeping on bare bedropes. A well-made one, too, stuffed with fragrant grasses and herbs as well as washed sheep's wool. It is a finer bed than he has enjoyed in longer than he can remember. Slumber comes quickly.

--

In the morning he wakes early. He is neither too proud nor too polite to avail himself of the kitchen; invites himself there in spite of the consternation of the slaves and dines on bread with honey, a handful of tangy grapes suited more for wine than the table. Outside, the rhythms of the vineyard have already begun -- the baskets and the grapes, the stamping feet and the filling of amphorae.

After breakfast he loiters in the peristyle. Somehow he has gotten his hands on some dried fish; tears at the stringy, salty meat with his teeth while he looks out over his hostess's lands.

Vita

The children's eyes widen when they are given money, but they say nothing. They palm the coins and scurry away.

His guest room is bare of personal effects, though it is comfortable and well-appointed as befits a woman of her stature. It is not often used by anyone, it seems, and the air has a faintly stale smell even with the windows opened now to circulate the night air. The water is cool but not cold, not this time of year, even drawn from the depths of the household well.

The countryside is quiet but for the soft drone of insects and the rustling of a breeze through vines and tree-tops. Distantly he can hear the gurgle of the river over its banks and stones. He hears no pitter-pattering of feet; the child slaves are silent as shadows if they are moving at all. Perhaps, occasionally, he hears the sound of wine being poured.

There is no wonder that sleep comes upon him swiftly. And the wine wasn't even drugged.

--

In the morning, the slaves he sees are adults again, a few teenagers. Here and there, head cleared by sleep, he will see the marks of wolf-kin: none of them are truly pure of blood, all mixed and mingled together, certain to be gone in a few generations, but in the flash of an eye or a certain way they have of walking, he will see a wild intelligence that simply lacks among true mortals. Already there are slaves in the fields, harvesting, destemming, crushing. The ropes are gone around the spot where he left his quarry's corpse. While he is eating, the slaves mostly ignoring him since he doesn't seem to be going away, a girl -- almost a young woman -- comes in carrying heavy burdens that she is quickly divested of. There is cheese, and sheep's milk, and some of the latter is poured into a bowl and brought to him with a small bow.

If the lady of the house is awake, she is not about yet. He has some time to wait, to explore the garden, to look out over the vineyard in full daylight. The ground here is lush, the yield of the grapes heavy. He can see the building where the wine will be fermented and aged, now. He can see, in the distance, the path that most likely leads to the lands of the farmer whose sheep gave the milk he drank this morning. Maybe it was trade. Maybe it was tribute.

The children he saw last night are nowhere to be found. Perhaps they only serve at night.

--

It is much later when his hostess emerges, dressed in a new tunic of a lighter color, her hair braided but not as elaborately as it would be in the city. Earrings jangle against themselves from her earlobes as she walks, with the softest scuff of sandals on stones. He sees her from across the garden, her form between columns until she comes into the light, moving to a low couch beside a table to recline and have a bit to eat. She has some small game bird's eggs for breakfast, bread and honey, small apples. At least so far this morning: no wine. The morning is hot, and a slave is fanning her slowly as she begins to eat. Her eyes have finally found him. She does not beckon him over, though. She would not summon him so. Not a guest.

Thracius

Between the breaking of his fast and the domina's late rising, Thracius explores. He overlooks the vineyards, but for the most part he does not wander amongst them. He's done that aplenty already, knows what is out there.

No, he explores her villa instead. Quite as shamelessly as he poked through all the nooks and crannies of the room he slept in, he wanders through whatever is unlocked and unbarred. He discovers where the slaves sleep. He surveys her inventory of wine both aged and aging. He pauses before the door to her private chambers, curious, but ultimately has both the grace and the wit not to attempt to snoop there. He peers out the front doors for a little while, and then returns to the peristyle, where the sun is already high, the day-blooming flowers already open.

His hostess appears a little later. She is fresh and elegant and well-rested and formidable. Her slaves treat her with care, and with unquestioning submission. She is fanned. She is served. She is looking across the garden at him, finding him where he leans against the columns.

So discovered, he straightens. He steps into the sunlight; weaves amongst the garden plants. A large bumblebee, pollen-laden, buzzes lazily around his head for a moment and then departs sunward. His eyes follow a moment, then return -- barbarian blue.

He sketches a small bow as he steps up onto the peristyle. "Good morning, Vita. I thank you for your hospitality."

Vita

She smiles; gestures at another low bench nearby, if he wishes to sit. She observes him silently at first, then reaches into a small pouch that hangs from one of the cords that ties her tunic close to her body. From within, she removes something metal.

Three coins.

She rolls them together in her hands, the metal scraping over itself. Without a word, she looks at him again, perhaps curious.

Thracius

The sound and flash of coin instantly draws her guest's eye. He stares rather unabashedly at the three, perhaps trying to determine what exactly they were -- bronze? gold -- before at last pulling his attention back to his hostess.

"You look like a wolf ready to strike a bargain, domina."

Vita

The corner of her mouth curves. "These? Hardly," she says, and palms them away, back to her little pouch. "They were brought to me last night by my three little mice."

The children. Of course.

She sits up a bit, the movement coming from the core of her body, drawn upward as easily as if pulled by invisble threads. "Odd thing to do," she comments, seemingly unbothered by it, though she clearly finds his behavior strange.

Thracius

"Ah." He looks -- not quite abashed, no. Just caught in the act. "Quite obedient, your little mice."

Vita

The softest shrug of one shoulder. "They know for me to keep them safe, they must not keep secrets from me."

Switching topics, she says: "There were no fresh bodies found in the night, no attacks on my crops or territory. And I have decided that I wish to hunt this... enemy... that you say I have. But I admit, my anticipation sours to think of paying someone to sniff him out for me, or simply escort me to him for the kill.

"Which is why I invited you to partake of my territory instead, to hunt with me," she tells him, eyes following him. "Not for coin. Not as a mercenary. Just as a wolf. I was disappointed to hear you had no interest."

Thracius

"It hardly qualifies as a secret," he counters, "a few coins given toward a slave child's happiness. Or if it is, then hardly one born of foul intentions."

The subject changes. He shifts, his balance fluidly redistributing between his feet. "You mistake me," he says, with a hint of steel. "I have every interest. But as I told you last night, I also have an interest in keeping a roof over my head and meat on my plate. Perhaps even a cup of sour wine now and then.

"And," a certain stress falls on that word, "as I've told many an interested employer -- I have an interest in remaining an independent agent. Which is why I've also declined your generous offer to join your household."

Vita

It doesn't escape her notice that he has not sat down. Nor does the shifting. She does not answer him with regard to her slaves, or their happiness. She does not worry to tell him that she didn't suspect foul intent. The note in his voice is unexpected, but doesn't do much more than tighten for a moment in her spine. If she has learned anything, it is how to control those impulses, conceal her rage. It is not a matter of waiting it out; that never worked. Once kindled, it burns until it has consumed something, destroyed something, an exhausted itself. That will have to come later.

"Thracius," she says, her voice even but low, "I do not wish to pay you to lead me to my enemy, or hunt and kill it for me. I have invited you to do so alongside me, and to enjoy my hospitality and territory as one I hunt with, but I have no wish to enslave you, no more than I wish to employ you, or stop you from whatever other employment you seek.

"If that offer seems a rope around your neck, then I can only express my disappointment and bid you farewell," she concludes, her tone almost soothing. But if he has ever met a wolf, he knows the flicker of wildness, of rage that is not tethered to simple emotions of anger or desire but lives on its own, ready to awaken to any breeze against it. It's there in her eyes, underneath the smoothness of her voice, just as surely as it is in his eyes, under his voice, bound into bone, woven into sinew, burning up the blood. "Though you may, of course, traverse my lands, eat their fruit, and drink their waters until nightfall, as you wish."

Thracius

A certain crackling tension has inserted itself into the deceptive lull of this gorgeous summer afternoon. In the face of this Thracius stands beautifully, thrummingly still -- as balanced as a dagger on its point. A few seconds trickle by.

Then he inhales; exhales that breath as a laugh. "I will consider it and, in the meantime, withdraw from your territory. If you do not hear from me again, you will know my answer."

Vita

Hard to avoid, between two wolves. He has seen no others that he has recognized, smelled no other markers of territory or blood. She is the only wolf in her household. Perhaps the only other wolf for some distance around that household, too.

She has no wine to sip. Her fingers flicker against one another briefly as he considers what she has said. A small, elegant fidget, missing her familiar cup.

After he answers, she nods. "Very well," she says. For a moment, it seems as though she might say something else, but she does not.

Thracius

In that full moment -- that instant where she may have said something -- he waits. In the end nothing comes of it, and so he takes a step back; bows his head, respectful, as one of his status ought to be before one of hers. Then he turns and departs the way he came: through her vineyards, eschewing the front gates for the fields.