Two Saints

“Flog me, instead,” you say with such determination it makes me want to smack some sense into you.

Apollo, please. Grant me mercy. Give me the strength to deny myself the pleasure of shaking some sense into you. 

They would absolutely flog you instead. With pleasure. And when your identity was found out, they would torture you for days. They would revive you, then torture you more. You’d be made an example of what happens to those who try to fool the Empire. You’d die the martyr that you so desperately want to be. But, no one would know what you did. No one would know of your great deed. They’d make sure no one would ever utter your name.

Then, a peculiar thought: Why am I not letting that happen?

You seemingly want it. You want to die. In the most horrific way possible, it seems.

Letting you do whatever you want would make things easier for me. I could wash my hands and start anew.

So, why am I resisting?

“If the boy wants it–,” Lentulus starts to speak sense.

But I will not hear it.

“No.”

Why? I almost ask myself immediately after the denial leaves me like I mean it. You look like you want to ask that, too.

Lentulus looks like it.

Floyd does, too.

I rub my temples. You will be the death of me. I can feel Lentulus’s judging gaze burning holes in my tunic. I know what he’s thinking: ‘Are you fucking him?’

For fuck’s sake.

I can’t even blame him. I’d think that, too. I’ve already heard the others talking. The judging looks. Gossip.

Ah, shit.

You are making this more and more difficult. You absolute moron.

And you have the nerve to look at me as if I’m the problem here.

You squint your eyes at me without others knowing. I can see the muscles around your eyes tighten. I’d squint right back at you, you idiot, if this was the place for it.

“I fucking hate martyrs,” I mutter under my breath.

I wish I could say that I hate you. It’d be easier. Instead, I hate your death wish.

Finally, the others leave. It’s just me and you. Irritation itches my skin. I want to scratch it away. I want to take a grip on your shoulders and shake you. I want you to understand what an idiot you are.

“That was stupid,” I state the obvious. It was the stupidest thing you’ve done so far, and that’s saying something.

“What part, exactly?” You ask.

And I thank the gods for my restraint and patience. You should, too. At this point, I’m a saint.

So, I make it more clear: “You almost got yourself killed because of him.” The words leave me through my teeth. Headache hammers against my skull.

“Not as stupid as dragging an innocent man to be flogged,” you retort and my headache worsens tenfold.

If I’d known that you were such a saint, I would’ve left you for dead. It would’ve saved us both the trouble.

Something in me protests.

Bah! Shut up.