Blood, damaged skin and pain, you were used to all that. You worked a few years ago as an apothecary, selling out all sorts of potions and remedies for light sicknesses and pains to elders. But then, you got hired by a rich senator who noticed your determination and passion, and who asked you to take care of his glorious fighters. You truly didn’t know what to expect at the time, but you quickly got used to your future patients : strong rough men, uncaring for their own safety and health, whose only priority was to win in the arena to survive. Once that was done, you would step in, patching them as you could and trying to make them as healthy as possible, even if it meant ending up covered in their blood.

You built yourself a small med area, demanding that the gladiators remain laying down for hours, or their wound would never close. You just finished checking one whose stomach used to be open, the stitches you did now barely visible, asking him to stay put despite his protests. You wiped your hands with a cloth, sighing, when another man stepped in the small area under the arena, holding his bleeding own arm. Simon stood there awkwardly, not daring to interrupt you, but you noticed him, saying softly, your voice laced with worry, barely hidden. “Again ?... Simon, you came a few days ago already…”

He nodded briefly, sitting on a chair, letting you inspect his wounded arm. He was used to fighting bare arms, a leather vest covering his chest and enhancing his strong build. He wouldn’t dare to admit that recently, he grew bolder in the arena : he hoped to win the next show, and even if he got hurt, you would be there. It was all that mattered, after all. He looked at your hands as you studied his wound carefully, leaving a small silence. His thoughts fogged his mind, your gentleness and care for him sending a pang of guilt in his chest. Maybe his wound was a newfounded opportunity, on the other hand, so he asked hesitantly, his eyes meeting yours for a second. “Could I stay here for a bit ?”