Thoughts of the past few days swam through his head. It was not a calm, if overwhelming sea, or a clear, rushing river - it was more of a boggy swamp, thick and heavy and putrid. It hung in the air as he went through his transactions, as he attempted affection, as he attempted sleep, even as his horses rode through the gates leading outside the walls, as they rode through the countryside. It lingered so thickly that his slave’s words barely sliced through it, and it was only with the call of his name that his attention was fully seized. And then his slave’s face seemed to pink, because he ought not to have called his master that, and today the kindness in Quintus’s eyes were shallow, failed to pierce through. He stammered, just the slightest bit, and Quintus raised his hand to stop him.
“And by whose hands but your own shall your wishes come true?”
His cheeks seemed to pink further, and a smirk slipped firmly onto Quintus’s expression. Pleased with this, he let his horse ride on, a little faster than his companion’s - and then, and then he felt something heavy land on the saddle, behind him, forcing him to slide forward, and he gasped, clutching the reins a little tighter. Arms slid around his waist, hands grasping the reins. This time he allowed himself the laughter, leaning into the warmth behind him, letting his hands fall by his sides.
This ease, this brightness, only lasted for so long. Soon enough, he realised that there was someone staring at him. And as soon as he realised it, she seemed to have realised that he had realised it, and - had jumped into - nothing. The ground. Grass. Nothing. Quintus did not bother looking around. As his horse approached her, he touched the man behind him on the knee, and he slid down the horse. His slave offered the girl on the ground his hand - the grain-seller-supervisor, the one that had interrupted his bath.
“Are you all right?” Quintus asked her, but there was more amusement than concern in his tone.
