They gather around him, his last remaining friends and those who remained of the thousands from the camp, a handful whose freedom has been won at last. It will not have been for nothing. He so wanted to see them over Alps, but the knowledge they have Agron and Nasir to guide them contents him.
He chuckles in spite of the pain. "That is not my name -- " he means to say more, but to his surprise he hears his name spoken and turns to see who said it, because no, it cannot be … but it is Sura, and he is there, in her arms once again, in the place where no shadows fall.
The taste of her lips is as sweet as ever, and when they break he tries to speak, but the words will not come as a glut of joy, not sorrow, clots his tongue. He can only grin and laugh like madman before he crushes her close and breathes in her scent and kisses her yet again.
It swells in him like a drumbeat. Sura. Sura. Sura. That tumble of dark brown curls framing her face, that smile, but most of all, her eyes.
Her eyes, her wonderful eyes, an ever-changing blue, all the colors the heavens and the waters in them … twinkling with that incomparable spark, the thing that so captivates him, the thing that makes Sura Sura and made it easy for him to lay his heart at her feet.
At last his tongue finds itself, moves, gives shape to thought. "Sura …"
Her hand cups his face and he leans into its warmth. "Great and unfortunate things," she murmurs.
"I am so sor --"
Her finger stays his lips. "I knew," she says, "I always knew, but the heart wants what the heart wants, and what is misfortune next to the love we have? You can not love me any better than you did on Earth or than you do now."
"Great and unfortunate things," he whispers, understanding at last that all men are destined for unfortunate things, but only a few for great things.
Sura kisses him again, a quick peck on his cheek. "Come." She takes his hand, an impish smile playing across her lips. "Others await you."
They stride across a meadow, green with early summer, and a new surge of joy fills his heart when he spies Mira sitting beneath a linden tree, bow in hand, waiting … though he can see it's a touch impatiently.
He turns to Sura, wonderingly, but there is nothing to say, nothing to explain, nothing she does not already know. She knows, and there is no anger, jealousy, or reproach. She is glad that he and Mira found each other and cared for one another, that he had a good and loyal friend by his side during dark days, that he helped Mira discover what it meant to be her own woman. She would not have it any other way.
Mira all but tackles him to the ground with the fierceness of her embrace and he swings her around, making her whoop. "Mira, it is …"
She laughs at him and says, "Yes, it is." Her eyes flick to Sura and back to him. "It is a beautiful thing, to finally see you made happy and whole."
"I --" he tries to explain.
"Foolish husband," Mira interjects, "an apple cannot be an quince, no matter how hard it tries, nor a quince an apple." Sura takes Mira's hand in hers and kisses it, and by the way they look into each other's eyes, he knows that these two are now joined at the heart as if they had been sisters and friends in life.
"Come," Mira says as she retrieves her bow and strides boldly forward. "Varro wants to see you." She adds over her shoulder, "He's a bit put out that I won the coin toss over which of us got to see you first after Sura."
He laughs and slings an arm over Sura's shoulder, and she lays her head against him and sighs his name contentedly as they follow.
His name -- he is no longer Spartacus.
He has Sura in his arms.
At last, at long last, he is once again himself.