Chapter Text
After the fifth voicemail pleading for her to attend the invitation-only reception at a prestigious Roman museum, she finally agrees to Al's request.
"It'll be good for you. You love archaeology, love to travel. Come see some old stuff, socialize, enjoy the Eternal City. Come for me, at least?"
Given how deft Al is at cajoling her into things, she’s starting to suspect he remembers dying on her behalf. But he's not wrong, and she probably owes him much more than her attendance at an exhibition grand opening, even though the last thing she wants is to walk through a hall of mementos from hell (literally).
After all, he did die in an attempt to save her life.
And then died again in hell because of the coins she’d found.
But Al’s optimism is indefatigable - another reason why she’ll never tell him of his suicide - and, despite knowing her story, she’s not sure it would occur to him that reminders of the city would be painful.
She misses every one of the city’s occupants, with the soft but ever-present ache of loss. She wonders if they led happy and fulfilling lives - if Galerius and Equitia married, if Duli was released, if Sentilla and Ulpius reunited, if Rufius found healing, if Iulia rediscovered the best of life, if Livia achieved peace, and on and on it goes. She hopes their second deaths were less traumatic than their first. She prays they returned to a more charitable and restful afterlife.
But for all that she misses everyone, she misses a certain legionary with a desperation that is hardly justifiable, given the circumstances. The world just seems to pale without Horatius in it. Which is a ridiculous sentiment, given he barely knew her and couldn’t really be described as colorful. But he was complex, and steady, and inspiring, and missing him is a bit like being adrift at sea. She has all the old landmarks - her family, her friends, her work, her hobbies - and yet, she lacks a harbor. She misses the solid safety of his presence. She misses the hints of humor. She misses his physicality. She misses the way he quoted the Stoics in casual conversation. She misses the hidden depths to his thoughts and feelings. She misses his self-mastery, his dedication to principle, his intense authenticity.
She misses a lot about a man who never knew her.
Only time can heal what reason cannot.
Her love has always been unreasonable.
And time is, well, taking its sweet time.
She attends the exhibition grand opening, despite feeling a bit of resentment and a lot of dread. Al is happy to see her, at least, even if he acts a smidge… suspicious.
She also has the bizarre sensation that the other attendees are just a little… off, somehow. It reminds her of looking at a Roman copy of a Greek statue: it's almost right, except the Roman touch renders the thing not quite Greek enough.
Then the man on her right turns, and her brain short-circuits.
It's the clothes. The clothes are wrong. Modern clothes on an ancient figure.
It's Galerius.
She's finally lost her mind.
Except she would never hallucinate him in modern dress.
Is she dead again?
He smiles, and his blue eyes shine, and he exclaims, "You're finally here!"
Someone utters a strangled cry, and the tiny part of her brain that's still functioning realizes it was her, and everyone is turning to stare and she's a professor in a museum but she doesn't care because it's Galerius and he remembers her.
"Galerius?! What are you doing here?!"
He recounts the end of the Underworld, tells her of Charon's gift, explains how everyone has a second chance at life now. But it isn't until he mentions his farm - so precious but so mundane a dream - that she finally believes him.
She's not dead.
He's alive.
The past year finally comes crashing home. They are free - free of the Golden Rule, free to live the lives they choose, free to buy a farm and a villa and fall in love and get engaged. Even better, they are here. She feels tears welling at this final validation of her sacrifice: they are free, and they are alive, and they remember her.
A pair of feminine hands gently take hers, and Equitia's beaming face swims into view.
She finally breaks down.
The former priestess guides her to a bench, where Duli (Duli!) carefully introduces himself. She laughs through her tears as she assures him she knows who he is - she, who so intimately understands the importance of memory.
It takes some time, and she nearly cries again when Equitia mentions they're expecting - her two favorite people are having a baby! - but she eventually manages to calm herself enough to finally process the full implications of Galerius' words.
As casually as she can manage (which isn't very), she asks what happened to Horatius. Galerius and Equitia exchange a look - which she will definitely inquire into later - before Galerius nods over her shoulder.
Her knees go weak.
Horatius.
His stance is unmistakable, even in modern fatigues (of course he’s still a soldier, because there’s never been a more authentic man than Horatius): the upright posture, the broad shoulders, the crossed arms, the planted feet. He still radiates the same confidence, the same strength, the same reassurance.
Her long-absent heart suddenly returns with a painfully explosive beat. Seeing him again is akin to a divine revelation. He is heavenly.
"You're staring," Equitia gently teases.
And she is. But her past is colliding with her present with a force that leaves her thunderstruck.
Horatius offering the wisdom to survive.
Horatius chuckling softly at her teasing.
Horatius studying her with warm bronze eyes.
Horatius calming her with just a few words.
Horatius revealing, layer by layer, the depths of his self-discipline and emotion.
Horatius soothing her fears and carrying her to Lucretia.
And now Horatius is here, a first century Roman legionary wearing twenty-first century military fatigues while perusing a display of his own armor.
She doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. Maybe she'll do both. Again.
Heaven help her, she still loves this man.
"I think," interrupts Galerius, "you should just tell him how you feel, consequences be damned."
Oh, they definitely know something. “You do not get to give me relationship advice, especially when it’s my own.”
Galerius pointedly wraps an arm around his pregnant fiancée, who graciously intervenes. “You should speak with him. Everyone here tonight wants to speak with you. We all made the choice to be here - including Horatius.”
"There's a whole museum full of people waiting for a chance to thank you,” Galerius encourages. “Go on. Say hello. We’ll speak again later, my friend.”
Friend. The sentiment is echoed as she makes her way through the gallery. They not only remember her, they are thrilled to see her - even if they do keep calling her the Oracle. She happily loses herself in the joie de vivre they're so eager to share with her, in the constant flow of gratitude, in the repeated invitation to enter into their lives and continue a relationship. In addition to attending Galerius and Equitia's wedding, she agrees to a pub crawl in London with Iulia, and to regale Georgius in Santorini, to visit Vergil and Rufus in Rotterdam, and to sample Gabriella and Ulpius' (almost drinkable) wine at their vineyard in Umbria. And in a moment that nearly brings her to tears again, Gabriella even offers forgiveness for being left in the cistern.
She is gratified by their happiness, their appreciation, their freedom. But more than anything, she is moved by their memory. They know her. They embrace her as one of their own. Being so easily integrated into their lives is the ultimate reparation for the many months of loneliness in their company, the final validation of her sacrifice. There are no more ghosts.
She will never forget this night.
And then, of course, there's Horatius.
He patiently waits until she approaches before turning toward her. He's just as she remembers, even without the familiar lines of his helmet framing his face. His bronze eyes are as warm as ever, and his lips follow the same curve, and his jawline still inordinately pleases her, especially now that she can see more of it.
She likes Horatius without a helmet.
She really doesn't need more things to like about Horatius.
It doesn't help, either, that Horatius is so relaxed, compared to their previous interactions: discussing the academy with enthusiasm and pride, sharing his adjustment to this new world with easy vulnerability, submitting to her teasing about Domitius with good humor. Maybe it's because the torturous weight of Gabriella's disappearance is lifted. Maybe it's because the burden of protecting the city from its own follies is gone. Or maybe it's because he's finally been able to sleep. Whatever the cause, the glimmers she previously caught sight of behind his strength and confidence - of humor, of ease, of pleasure - shine more brightly now.
It occurs to her that she may have actually fallen in love with Horatius at his worst.
Which is a terrifying thought, because she really doesn't need more things to like about Horatius.
Especially now that his heart is no longer spoken for.
That particular revelation nearly undoes her.
That is, until he completely undoes her by adding, "Oh, and I don't know if you've heard, but a few of us are going for drinks later? It'd be nice to, uh, chat with you some more."
Did Horatius, the Stoic legionary, just stammer?
Is he… nervous?
Did he just ask her out?
Holy hell.
She doesn't even think about her response.
"Sounds good. I'll be there."
"Great."
And if he sounds both relieved and delighted, she is busy trying to prune the tendrils of hope that have suddenly taken root in her chest. The invitation may not mean anything more than all the other invitations she's received tonight. The stammer might not, either - a hesitation in whatever goddess-given mechanism that translates his native Latin, or discomfort at extending a casual invite to the so-called Oracle.
But she is absolutely going to find out.
The afterparty is held in a cozy little bar on a back street in Rome. It's a bit cramped - turns out when Horatius said 'a few of us are going for drinks,' what he'd meant was 'nearly everyone you know will be there and you're the guest of honor' - but it's the best night of her life.
The only drawback is Horatius himself, who seems content to let the others capture her attention. Other than a welcoming nod at her arrival, he’s left her to the company of everyone else. Maybe it wasn’t a personal invitation, after all.
It's after midnight by the time she catches her breath, as the others start either taking the party elsewhere or calling it a night. She's claimed a small couch for her own when Horatius finally seeks her out.
Her heart skips a beat.
"Can I get you anything?"
She holds up her bottle of water. "That's thoughtful, but I'm all set. I'd welcome the company, though."
"You've had a great deal of it tonight," he observes, taking the offered seat. "You've been a difficult woman to speak to."
"Says the man who framed this as a few friends getting drinks."
"Apologies. I suspect the number went up when they heard you were coming."
"I don't mind. It's been… brilliant, actually, being remembered by everyone," she admits.
"Tonight must have been a shock for you."
"I've spent the past year assuming you'd been dead for two millennia. Shocked doesn't even begin to describe it."
“Have you been alright?"
There was a time when she thought Horatius would never care, on a personal level, about her feelings. He's always been courteous, but never particularly curious about her. Yet he asks after her well-being with genuine interest, and his gaze is attentive, and his presence is as steadying and calming as she remembers. It's easy to confide in him.
"Yeah, I've been mostly alright, thanks. Some days are harder than others, but it's gotten easier. Coming back was... an adjustment. It's strange, being in the modern world again - the noise, the lights, the asphalt. I can't imagine what it's been like for all of you."
"Someday, I'll describe it for you in detail, if you like," he offers, catching her off-guard - he sounds like he’s expecting a future with her in it. "I wouldn't have thought it would be so jarring for you, with this world being your home."
"I'm not sure it is. It doesn't feel the same. It's been rather lonely."
"Do you have family?"
"A small one, plus a few friends, some colleagues. But I'm not interested in getting locked up like Malleolus, and it's hard to explain why you're grieving people who died long before you were born without sounding crazy. So I don't share."
"That's a heavy burden to carry alone."
"You once told me that 'difficulties strengthen the mind as labor does the body.' My brain should rival Hercules' muscles by now," she wryly observes.
"Difficulties may strengthen the mind, but you don't need to face them alone. 'This is the first promise that philosophy holds out to us: fellow-feeling, humanity, sociability.’ True wisdom shouldn't undermine our connections, but enhance them. That was from Seneca, by the way."
Her chest tightens. "You're a good Stoic, and a good man, Horatius. You would've made an excellent professor, but I'm sure you'll make a great officer. I've missed your wisdom."
"That's kind of you to say," he replies, a light touch of pride in his voice. "Sorry it took a year, but none of us knew how to find you, until - what was his name? Al? Until he found us."
It takes a moment for his words to sink in. "You tried to find me?"
"You're a fellow citizen, and our Oracle. Of course we did. But finding an oracle in your world is bloody difficult. Can't just show up at Delphi."
"I'm sorry I was so hard to find," she replies, slightly stunned. "Believe me, had I known you were looking, I would've come running."
“Would you?” He carefully places his glass on the nearby table. "That’s reassuring, because there’s something I wanted to talk to you about."
He reaches into a pocket and hands her a worn piece of papyrus.
For a brief moment, time stands still.
It's clearly been opened and read many times: the folds are beginning to split and the edges are fraying. She's not sure what to make of that.
A Lonely Traveler to Horatius, Legionary of the First Italica
"You kept it," she whispers.
"I did as you asked. Waited. Didn't read it until we were on our way here, actually. Probably for the best, as it makes more sense now than it ever would’ve back there." He clears his throat. "If you’d, uh, rather not discuss it, I'll understand. I imagine things might've been different, had you known you would see me again."
This wonderful, wonderful man.
For a year, he has read and reread what is, in essence, a thinly veiled love letter. Of course it's more than that - a thank you, an apology, a ticket to Gabriella's freedom - but Horatius is no fool. She may not have penned the words 'I love you' - an unfair sentiment to say to a man who doesn't know you and will never see you again and is hopefully returning to his betrothed - but it's unlikely he hasn't picked up on at least some of her feelings about him. And he is offering her an easy out.
It's a tempting offer. She doesn't want to overwhelm him with her emotion, to lose this nascent connection between them, to feel the sting of embarrassment or rejection.
But this is Horatius - safe, steady, contemplative, introspective. Whatever her feelings, he has never judged her, nor has he ever run. He is a Stoic - a man who must understand feelings in order to master them, a man who will take any revelations in stride with his usual aplomb. But beyond that, he is a good man. At the very least, he'll be compassionate in his rejection.
And she has never avoided difficult conversations.
She hands the letter back to him.
“I’m touched that you kept it. And I'm sorry, for letting you and Gabriella suffer."
He frowns and waves her off. "You don't need to apologize. As Epictetus said, 'Make the best use of what is in your power, and take the rest as it happens.' You don't have to be happy about it, but you made the best choice you could in circumstances of others' making. A few hours' suffering is worth a second chance at life."
"It doesn't feel that simple to me, but… thank you. It helps to know you're both alright with it." She tries to let this fully register, before asking, "Have you read Marcus Aurelius yet? He was after your time, I think."
"I have. Good Stoic."
"There's a quote of his, along those lines. It goes something like, 'Remember, when something threatens to cause you pain, that the thing itself was no misfortune; to endure it and prevail is great good fortune.' I've thought about that a lot, over the last year."
“You’ve studied the Stoics?”
"'Studied' might be a bit generous. I read up on some of them, when I came back. I don't know if you're aware, but you're very inspiring. And it seemed a fitting way to honor you."
"I am honored," he solemnly responds. "You have a very generous view of me."
"You wouldn't say that if you knew - well, if you could remember all the times we spoke. You did a great deal for me, just by being yourself."
"You know, I may not remember as much as you, but you're not a stranger, either." At her look of confusion, he fingers the edge of her letter - an oddly fidgety move for the Stoic. “I read your letter a lot, over the past year. I've talked with the others, thought about our conversation. I know - or I believe I know, in part - who you are."
"What do you mean?"
“You so clearly wanted to be known. But you are. For example, I know you're intelligent, charming, and persuasive. Your letter is articulate, almost poetic. You endeared yourself to many of us. You figured out how to escape the time loop without condemning anyone. You convinced a god to not only let you go, but to release the entire population of the Underworld.
"I also know that you care, deeply, about other people,” he continues. “You made sure Iulia, Ulpius, Rufus, and Fabia were cared for. You helped Galerius and Equitia come together. You stopped the harassment against Vergil. You ensured Gabriella would be found. You felt guilty for leaving her, despite it being the right choice. You care so much, in fact, you sacrificed your own freedom and happiness in order to help us. You wanted to do what was right, and you had the courage, determination, and skill to see it through. However little time we remember with you, we just needed the chance to remember you. You're not a stranger to anyone, and... well, certainly not to me."
The blood is roaring in her ears. His insight is breathtaking. It took her weeks of living beside him to see the level of detail he has deduced from one conversation, one letter, and a general impression. It’s obvious from the ease with which he describes her that he’s thought a great deal about her. Warmth spreads through her chest. He does know her, in a way, and more importantly, he wants her to know it. And in light of his complimentary description of her, she suspects that he's been hinting at an interest in her all night.
She didn’t know until this moment how deeply she could love him.
She has no idea how to bridge the chasms between them. How a first century man and a twenty-first century woman could romantically understand one another. Or how a woman looking at the one she loves and a man looking at a (not quite) stranger could cobble together a relationship.
But she’s no stranger to risk and loss. She has debated an ancient and powerful alien-god-being with the souls of nearly a thousand people at stake. She has sacrificed one of her homes, one version of family, her own heart, in the name of what was right. She is no Naevia. No Pluto.
Horatius has taught her not to fear her own love. He has taught her that love means being willing to let go just as much as it means desiring to hold close.
So she takes the risk.
“Will you go out with me for breakfast tomorrow? As a date?”
He regards her steadily for a moment. Then the corner of his mouth quirks in the small smile she’s missed so much.
“If you have to ask, you’re not much of an oracle.”
She swallows. “I’m really not. I’m just a woman who got caught in a time loop.”
“You could never be ‘just a woman,’” he quietly counters. Her pulse accelerates.
“Does this mean you’ll meet me for breakfast?”
“On two conditions. I have to return to Modena at the end of the week. Spend the rest of it with me. And if the week goes well, we, uh, agree to be a couple?”
Of all the people she’s ever known, Horatius is by far the most self-aware. He can be absolutely trusted to not only know his own mind, but also to communicate it accurately. He’s too introspective, too principled, too authentic for it to be otherwise. He’s no starry-eyed romantic or naive youth, too caught up in desire and sensation and hope to fully understand his own emotions. Horatius can accurately map his inner world, probably better than most. And, in understanding himself so well, he would never dissemble or pretend, not even to spare her feelings. Perhaps especially not to spare her feelings, given his Stoic beliefs on mastering emotion.
So she knows, when he says he’s interested in her, he wants to spend a week with her, he’d like to consider a romantic relationship with her - she knows he not only means it, but it’s true.
And she also knows, as mature and self-aware as he is, that she can trust him to make his own relational decisions.
None of that, however, stops her from dumbfoundedly asking him if he’s sure and reminding him he has only spoken to her a few times (that he remembers).
To his credit, he takes no offense at her doubt. “I understand it must seem like I know you very little. I can’t claim we share the same length of time together or the same depth of feeling. But that doesn’t mean I have none. I’d hoped to demonstrate I do know you - at least well enough to ask for the opportunity to know you more, to build shared memories. Where I come from, a few conversations isn’t an unreasonable basis for pursuing a relationship. And given what we’ve experienced, I think I know you better than if we’d met once or twice at the chariot races.”
Well, when he puts it that way, she can hardly argue.
"I don't mean to doubt you. I just... spent many days around you wishing you would still know me the next day," she softly admits, "and trying to accept that you never would. I tried very hard not to envision a future with you. This isn't the beginning of something for me, the way it is for you."
He studies her face, eyes slowly roaming across her features. "I didn't want to assume, given your letter was written so long ago and under such different circumstances, but I wondered."
"I don't need a week, Horatius. But I will give you anything you need. I don't want to push you into anything. If you need a month, a year, a lifetime... It's yours."
He carefully reaches out to lay his hand over hers.
The last time Horatius touched her, she was lonely, injured, starved for human touch - a ghost drifting through the ancient Underworld. She is none of those things tonight.
But his touch is still intoxicating.
“I'm not afraid of your emotion, and I hope to be worthy of it. Give me the week,” he requests, "although I don't think I'll need it for the same reasons now."
“Anything you need,” she reminds him. She delicately rotates her hand, pressing her palm against his and interweaving their fingers. He seems surprised at first, fingers stiff against hers before swiftly relaxing into her touch. There’s something intimate and sweet and right about the gesture - two halves finally making a whole. "Though, if we’re serious, it's probably worth discussing the two thousand year cultural difference."
"What do you mean?"
"I want to be with you, but I don’t think I want a typical ancient Roman relationship - at least, what little I understand of one. I want a relationship based on feeling - affection, attraction, love. I want to someday get married, but I want to be an equal partner with my spouse - no paterfamilias. I want to have children, but I don't want that to be the sole purpose of my marriage. I want to keep my career - to teach and write, maybe return to fieldwork. And if those things aren't compatible with what you want...”
His bronze eyes sparkle. "Are we negotiating a marriage contract already?"
Well, then. If he's teasing her - and about marriage, no less - clearly her concerns about overwhelming him were unfounded.
And two can play at that game.
"It felt appropriate, since you have already asked how to take my clothes off."
His fingers spasm against hers.
"I'm perfectly capable of – oh." His mouth quirks as understanding dawns, and he ruefully shakes his head. "I should've been prepared for that. Your brow twitches every time you're about to tease me."
She grins in delight at this detailed observation. "In fairness, at the time, I don't think you'd ever encountered a zipper."
"Happily, that’s been remedied. Why, exactly, was I asking you this?"
"I think you were concerned that I might've been bleeding out. I wasn't, by the way."
"I'm glad you were alright. I, uh, hope the next time an opportunity arises to undress you, it's of a less life-threatening nature, as I do know what I'm doing."
His husky voice is low, and the warmth in his eyes suddenly feels molten, and corresponding heat pools in her abdomen. This isn't dropping a hint.
This is foreplay.
If she didn't know how deeply she could love him, she really didn't know how much she could want him.
Horatius doesn't strike her as the kind of man who falls casually into bed, and she isn't quite ready yet to join him there, either. But the thought of him slowly undressing her, of his callused hands caressing her bare skin, of his body entwined with hers, causes something deep within her to coil deliciously in response. And, of course, Horatius is both a Stoic and a legionary, which means he is a man who can manage passion, who excels at self-discipline, who has legendary physical stamina.
A shudder of longing runs through her body.
She exhales slowly.
"As spectacular as that opportunity sounds, I'd need to know your feelings for me were similar to how I feel about you," she manages. “Otherwise, I’m afraid I’d regret it.”
"Regret is the last thing I want you to feel," he murmurs. And while there’s nothing technically sensual in the declaration, the rasp in his voice is more pronounced, and his thumb gently strokes her hand, and her brain is flooded with possibilities - what he would want her to feel, and the means by which he might achieve those ends - such that it takes far more self-restraint than it should to not surge across the (suddenly and temptingly small) distance between them.
Why is the Stoic so amazing at seduction? Or is she the one pulling them towards the knife's edge?
“You may excel at self-discipline,” she breathes, “but I am a terrible Stoic.”
“I wouldn’t say that," he mildly objects. But the intensity between them dissipates as he stills and pulls back - always striving for self-mastery. "Though I'll agree that was... forward, given where things are between us. The teasing might be a problem."
"Are you admitting to less than perfect self-control?" she asks incredulously.
He shifts uncomfortably, grumbling, "I'm a Stoic, not a corpse."
She laughs, reaching out to take his hand again. "Just so we're clear, I like the flirtation. A lot."
"Good," he acknowledges, voice rich with amusement and relief and a dash of satisfaction. "And just so we're clear, I also have no objections to any of your other terms. I want a marriage and children, too, someday. As for a more modern relationship… The world has changed a lot, and with a new world comes new ways of thinking. I may need to challenge myself to keep adapting, but I will adapt. Your strength, intelligence, and affection are things I admire in you. I don't want you to be anything other than yourself, and certainly not in an attempt to please me. I can't promise it will work, but I think it can."
She doesn't understand how she can love him even more as their conversation progresses, but somehow she does. Every moment reveals something worthy: his playfulness, his casual acceptance that this woman from the future loves him, his interest in cultivating a real relationship, his respect for who she is. There are no doubts in her. She knows, inexplicably, deep in her soul, that this will work. And somehow, Horatius seems to sense her resolution. His hand tightens around hers, careful not to stoke the fires she's requested he bank.
"What are you thinking?"
“I think this is absolutely mad, and I couldn’t be happier about it."
“I don’t think I’ve ever been called mad before.”
“I can’t imagine why,” she teases, because he’s right - he is the last person anyone could accuse of madness. He smiles again, and her heart skips a few more beats.
"Does it bother you at all?" he quietly asks. "The differences between us?"
She knows what he's really asking.
She glances down at their entwined hands, then impulsively scoots closer to lay her head against his shoulder. He is solid, and warm, and safe. The familiar, subtle scent of him envelops her, and she resists the urge to nuzzle into him as she blinks away tears. He is here, and he is (essentially) hers. He is committed to exploring a future together, and comfortably accepting of her deep love for him, and the question of him loving her in return feels like an issue of when and not if. He is, after all, a man capable of deep emotion and possessed of unshakeable loyalty. There are a thousand things to still learn about each other, a thousand realities they have yet to figure out about being in a relationship. They have time now.
"No," she whispers. "This, right here, is so much more than I ever could've hoped for. It's enough. We'll figure out the rest."
"Yes. We will."
It feels like a promise, delivered with Horatius' characteristic strength and reassurance. Like a true oracle, she can see the future unfurling before them: the patient building of memory and connection; the delight of discovering each other's quirks and preferences; the fascination of learning one another's histories; the many hours spent in philosophical debate; the challenge of separation and the joy of their reunions; the disagreements that become lessons in how to understand one another; the long nights spent tangled in each other's arms; the joint visits with the rest of her ancient family; the building of their own family, of their own home, of a lifetime together.
“Quote the Stoics for me,” she begs.
Horatius chuckles. Then his husky voice drifts down to her.
“'I can show you a philtre, compounded without drugs, herbs, or any witch's incantation: If you would be loved, love.'"
It is his best quote yet.