A/N: Yes, it's me. Again.
To paraphrase Carol Burnett, I got an idea and I just couldn't resist it. Here is another fic, a short one this time. (Pinky swear!)
The inspiration for this comes from ChelsieSouloftheAbbey's wonderful "I've Loved You Before". This one does not delve into reincarnation, as hers does, but it deals with the idea that we never really know who touches our lives, and how it affects the future.
I'm planning this to be around seven chapters long, and for canon Charles and Elsie to be in the last few. They are the descendants of the people who appear at the beginning. It's not always going to be Charles's ancestor = male and Elsie's ancestor = female. The interactions will not be solely romantic in nature. That's not to say they won't be either…I'm just using my imagination here.
The title comes from Henry Wadsworth Longfellow: "Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing/Only a signal shown and a distant voice in the darkness/So on the ocean of life, we pass and speak one another/Only a look and a voice, then darkness again and a silence."
Gaul, 52 B.C.E.
She crouches in the mud as a light rain falls from the night sky. The rope tied around her ankle is not a strong one, and she could likely break it, but there is no use in trying.
Hordes of Arverni are around her. They pass by, going from one mud house to another, laughing and chattering to each other in a language she cannot understand.
Why her husband wished to bring her to the edge of civilization, she will never know. Being the only Roman woman in a Roman camp is bad enough.
Being a prisoner, a Roman woman in this Arverni village, is a living nightmare.
And it will only get worse.
She should have insisted on staying in Narbo.
Several men stop to leer at her. Even in the night, in the smoky darkness next to the fire, she sees the lust in their eyes. She bows her head, her long brown hair falling across her face. She swallows bile, her belly churning.
The man set to guard her grips his sword a little tighter. He says something curt to his fellows. They leave off their staring with reluctance, going into another house.
She is not beautiful. Not like other women. She has known it since she was a child. Her family's wealth is the only reason she was married. Her husband's family is an old one, with a proud history of military service in the Republic.
But the barbarians only want one thing from a woman. They care nothing for beauty.
Shivering, she grips her knees. One of the women dragged before her into the chieftain's house screams. Again. Then louder. Someone, a man, laughs inside.
The guard shuffles his feet next to her and throws a half-dry piece of wood on the fire. It blazes up, despite the rain.
She glances up when she hears him humming.
He has stood guard for his uncle before. It is a symbol of trust. His uncle, the chieftain, is one of the greatest warriors of their people, except for the mighty Vercingetorix.
One of his uncle's favorite prizes is the women they capture.
Standing in front of the thatched roundhouse, he hums to try to drown out the agonizing screams of his uncle's latest prize.
Then the next one.
And the next.
He has taken some in battle himself before, and had his way with them.
But no longer.
His own wife sleeps in a house far away, hopefully safe from the Romans who are determined to conquer them. He smiles, thinking of her.
He wonders if the child she carries will have yellow hair like his, or hair the color of fire. Like hers.
The woman on the ground before him sniffs. His smile fades. Whether she is a wife or not, it does not matter.
His uncle will have her.
And if she is fortunate, she will live.
She might.
When he and two others found her walking by a stream the previous day, she had put up a better fight than most. One warrior lost what remained of his teeth. Another had his arm twisted so badly, he could not hold his sword properly after.
The guard feels his swollen face gingerly.
She is almost as tall as he is.
The rain lessens. The village quiets as the night goes on. Except in the chieftain's house. One woman tries to run, getting to the door. The chieftain drags her back inside.
The guard's head droops in weariness. The woman sitting on the ground next to him is plainly exhausted.
She sniffs again, and pulls her hair back from her face. She brushes away both tears and rain. There is a persistent curl that keeps falling onto her forehead.
He cannot stop himself from looking at her. She was so strong before, but now she is weak. Alone.
Their eyes meet.
His eyes look dark. His hair is plastered to the side of his face, his beard dripping with water.
He does not look at her like a barbarian. No lust. Only curiosity. Pity? No, she is seeing things.
He takes a sudden step towards her, and she flinches, crawling away from him. The rope stops her from going too far. Before she can move again, he leans down and cuts it, freeing her.
Terror rips through her.
She is sure he has decided to take her himself.
He speaks quietly, holding a finger to his lips. Despite her fear, she finds his voice soothing. It is light and gentle. Not deep and booming like her husband's.
If only she knew what the man was saying.
From his expression, she sees his own frustration. He holds out a hand, wanting her to take it. That she understands.
But she cannot trust him. What will he do to her? She should run.
He says something again, more insistent. He glances at the house. There is no sound.
When she glances toward the door, he grabs her hand and yanks her to her feet before she can stop him.
They run out of the village, him pulling her behind him.
Speed matters the most. That he knows. Hopefully his uncle has fallen asleep, or is still distracted by the women in his house.
He will tell him he fell asleep, and when he woke the woman was gone. And that he went after her.
It has never happened before, but he hopes his uncle will believe him.
Why he is doing this, he hardly knows. Something in the woman's face. In her eyes.
He somehow knows if their fates were reversed, that she would help him. That she would be on his side.
The open fields around the village are empty. The sky above is dark, but he knows it is just before the break of dawn.
They must stop more than once. The first time is because she falls. She does not know this land like he does. Whether it is day or night, he knows every rock, every hole. They pass by a smaller gathering of houses. A fire burns outside one, but no one is awake. Not even the dogs.
The way they came with her yesterday was by the stream. But he does not dare take her that way. If they are followed, that is the way the other men would think they would go.
She stumbles again, and he slows, then stops by a clump of trees. He still holds her hand tightly in his.
She is trembling. He loosens his grip on her hand a little before bringing his other hand to cover hers, to soothe her shaking hand between his two steady ones.
He waits until her breathing slows, then they go on.
Holding her hand feels as natural as singing.
She has no choice but to run behind him. His hand grips hers so tightly, she cannot break free.
Stepping into a hole, she almost turns her ankle. She falls heavily on her hip. He stops, but only long enough for her to stand again, before they continue on.
Where is he taking her? She has lost every sense of direction. Even most of the stars have disappeared.
With every passing moment, her panic grows. He has stolen her away to have her to himself. Then he will leave her, lost and broken.
They stop near several trees. There is a slight breeze that rustles the leaves above them.
Her entire body shakes and her teeth chatter. The trembling in her hand is so strong she knows he can feel it, too.
Feel her fear.
He places his other hand on top of hers, wrapping her hand between both of his. The only sounds are their ragged breathing and the whisper of the wind.
She knows, she somehow knows, he will not hurt her.
And that he will not abandon her in this strange place.
They run on. The sky turns to grey.
She is glad for their speed for another reason.
When he held her hand between his own, his touch was so soothing she wanted him to hold it longer.
Clouds fade away into the west as the east blushes with the sun.
In the distance is the Roman camp. She is home.
Safe.
Because of an Arverni stranger.
He stops suddenly, and she almost runs into him, still looking down to watch her step.
She is only a little shorter than he is. They stare at each other in the light of day.
He has blue eyes.
He points to the camp, and she nods. She must thank him, this man who saved her. For reasons she will never know.
"Gratias tibi ago*," she says finally. He says something low in return. His face looks a little red, but she is sure it is because they have been running so long.
She walks past him towards her home, to her husband, her people.
When she looks back one last time he is still standing there, watching her.
His uncle is not furious, as he feared. He simply roars with laughter.
Within a year, his uncle, as well as Vercingetorix and many members of their tribe, are dead.
The Romans have conquered them.
Defeat would have broken him once. He still feels anger, seeing their soldiers march everywhere. Seeing the world he knew change.
But when his friends or kinsman mutter about rebellion, he sets it aside. This is the world they live in. The world of the empire.
There are better things to think of.
His daughter fusses early one morning while it is still dark. His wife groans, half-asleep, so he picks up their little girl in between them and carries her outside. To watch the dawn.
Bouncing her in his arms, he grins as she giggles, pulling on his beard. He kisses her and strokes her soft hair. It is red, like her mother's. But her eyes are blue.
He watches the sun rise. And thinks of the Roman woman. Wondering where she is, and what she is doing.
He hopes she is happy.
She rises from the bed when her newborn son's cries get louder. The bed, along with the house, she thinks is too ostentatious for Gaul. It is a pale shadow of her father's villa in Herculaneum.
But her husband is the commander and he wanted it built for his family.
She sits in a quiet corner, nursing her baby. He eats well. His father declares he will be a splendid soldier one day, boasting about their son to everyone.
Nuzzling her cheek against his soft one, she kisses him and walks to the window. The day is breaking. Clouds overshadow most of the sky, but there is a burst of color on the horizon. She smiles when the baby coos, and she lightly touches his dimpled chin.
She holds him up so he can see the sun rise.
She prays the Arverni man is still with the living. She wonders if he is alive. If he has a home, or a family.
Her son would not be in her arms now had the strange barbarian not saved her the year before.
She hopes he has found peace.
A/N: *formal way of saying thank you in Latin.