A/N: Sadness alert. I should have known, the premise of this fic being what it is.
*Frigidarium (cold bath), tepidarium (warm), caldarium (hot). This chapter is set in what is now Bath, in the U.K. If you ever have the chance to go and visit the Roman baths there, do. They're fascinating.
Thank you for the nice reviews! Please let me know what you think of this chapter, if you have a moment. The rest of this fic is pretty well set, but this chapter was the most indefinite of all of them.
Aquae Sulis, 2nd century, C.E.
Steam rises from the hot water. He sighs in relief, and the persistent ache in his bones lessens.
He has traveled to the famous baths with his son, daughter-in-law, and grandchildren for the winter. The hot spring's healing powers are well known to young and old alike. He eschews the cold bath and the tepidarium, preferring the heat of the caldarium.*
After leaving the water, he retrieves his clothes and his walking stick. He says a prayer thanking the goddess Minerva for not letting anyone steal his belongings. Today.
Pranksters often do.
Walking outside, the cold air makes him shiver. The area outside is crowded. Some people stand or sit with their backs to the warm stone wall. He reaches out, skimming his fingers along it. With his other hand he clutches his stick.
He pauses when he sees a familiar figure next to the wall. He nods at the woman seated in the mud. Her smile is natural, not forced, like the days when she is in pain. His heart eases a little.
Her hair is mostly grey. It intertwines with darker strands and some lighter ones. Time has left lines on her face, but there is a youthfulness there that still persists. Especially when she smiles. Or laughs with those around her. Which is often.
A skinny spotted dog whines, moving about the crowd. Some friendly hands, including the woman's, pet him. He trots toward the broad man near the wall.
Smiling, the man bends down and opens his hand. There is a sliver of meat there. The dog swallows it instantly. The man scratches his ears before standing back up. He holds on to his stick and walks home.
His small friend watches him go. He knows he will come back, and when he does, there will be something to eat.
She watches the man feed the dog. The gesture makes her both thankful that there is kindness in the world, and also dismay that he does not keep the meat for himself.
He is too thin for a man his size.
On this day he is at the baths alone, but that is rare. Sometimes he is with his son, but more often there are one or more grandchildren with him. She likes to watch him with them.
He is firm, but gentle with all children. Some of the locals are shy with him at first. But he wins their trust. She has often seen him sitting against the wall with two in his lap, and three or four others at his knees.
The grandchildren she has seen him with most often are a talkative brown-haired girl, and a quiet boy with soft eyes and a dimpled chin. She thinks the boy must look like his grandfather once did when he was young.
Her daughter and granddaughter break her reverie, asking if she wants to get up. She does. The younger women help her stand, each holding one of her arms.
There is little pain today.
Ever since her last child was pulled from her years ago, she has been unable to walk without discomfort. One of her legs is shorter than the other.
When she was young, she ran everywhere.
Living near the baths provides a way for her to have comfort and some healing.
As she enters the tepidarium, then later soaking in the caldarium, she basks both in the warmth of the water and in the company of her relatives.
She wonders how long the man and his family will stay.
His daughter-in-law declares that she has been healed by the spring beneath the baths. He and the rest of the family are relieved.
His son's wife is rarely happy.
The dog keeps finding him, near the entrance to the baths. He feeds the animal – but only when his daughter-in-law is not watching. His grandchildren, and occasionally his son, do the same.
One day as they wait in a cold drizzle to go in, he sees the woman feeding the dog. She looks up and catches his eye. They smile at each other. She shakes her head a little, laughing, when the dog licks at her fingers, hoping for more.
More than once he wishes he could talk to her. It is not that he does not like his own family. But it would be a comfort to speak with someone nearer his age. To reflect on how life has altered them, and to boast about grandchildren.
She is nearly always with a younger woman, likely her daughter. Sometimes a yellow-haired girl with blue eyes is with them. The first time he sees two identical girls with their grandmother, he thinks he has lost his mind. He calms when someone speaks to them. They laugh as some in the crowd turn to stare. Twins are not a common sight.
At times only one or neither of the girls are there. One morning, he sees the woman sitting in the winter sun with her daughter and a little boy. The boy feeds and plays with the dog for a little while, running up and down by the wall. When he returns to his grandmother she ruffles his red hair fondly.
Her pain comes and goes. It is something she has lived with for a long time. What helps is having her family close by, and others to think of.
She thinks the man has gained some weight as winter deepens. She hopes by her feeding the dog, it keeps him from giving necessary food away. Of course she does not know what it is like for him at home.
But she thinks she knows.
The day the man's daughter-in-law shouts at him – all for dropping a bowl! – it takes all of her willpower not to rush over and slap the disrespectful woman.
He apologizes calmly to his son's wife and tells her to lower her voice, aware that the crowd is watching. His grandson picks up the bowl.
As they pass her, she sees his granddaughter take his elbow gently. In his eyes there is shame.
Though he tries to hide them, his hands shake.
And she understands.
Her heart aches for him. She knows what it is like to have one's body fail. To grow old and change.
She is nothing to him, nor he to her. Not really.
Is it strange that she thinks of him as a friend, and yet they have never spoken face to face?
It would be nice to speak to someone who has lived a long life, like her. She sometimes feels lonely. Maybe he feels the same.
If she could, she would sit beside him next to the wall and ask him about his family. Hold his trembling hands.
If he would let her. She is not sure he would. He seems to be the sort of man who would rather pretend he is well and whole, rather than show his weaknesses.
But she can never seem to have a chance to know for certain. There is never a moment when both she and he are alone.
He hates that she was a witness to his shame. To have his daughter-in-law, a woman who he has tried to cherish as his own child, shout at him in front of everyone as though he was a child, is bad enough.
But he is sure the woman saw his shaking hands as he walked by her.
For days, he does not look for her, though he knows she is there. He can feel her blue eyes following him.
He is a fool. Surely she does not think less of him. She has her own burdens, just as he does.
She seems the sort of woman who would accept the passage of time better than he could.
If they ever spoke to each other, maybe he would know for sure what sort of woman she is.
Maybe they would be friends.
He knows that she is friendly towards him. Still, he cannot bring himself to meet her gaze.
Until one damp, cold, day when the clouds have descended to the earth, making everything hazy. One of her granddaughters is with her. The poor girl is clearly upset. He glances their way when he sees the blonde hair, and he hears the young woman pleading with those around them.
The woman is huddled against the wall. At first he thinks it is just for warmth.
Then he sees her face.
Her face is drawn and pinched, a sickening grey. Her lips are pressed together.
She is in pain. Terrible pain.
He lets go of his granddaughter's hand and is beside the woman in an instant.
Pain wakes her. In her back, in her shorter leg, and most of all in her hip. Getting up is a struggle. She does so because staying in bed will only prolong her pain, and likely worsen it.
Her daughter and son-in-law try to persuade her to stay at home, as do her grandchildren. Finally one of her granddaughters agrees to go with her to the baths.
They have not gone far before she regrets her stubbornness.
Every step is agony.
By the time they reach the wall outside the baths, she can barely move. She clings to the wall and its warmth. Her legs are like water but to sit would be to endure more pain.
A deep voice rumbles at her ear. The man she has seen speaks to her granddaughter, and the two talk to each other, but such is her pain she cannot understand a word between them.
He has to ask twice if she can walk before she hears him. She moves her foot, but the white-hot stab in her hip prevents her from going any farther. Tears fill her eyes and spill down her cheeks. She shakes her head.
She should have stayed at home. Her granddaughter cannot move her, and no one here will. If only she could reach the tepidarium at least, the pain would recede a little.
It would be easier to fly like one of the birds than to walk.
He stands at her side, her shoulder bumping his chest. He whispers that he will carry her.
Before she can say a word (if she were able), he engulfs her in his arms.
He lifts her like a child, holding her against his chest, her legs dangling uselessly. The relief she feels in her hip and legs is so great she does not heed anything around them. Not the crowd staring or the two girls following behind the tall man.
Her head rests on his broad shoulder.
Faintly, it comes to her that she should be embarrassed that a man she does not know at all holds her so close.
But she is not.
It feels as natural as breathing.
He trudges slowly, both because the thick mud is slippery beneath his feet, and because he does not want to cause her more hurt.
She is not heavy. But he has not lifted anyone larger than his youngest grandson in years. His arms do not have the same strength as they did when he was a young man.
Her granddaughter and his run around him to clear a path through the rooms. People let them pass to the tepidarium. By the time they get there, his back is screaming, his knees are buckling beneath him, and sweat pours down his face.
His instinct is to open his arms and let her go, but he knows he cannot do that. He waits until her granddaughter is ready and then he slowly lowers the woman to the ground.
She gasps, biting her lip when she is standing once more. The two girls take her hands and lead her slowly away to settle into the bath.
Breathing hard, he leaves and goes outside. The cold air feels good against his glistening skin.
His aching arms feel empty.
Had he the strength, he would carry her again.
The worst of the pain ebbs in the warm water. During the rest of the cold weather, she is careful when she moves. Cautious, even. To not go too far, or to do too much.
She will always remember his kindness.
That day while she recovered in the bath, several women spoke up and said how they wished they had husbands who were so loving.
Her face grows warm just thinking of it.
He is not her husband, of course. He is simply a man who helped her.
She tries to help him. To give something back of what he has given to her. Kindness.
As the days pass, they find a pattern. He is often at the baths early in the day, while she arrives later. He sits with her along the wall before she goes in. They talk of the weather, of a husband and wife gone. Of their children.
Of memories from when their children were young. And how much greater it would have been to have the wisdom of age combined with the freshness of youth.
They are both thankful to have lived so long. Few people do.
Their granddaughters chatter and laugh together. His shy grandson comes out of his shell when her lively one pulls him into a game with several other boys.
She smiles when he first tells her his name. Crispus. A good name, she tells him. Laughter dances in her eyes. He brushes impatiently at the silver curls on his forehead.
His expression makes her laugh out loud.
He does not mind her teasing. Not really.
He asks for her name after he gives her his, and is confused by her sudden reluctance. She says it quietly, looking away.
Livia.
By the bright hair of her grandchildren and the color of her eyes, he would not have guessed she was a Roman. Like him.
She is a Brython, she tells him. At least her mother was.
He listens as she talks. He has a feeling she has never spoken of these things before.
Of growing up a slave in the kitchens of a wealthy Roman's villa. Of never quite belonging in her own family. Of a man she called father and who she tried to love, but who never loved her. Not like he loved her brothers and sisters.
Of the master who freed her when she became a woman. Who told her he named her on the day she was born.
The master who was her father.
Crispus tries to reassure her that it is not a shameful thing. His own mother was a Brython, he tells her. And though she never told him, it would not surprise him if she had once been a slave herself. His father was very protective of her.
She smiles through red-rimmed eyes.
He tells her of farming land with his brother. Of the girl he loved as a youth. Of his brother, who was betrothed, then married to the girl and had a family with her.
The woman next to him – Livia – reaches over and places a hand on his arm. He wipes his eyes.
He learned to love his wife, and misses her still. They adored their children. The son he lives with now is their second son, and youngest child.
They both laugh when the grandsons bring the dog over to them. The little imp has fattened during the winter.
He pretends to be hurt that the animal prefers his friend.
For Livia is his friend, and he is hers.
Livia hates when spring comes. Crispus and his family prepare to leave.
As much as she and her family would like them all to stay, she knows they cannot. They have a home. And it is not in Aquae Sulis.
He stands by the wall as she says farewell to his grandchildren, and to his son and daughter-in-law.
His son's wife has changed for the better. He thinks it is Livia's influence, though he knows if he told her so, she would argue with him.
There is a long silence between them. He breaks it, saying he will miss this place. As will the children, of course.
She agrees with him. Their grandsons in particular have become good friends. She will pray for him and his family, that they return home and that they have a good harvest.
He thanks her in a soft voice. He prays her family will have good fortune.
There are tears in his eyes as he leaves.
Though he has had good friends, Livia has been his closest friend.
And he cannot bear to think he will never see her again.
She watches him until the road turns and she cannot see him anymore.
Slowly she walks home. Her hip hurts, but the pain in her heart is worse.
The dog climbs onto her lap when she sits outside her daughter's house. She pets his soft fur, crying.
Crispus is her friend. And she will miss him.
Very much.
A/N: Crispus means "curly-haired" in Latin.