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softpascalito · 1 month ago

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Dulcissima I Marcus Acacius x Vestal!Reader I Chapter II

! This Fic contains major spoilers for Gladiator II ! Proceed with caution !

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x Vestal Virgin Reader Rating: Explicit / MDNI Word count: 12k+ Tags: Secret Relationship, Vestal Virgins, Religious Guilt, Gladiator fights, Gladiator II compliant (more or less), Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Ancient Rome, Age Difference, Slow Burn (ish), More tags to be added (!)

AO3 // Series Masterlist // Masterlist // Fic Playlist

notes: ! last major spoiler warning for gladiator II below the cut !

thank you all so much for the love on the first chapter. we delve a little bit into their backstory now (gladiator II is set around 211 AD). feel free to let me know if you are interested in reading how these two get to where we picked up before <3 i also have a little acacius playlist that fits the vibe of this fic very well. feel free to check it out here!

vestal (vigins) - priestesses of vesta, virgin goddess of Rome's sacred flame (details will be explained later in the story) dulcissima - sweetest (fond nickname) domus - a roman house palla - a traditional mantle for women paludamentum - a cloak worn by high ranking military officials

Chapter II

209 AD

The domus sits just on the edge of Palatine Hill, on the side opening towards the Forum Romanum and Via Nova. You have passed below it more times than you can count, though you have rarely walked the small street that weaves up the hill and leads to the edge of the property.

Many of the neighboring houses are too harsh for your taste, with columns twice as wide as your body and barely a shrub of greenery in front of them. A supposed sign of strength, no doubt. But when passing the house with the large garden, you like to take as much time as you dare, occasionally catching a whiff of the lavender that grows all around it.

It reminds you of the shadowy figure you often saw walking those same gardens after dark, many years past. A bereaved woman, shrouded in dark cloth, keeping her head down as she tended to the plants with dainty fingers, decorated with a thick gold ring that framed a green stone. You remember lingering too long on your way past the iron fence once, fascinated by the way her dress flowed in the wind. She had called out to you, beckoning you towards her.

Lucilla was not a terrifying woman but you knew that every misstep could cost you, especially in your position as a vestal. She had knelt down in front of your trembling form, brushed your hair out of your face and looked at you with an expression you did not understand. But she had whispered words that you did. Asked you not to collect the water after dark, to stay with the older vestals. Then she had offered you a small bundle of lavender.

You stuffed it under the linen of your bed later that night, breathing in a scent that felt like a world where a woman could freely roam her garden and the city beyond, who did not have to be afraid.

The guard at the gate gives a small bow of courtesy when you reach him and moves to the side, allowing you to tread the stone path that leads up to the house. “The General is inside. Please, knock.”

A gentle “Thank you” escapes your lips as you reach to lift your stola just enough to not step on it. The torches lining the way are extinguished, not needed during the day. A short glance down the hill allows you to spot your own home, right beside the rounded building that is the Temple of Vesta.

When you reach the wooden door, you raise your hand and will yourself to knock with enough force to make it heard.

You can hear someone calling out from inside and a few seconds later, a man with broad shoulders opens the door. His gaze flies over you briefly–taking in your white tunic and the palla wrapped around your shoulders. The thin veil attached to your headdress and all the linen of your clothes tucked neatly into place are usually enough indication for whoever is stood in front of you to understand your status.

“General Acacius?” You ask softly, your eyes taking in his brown eyes and the curve of his nose, one that looks like it belongs on a statue rather than a living man.

“Vero, that is me. Please, come inside.” He gives a small bow, gesturing past himself and you nod at the invitation, gracefully stepping into the house and finding yourself in an atrium that renders you speechless. The columns that line its sides are slightly worn, flowers stretching along them towards the upper floor. Stone basins and pots holding a variety of plants stand at almost every corner of the open space, making it feel more like a garden than the stuck-up room you would have expected in a Generals home.

Acacius’s hand hovers behind you, guiding you past the fountain that holds a few orange fish and to the opposite end of the open room, though he never actually touches you. “Please. Have a seat.”

“Thank you,” you repeat your earlier words, lowering yourself onto the chair he indicated.

“Would you like some wine? Perhaps some grapes too?” He waves to one of the servants, who promptly places two glasses on the table, though Acacius takes the carafe and dismisses him with a small nod as he begins to pour you some of the dark red liquid. You make to reach for your glass to hold it steady but he shakes his head quickly. “Allow me. Please.”

You nod at that, leaning back and waiting politely while he pours himself a drink as well. It allows you a moment to take in his form up close, the white tunic and his red paludamentum wrapped around his body. A cloak fastened with a gold brooch, one that–similar to your headwear–makes him a respected man no matter where he goes. You wonder if he feels the same about it, that some days it's more like a heavy curse weighing one down. Then again, he is a General of Rome. You are a priestess of Vesta. Your paths may cross today but you are certain they look very different from one another.

He sits down across from you, a small sigh leaving his lips as he toasts in your direction and takes a sip of his wine. Then, he leans to the side and produces two rolls of parchment. “I had to make some adjustments to my will. It was kept by one of the other priestesses, but I believe she has finished her service with the Vestals since I last saw her.”

You give him a small smile as you take the parchment from him, nodding. “Yes, she left the year before last. But of course I will be just as happy to keep the will for you.”

His eyes fly over your face briefly and he gestures to the rolls on your lap. “I crossed out the old version. I married, you see.”

You stare at him for a moment before nodding a little too quickly. “Of course. Yes, I–The lady of this house I presume–” You break off, realizing your mistake. If he indeed married Lucilla, he is now the head of this house. “What I meant–” you add hastily. “–is that it is your house now. And the house is beautiful, I mean–” It’s the second time you stop in the middle of the sentence. But this time, it is because you have dared to look back over at the General. And he is not even trying to conceal his amusement.

You bow your head in another silent apology and he tuts softly. “You are quite right, you know. As far as I am concerned, she is the woman of this house.” A smile plays around his lips. “And I would not have it any other way.”

It’s clearly not his atrium that surprises you. He is not what you would expect a General to be. Especially not one that is about to entrust you with his will. “I give my word that I will see it is stored safely,” you reassure him, carefully taking another small sip of the wine.

Acacius nods. “I appreciate that. You have my thanks.” He pauses briefly, his gaze darting around the atrium for a split second before landing back on you. “You seem uneasy. Do I make you uncomfortable?”

“No. No, of course not, General.” It is not a lie, per se. But you are all too aware that it sounds like one.

“Is it your first time taking a will?”

You do not know how he does it. He seems to have read you so easily–or he is just very well connected to know such a thing. “Yes. It is, but I promise–”

“I trust you,” he states almost casually while reaching for the grapes and offering you some as well. You politely decline.

“Forgive me but … you met me mere moments ago. How can you know I am trustworthy?” Your eyes catch his and this time you hold his gaze, not missing the small glint in them.

“All of Rome trusts the Vestals. If not you, who would we put our faith into?”

“The gods. You should put your faith in the gods,” you say quietly.

“I prefer to put my faith in people,” Acacius responds, though his voice is slightly lowered as well. “The gods do not fight our wars.”

You stand up so abruptly that you almost drop the scrolls. “I should go.”

He seems perplexed for a moment but quickly catches himself and nods, standing up before leading you back the same way you came. You allow yourself a quick sideward glance at his face and are met with a professionally neutral expression. At the door, you turn towards him, giving a last, small bow. “My General.” His title falls off your lips like the silk they sell at the market, flowing effortlessly. His brown eyes lingering on you as you address him–even if normal custom–as yours, make your stomach clench slightly.

Acacius lets his hand hover beside you again, never quite touching you. Yet you almost seem to be able to feel his touch. “I did not mean offense.” His voice is much softer than it was when he greeted you.

“Of course.” You force yourself to smile and step away, shaking your head at the brief moment of confusion you allowed yourself. He is a General, you are a Vestal. He has sworn his vows and you have sworn yours. And both include promises that are enough to keep you at a few feets distance for several lifetimes. “Please, call for me if you ever need to make adjustments to the will. And–” You force yourself to smile a little wider. “Congratulations on your marriage.”

You turn around before he can speak again, suddenly wanting to put some distance between yourself and the house you so longed to see from inside–until you did.

***

211 AD

“You have to go, dulcissima.”

Acacius' voice is quiet, the back of his head resting against the stone pillar as he watches you drag the chaise lounge across the atrium, muttering under your breath when you have to maneuver it around the small fountain in the middle of the space.

“Please.”

You shake your head just as you reach him, gesturing for him to sit down. His begging breaks your heart–it always has. But the thought of leaving him here with open wounds is worse.

“Let me see your arm.” He doesn't move, forcing you to become a bit more stern. “Acacius. Let me see the arm. I am not leaving until you do.”

A curse slips out under his breath but he does as told, sitting down and allowing you to inspect his wound. The rustle of the chain on his ankle breaks the quiet as he moves and you pointedly ignore it as you crouch down in front of him.

You let your hand hover above his skin for a moment, taking a small breath. It is still difficult to break the rules you have been taught for so long sometimes. You tell yourself that this is not even a sin, that you are merely caring for a wounded Gladiator. It tricks your brain enough to lower your hand onto his skin. You do not believe it tricks Vesta.

“He should not have fought you,” you mumble quietly, thinking back to how Lucius was swinging away the moment he entered the arena.

“He did not understand. And it is how the Colosseum works, you know this.” Acacius mutters back, tensing slightly when you run your finger over the cut the sword left on his arm. It doesn't seem too deep but you know Acacius must be in much more pain than he lets on.

“I hate that place,” you whisper, surprising yourself with the force of your words. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes and you stiffen when you feel a calloused hand tucking a strand of hair behind your ear before brushing over your cheek.

“Oh, sweet,” he mutters, leaning down to press his forehead against yours. “I am fine. I made it out, see? I promised I would.”

“They were going to shoot you,” you choke out, trying and failing to hold back the tears now slipping down your cheeks. You feel his lips touch the crown of your head briefly.

“But they didn't. Now, please, I will take care of this. But you have to leave.”

You wipe your tears with the back of your hand and shake your head again, blinking a few times to clear your vision and shift your attention back to his wound. “How would you take care of this? They have sentenced you to death. The Emperors have called for it, in front of the whole empire.”

“I can talk to them. I have things to offer, even now. They do not know how to lead an army. But they need someone who does. And–”

“You would sell your soul to stay alive,” you whisper as you reach for a piece of cloth and begin to wipe down the crusted blood.

Acacius sighs. “No. But I would sell my soul to stay with you.”

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softpascalito · 1 month ago

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Dulcissima I Marcus Acacius x Vestal!Reader I Chapter IV

! This Fic contains major spoilers for Gladiator II ! Proceed with caution !

Spoiler-Free Summary: Set before and during Gladiator II. General Acacius finds himself entranced by a highly valued priestess of Rome – A Vestal Virgin. Both have taken vows that make sure their paths may never cross. Until they do.

AO3 // Series Masterlist // Masterlist // Fic Playlist

notes: ! last major spoiler warning for gladiator II below the cut !

we are back! i really love where this is going, i hope you guys do too! feedback is very welcome as always (just don't be mean, i cry easily in case you can't tell from my writing). i have been to (the ruins) of the temple and the house of the vestals and have learned a lot about them so i hope i can strike the balance between making the fic intersting and adding some historic context, please let me know if this is working! also if you read this the day i post (december 3rd) happy bona dea hehe ♡

Mola Salsa – Ointment used during religious sacrifices Vale – Goodbye Salve – Hello Sacrosant – Untouchable (by law)

Chapter IV

“Have they assigned you for Bona Dea yet?” Severa is walking beside you, carrying a jug filled with fresh water from the sacred spring. Her step is light, even after the many hours she has spent at the temple today. The upcoming festival has been the talk of all of Rome, as it frequently is during the season where the air becomes colder and the occasional summer breeze turns into full-on storms. On the third of the last month, women in Rome celebrate the night of Bona Dea, the goddess that symbolizes chastity and fertility. A rare occasion where attendance is forbidden to men rather than women.

You nod softly in response to her question, turning the last corner before you reach the round temple of Vesta. “Yes. I am to help prepare the mola salsa. And I have been allowed to aid in carrying–” You pause, recalling that you are still in public. “Carrying the items to the place.”

Severa gives a nod, understanding the almost cryptic words. No one outside the circle, especially no man, is allowed to know which rituals you and the other priestesses undertake during the December night. At the mention of the assigned tasks, she falls into a one-sided but comfortable conversation, telling you her plans of preparation, though always being careful not to get too detailed. When you reach the steps that lead up toward the temple, she hands you the jug of water and bids you goodbye before heading the other direction. With her shift ended, she may retire to her quarters or spend her time however she likes. For you, the day has just begun–despite the sun already being halfway across the sky.

The smell of smoke and herbs greets you as you slip into the building, the only temple in the entire empire that holds no statue of its god or goddess. The flame is the only representation Vesta requires.

You start by collecting the rags you keep in a small cupboard off to the side of the large room, soaking them with the sacred water before kneeling down to begin cleansing the floor. Purity is more important for Vesta than anything, meaning that every day, the temple is cleaned, usually towards the evening when there aren't as many citizens coming to pray.

You work in silence, ignoring the way the cold stone hurts under your knees. It is a shift that requires much physical labor, but you are content to have the room to yourself today, the only company the shadows dancing on the stone walls beside you. You watch as they change, creating pictures and silhouettes that are gone before you can quite figure out what they resemble.

Your drifting thoughts are interrupted by the gentle thud of the oak door, followed by a small gust of air blowing through the room. You look up from where you are kneeling beside the flame, expecting one of the women that frequently come to pray with you. Instead, you feel your breath hitch in your throat.

Acacius looks a little lost, his broad frame dressed in his shiny golden armour, one that does not quite fit the space. He gives no indication of recognizing you, instead heading straight for one of the benches set out for the citizens. With an almost quiet grunt, he lowers himself into a sitting position and bows his head, his lips moving without producing any sound. He is praying.

You're not sure why you are so surprised. Maybe because you cannot recall ever seeing a General in the temple of Vesta or because his comments a few weeks ago did not make him sound like someone who prays much.

I prefer to put my trust in people.

You don't quite realize how openly you are staring at him until he raises his head just enough to glance your way. You bow your head so fast that you feel your muscles protest, the noises of the cackling fire joined by the one of you hurriedly wiping the floor.

You do not allow yourself another second of looking at him. Not a single one. Even when you stand and return the rag and jug to their respective places. Even when you gather a few pieces of wood in your arms and carefully add them to the flame.

It is not until you are standing with your back to the hearth, sorting some of the smaller twigs, that you hear him move. His voice is low when he speaks, like he is trying not to disturb the place around you and what it holds inside its walls. “Am I disturbing you?”

You are almost tempted to keep your back to him and give your response to the firewood below rather than him. But even the high status of a Vestal Virgin will not save you from punishment for disrespecting the General of the Roman army.

“No, of course not,” you respond politely as you turn around. “But I am afraid I do not have your will here. If you'd like to make further adjustments, I can locate it tomorrow and–”

“I did not come for the will,” Acacius says quietly, his brown eyes flying over your face. Once again, you feel like he can read you, like there is an inscription carved into your features the way it is below statues or over doors. Names, places, entire stories told in stone. It’s like yours is spelled out in a language only he can understand.

You pause, a moment of near silence passing between you. You are close enough to see the shadows dancing on his face now, the flame reflecting in his eyes.

“Then what did you come for, my General?” Addressing him sends a shiver through you again, the same way it did the last time you said goodbye. Calling him yours when he is so far from it.

“To pray.” A tiny smirk appears on his face and he looks almost … satisfied with himself. “It is what one does in a temple, is it not?”

You feel your cheeks heat slightly, despite the fact that you try and will them not to. “It is.” The next sentence tumbles out of your mouth before you can stop yourself. “You took my advice then.”

Acacius raises a brow and you involuntarily hold your breath, awaiting what you expect to be a rather unfavorable reaction–when he laughs. Filling the temple that holds the most important hearth of the roman empire with a soft and gentle laugh. It feels wrong. It feels shameful and unfitting and yet, you feel like something stir inside of you at the sound. Slowly, his laugh dies down until you are left with a mere, gentle smile on his face as he looks down at you. “You are not as timid as you seem, are you now?”

Your blush deepens at that but a shy smile creeps onto your face nevertheless. “I was just–observing.”

“Yes. And do you do that often?” At your confused face, he adds: “Do you observe people often?”

“I did not say I observed people,” you half-whisper, suddenly realizing where this conversation is heading.

Does he know?

You have never considered that the conveniently short distance between your homes works both ways. Mainly because you can't imagine a man as important as Acacius interested in what the Vestals do. Maybe because you also can't imagine him as a man who simply observes–no doubt he finds what he longs for and demands for it. He is well known for his conquering of the southern areas.

“It is an imposing atrium,” he mutters quietly, his eyes carefully tracing your face. Waiting for a reaction. He’s about to speak again when you feel it.

The movement in your chest that felt comfortable until a moment ago, turns to ice. A shiver runs over your body and you step back so violently that your back hits the wooden cupboard and the jug that Severa had carried earlier, begins to sway. You feel Acacius brush past you, attempting to catch it but he is too late. His empty hand closes around air as the jug hits the floor and bursts into small pieces.

For a moment, you stay exactly where you are, your heart thumping as you fight against the cold dread that still fills your body. Acacius shifts beside you and you can feel his brown eyes on you. “I am sorry, I did not mean to scare you. Let me help–”

But you do not let him finish the offer. Instead, you whip around and lean down, beginning to gather the shards off the floor. “It is late,” you press out without looking up at him.

Now it’s the Generals turn to look confused. He pauses, blinking a few times. Before he can ask the question already forming in his throat, you motion toward the oak doors. “The sun will go down soon. Men are not allowed in the temple at night.”

It takes a few moments before Acacius nods, sending you a polite smile that feels very different from the one that decorated his face mere moments ago. “Of course. I do not wish to keep you.”

He turns swiftly, his uniform moving gracefully around him as he crosses the small room and slips out of the temple. The door falls shut with a thud, signifying once more how very alone you are.

You try to hold back tears as you fold your dress in your lap and begin to collect the shards in it. The salt water so dangerously close to high tide. It blurs your vision enough to grasp one of the larger shards the wrong way, a sharp pain searing through your hand as it cuts into your skin.

He probably only meant to pray.

He has a wife, a home. An army, soldiers and their families. A responsibility like that could make anyone turn to the gods, that much you know. And you scared him off, simply because your body had started acting of its own accord.

Almost as if in a trance, you fully sink to your knees in front of the flame, bowing your head so low that you can feel the coolness of the tiles below. Whispered words fall from your lips. But they are not merely just prayers. They are pleas for forgiveness. You cannot name what it is Vesta shall forgive you. You have done your duty, have not acted in any way that would not honor your vows. And yet, you feel that there is something you should seek forgiveness for.

When you stand again, you tread quietly, almost like you are tiptoeing around something. Balancing your weight on the edge of a bridge, trying desperately to stay still. The wind may not carry you away, no matter how tempting. You do not have wings. You will not fly. The only way off the ledge is the fall. One that you would not survive.

You shudder at the thought as you finish your duties as quietly and quickly as you can. You finish gathering the broken jug, wipe the floor once more and replace the wood. A small sigh of relief leaves your throat when you finally hear the door being opened again–and the eldest of the Vestals steps inside. She surveys the room, pausing as she spots the cupboard. “What happened?”

“I fell,” you answer quickly. “The water jug broke, I was carrying it. My apologies.” You bow your head, sending another silent prayer to Vesta to forgive you the lie. “I will arrange for a new one.”

She looks at you for a moment before nodding her head. “Very well. You may head back to the house. Walk by the potter and give word that we are in need of a new jug. I will stay until morning and have one of the girls pick it up in a few days time.”

“Of course. Vale.” Leaving a small bow and more whispered apologies at her feet, you step out of the temple, glad to put distance between you and the hearth.

It is by no means a far walk to the house of the potter that you task with everything the Vestals need. And yet, you'd much prefer to tread it while it is light. The city changes during the night, even in these safer parts of town. The streets are filled with those who wander the night and despite the fact that your palla demands immediate respect from those that cross your way, it is not a comfortable journey.

Out of the corner of your eye, you spot a few soldiers that seem to tail you and exhale a small breath, thanking the gods for sending men to protect you. You lose sight of them when you slip into the small alley that opens to the workshop of the potter. But the light inside is extinguished.

“Salve?” You give the door a gentle knock, waiting for a reaction from inside. But none comes.

With a resigned shrug, you turn to make your way back to the main road. It isn't until you have taken a few steps that you look up–and find your way blocked. The three soldiers have their eyes trained on you, their bodies wide enough that they cut off any chance of escape.

You feel your heart beginning to pound again but you force yourself to stay calm, giving a polite nod. They are soldiers. They are here to protect you. Then, the one in the middle opens his mouth.

“What business does a priestess have to be out at night all by herself?” He asks, cocking his head as his gaze shamelessly wanders over your body. The soldier to his right laughs in a way that sends a shiver down your spine. Even standing feet away, you can smell the strong aroma of wine on his breath. There has not been any battle. Nothing has been won.

There is no reason for soldiers to celebrate.

“Why do they always pick pretty girls for Vesta?” The one with the foul breath complains. “True shame no one can touch them.” The other one laughs at the comment, taking a step toward you. You feel your back hit the wall. “Oh, you can touch them. You just have to demand for them to keep their mouth shut about it. I would really like to–”

You are spared the details of what this drunk man would like to do to you. Because in that moment, a voice booms out behind the soldiers, echoing slightly in the small alley.

“Soldiers. Step back.”

They whirl around and you think you see one of them ready himself to fight–that is, until the man the voice belongs to steps into the light. They may not respect a priestess. But they will respect Rome's General.

Yet, when they don’t move immediately, he barks out: “That is an order!” Their reactions are surprisingly fast for the state they’re in, the one on the right practically crashing into the wall in his hurry to obey.

“What is the meaning of this?” He asks, his voice so much lower and demanding than it was earlier at the temple. Any hint of the gentle, soft man you talked to is gone.

“We were worried for her safety,” one of the soldiers blurts out. What a way to spin it, you think to yourself. The only threat of your safety tonight has been them.

Acacius's eyes briefly meet yours and his face hardens slightly. He continues moving toward you, forcing the man next to you to step away hurriedly. “Move. And get back to your barracks, straight away.” They are halfway across the alley when he yells after them. “If I catch you bothering her again, I will make the battlefield seem merciful!”

Your knees quiver as you watch the soldiers turn the corner and a choked sound leaves your throat as you stumble. Being sacrosanct does not save you from being a woman. Nothing does.

“Hey, careful now.”

Acacius is by your side in an instant, his voice back to the gentle one you have gotten so used to. He bows down slightly and, without thinking and at seeing you sway, he gently places his arm around your waist, steadying you.

You do not move away this time. Heat radiates from his bare arms through the linen of your dress, igniting your skin below in a way that makes you feel like you are burning. But it is not uncomfortable. In fact, you find yourself leaning into the touch slightly as you catch your breath.

“Did they hurt you?” He asks quietly, a hint of anger still present in his voice.

You respond with a small shake of your head while Acacius carefully watches your every move. “No. No, they did not get a chance to.”

“They are damn fools,” he breathes, shaking his head in disbelief, rubbing small circles into your side with his thumb. “To even think about bothering you like that. A priestess doing her duty–” He turns enough to let his gaze wander over the abandoned street around you again. “This is not a way you should be walking alone at night.”

“The jug,” you whisper quietly. “I was to ask the potter to provide a new jug.”

A sigh leaves the General's lips at that, his grip tightening absent-mindedly. “A piece of clay is certainly not worth risking your safety, my lady.”

You bow your head, unsure how to respond. His fingers are still placed on your waist, still drawing invisible shapes into your stola. “I am sorry about–”

“You do not have anything to apologize for.” He mumbles, soft eyes gazing down at you. “If anything, I owe you an apology. Clearly, the gods are more trustworthy than men.”

Except, the gods did not save you. For the second time, you have a feeling that the person answering your silent prayers is not an ethereal being but rather a man made of flesh and bone. You shift slightly at the thought–and feel Acacius tense beside you.

“They did hurt you,” he whispers, not once hesitating as he lets go of your waist to kneel down and reache for your hand, his gaze focused on the red line that runs across your palm. “Let me see, please.”

“Oh–” You hold your hand up for him but you shake your head. “It was not them. I cut myself on one of the shards earlier, in the temple.” But his focus rests entirely on your hand. You feel a blush creep up your neck as he turns your palm slightly, running his index finger over the freshly scabbed line.

“You should have wrapped it. It may get infected,” he adds quietly and before you can so much as protest, he has reached down and ripped a shred of fabric from his undercloth. His calloused hands are careful and gentle as he begins to wrap it around your palm, tightening it slightly. “Does this hurt?”

You feel like your entire body is vibrating under his touch. His skin on yours, no matter how little, no matter how briefly. It has a fire burning in your chest, threatening to spill out from between your ribs or travel through your throat. The smoke of it blocks your airways and your attempt to speak fails. Instead, you just shake your head and watch as Acacius, at your signal, continues.

“There. Much better.” Your hand is still resting in his palms and he bows down slightly, as if to kiss your fingers. But just before he does, he stiffens slightly and quickly pulls back.

One does not kiss a Vestal's hand. One does not even touch a Vestal. And yet, you can so clearly feel the fire burn on every inch of your skin where his body has met yours.

Acacius clears his throat and nods toward the main road. “I will escort you home. I may not offer the protection of the gods but I can offer that of my sword.”

“Thank you, General Acacius,” you whisper, bringing your freshly bandaged hand back down. You walk beside him as you slowly make your way through the night air, avoiding the busy roads slightly more than you have on the way here. He knows his way around.

You have already reached the Forum when you finally speak, watching as the smoke from the temple rises to your left as you turn onto Via Nova. “I would like to apologize, for before.”

Acacius cocks a brow. “Before?”

“Before. When I sent you out of the temple. You are welcome to come and pray of course. I was–” You shake your head softly. “I was merely surprised.”

You watch as his face twists into a small smile at that and he nods. However, you both stay silent as he leads you toward the house of the Vestals. When you reach the columns that line the front of it, he stills, leaning forward in a hint of a bow. “Thank you for allowing me to see you back safely.”

“I have to thank you.” You respond quietly, turning to face him. You feel like you want to add something else but the words get stuck in your throat. His hand hovers again, the same way it did the time he welcomed you at his home. Always careful to keep a small, appropriate distance between the two of you. What happened in a dark, secluded alley suddenly seems miles and miles away.

“Good night, my lady.”

With that, Acacius turns and continues up the road.

“Good night, my General,” you whisper only for the cicadas to hear.

notes: thank you for reading. feedback, reblog and comments all very, very welcome ♡

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