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coquettepascal · 2 days ago

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felicitas and her general

summary: general acacius has caught your attention after being the first mortal to worship you in decades. you only face one challenge: don't get too attached.

warnings: rated g, contains spoilers for gladiator ii, follows the timeline of the movie somewhat, reader is the goddess felicitas (who is the goddess of good luck,) this fic is basically just an add on to the movie.

tags: goddess!reader x general acacius, emotional infidelity, lots of roman mythology stuff, writer is basing all her knowledge out of what she remembers from PJO and HoO, worship, complicated feelings, marcus does not cheat on lucilla physically, yearning, pining, grieving, guilt, major character death(s), stalking (kind of), a lot of obsession/dedication, angst, hurt no comfort but also hurt with comfort.

a/n: i watched gladiator ii and then was too emotionally devastated to finish this fic the way i planned. i really hope you all like this!! also, this fic is also dedicated to my dear friend @pascalssbabyy because she is my biggest cheerleader and i love her <33

wc: 7.2k (not beta read)

It was he who woke you.

A quiet sacrifice in the evening that felt like the freshest breath of air you could have, more intense than what you could have atop any mountain, near any spring. The scent of burning meat and smokey vegetables grasped at your lungs, and you almost choked on it. How long had it been since someone had offered you something so kind? Real food, not just scraps of something they didn’t wish for.

You’d never complain about how difficult it is to be a minor Goddess, you know that you could be a mortal, but most don’t think of how Gods can fade. It’s a physical process, one where you’d notice how your fingertips passed through things like chalices and bowls, how a spoon slid through your hand once. The clatter of gold on the table was embarrassing, even though you were alone. Nothing about being forgotten, or fading, physically hurt. It was only mentally taxing, knowing that you weren’t as important as you once were, that mortals found you insignificant.

Generals used to come and offer things frequently sometime ago, but you couldn’t even begin to understand how long ago that was. When you’re immortal, or supposed to be, mortal lives seem fleeting. You had taken them for granted, and regret it now, for all you have now are the empty clouds above your temple.

The last offering you can gather was from a young boy, who wanted to win a board game against his sister the next day. He had given you half a bun with strips of meat. Sure, it was thoughtful, but this was something rich.

You finish inhaling the offering, and then hear the offerer's voice. But it’s muffled, and you want to see who it is anyways, so you swipe through the clouds and create a window to see. Then you can hear him clearly.

Someone who is clearly a general kneels at your altar, which is chipped and dirty. The ashes of the food are in front of him, smoking still, and you can taste the wealth in his meal. It can’t distract you from him though, he is striking.

Broad shoulders support a heavy, curly, grey, head of hair, which is bowed in honor of you. His body is widely built, sturdy for battle, and his voice is just as powerful. You’re so focused on hearing his voice you only catch the tail end of his request.

“... Allow me to come home safely, if not for Rome, then for my wife.”

Your heart squeezes, and you swear you can feel the ichor gushing through your veins. Scarcely when a General came to give you an offering all those years ago would he mention a wife, only ever wishing for luck in the upcoming battle or war. But here, now, you’ve been given a respectful request and offering. It isn’t a thought in your mind to not favor him now, your eyes closing and your mouth murmuring a blessing to him. It feels intoxicating to use some of your power again, especially on someone who asked for it. It also feels intoxicating to watch this General leave.

He looks around before he goes, seeming to note how degraded your small temple has become. The statue of you that lies ahead of your altar is yellowing, and ironically, multiple fingers have broken off. The General seems displeased by this, sighing as he exits the temple.

His gait is heavy, sandaled steps weighted as he walks down them and into the torch-lit night. You find yourself looking for him even after he’s disappeared from your sight, the warmth of gratefulness hugging around you. Part of you knows better than to play around with the thought, but still you wish to know more about him.

—

It worsens when he comes back. A few times a week he returns, offering rich foods. It’s been a month now, and you are coming back to life.

Fading didn’t feel like anything, but coming back feels like so much more. The first few offerings had your body feeling alight again, like the ichor in you was flowing again, but within the last two weeks you’ve gotten your fingertips back. They were tingling for a day and then the next you were able to properly grasp things again, nothing was slipping through you.

In that time you had also learned his name. A guard had come looking for him one night, and stood behind him whilst he prayed. You had found yourself smiling when he didn’t interrupt himself, instead acting aggravated once he had finished. The guard had apologized for interrupting and let him know that “Your wife wishes to speak to you, General Acacius.”

Acacius.

You still don’t know his first name, but it is enough. You can think of it when you feel lonely, when you are bored. Something to associate with the offerings, with the blessings. The fact he has been so consistent hints at a desperation, which would usually repel you from blessing him, but he is the only one who seems to recognize you. His efforts are not going to go unseen by you, not when you have so little to do.

You can feel yourself conceding to your need to know him more, but just as you begin to fight yourself again, he shows up.

Tonight he’s dressed a little nicer. Usually he arrives in a plain tunic but this one has golden trim on it, and his hair is a little more tousled. He stumbles into your altar holding something in a cloth, but he’s walking like he’s… drunk?

Acacius meanders to your altar, grabbing a torch along the way, and then empties the contents of the cloth. It produces a small dessert bun, a Libum, or honey cheesecake, and your mouth waters. So much of the food that is given to you is savory meats, masculine foods that are heavy on the senses, but this is sweet and delicate. You can, of course, eat whatever you’d like. You’re a Goddess, and though you aren’t major, you are still very fortunate.

But this feels thoughtful.

The General drops to his knees after lighting the bun ablaze, swaying slightly, and now you know he must be drunk.

“Goddess Felicitas,” he begins as normal, “I am sorry I am later than usual. Though I don’t know if Goddesses sleep. I was… caught up in other affairs, but I made it in time.”

He is less eloquent than usual and seems particularly focused on how it is nearly past midnight.

“I brought you this though,” he gestures to the half burnt bun. “I wanted to bring you something different than meat and… things. I thought a dessert would be fitting for that task.”

Acacius pauses now. His thoughts are probably muddled from whatever he drank, and you find yourself smiling. Foolery has never been so endearing to you.

“You have been listening to me, I suppose. My requests for luck in battle have been answered, as well as my safety being ensured. Your blessings have brought my wife peace of mind, something I could not previously afford to her.”

He looks so small in your temple tonight. Normally he is not so vulnerable, but his shoulders sag as he mentions his wife. Some sort of shame runs over him at the idea that he could not ease his wife’s worries, but it makes you feel better that you could help.

“Goddess Felicitas, I come here tonight bearing no requests, just gratitude. Your blessings have soothed wounds I could not see, and I feel like a young soldier again. You invigor me.”

Then, he leaves.

You watch helplessly as he stumbles back down the steps and away from your temple, and more than ever you wish to chase him. The love he has for his wife is clear, and you hold no jealousy of that, but you wish it were you. Something in you is deeply attached to this General now. He has awoken you so much more than rekindling your power as a goddess, more than releasing you from the grief that comes with fading. Yes, Acacius has made your heart beat again, your mind curious again, and you feel seen. Being worshipped is not the same as being loved, if that were true you’d have had many children by now,

But after so long being forgotten, this feels like what you remember being loved as.

—

You try not to interact with the other Gods for the most part. They tend to meddle in things they don’t need to, and are sensitive. You are not exempt from this stereotype, but that’s only more reason for the distance.

But today, you venture to meet another deity.

Morpheus is not hard to find. He is pretty stationery where he is, usually lounging on a rock or bench near his temple, or above it in the clouds. He is a bit…dramatic, from what you remember, but wise.

Today he is stretched out on a cloud above his temple, eyes shut. His pale skin stretches taut on his bones as his lean frame breathes deeply. But, he is not asleep.

“Morpheus,” you speak.

His body rolls toward your direction, eyes still shut, but a small smile on his face.

“O young goddess Felicitas, what brings you to me?” He questions.

It’s hard not to feel embarrassed. You’ve spoken to Morpheus on very rare occasions, but he’s always been somewhat helpful, though nosy. Dreams tell a lot about people, and when he’s the one giving them to people, it’s hard to hide anything at all.

You don’t want him to know of your true affection for General Acacius, just that he is… worthy of a visit.

And so you begin to describe it to Morpheus, your need to visit Acacius. He doesn’t open his eyes at all, but he raises his eyebrows a lot and seems bemused at your situation. You’re only halfway through your rambling before he raises a gangly limb and waves at your words.

“Felicitas, you think you are the only Goddess wishing to visit her admirer? You need no explanation,” he says jovially.

Morpheus reaches into the air and pulls 6 black berries into existence, then drops them into your open palm.

“When you know he is asleep, bite down on one of these and think of him,” he describes to you.

The berries smell like nothing, but a powdery residue is left on your skin as you roll them in your palm. It doesn’t repel you at all.

Tonight, you will visit him and express the same gratitude he did to you.

—

Marcus lays next to his wife, Lucilla, with her hand in his. She fell asleep sometime ago, leaving him to lie awake by himself.

He didn’t make it to her temple tonight and the guilt is festering in his body. Marcus knows that she is a Goddess, that he probably isn’t a thought in her mind. He knows that he is just another whiney mortal, giving her food that isn’t nearly as good as whatever Gods eat. His insignificance grows as he feeds into his guilt.

Stress has permeated his life for much of it, from his time as a young soldier up until now, as a General. Battles, politics, and his family, have created a breeding ground for him to be wracked with anxieties, but he stays strong. Thanks to his time in Felicitas temple, it’s been better.

Which is why failing to make it to her temple tonight is making him feel so bad.

He grabs at the linen sheets of his bed, stressing and trying to reassure himself until he falls asleep finally.

—

Being in a dream is weird. It feels much the same as it does when you disguise yourself as a mortal, the out of body experience is semi-familiar, but it’s weird because someone else is there.

You’ve been watching the General enjoy the lake in front of him for a few minutes now. He hasn’t slipped into it, but just walks along the waterline. It seems like he is looking for something. Surely his dreams usually contain more action, or perhaps are memories, so you assume it may be strangely understimulating for him.

The appearance you’ve chosen is one of modesty, but elegance. A seafoam green peplos hangs off your frame delicately, with golden clasps at the wrists and waist. You did your hair so it would be tucked out of your face. There is no guarantee that Acacius will recognize you like this, but you look much like your statue that’s within your temple.

Swallowing your nerves, you shimmer yourself into visibility. The grassy field is odd beneath your feet, and you walk toward him with uncertainty in each step. You’ve never met with a mortal before, and you haven’t stepped on anything earthy in a long while. His broad stature only becomes more daunting as you get closer, especially since he seems so focused.

You will have to speak first. You’re much too quiet in this environment, and you must act fast lest he wake before you get his attention.

“General Acacius,” you speak firmly, though your hands shake.

This is so unfamiliar to you. You’ve barely even seen his face, as he’s usually bowed at your altar. It is the first time you’ll see him at an equal level, the first time you’ll have brought yourself to him rather than him to you.

He turns quickly, an instinctual aggressiveness toward the unknown. You stand about 10 feet from him, eyes widening.

Acacius is striking. His nose is what you focus on first, strong in shape and line, but behind it are his eyes which look to you with wide acknowledgement. His hair curls around his head in greying ringlets, like a permanent laurel crowning him. The wide expanse of his back was once impressive, but now you can see the solid wall which he becomes when facing you. Nothing could push him over it seems, a man built to stand.

Your heart squeezes the way it did the first time he gave you a request, a tender rush tingling your whole body. No words come out of either of your mouths, and the General drops to one knee instantly.

He recognizes you.

“Goddess Felicitas,” he rushes out in a breath. His chest is heaving as he bows his head and no, no this isn’t how you want this.

Your feet are moving before you can focus on your anxiety, bringing you so close to him that you can kneel too. Maybe a goddess should not kneel before a mortal general, but you are just on your knees rather than putting yourself below him. Your peplos billows a little as air rushes through it when you hit the grass.

He is above you like this, and you tilt your head to see his face again. His strong brow is furrowed, eyes squeezed shut like he is afraid of you.

“Acacius,” you say softly, “I am not here for… for ill reason. Please relax yourself.”

You lean back as he relaxes, head tipping upwards as he kneels in front of you as well. Now you can meet his eyes, see the crinkles that are beside them, and really take him in.

An energy of anxiety is shared wordlessly, with him stiff from the sight of a literal goddess, and you with the fear of… something.

The identity of your anxieties isn’t something that you can figure out. Maybe it’s too much to see such a handsome mortal, or maybe it’s that you’re going to thank him for his offerings so personally. Maybe it’s humiliation from this act. What would other Gods think of this? Is it not degrading to become so attached to a mortal? Are you no better than Zeus or Hermes, the gods who interact too intimately with mortals?

The sound of his labored breathing alerts you, calls your attention back to the present moment.

“I wanted to thank you,” you admit meekly, “for your offerings. You have been very generous and… devoted.”

His eyes are shifty, and you can see the terror in him still. You don’t want him to fear you, but you can understand why. Visits from Gods or other deities can mean trouble, but you aren’t significant like that.

“General Acacius you are the first mortal who has acknowledged me in a long time,” you offer a vulnerability, perhaps trying to soothe him.

It feels so backwards for you to be kneeling in front of him, speaking. He has done so in front of your altar for many weeks now, but now the spots are switched, yet you are still in power. You avert your gaze as you speak up, wanting to request something of him.

“You’ve been so generous to me, General, I was hoping to know more about you.”

And now, rather than scared, he seems suspicious.

“To know me?” He clarifies.

You nod.

“I only know your last name. I think I could offer more luck and splendor if we were more… personal.”

Gods that felt awful to say. You’re no better than the whorish brutes on their thrones, offering petty glories for intimacy. Everything feels flirtatious but that’s not what you’re looking for. Acacius has a wife he clearly loves, you would never want to interrupt that.

He seems to hesitate, but he knows he cannot refuse you. So far your blessings have brought ease to his life, he wouldn’t want to lose that.

“Then… yes, I suppose I can offer myself if it would please you.” He responds stoically.

And it does please you, to know his name. Marcus Acacius, the one who woke you, the one who has saved you from being a fragmented memory within the temples.

Marcus Acacius, who you are too fond of.

—

You visit him 3 more times. In an attempt to space out the usage of the berries Morpheus gave you, you only visit him once a week. The bleak tasting berries are sour on your tongue, a rotten sour which lingers once you wake up, but it’s worth it.

The two of you have grown closer, with Marcus opening up more. He tells you about the stresses in his life, how much anxiety is buried in him. But, he’s confident for the sake of his wife. You’ve learned that her name is Lucilla, and much more about her. Marcus talks about her a lot, in passing or retelling something she told him. In the small amount of time you’ve gotten to know him, you’ve gotten to know her as well.

It burns you with a strange warmth, a desire and envy which makes your stomach growl. You are hungry for him to admire you in the same way, to speak of you, but doesn’t he already? Shame grips your throat when you think of it. You are a Goddess who he sacrifices to, who he wishes to have blessings from. What more do you need? A mortal couldn't offer you what another deity could.

After the fourth meeting, you found yourself lonely. Lazing back in the clouds above your temple, you woke with a deep hunger. Marcus is beautiful, an admirable man, and he loves passionately. You are already being such a glutton for even speaking with him, meeting with him repeatedly, so why must you yearn for him too?

Worship isn’t enough, you want what you will never let yourself to have.

Nothing hints that he might feel similarly. His starry gaze which lands on you is not due to your beauty, your personality, or anything more. You have blessed him, and that is why his eyes glitter. Goddess status has never made you feel so low and isolated. Still, you are happy to help him achieve what he wishes, even as it cripples your heart.

Tonight you plan on visiting him. That fourth visit was a week and a half ago, he may be wondering where you are. He still comes to your altar each night, but the prayers are less personal. Marcus saves his stories and ramblings for when the two of you are in the field, or near the lake, when the two of you are really alone.

—

You bite into the berry at around midnight. Its tangy yet death-tasting juice floods your mouth, clinging to the crevices between your teeth and staining your gums. Closing your eyes, you think of Marcus, and his curls, and his eyes, and his nose, and his strong hands.

And then you are there, and he is waiting.

It seems like his subconsciousness has picked to be at the lake today, and he’s sat in the sand at the edge of the water. You walk over to him, but notice how… down he appears to be.

“She is not happy with me,” Marcus confesses before you even sit down.

You stand a few feet back from him, looking at how his curls fall around his bowed head.

“Lucilla?” You ask softly.

He nods.

A wicked feeling begins to steep in your heart. She is upset with him, he is in need of you for something more than a blessing.

And so you listen.

It’s one of the longer meetings the two of you have had. Marcus doesn’t cry, but he seems truly upset. He’s been called to go off somewhere far again, to fight and kill. Reassurances that you will protect him as best you can only soothe him so much.

He doesn't care if he dies, he cares that his beloved is distraught over this.

The more the two of you talk, the closer you get. There are marks on the sand from where you originally sat, but now you kneel in front of him, with creased brows and worried eyes. This isn’t something you can fix, you aren’t familiar with love and its intricacies.

His knees were tucked closer to his chest before, but they’ve loosened now and his fists rest atop them, clenching. Frustration sits on his face like a mask, one you wish to take off him.

Touching is not… something either of you partake in. Sometimes your shoulders will brush when you sit together, but nothing more has ever been initiated.

That is why it doesn’t surprise you when he flinches as your hand reaches out to rest on top of his right clenched fist.

“Marcus,” you say softly, wanting to offer comfort, but he cuts you off.

“Don’t,” he replies swiftly.

At first it hurts, watching as he waves off your hand from his own, but then you look at his face rather than where your hands were joined. The frustrated look on his face is gone, replaced with something worse, something guilty. His eyes aren’t glittering at you like usual, nor are they hardened with anger.

They’re soft pools of conflict that mirror your own.

It doesn’t soothe your burn, satiate your envy. You can see in his eyes that maybe you aren’t alone in these feelings of admiration, of want, but maybe this is not what you want.

Maybe you want a different universe, one where he doesn’t have to be a mortal and you, a Goddess. So you wouldn’t have to worry about him dying, and have this friendship survive off death flavored berries. Maybe you want a universe where he isn’t married, where he could be yours and you wouldn’t feel like a spectator to his heart.

Maybe you want that, but you won’t get it.

Instead the flames of jealousy die in your chest and are replaced with tumors of guilt. Your whole body feels bloated, embarrassed, and ugly.

The pair of you stare at each other, a stupid realization between the both of you as you realize that your secrets have been spilled, even though it’s the same one.

His eyes don’t move from yours, so you move from his.

The sandy edge of the lake does not look so bright now, even though there are no clouds in Marcus’s dream.

“When do you leave?” You ask softly.

You will not follow him into whatever battle he’ll win. Don’t embarrass yourself, Goddess.

He tells you two weeks. You say you’ll see him before then.

Then you wake on a cloud again, with a cavity of guilt in your chest.

—

Marcus wakes alone.

Lucilla had not wanted to sleep with him that night, choosing to stay elsewhere. She didn’t tell him where, she left in a quiet flurry of tears and anguish.

It’s easier for him to feel guilt over his Goddess than it is to hurt his beloved, even if it is the same.

In a moment of frustration he grasps at the sheets, turning over and biting at his pillow. The bed is so cold, and the room smells like stale air even though the window is open, the night breezy.

He knows she is beautiful because she is a Goddess. All Goddesses are beautiful, ethereal beings that mortals cannot even comprehend at times. Marcus knows he is lucky to even perceive her, for her to have chosen to visit him.

Yet through all her blessings, he feels cursed.

A plague of emotional infidelity is crawling through his body, sticking to his bones and making him stiff. Everything he does has felt flat for so long, from pretending he is grateful to the Emperors, to now pretending nothing is wrong in his marriage. He’s scared, and exhausted.

Marcus rubs a hand over his face after rolling over and sitting up in bed, groaning into his palm.

At first he tried to blame her for it. What would a Goddess want from a successful General other than a demigod hero son? What could truly be so special about him? He assumed she was manipulating him, using some sort of power to morph his heart, but now he knows it is not true.

If she had wanted to, she would have had him by now, and he knows this. If she had wanted to, her hand would have stayed where it was tonight, and pushed him further. It isn’t unlike the Gods to force themselves on a mortal, but she didn’t.

Instead, his hand feels hot where hers rested, and his mind is spinning.

Marcus doesn’t fall asleep again, afraid that he’ll see her.

—

You wait for a full two weeks before you visit him again. He had been coming to your temple less, and you had assumed he was busy with preparations for the coming battle.

The stubbornness you felt that night has not left you. At first you did not leave your temple in fear that you would grow attached, now you remain there because you have grown attached.

“Enough is enough,” you had thought to yourself.

But it is hard not to miss him, and his soothing prayers. The way his offerings tasted of smoke and sweet, and how he’d always burn such a large portion. Marcus never gave you scraps, he seemed to refuse to.

However, you can only distance yourself so far.

It is quiet when you approach him. He is sitting in the field this time, the lake a distant glitter in your eyes. He does not face you, but his head isn’t bowed like before.

“Marcus,” you greet, your voice muted.

He raises his head, turning over his shoulder and nodding, as if to direct you to come closer, and so you do.

Tonight’s visit isn’t vulnerable, or even pleasant. Marcus seems so distant as he dryly tells you about how he’s preparing, and his wishes to return safely. His eyes barely meet your own as he talks, and he continuously twists the ring on his finger.

It grows tiring, watching him ramble about politics you could care less about, listening to him say things that have nothing to do with him. He’s so far from the friend you thought you had made. When the air between you goes quiet, you don’t fill it for a while. You listen to the sound of the wind in the grass as his eyes still will not meet yours. It’s breaking you apart.

This is the last night you’re able to visit him, unless you visit Morpheus again. You will not waste it like this.

“What is ailing you, General?” You ask, deciding to prod more than you usually do.

To your surprise, he scoffs in light laughter.

“You,” he responds quietly.

His words don’t hurt, at least not yet. You have the option to walk away now, wake yourself and leave him with his final blessings, but of course you don’t.

“Me?” You ask, “what have I done?”

Marcus rolls his shoulders back, lifting his head to look into the everblue sky above the both of you.

“You have made my life difficult, Goddess.”

Difficult? You have made his life difficult?

You have half a mind to tear him to pieces, curse him with something awful like snakes for toes, or spoons for teeth. After all that you’ve done for him, all the safety you’ve provided, he is telling you that you make things difficult? How dare he? Be outraged, Goddess, for he disrespects the holy luck which you bestowed to him.

That’s what you should think, that’s how most of you should feel.

But instead you feel small, and hurt. Yes, he is disrespecting all that you’ve given, but also you feel like a failure. Your physical existence is because of him, because he did not let you fade. All you wanted to do was make his life easier, help him to have an eased mind and a safer life.

But instead, he’s telling you you’re difficult.

It feels like your body is shrinking in the white peplos you’ve worn, the sheer fabrics swallowing you. Shame is flooding in the form of tears behind your eyes, wetting your orbs with an unexpected outburst of emotion.

“I am sorry,” you manage weakly.

Marcus does not look at you while you cry, and you want to believe it is because he cares too much to watch, but you cannot verify that.

The wind picks up again, but it does nothing to hide the soft cries you can’t hold back. Once you were a fading Goddess, now you are just a failing one.

There is no luck involved with love.

Eventually he speaks again, with his head turned away from you.

“I am sorry too,” he says. There’s a finality in his tone that makes you ache.

So much is said in such little words. He is sorry to you, for you, and with you. A sorrow is shared between the two of you, knowing that your hearts ache for one another as they are worlds apart yet on earth together.

This last berry was only supposed to mark the end of your visits, not the end of everything. It feels like this is all there is for the two of you, since it’s too complicated to continue on like this.

That’s why he doesn’t move away when you move closer and rest your head on his shoulder as tears leak down your cheeks, or at least that’s what you’ll believe.

—

Time moves weirdly when you’re immortal, but it all happens so quickly.

Marcus stopped coming to offer things for you, and so you were blessing him less. Admittedly you had kept an eye on him, but not a keen one. It didn’t feel right, not when you and him weren’t… friends anymore.

But this feels too soon, too fast, too unfamiliar. Has your sadness caused you to be blind?

You watch as a man kneels in front of Marcus, panting and bloody with a sword beside him on the ground.

The only reason you are here was because you had felt the roar of a crowd all the way at your own temple, a wide distance away. It had drawn you in, and instead you had found this.

That roaring which you had heard crescendos to a new height around you as you shimmer into existence, cloaking yourself to the mortal eyes in the stands of the coliseum, but existing enough to touch him.

Arrows stick out of his front, more crushed beneath his back, as he is slumped on the white, gravel, ground. His hair is curled with tacky blood streaking through it, and he is so, so, still.

You drag your hand across his forehead, feeling the remaining heat, and in the echo of the crowd you begin to sob.

Everything around you is moving, changing, fighting, and screaming, but you sit invisible in the center of the coliseum, running your hands over the now dead General Acacius. There is nothing you can do to bring him back, to ease Lucilla, to save him and apologize. He is dead beneath your fingers, with arrows lodged deep in his irreparable, mortal, flesh.

You were supposed to keep him safe.

Hot tears run down your cheeks as you keep grasping at his armor, unable to move him or yourself. The last visit felt official, but this feels final. There is nothing more for you here, no friendship in a corpse.

Thoughts are running through your mind at the rate that your breath is puffing from your chest. The question of where he will end up in the afterlife is overwhelming you, and the chance for him to go to Elysium feels reasonable. It’s where he should be, where he deserves to go, especially after all he had done for Rome. You don’t even care why he’s here, or why he seems to have been brutally killed, but after the time you spent with him, Elysium seems right for him.

—

It’s where he should be. Elysium is where he should be.

And it’s where you find him.

His place there is somewhat similar to his and Lucilla’s home back in the mortal world, with lush greenery and airy drapes that flutter in various colours. It seems like he has left space for Lucilla here too, with space left in the chests for her things, and a permanently made half of the bed.

Elysium offers a true celebration of life for heroes, demigodly or not, and you’re sure Marcus has been enjoying that. Anything that he had been shackled to in his mortal life was gone now, and it seems that all he would have to miss is his wife.

Most of your time is spent there, in his afterlife home. You peer from behind curtains when he comes back, hidden in drapes and keeping yourself small.

He is already dead, but after the last time you abandoned him, you cannot bear to leave him alone again.

The vision of him, bloodied and murdered on the coliseum floor, flickers into your mind every time you see him lying in his bed. It’s an obsession to be near him, to be looking after him. Pluto might not even know you’re down here anymore, but what does it matter?

Marcus Acacius was the last living mortal to worship you. In the underworld, you are beginning to fade. Your fingers are slipping from you again, which is making it easier to lurk near him, but it is a painful process.

You want to speak to him. No longer do you yearn for his love, not after being in his home and seeing how dedicated his heart truly is to Lucilla, but you yearn to speak to him again. A panicked emotion runs through you at the thought of fading alone, of being entirely forgotten.

It didn’t matter before he died, fading was just something bound to happen, but now it’s more. Is he forgetting you?

—

You’ve lost most of your arms by the time you work up the courage to speak up. Lucilla arrived sometime ago, joining Marcus in the afterlife. Watching them together brought some warmth to you, some kind of happiness that you couldn’t have for yourself, but seeing it for him was enough.

You sit on the terrace of their home, invisible to their eyes, and somewhat to your own. From the tips of your fingers to just below your elbows, you are a specter. Grey shadow fills where your limbs used to be, and they pass through all objects. You couldn’t tap his shoulder if you tried.

Oftentimes you sit, hidden, and ponder by yourself about more than Marcus. There were so many things you were adamant about when he was alive, and you regret it all now. Your determination to avoid your feelings, or at least not show them, and your need to not become attached… it bites at you now, a stinging, grieving, venom, that won’t leave. Your status as a Goddess blinded you to how tender that friendship could have been, and now you sit as a ghost spectator to his afterlife, obsessed with a mortal as a fading immortal.

The tips of your fingers pass through the glass you try to grab as you think of this on the terrace. You’re glad that you’re such a minor deity, so at least you do not have to feel so humiliated about fading. A smile has just graced your face as you feel blessed for being so unimportant you can essentially stalk this mortal, when suddenly his voice cuts through the humid air of the space.

“Felicitas?” Marcus’ voice asks.

It’s so hesitant that you think you’re imagining it. You thought you had their home to yourself right now, thinking they had gone to do… whatever souls do in Elysium, but when you turn your face, he is there.

Marcus has not worn fancy clothing in a long while now, and right now is no different. He stands before you in a plain looking tunic, which just graces his knees. To see him at ease has been so nice, but he looks distressed at your sudden appearance.

You cannot find your voice as you awkwardly stand up, trying to think quickly. There is no good way to explain what you’re doing here, hidden away in him and his wife’s home. You could just vanish into thin air, but that feels wrong. He has seen you already, any attempts at pretending you aren’t here would be ridiculous.

His eyes scroll from your face down to your arms, and the smoking shadows that used to be there. Concern pinches onto his face with knitted brows and pressed together lips.

Something in you wants him to turn away, so you don’t have to think about why he is worried for you, even after all the trouble you caused, but he doesn’t.

His sandaled steps are heavy as he comes to you, reaching for your hands but finding the gesture fruitless as his own slip right through yours.

“Dulcissima,” he speaks weakly, shock woven in his words.

You had told him about fading a little while ago, when the two of you were in that field. Now it seems the severity of it has hit him.

What is hitting you is the name. Dulcissima, or sweetest. How long had it been since you had been referred to so fondly? All at once you are being remembered, recognized, and shown some affection. It feels like too much and tears are falling out of your control.

“I’m sorry,” you manage, “I was supposed to– to keep you safe.”

Marcus is shaking his head already, refusing your apology.

“No, no. You did keep me safe, you did. I pushed you away, I couldn’t control myself and I caused this,” he argues.

It does not comfort you that you both blame yourselves. You wish to reach out to him and touch his face like you should have when he was warm and alive. You want to know if he is cold now, and it’s as if he hears you.

Marcus places a hand on your cheek, a softness in his eyes and hold that says that he missed you.

“I saw you,” he claims, “when I was on the ground. You were the last thing I saw.”

Somewhere between life and death for mortals, there are moments of godly clarity. Some see the light, others see their families and memories, but in that tiny glimpse of time, some see Gods.

He was able to see you as you knelt over him, sobbing as you were cloaked to any mortal's naked eye. You were the last thing he saw, and the last thing he truly regretted.

All you can do is stiltedly nod at him, feeling like you were in trouble even though it seems he’s not upset.

For a moment, his eyes flick away, contemplative, but then he meets your gaze again.

“I told Lucilla of you, before I died. Not– not of my feelings which I struggled with, but that you were a close friend, a blessing in many ways.”

A blessing in many ways.

Another choked sob is wracked from your chest, your bottom lip curling out embarrassingly as your face contorts. He almost coos at you, the thumb on your cheek rubbing away your tears.

“Goddess, I have missed you,” he admits.

Stupid nods are all you can offer, your voice imprisoned in your ever tightening throat which cries. When he was alive he was never this tender, too confused and insecure to ever touch you, but it seems he has been regretting things too.

“Felicitas,” he says quietly, “do you come here for ill reason?”

You shake your head this time, rather than nodding. You have no reason to be here, other than the fact that guilt has taken over your mind and heart since he died.

“Then relax, dulcissima. I have an offering for you.”

Marcus relaxes his stature, eyes still gazing over you. He looks at your fading palms and you watch him swallow nervously.

“I will worship you again, lending you offerings here, and all I ask in return is for our friendship again.”

It’s the opposite of how you met, almost completely, but it’s everything you need. You will not fade, he will not struggle in marriage, and you will have one another again.

Again, you are nodding stupidly, but soon you’re embraced by him and nodding into his chest. His hands grasp at your back as he tells you how much he missed you in his final weeks, how he regrets losing you entirely, how he requires you as a friend.

You are satiated in his arms as he comforts you, awakening you again there on the terrace. Unbeknownst to you, Marcus has let tears slip down too as he holds you close.

“You will keep me safe here?” he asks jokingly.

It makes you smile, the idea of offering luck to a man who already died.

“Yes, General. I will keep you safe here, from all the horrifying glory and splendor,” you assure.

The two of you laugh, breaking the embrace but staying close. A passionate connection is still between the two of you, but in a different way now. Maybe when he was alive it was romantic because it is all you could think of, but through his death the two of you have come to understand it more.

You require one another in a unique way, and leaning on one another does not have to be intimate the way he is with his wife. Marcus does need you, just as you need him, and now that you are both immortal in a way, you will never be separated again.

please leave a comment, like, reblog, askbox, or ANYTHING. i'd love to hear thoughts on this <33

tags (people who seemed excited for this) (sorry if these dont work)

@pascalssbabyy , @moonshapedflan , @gossipgirl-03 , @kyloispunk , @frannyzooey , @coocoolahh , @bug-boy32 , @honeymarvel , @magicalmorg , @1deakybass , @tuquoquebrute , @harryshousewhore , @teeagain, @chewie-bars , @vampyyweek , @queenslandlover-93 , @amijenn , @aquanatalie

#pedro pascal #gladiator ii #gladiator 2 #gladiator ii spoilers #gladiator 2 spoilers #marcus acacius x reader #marcus acacius x you #marcus acacius #general acacius #general acacius x reader #lucilla x marcus #i just realized idk lucillas last name oops #pedroverse #ellie writes

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thecoffeelovingfreak · 6 months ago

Text

𝒔𝒐𝒘 𝒂 𝒔𝒆𝒆𝒅 𝒐𝒇 𝒎𝒆𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒚

sequel to eyes of the ranger

pairing: boothill x gn!ex-undertaker!reader

genres: western!au, angst, domestic fluff, bits of hurt/comfort

word count: 8.6k

warnings: spoilers for boothill's backstory, death, heavy angst, explorations of grief, gun violence, blood, implied suicidal thoughts, unhealthy coping mechanisms

notes: I've only seen the bare minimum of his story leaks, and they've been spinning around my head ever since. Some details of the timeline might be tweaked, or imagined/added, but that's just for the au. Still, please enjoy this sequel, and what more I've added to this world! Here's some flowers again :) 💐

Read it on ao3!

~~~

Candles cast their glow brightly across wood panels as you hummed a lilting melody. Hands played with your hair, tugging on the strands to draw your attention away from the swirling pot of stew.

“Papa?"

"He'll be back soon, sweetie."

Your daughter shifted on your arm as you placed the spoon back in its resting spot. Her head fell against your shoulder, no doubt growing bored as crackles of fire echoed across the cabin.

You resumed the tune, bouncing slightly from side to side. She perked up once more as you took her hand over your first two fingers, thumb covering its small size. Her eyes began to crinkle as her first few teeth were revealed by a smile. She always loved dancing and music, likely because of her "silly papa".

When he left for town in the afternoon, he tripped over the porch's last step – on purpose, you suspected. She quickly laughed from where she sat with you in the rocking chair, calling him the nickname as he straightened up again. In just a couple strides he was back in front of you, fingertip meeting her nose before she swatted at him. He chuckled, leaving another kiss on both of your foreheads and embarking again.

As you gently spun, her gaze drifted to the window. She lit up, brighter than any heavenly body, and pointed to the door.

"Papa! Papa!"

The sound of approaching hooves met your ears softly, leading you to peer through the glass panes. Unfortunately, your vision was greeted by the furthest people from Boothill.

The National Hunter's Agency had grown to infamy everywhere you went. They had been given many pardons, and bought off plenty of sheriffs and their higher-ups to be able to operate as they pleased in numerous states. It seems now, after two years, they had caught wind of your bounty and wanted to cash in.

You carefully set her down on the floor, hands staying at her sides in case she lost balance. With some support, you walked her to your shared bedroom, guiding her to hide in your shaker wardrobe.

An anxious hand rotated the knob on the front door, leaving you face to face with a row of five men. Two in suits at the center, and three dressed more rugged at their side.

"Good evening." one greeted, smoke flowing from his mouth. "I assume you know why we're here."

The reverberations of your boots ceased before the steps as you stared at the lineup. "Naturally."

He hummed, throwing the remains of his cigarette to the dirt.

The agent at his right spoke up, "Why don't you walk down here, then."

“Isn’t it your job to capture me?”

“Continue resisting and you don’t have to be the only one we take.”

Your resolution faltered, and the hunters closed in. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

“Are you sure?”

Glass shattered behind you, followed by heavy thumping. Tendrils of dread inched in, their freeze creeping over your bones.

“Step down.”

Despite every instinct screaming for you to move, to follow their commands, denial and fear kept you in place.

“You’ve got about one minute before we force you to.”

A glaze fell over your surroundings, the situation tumbling to the wayside as your thoughts and blood rushed in unison. It was five against one, and each of them were armed – you were not. They had more information than they were letting on. Someone was searching the cabin for your daughter, likely their sixth. She would be weaponized if she was caught, stuck in the crossfire of your bounty.

Was there a way out of this? To prevent what seemed increasingly inevitable?

Well, yes. You could give yourself up.

But there was no guarantee of her safety afterward, or that you would remain alive.

Still, you and Boothill had made a promise when you first took her in, just one year ago. If danger ever presented itself, you would lay down your lives to protect her.

One of the hunters drew his pistol as your boot hit the first step.

Another dismounted, his dirtied white shirt twisting, then straightening once more as he approached you. A rough grip captured your arms, dragging them behind your back. Something hard hit the ground at your right, a rope thrown by one of his partners. It was wrapped and tied around your wrists, the friction beginning to cast a light burning sensation over the skin.

A foot met the back of your knees as he tightened the restraints, dust rising at the impact. One of the agents joined you, the scent of smoke lingering on his fingers as he brought your head up to meet his eyes. They returned to his side a moment later as his gaze turned to the cabin.

A hunter had your little girl in his grasp, her steps short, frightened, and struggling as she was led down the stairs. She looked at you, searching for answers or what to do.

The saddled agent’s voice sounded from behind, “The NHA seeks to rid these ranges of their impurities. When you wish to uproot an evil such as yourself, no trace must remain.”

He gestured toward the four hunters, and his fellow agent disappeared from your view.

Then the brutality they were known for reared its unforgettable head.

The low flat heel of a dress shoe met your back, staying there as you writhed on the ground, watching up at your daughter.

A metallic barrel crept to the rear of her head.

The tendrils of dread became horrible claws, sinking into every organ and twisting.

Warm ruby droplets cascaded over pale brown and flesh, as the shot’s echo dulled your senses and her body crumbled to the ground.

The claws dug open a void as a defeated cry exit your lips. You were released from under the agent’s foot, flipped over to stare at the cloud-stricken dusk. Voices yelled around you, the words fading into one persistent cacophony. A hand pressed itself down onto your shoulder, before a pain blossomed in the other. A rugged face peered down at you, contempt rising in their features. A new flower of sharp ache grew in your left thigh, tears finally stinging at your eyes.

A fresh splattering of blood flowed over your face, shocking you out of despair. Their body went limp over yours, and you quickly brushed them to the side. Now free from the hunter’s reach, you sunk your hands into the dirt beside you, slowly turning yourself back to your stomach. The hilt of a knife hit the ground as you did so, veins coming alight with panic from its twist in your wound.

Despite every injury, you only had one focus – to see your daughter one last time.

Sharp gravel digged uncomfortably underneath your legs as your restrained hands inched forward. Blood thrummed in your ears, yet the unmistakable sound of gunshots broke through. Within a matter of seconds someone rushed to your crawling form. They called for you, voice breaking at the scene as a hand brushed through your hair.

“Darlin’?”

Your head rose at every emotion kept within that one word, asked by a husky voice you could find in any darkness. Anguish cast itself over his face when he finally saw what you were headed toward. He sank to his knees next to you, a wrecked sob reaching into the evening only to be greeted by no comfort.

Reluctantly, you gazed at your daughter’s corpse, journeying silently past Boothill to finally touch her.

A sticky scarlet liquid mocked you, revealing your sorrow-stricken features coated in its kind within the pool. Your fingers rose to her, a warmth lingering below as she was turned. You summoned any last inkling of strength you had, smiling down to her and speaking softly.

“You were my pride and joy, sweetheart. I’ve had no greater honor than being your parent.”

You leaned down, a soft kiss landing on her forehead before you cried a chant of apologies. When any words you could conjure finally entered oblivion, your eyes looked back to Boothill. He hadn’t moved an inch, rendered paralyzed by the gravity of what he arrived home to. It seemed as though he had been ripped apart, every wire inside of him fraying.

This was your fault, and you were sure he knew that too.

Regret became a well in your heart, rising from the depths and overflowing onto its dying grass. Your head ached, thoughts swirling until each one sinked in grief’s whirlpool. In resignation, you lie beside her, holding her chilled hands between your fingers. If you closed your eyes, you could still see her smile as you danced making dinner.

It would feel best if you never opened them again, but you couldn’t leave Boothill to carry this weight alone. He didn’t deserve such a fate.

A hand swiped over your stained cheek, drawing you back to miserable reality. Tears descended from silver, embers kindling beneath their despair. You lifted your hands from hers, closing her lifeless eyes. Boothill’s hat rested at his chest, head downturned from where he knelt.

Together, you mourned.

—

PART I - Fatherhood And Other Dreams

"Papa! The moo-moos!"

"I see them!" Boothill chuckled, watching a finger point at their pasture.

Rena wriggled against his side, wanting to move closer to them. He complied, jogging to the wooden fence as she smiled.

Her small hands reached past the log fence, petting along one of the cow's heads as it grazed. She had such an affinity for the animals here, something you always joked she got from him.

Every morning like clockwork, she would point them out, longing to go and sit with them for a while. He would join her, occasionally teaching her things about their diets or hair as she would get close and stare into their big brown eyes.

Today she angled back against his leg and smiled at her altered reflection in them, before you tousled her growing hair. He hadn’t heard you approach, too absorbed in the scene to hear your boots kick up dust. His hand rose to rub against the back of your neck as you leaned into him, sipping on your mug of black coffee.

He had noticed your odd positioning on the pillow, no doubt leaving you with some pains when you woke. Quiet snores filled the room; something he would laugh with Rena about, her high-pitched giggles overtaking the silence of the night as her hands pat against your cheeks. Your light snoring would cease, and your face would scrunch up at the unexpected disturbance before you recognized the poking of your daughter. He watched as you tickled the side of her neck, placing a hand on her back when she fell on your chest and wiggled around in joy.

He’s never felt more love than in those little moments, witnessing his entire world as two shining stars amidst the murky midnight.

“In!”

“Brush first?”

“Yeah!”

He was brought back to you after a quick shake of his head, two gazes of the same color waiting for him. One enthusiastic, the other fond and patient as he bent down to pick up Rena. She played with his low braided hair, pulling a few small strands free. You ventured to the stables, likely fetching a brush that she had dropped on one of the chairs yesterday.

The grass was fresh with dew, shining under the morning rays. He opened the gate with ease, feeling a breeze run over his cheeks as he shut it behind him. The pasture was wide, yet filled with only ten cows. Each one would be brushed daily by Rena, starting with one patterned in brown and white. It was an activity she had adored since the first time you had brought her out to help just a couple months ago. Seeing how much she enjoyed it, he joined the two of you only a week later.

You came to his side, handing the brush over to her as you sipped on your coffee. He gestured at you with his chin as bristles met little hairs. With a smile, you turned the mug in his direction, a warm and bitter liquid flowing over his tongue.

A gentle laugh left your lips when the cow’s head moved, rising up into the brush and slightly twisting into it. Rena turned to you, beaming as she moved the brush to another spot. The cow reacted in turn, and you laughed again.

The wood ceiling of the barn came into view as Boothill’s head was tugged backward. A light chuckle echoed through the space, falling in time with the noon bird's chirp. His hat tumbled to the hay and dust riddled floor, yet it didn’t remain for long. Little hands left the ends of his hair, snatching the hat instead. He watched, bale in hand, as you scooped up Rena. In a swift motion, you placed his hat on her head, one arm wrapped around your neck and the other reaching for the large brim.

The bale crashed onto the floor, beginning a new stack by one of the stables. The sound brought Rena's attention to him, her head tilting backward to spot him from underneath the hat.

“Like papa!”

“You wanna be like him?"

"Yeah!"

"Then we're gonna have a lot to teach you."

He grinned, the brightness of the sun’s rays and his daughter’s admiration seeping into his smile. With her now distracted by one of the horses, he wrapped an arm around your waist, leaving a kiss on your lips before continuing his work.

The orange and golden rays of sunset beckoned your gaze to the large window overlooking the front porch. Rena slept peacefully on your chest, a combination of a full stomach and boredom likely the cause. You brought the book in your right hand to the other supporting her, flipping the page carefully.

The slow thumping of boots echoed through the door, prompting Rena to stir. She had always been a light sleeper, though she didn't always fully awaken. It seemed that this evening she would, leaning backward into your hand as the door opened. Boothill's figure emerged, lit by the bright horizon. She shuffled as her eyes opened to meet his, slowly laying further backward against your hand. Letting the leather-bound book fall from your lap, you wrapped both hands around her. She whined, leading one of your brows to raise.

Boothill inched closer, stopping at the edge of the rug in your little living area. You set Rena down, your hands staying at her sides. She watched the floor intently, gaze shifting between it and her papa. Quickly you picked up on her intentions, standing behind her and holding her hands just above her head.

Her foot moved forward slightly, and excitement blossomed on both your and Boothill's faces. He knelt down, holding his arms out for her. Feeling encouraged, she moved faster, taking her first few steps with your support. When she finally reached her papa, he lifted her up, cheering at her along with you. She beamed, her feet kicking back and forth in the air as she giggled.

The stars twinkled in the growing twilight, contrasting with the auburn and violet hues on the horizon. Cool grass stood between your fingers, the tranquility of the coming night bleeding into your spirit. The hill provided a lovely view of the valley below as crickets began to chirp. A thin herd of deer moved like whispers just a few feet before you.

One startled in your direction, the sound of Rena picking at strings increasing its paranoia. She was transfixed by the instrument, plucking as she sat in Boothill’s lap. His affectionate gaze watched down at her, adjusting the blanket over her legs.

There were many nights over the past few days you would wake to find Boothill absent from your bed. Rena would stir at your side, face scrunching further into the pillow as she murmured. After returning her stuffed bear from the other side of the bed, you would walk to find him at the kitchen table. The fire lit various scenes; some filled with brushes and varnish, others with whittling tools and etched knobs. Sometimes he would be passed out against the table, shavings coating his cheek. He wanted to complete the gift as soon as possible, his wish of sharing and passing on melodies and lyrics from his life fueling his craft.

Feeling fingers brush through his hair, Boothill would awaken to your soft gaze. Wordlessly you wiped his cheek, taking his hand in yours and bringing him to bed.

Gentle singing met your ears, skilled strumming of a guitar accompanying it. One large hand shifted up and down the strings, holding, shaking, and lifting to change the tune. The other encased one of Rena’s guiding her through the song.

The sun completed its descent underneath the horizon, and the herd of deer found their way back into the forest. Hints of light hung in the sky, now joined by colors of dandelions and the deep sea. The high-pitched babbling of your daughter chimed in during certain sections, forming a heart-warming duet. With your head on Boothill’s shoulder, you hummed along.

—

The town of Iris Creek was blissful, wilted blossoms gathering on the path's edges from the growing heat. The watery flow of its namesake echoed through the grand trees, calming your mind as you approached with Boothill at your side. After your most recent hunt, a week of rest was well-deserved.

Leaning down, you let the velvety liquid rush between your fingers. Its chill permeated your flesh, a content smile on your face as Boothill toyed with your hair.

“I enjoy seeing you this way.” he whispered, staring at you lovingly.

You turned, removing your hand from the water and laying back on the grass.

“At ease?” you questioned.

He nodded, resting down beside you, hat on his chest. You brushed aside his lengthening bangs, turning the strands together before running a thumb over his cheek.

He leaned into your touch as you asked, “Do you watch me sleep then?”

Embarrassed, his face angled toward the ground.

“Gettin’ shy on me, cowboy?”

He gave no response, simply meeting your eyes with a tender silver. Your lips met his cheek, feeling the bashful warmth gracing his features.

“I like it.” you spoke softly in his ear, leaving a little bite along the lobe.

One hand came up to your waist, holding tightly as your focus shifted to his neck. The other fell into your hair, gripping after a bold lick to the revealed skin.

“Can’t help but be at your mercy, sugar.”

“Such a charmer.”

“Around someone like you, it’s only natural.”

A nibble at the edge of his jaw led his fingers to rub underneath your shirt.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Well, look at you. One conversation and I was hooked.”

“All it took was one challenge for you to love me?” you chuckled.

“Sugar, all it took was one glance.”

A cry reverberated down the creek as you finally kissed Boothill’s lips. It was panicked and small, drawing you almost entirely from the moment.

Pushing off of his chest, you sat up to survey your surroundings. Boothill rubbed your thigh, looking at you curiously. Just a minute later the two of you stood, spotting a tarnished cloth amongst the bank’s brush.

“Do you see that?”

He followed your gaze, walking ahead of you only to kneel down and lift the sullied fabric. His eyes widened as he beckoned you over. The crying intensified, a tiny head turning from side to side.

A baby.

Boothill was the first to move, cradling them gently in his arms. You brought a finger to their grabbing hands, brushing another one over their forehead.

“What should we do?” you wondered aloud.

“Take them in?” he uttered.

“Are we ready for that, though? We’re wanted criminals, Boothill. That’s no life for a child.”

“Then we settle down.”

“There’s still no guarantee we won’t be hunted or ambushed.”

Your hands fell back to your side, unsure eyes watching the gears turn in his mind.

“We would be their parents, together we can take anybody. Lay down our lives if necessary. We could find somewhere more isolated, maybe even further out of this state. Teach them some of our methods as they get older.”

A heavy sigh left your lungs, the weight of dozens of questions slowly dissipating. There were many details to discuss and new plans to craft. Nonetheless, your head landed on Boothill’s shoulder, two adoring gazes on your child.

Butter-colored rays bore through the train car’s windows, wide mountains of tan rock and green bushes waiting outside. A bundle of blankets lay in your arms, encasing your daughter in comfort and warmth.

Boothill had left for them not long after you brought her back to the hotel, returning worriedly with them in hand. They were soft and luscious, leading you to wonder who he had stolen them from. “Only the best for our little girl” – it wasn’t just a statement but a promise.

Another was sworn that evening, your daughter finally clean and sleeping in your arms. Boothill rest behind you in the bed, shielding your small family from any danger while wrapping you in care.

“What should we name her?” he asked quietly, warm breath fanning over your neck.

You pondered silently, letting your head lay on his shoulder. “How about Rena?”

He hummed, a thick finger running over her forehead. “From that play of Effie's, right?”

“I think her story was admirable. Live freely, out on your own road, never waste your time with what you can’t change.”

“Now I like the ring of that.”

“See?” you smiled, a teasing slant to it. “When I wrote to her a few days ago she added in a thought or two about the characters. She said Rena also meant melody, at least according to what she could find in Thatcher's library.”

“Then it's settled.”

His chin landed in the crook of your neck as he simply watched her be, absorbed in thoughts of the future. It wasn’t until she stirred, eyes opening and hands seeking, that you witnessed him take on a gentleness formerly reserved for only you.

His eyes began to water as she held his finger close, staring up in his direction yet unable to pin him down. When she finally did, he sat like a spooked deer, only releasing a low, happy chuckle after your own.

A cough down the car broke you from idle reminiscence. Boothill read a crinkled paper, the letter sent from the ranch you were seeking out. He had come back one evening with the result after days of asking around. Down near Iron Springs, there was someone with plenty of land – could provide decent wages and a cabin to stay in. A suitable place to settle down, with much for Rena to learn and experience.

Taking his cheek between your empty fingers, you pinched and watched him grumble. Despite your lifestyle, you could only hope that this would be a lovely and safe life for her.

—

PART II - A Luminous Star, Ephemeral

Murky skies cried chilling droplets, harshly soaking your bloodstained shirt. The evening had to be setting in, but any hope of seeing the sun finally fade had long since dissipated with the storm’s onslaught. A frayed splinter dug into your palm, the weight of the shovel increasing as the hole in the ground deepened. The dirt was malleable, easy to unearth and pile up.

Many graves were dug by your hand, and you prayed this would be the last.

Boothill wept only a few feet away, Rena’s corpse in his arms underneath a sturdy tree. Ashamed, your gaze fell back to the emptying plot.

Heavy throbbing found its home along your left side, yet still, you had to dig. The pain was deserved – a punishment that fit your crime. Crusting edges tug and bent at the surrounding skin, the quickly cauterized wounds only growing more irritated by the rainwater.

Trickles of pink traversed down your cheeks, blood washing away slowly with your tears. Leaning on the shovel, your eyes rose from the ground. A strong and steady breeze cast the rain in sheets, carving figures in the mist. Discerning who they were was useless, you could remember them anywhere.

Your father, the Weston family, and your daughter.

The mud and soil coating your fingers shifted to a deep scarlet, beads falling from their tips and hitting your boots. Trees morphed into tombstones, and you found yourself paralyzed. Mr. Whitfield’s gravelly voice rang in your ears, drowning out any natural melodies.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to mourn a pure soul, lost too soon. Rena Blackwell was an adored child, and she will continue to be so in our thoughts, and all the way to the depths of our hearts. Her smile could dispel any darkness, and her curiosity persisted to the ends of the earth. Her fascinations lie with animals and music, her greatest friends a pony and her papa’s guitar. May she find eternal peace amidst these mountains and plains, their windy song carrying her gently to the hereafter.”

Lightning crackled across the sky, an omen of your judgment day. Boothill’s shadowed figure stand illuminated by the last ounce of daylight breaking from the clouds. Rena lay delicately in the grave, eyes closed and hands folded, his hat just beneath their union. Wordlessly he took the shovel, leaving you to kneel at her side as dirt cascaded over her corpse.

Stars found their stages in the wisp-struck night sky, their beaming light mocking. If they were tangible to Earth, you would have left plenty of rounds in them. Mourning was an act displayed to you since childhood, but it never came easily. Perhaps that was part of the point. Loss would never be simple, and humanity is far too complex to handle it so. Death was an odd thing, and despite working so intimately with the inevitable specter, it had yet to reveal every one of its forms.

Every body you would prepare never revealed its secrets. No amount of soap and water could cleanse it's invasiveness. No number of incisions and blood drained could release the agony. The fluids injected could not provide life, and clothes would only emulate. Death was permanent, and excruciating to all.

You could shoot a man without hesitation, but being along the receiving end of that cruelty, you could only resign yourself to regret. You killed bad men, yet they still had lives. Friends and family they found or created.

The grating sound of a knife on wood reached your ears, breaking into your thoughts. Boothill sat opposite to you, a neat piece of bark in his hands. Raging thunder rolled, sending a chill down your spine. Paranoia created the shattering sense that you would be reunited with Rena by dawn. Either by your own hands or someone else’s; perhaps the heavens would shoot back, sanctioned by some higher force that heard your monologue.

You watched him work, one tainted hand of yours rubbing back and forth over the dirt housing your daughter. His actions soon faded to oblivion as the song of the storm played on.

When a new bolt of lightning crashed, you became privy to her tombstone.

Rena Blackwell

Beloved star

1892 - 1892

Boothill stood, utterly dejected and tear-stained, before extending a hand down to you. His head met your shoulder once you rose, and one of your hands reached his hair. Strength was needed of you, not misery. The only comfort you received was a fact – no harm would befall you in Boothill’s arms, unless he pointed the gun at you instead.

—

Cheers ascended from under the floorboards, filling your pitch-black room with taunting joy. Your eyes remained on the ceiling, hands at your sides as you lay still – attempting to sink into the hard mattress while the hurricane to your left continued. It was the sixth night ending like this. Boothill had yet to find slumber, his journey to it only filled with suffering. He never reached out, always keeping his back to you and his face toward the pillow.

Despite the stinging urge to run your fingers through his hair, not once could you ever. Conflicting instincts wanting nothing more than to soothe him, but craving an escape.

You rubbed your eyes, throwing the sheet off of your body. The night chill creeped in, the sensation a welcome dissipation for your tenseness. A sniff echoed before a heavy sigh, and not even a moment later the bed resumed its light shaking. Stomps came in unison from the bar below, startling you to jump. With a worn exhale you sat up, feet touching the rough floor. In just a couple quick movements, you were dressed well and ready to face the ruckus below.

A saddened silver gaze finally revealed itself in the sliver of light from the doorway, but yours focused only on the ground, afraid to face him.

Instead, you would find solace in a bartender’s hands, the liquor he poured leaving a delightful blaze in your throat – easing the pain one sip at a time. It was only now you could understand why Isaiah Weston made the choices he did. Too cowardly to navigate his emotions, much less his son’s. The vulnerability intimidating, and any words gone with the wind. A weight too heavy to hold, but various fears preventing you from ever sharing it.

Getting lost in the bottle was a romantic escape, then, even if you would come to regret it. That blossomed the vicious cycle, when your method of coping only added more guilt – defeating the purpose of this night to begin with.

A hand placed itself on your shoulder, bringing your gaze from empty shot glasses to a familiarly styled head of black hair. Tears rapidly welled in your eyes, spirit feeling despondent when their hand returned to the counter.

“Jasper?” you whispered, feeble hope fueling your delusion.

They shook their head at you, “I’m afraid that’s not my name.”

“My apologies.” you nodded, downing another round as they began talking to the bartender.

He was dead, the first to meet the end of your revolver. There was no place to find him besides six feet under, at the very cemetery you first met.

Perhaps a visit to Fort Talia was what you needed. It had been four or five years since you left that fateful night with Boothill, never to look back. Although now, after everything, maybe looking back is the right thing to do. Return to, and learn from the past in order to glance forward. Walk the deck of the funeral parlor, stop by your old house. Finally speak to your mother again.

It was decided. Talk to Boothill come morning and see if he would join you.

—

Bright noon rays lit up the dusty buildings of Fort Talia, its peaceful people walking past Boothill with nods and greetings. Under any other circumstance he would respond, however words failed him now. The brim of his new hat hung low, obscuring his features and providing a bit of comfort. The less others saw of him the better.

He was fractured, too many pieces scattered across the range for him to find. Conversation would not come easy when he could hardly even handle a talk with himself. Your hotel rooms had become suffocating as of late. Silence reigning and gazes only ever in opposing directions. It was cold – a sensation Boothill had become unfamiliar with after all these years. That only served to make your icy temperament feel like a burning hell. No words exit your lips, eyes focused out of windows, on the ceiling or the floor. It was unbearable, the shunning that leaked from your figure.

What had he done to make you feel so? Was he even to blame?

Silver watched the clouds drift over the sky, a horrible longing to join them occupying his mind. A nearly impossible fate for him, now feared more than ever.

“Papa!”

A small, light voice shouted excitedly, followed by the pattering of boots on the deck.

Boothill turned expectantly, arms shifting and ready to pick up his daughter.

Instead he was made a fool.

He quickly returned to a regular stance, leaving down the nearby alleyway to lean himself against the wood. That was somebody else’s child, not his. The title he came to love most would never be used again, abandoned amidst the Iron Springs forest. “Papa” was her first word, and possibly even her last.

He recalled the tears you shared when she spoke, listening to her babble about him. Her voice was that of angels, as if he was finally worthy of speaking to the heavens.

Now he lost that angel, the most vivid star in the sky.

Three moss-coated tombstones lay before you, names that you first came to know at fifteen.

Isaiah, Callie, and Jasper.

Ellis must rest in Warren, then. Forever separated from his family.

A couple desert marigolds grew along the path to the cemetery, and you left one at each of their graves. Six in total gathered in your hand – one for each person you were to visit, as well as two extras for whoever you saw fit.

Boots trudged through the dry ground, avoiding stones that shaped plots or decorated the base of a tombstone. Rocks of grey and tan sat below your father’s and the one now beside it.

Upon reading the inscription, the marigolds fell to the dust.

Your mother was buried at his right, her death only one year ago.

With your forehead to the fine wood of said tombstone, your resolve finally crumbled. Any strength you wished to hold forsaken for the misery you denied. Tears flowed and fell frenzied, patiently creating a mud where your fingertips dug into the ground.

All of this loss, but why?

Why cherish anything if it would only be ripped away?

Holding your precious little girl one moment, only for her blood to splash over your face the next. Befriend a lonely boy, one who you found a kinship with, just for him to be shot by your hand.

Your mother, who despite her own mourning, still silently reached out to you, giving you what support she could muster. Your father, who robbed and killed unbeknownst to you, still provided and taught you things he knew about the world that would never be shared at the old schoolhouse.

They all had one common thread – loving you.

Burden, plague, curse. All words that could describe what a detriment you were. If they never loved you, never met or created you, perhaps their fates would be different.

What of Boothill, then?

—

Droplet-stained windows displayed a wagon of bottles stopping outside of the saloon. One of the drivers lept from its front, unlocking the back panel and pulling out two jugs. He lifted them in each hand, a big smile on his face as he cheered through the doors.

The crude and familiar scent of cigarette smoke curled through the window as you cracked it open, the stale quietude of your hotel room grating your nerves. Boothill observed you idly from the bed as you inhaled deeply, palms on the framing. The smell was lovely now, soothing almost. His gaze bore into you, seemingly trying to decipher your inner world.

"What is it?" you spoke softly, head turning toward him.

He sighed, eyes shifting to the ceiling. "I… You've just been so… cold I guess. I try not to take it personally, but I can't help it sometimes."

"Our daughter died, Boothill."

He sat up, "You think I don't know that?"

With a heavy exhale, you faced him. "Of course you do, but I just…"

"Every day begins and ends with her. Not a second goes by where that scene ain't fillin' my head."

"You assume it isn't the same for me? I watched them shoot her – her blood was on my face for hours! Do you think I can forget that?"

"I'm not askin' you to!"

"It sure sounds like it!"

"I just want some answers and for you to recognize that you're not the only one hurtin' here. Shutting me out hasn't been doing any good."

"Shutting you out? I recall you doing that to me. Any time I reach out, you leave or move away from me, and I get no words, nothing! You've got no love or respect for me anymore!"

"Don't you go there." He stood, inching closer to you with every word. "How dare you say that I feel nothing for you. If anything, you've been giving that treatment to me. Do you know how it feels to lay there cryin', wishing that your partner would just run their fingers through your hair and share that pain with you? No. Instead they go out for the night doin' who the heaven knows what, and then return at dawn like nothing happened. Like they didn't just abandon you to return reeking of alcohol or bruised and bloodied. Do you know how powerless that makes somebody?"

"I'm handlin' my own pain my way. I'm tryin' to be strong for you!"

"I don't want you to be strong for me! I want to know that my partner is here, and never leavin'! You remember what I said? I take care of you and you take care of me. That was the promise!"

"Well how are you takin' care of me exactly?"

"How am I supposed to begin if you never let me in!"

"Rich comin' from the likes of you."

"Why're you talkin' down to me? Do you think that helps?"

He paused before you, staring down into your eyes with a mixture of fire and love – an undertone of concern and fear. His hands came to hold your shoulders, and you hesitantly accepted the touch. One drifted up to the side of your neck, his thumb tracing your jaw and the edge of your cheek. The way he'd always comfort you. A guilt began setting in, tearing and biting at your throat, preventing any words from leaving you – likely for the better after your childish retorts.

"I don't wanna fight with you, darlin'. Please, just talk to me."

Wordlessly, you placed your arms around his neck, hugging him cheek to cheek. His own came to encase you when you finally whispered everything in his ear.

"I miss you… so much it hurts. I'm so sorry for all of the turmoil I've given you. That was never my intention. I just… I felt like you hated me. Blamed me for her… death."

"I never could."

"And I know that now. I didn't mean to be so cold, and I understand how you need me. I must admit I'd like to be selfish and have you do the same."

"That's not selfish."

You sniffed, "My… my mama died a year ago."

"Darlin'..."

"I didn't know." Fresh tears welled in your eyes. "She had no way to write to me. I have no idea what could have happened to her. She was all alone, lost to the world in our little house."

His hands descended to your hips, carefully stepping backward as you clung to him reluctant to move. He turned, setting you down on the bed before walking to get a blanket off of one of the chairs. The soft wool came into your hands before a weight settled behind you.

“Lay down.”

You shifted up the bed, throwing the blanket over your legs and resting your head. Boothill shuffled up next to you, his cheek to your chest. He stared up at you, eyes closing when your fingers finally ran through his hair. A sigh filled the room, mingling with gentle neighing from the street below. Silver was revealed to you once more, a low and husky whisper reaching your ears.

"We had this huge tree, back on the farm down in Redhawk. Its branches were wide and overflowing with leaves, but on a windy night you could see the stars through them. My fathers, they were always dreaming -- planning for our future. We'd sit out there and they'd talk for a while, answer any of my questions and teach me some life lessons. Eventually, one would get to strummin' on the guitar and we'd sing and cheer along – it was the most fun when some of their friends would come to visit or we'd host some guests from the road.

One was more pragmatic than the other, though they both had sharp minds. He could talk to anybody, find out anything he wanted to know. More caring and gentle, but still very strong. My other was a great gunslinger, and charismatic to a fault. He was a little rough around the edges, but I loved him anyway. They were my idols; taught me nearly everything I knew before I started goin' on the round-ups. Wasn't until I went back to our farm just a couple years later that I found it tore apart, two letters on the dining table for me. They were gone -- one captured and killed by the NHA and the other off to get revenge. He left me one of his revolvers, the same one I still use today."

Your fingers ran over his exposed cheek, noting the brimming water in his eyes matching your own.

“They raised a brilliant son.”

Your voice cracked as you finished speaking, watching him cry into you as you released your own burdens. The euphoria of budding forgiveness and the grief previously set aside catching up to you. It seemed that nearly every pain of yours was one he shared at some point or another, and it only emphasized the resolution of your argument.

You needed each other now more than ever.

—

“Are my eyes playin’ tricks on me?”

“Well I don’t believe it either.”

A man shook hands strongly with Boothill, hitting his other down on his shoulder. He had a confident glint in his hazel gaze, a boisterous air around him.

“How’ve you been, you beautiful piece of scrap?” he chuckled.

“Times have certainly been better.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, friend.” was his somber reply.

You extended your hand, feeling a calloused one against your palm.

“I see you’re his partner in crime, undertaker.”

“You got one of your own yet?” you asked, trying to keep the atmosphere light.

“Of course! You’re more than welcome to come by tonight and meet her, our kids as well! We’ve got two of them raisin’ hell all over the place.”

“Thank you, but-”

“We’ll be there.” Boothill interrupted, a sharp smile contrasting with his sullen eyes.

“I’m happy to hear that!” Lee beamed, “Some supper'll be ready for you.”

His hand hit your elbow playfully before he focused on Boothill.

“What liquor do you like now, ‘Hill?”

Lee’s porch was well-lit, a small garden out front with bright flowers and a structure of twigs resting alongside the stairs. It was likely built by his children, or whoever got distracted while watering and left puddles on the steps. A light knock reverberated through the door, summoning a figure that stood as tall as the knob to open it.

“Hello!”

Quick steps came from behind them, before the door was tugged open further.

“Come in, please!”

You were the first to cross the threshold, a large fireplace and a set table coming into view. Chairs were gathered immediately to your left, some books and a half-built pyramid of empty cans decorating the scene. Blankets were gathered against the wall, dark brown eyes meeting yours as a shaggy dog rose from its bed.

Lee carried a pot to the table, a white cloth protecting his hands from the hot handles. He uttered warnings of the heat to his kids, the same ones who greeted you at the door. Another figure, just slightly taller than him, followed behind with a pitcher of water in one hand and a bottle of bourbon in the other.

While they continued preparing the food and adjusting the ambience, one child tugged on the ends of Boothill’s coat. The other peppered him with questions, looking excitedly at his gun and even more so at the chamber kept in his arm. A small smile grew on his face at their attention before they returned to Lee, wanting to know stories about his “heroic” friend. He followed them to the table, pouring two cups of water from the pitcher and handing it to them. Joyfully, they thanked him and resumed their conversation with Lee.

Seeing what he had raised mixed feelings. You were happy that he had found somebody of his own, that they seemed to love each other and work well together. That joy still couldn’t bury the tinge of envy sinking in, created from how it hurt to be reminded of what your family could have been had Rena simply been allowed to grow.

Scratching behind one of the dog’s ears, a tap landed on your shoulder and grey fingers came into view. They held a glass out to you, filled with clear liquid.

“For you, darlin’.”

The undertone of his words were not lost on you – avoid drinking tonight. Let me take care of you.

“Would you like some stew?”

The welcoming voice of Evelyn sounded from the dining table, a bowl and ladle in her hands. You accepted her offer, watching her gold wedding band glint in the light as you approached her. Their dog followed just behind, its nose occasionally bumping into the back of your leg.

The stew was warm in your hands, making a soft thud against the counter as you sat beside Boothill. A savory broth coated your tongue, the heat of a home-cooked meal comforting amidst the chilly desert night. Conversation flowed easily between all of you, as if you were playing back at the saloon years ago. It wasn’t until there were scraps in bowls and empty glasses covering the table that it took a more serious turn.

Evelyn dismissed their children, Emmett and Mable, from the table. Begrudgingly they went to the living area, playing with the dog and continuing to build their pyramid.

"What happened, 'Hill?" Lee questioned lowly.

You placed your hand along the back of Boothill's neck, meeting his somber gaze. “Let’s talk about it.”

He sighed, his eyes leaving yours and looking at the couple on the opposite side of the table. "Just eight or nine months ago we found a baby up in Iris Creek. We took her in as our own, raising her at that ranch I was tellin’ you about in Iron Springs.” He paused a moment, and you brushed your thumb against his nape, your focus remaining on the wood floor. “About… About three weeks ago the NHA came knockin'. They killed her right in front of them." His gaze turned to you momentarily. "I arrived shortly after."

"I'm so incredibly sorry to hear that." Evelyn spoke gently, placing her hands over one of yours and Boothill's. "I won't pretend to know that pain, but we're here if you need anything."

Lee reciprocated her action, a grit in his voice that was vastly different from hers. "Those cruel bastards will get their judgment day." He exhaled after a glance from his wife, solemnly looking at you, then at Boothill. "She's right, though. A room, food, company, whatever you need. There'll always be a warm fire ready here for you."

—

Bidding farewell to the McHale’s was difficult. They wanted nothing more than to continue catching up, but the night was passing and grogginess collectively set in. Emmett and Mable shouted their goodbyes from the porch, accompanied by the waves of Evelyn and Lee. You returned their gestures, slowly riding off from their home. Boothill’s gaze turned to the stars after saying his own goodbyes, watching the sky as he shifted back and forth. There was much to ponder after that visit, especially for him. The two of you hadn’t talked much in the past few hours, occupied by your own worlds and memories of the past.

Life had been fulfilling thus far, though one world-altering regret weighed heavily on that idea. A certain finality came with it, a need for eventual acceptance lest you meet that finality yourself. In time you would arrive there, but for now it was best to let the pain run its course – feel it and share in it. Boothill had no expectation of you than to simply be there for him as he is for you. Rena had two parents, and lived the best, most beautiful life you could provide for her.

There was one thing you had learned about death -- all that it claimed were eternally benevolent, either in life or the hereafter. If your parents, or Boothill's fathers were here right now, made of flesh and blood, they would want the best for you. For you to live another day and find your place in this wide and bittersweet world. They strived the same as you, to give their child the life they deserved. Perhaps Jasper's notions in the face of death's door were correct. Family would reunite, free of burdens and earthly matters. Spirits would live on in bliss, their memory preserved by each generation.

When you picture all that you've lost, you see a beautiful ranch -- just like the one you worked in Iron Springs. There would be a grand tree, housing Boothill's fathers and little Rena giggling and tugging on one's hair just like she would with you. Your parents would exit a cabin with various drinks and a bowl of apples, stopping to share one with a horse on their way to the meeting spot. Maybe even the Weston's were there, Isaiah smiling from a rocking chair on the porch. Callie would be happy, free of sickly features and whistling a tune. Ellis, cleaning his guns right beside his father. And Jasper would walk from the door, giving each of them a hug before running over to your parents and helping them carry their goods.

If the day ever came, when you would face that reaper with your boots on, that was the life you craved to return to. One where you could drink, laugh, and settle things with your large family -- everyone you ever held dear gathered 'round to celebrate the day. You would wait for Boothill, the inevitable fact being that he would outlive you. It was an idea accepted long ago. Confronting reality was necessary for the life you lead.

Yet that was the other thing about death -- love surpasses it. No matter what kind that love was, it would dance across the edge into the realm of departure. While it may alter itself, those living would still hold its fondness.

If the day ever came that Boothill joined you, either as he is now or as Jesse Blackwell, you would greet him with arms wide open. That very same love remaining with the dead, living in their own peaceful way at your little ranch.

"What's on your mind, darlin'?" he whispered, gazing at you now, instead of the night sky.

"You, and our dreams." you replied with a small smile.

“How romantic of you.” he chuckled, a contrasting and heavy look in his eyes.

Silence rode along between you for a moment until you spoke up, “Where do we go from here?”

He exhaled, a defeated yet promising sound. “Let’s just start with our hotel room. Take it one day at a time from there.”

#coff writes for hsr 🍾#i've only seen like four of the things that have been shared and talked about the most from his leaks #mostly since i don't want to seek them out #since i think it'll be even more impactful when it's officially shared in the story #but still #i'm looking forward to it :)#and with the little bit i've seen so far #i wanted to continue his and the reader's story in this au #and the challenges that come with what they face #especially with the reader being a former undertaker #also the title is from seed of memory by terry reid if you're curious :)#and if you know where the title for part 1 is from here's some extra love 🫶 one of my favorite games of all time and an inspo for this au #anyway tag time!#honkai star rail #hsr #hsr boothill #hsr x reader #hsr boothill x reader #honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail boothill #honkai star rail boothill x reader #hsr fanfic #hsr au

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