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A squadron of imperial soldiers landed in the marsh, their magitek footgear sinking into the mud with a slosh. The air, thick with humidity, carried the sour stench of rot, and the only source of lighting was the dim glow of their equipment. Only the distant call of strange frogs kept them company as they traversed deeper.
Reports had come in of a small tribe who had harnessed a beast to combat the building of a nearby castrum. Fearing eikon activity, the legion sent elite forces to investigate—Vergilia, then a senior centurion of only twenty summers, led them deeper into the wetlands between the mountains. The group trudged through mud and silt, the ground shifting underfoot as they pushed deeper. A soft cry rang out in the night, and Vergilia halted them in place, lifting her hand for silence.
“Something approaches,” one of her men whispered, peering out into the darkness with a tense expression.
Eikon it was not, nor particularly fearsome, but the construction crew were right to their complaints. Its bellows softened the earth until Vergilia and her men were waist-deep in quicksand. The battle, which should have been over in minutes, dragged on for bells. Mud splattered Vergilia’s face with every passing moment, hindering her vision and coating her armor in sludge. Her muscles strained as she drove her blade into the creature’s hide; her men were in no better shape, all struggling to stay their ground and not be dragged deeper into the pit.
When the beast finally fell, Vergilia and her men crawled from the thick mire caked in muck and gasping for breath. Though she thoroughly cleansed herself and her armor at the barracks, it still weighed her down long after she had returned home to the capital.
“An exhausting adventure, then,” Nerva commented as she shared the story.
They sat on her couch and he massaged her sore arms as she winded down, her head slumped against the backrest. An odd gesture of affection from a prince towards his inferior, but one gladly accepted. Vergilia groaned as he worked her muscles, the tension melting away under his touch. For a man who had never used them for any labor, Nerva was always good with his hands. “Aye, it was.” She leaned into his touch and closed her eyes as a content sigh escaped her lips. “I must’ve spent an hour trying to get the muck out of the joints in my armor.”
Nerva stifled a chuckle at her plight, his fingers kneading away at a knot he found. “You succeeded, if your impeccable cleanliness is anything to go by,” he teased lightly, his touch gentle yet firm.
“If you think I look like a swamp creature, you should have seen my men.” Vergilia huffed in weary amusement. “They were smeared up to their eyebrows. We all smelled like rotting vegetation and wet pugnax once everything was said and done.”
Nerva wrinkled his nose playfully at the thought. “That sounds decidedly unsavory. I, for one, am quite thankful I remained ensconced in the comfort of the palace.”
“Lucky you.” Vergilia’s smirk faded as she geared up to ask her next question. It was a loaded one, but their catching up demanded it. “How is the wife?”
Nerva’s ministrations faltered, his easy demeanor suddenly distant. He covered it up with haste, but the change didn’t go unnoticed. “She is… well.” The answer slipped through a heap of hesitation. Vergilia could hear the thinly veiled discomfort lacing his otherwise smooth tone. She had stepped on a sore topic—it snared her heart like the marsh snared her limbs. “Though the medicus suggests she should gain weight for the pregnancy to take.”
Vergilia noted how frost crept over his expression; even the casual touch seemed stiff now, his gaze averted from hers. She knew of their troubles, how years had passed and miscarriages were suffered in their efforts. It pained her to press on past both the sympathy and the jealousy churning in her gut. She swallowed the question scratching at the back of her throat, then spoke again, carefully. “And you? How are you feeling about…” She paused before dropping to a near-whisper as she spoke the landmine of a phrase, “Becoming a father?”
Nerva’s hands stilled. Complicated emotions emerged: a touch of excitement, a hint of unease, and a layer of guilt, all in the twitch of his mouth. She read them fluently. “I want to do right by my child and my wife, but I can’t deny that I’m also…” He trailed off, quietly grappling with his own thoughts. “Terrified.”
Vergilia ached at his confession. She reached up to place a hand on his and gave it a comforting squeeze. “It is natural to feel that way,” she reassured, “but you have the potential to be an amazing father, Nerva. Your fortitude, your wit, your determination—those are admirable qualities that will benefit your child, especially should they inherit them.”
“What if they inherit my worst qualities, too? My stubbornness, my short temper? I don’t want them to bear those, I don’t want them to—” The words caught in his throat, the mere admission stung.
Vergilia shifted closer to him, her free hand gently cradling the side of his face. “No one is without their faults, Nerva,” she whispered a soothing balm for his turmoil. “Those faults do not define you. Your child might inherit any number of your strengths and weaknesses, but they’ll be their own person too. They’ll travel their own path, make their own choices—and I have faith that you’ll guide them well and help them be the best they can be.”
Nerva closed his eyes and leaned into her touch, leeching comfort from her words and her presence. His hand moved to cover hers, holding onto her as an anchor in a storm. “You have an unshakeable faith in me, always,” he murmured. “I only hope that I can live up to it.”
He showed startling vulnerability, an admission of self-doubt that he rarely vocalized. Vergilia wanted to kiss him so fervently it hurt. But she wouldn’t. He was a married man. A wife of the crown was an heir factory and a symbol—someone like the Domina Garlea he wed, not Vergilia who wrestled with her brothers and lived on the battlefield. Even his mother, once a tribunus in the very same legion she now represented, made sacrifices in becoming a Galvus and bringing him and his sister into the world. Nerva had made it clear he wanted no such sacrifices for Vergilia. She would have been ready to make them.
The unsaid words lingered in the air in between, screaming in their silence. Vergilia was well aware of her place in his life—a childhood friend, a trusted companion. Even more on some days, but not the one he had chosen to spend his life with. And never the one he would choose. She pushed the sorrow aside, schooling her features into a soft smile. “You have always lived up to my expectations, Nerva. This will be no different.” Her hand lingered on his cheek, reluctant to let go.
A war waged in his eyes when they reopened. He looked at her, taking her in—every feature, every detail he’d etched into his memory. His gaze lingered on her lips, and she knew he, too, was fighting against the same urge she was.
Finally, he withdrew his hand from hers and leaned back against the couch, pausing the intimate closeness that had developed between them but not breaking it. Neither could ever escape it. Not truly. They’d keep slowly sinking in over long years of pining, every attempt to detach only pushing them deeper.