EMBERS (Marcus Acacius)

XVIII | An Undeniable Truth

The forest around us was still, save for the faint rustling of leaves stirred by the warm desert wind. The camp of hastily-erected tents and the distant murmurs of soldiers, had long since faded into the background. Now, in the quiet of the trees, the weight of the silence between Acacius and I felt almost suffocating.

Acacius walked a few paces ahead of me, his purposeful strides not quite as confident as they used to be. The was something unfamiliar about the way he carried himself—an undercurrent of palpable uncertainty that reflected in his weary gaze. He was still the same person I had known long ago, but time had left its mark on him. The blasé nonchalance that I used to find so contagious was now replaced by a soldier's jaded resolve, tempered by years of war and battle.

New lines and scars littered his face. Grey streaked through his hair and speckled along his jaw, cutting through the warm brown that had used to solely occupy his head—like weeds infesting a garden. I couldn't deny that it aged him a lot, but not in a bad way; he looked good. Though age, responsibility and undoubted loss had clearly moulded him into someone I was only vaguely familiar with. And yet... through the superficial changes, I could still see him perspicuously and distinctly. He was still the same Marcus Acacius that I had once trusted so unconditionally.

The painful ache in my chest returned, sharp and unwelcome as ever. I had never allowed myself to even hope that I might see him again. I had accepted that our time together—however short—was over. I hadn't expected to ever lay eyes on him again, let alone in this manner. But, here he was, walking in front of me. Different—undoubtedly. Older, but he still had that same burning inferno in his eyes.

Neither of us dared to speak as we walked through the sparse foliage. The tension thickened, becoming increasingly heavy—as if we were both waiting for the other to break the silence, but neither of quite knew how. What can I say? I wondered, biting the inside of my cheek in thought. It had been so long since we had last seen each other. What's even left to say?

Finally—after what seemed like hours—Acacius halted, turning around so his back was to me. I watched as he stared into the surrounding forest, his hands clasped tightly behind his back and his posture stiff, but weary. It was as if he was attempting to put together the puzzle of his thoughts, but to no avail. I couldn't help but think how strange it was to see him like this. The old Acacius—even in the chaos of battle or in the arena—had always exuded a quiet confidence that—more often than not—had me wondering if it was real or just misguided self-assuredness. Now, it was replaced by a vulnerability that I had only witnessed a handful of times before.

"I never thought I'd see you again," he said, his voice rough, like the words had been trapped for years, trying desperately to escape. "After all this time... I thought you were gone. That you'd left this world without a trace."

I swallowed hard, revelling at the conviction in his voice. The certitude etched into each word sent an unsettling sensation straight into my gut. It was an immense struggle to meet his gaze. "I never wanted to leave you, Acacius," I whispered, trying to convey my utmost sincerity through my voice. "You have to believe me."

He turned to face me then, and I saw the flicker of disbelief that glimmered in his eyes. There was something else there as well—a quiet sadness. It was obvious that he had so many questions floating around—unanswered—in his mind; questions that could only be answered by me.

"But you left," he said quietly, his brows furrowing in confusion. "And I couldn't follow you. Lucilla said you had to leave for your safety, but she never told me why. She just let me think you were gone—and I couldn't do anything about it."

There was a painful rawness in his voice and guilt washed over me like a torrent. The pain and frustration and wondering... I had caused it. Unwittingly—yes—but it was my fault, nonetheless. Acacius had spent the last decade in mental agony, wondering if I was dead or alive—if I was safe, if I was nearby. And Lucilla had appeased none of his fears. A small part of me was furious at her for that, but she hadn't known where I was. The only person who knew of my destination in Numidia was the man who had escorted me to Ostia, and he had insisted that he would not tell anyone.