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Chapter Text

"We are all wanderers on this earth. Our hearts are full of wonder, and our souls are deep with dreams."

– Khalil Gibran

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Louis 

The war was tough, but Louis was tougher. 

Over the last 6 months, the Achaean War took many lives. Many friends and family were killed, while close to 30,000 neighbours and civilians were enslaved by the Romans. The walls of Corinth crumbled under the relentless assault of Roman legions, and Louis stood amidst the chaos, his sword heavy with blood and his spirit fractured. He had fought with the fire of a desperate man, rallying the broken remnants of the Achaean League, only to see his fellow soldiers slaughtered and the city engulfed in flames.

The sharp smell of smoke carried away everything he had ever loved—his homeland, his brothers-in-arms, even his own family he had sworn to protect. Stripped of purpose and honour, Louis fled the carnage and wandered the scarred hills of Greece, his armour tarnished and his heart hollow. He only carried what he could on his back, but his soul and survivor's guilt weighed him down the most. It was in this desolation that he stumbled upon the Ναός της Ηλιώρας, the Temple of the Forgotten, a Sanctuary for those who pray to the Goddess of the lost. Beneath their serene gaze, he knelt for the first time as a supplicant, seeking refuge in their silent halls. In their sanctuary, Louis found not redemption but the fragile beginnings of hope, a flickering light to guide him through the ruins of his soul.

︶⊹︶

Harry

It had been hours, and the Soldier hadn’t left yet.

The children knew not to say anything to the stranger unless Harry instructed them to do so. His watchful gaze analyzed the man before him from behind the eyes of his very statue. He watched as the soldier before him cleaned and made the temple a little more presentable, which the Goddess appreciated. The man looked worn down, filthy and covered in dried blood. It had been about a couple of hours since the man entered his temple, looking for what… he wouldn’t know. Then again, anyone who came to the temple didn’t know why they were there, only that they were lost and had nowhere to go. 

Harry prided himself on the upkeep of the temple; more often, the people would wander within the sacred walls of the temple seeking refuge from their haunting past. The soldier wasn’t any different. Much like a home, the temple had everything one would need. An area for food and water, a couple of beds for rest, the sacred baths and for the peace of mind of one’s spirit, beautiful gardens in the back of the temple, all mended by his —much rather Haris’s magic. It looked untouched, but always ready, always waiting, for the next visitor.

The Children

Harsh whispers echoed faintly through the temple walls, two children bickering, their voices carrying in the wind through hollow corridors, bringing a flicker of life to the vast, sleeping house.

“Calliope!” 

“What now, Thea?” 

“Mom told us we shouldn’t go near the Soldier!" 

“Well, Mom, isn’t here at the moment is he?” 

No, he wasn’t. He was likely busy taking care of Elias and Atlas, and the Gods knew the babies were a handful.

Thea sighed, arms crossed tightly against her chest. Calliope was always the curious one between the two of them, always pulling Thea into mischief when all she wanted was to go to bed. Harry, their Mom, had warned the children to be gentle with the Soldier, to give him space. He had arrived broken, he said, and the Temple was no place for prodding open old wounds. 

“He’s not like the other grown-ups we’ve seen come in and out of this Temple, okay?” The girls nodded and listened to the voice of honey and smoke of their Mother. 

“He fought hard. He’s tired. Just like when you two play too hard, but right now he’s still learning what home means again.” He was like the rest of them —lost and looking for a home. 

A sudden creak from above made Thea flinch. The wooden beams of the second floor shifted with age and time, as if the Temple was adjusting its spine. The man turned then slowly, his steps quiet but weighted, and the girls shrank back into the stone shadows just as the last orange rays of sunlight stretched long across the courtyard, casting a net of cover between the pillars.

The Temple seemed to sense the hour. The sconces lit one by one with soft, steady flame—no matches, no spark, just the quiet hum of magic that lived in the bones of this place. The warm glow spilled gently across the mosaics and alcoves, guiding small feet and heavy hearts alike. It was the Temple’s way (mostly their mother) of telling the children: It’s time for bed.

Heeding the warning of the Temple lights,  the children hover behind the man watching him return to gaze in awe at the statue in front of him, of their Mother. He stood before the statue of Harry, gaze lifted in quiet awe. It made him look like a boy. Thea remembered that same expression on her face once, not so long ago. Wonder and longing, wrapped together like thread on a broken loom.

He reached out, fingers grazing the cool marble walls, veined with silver and rose, every swirl and groove a whisper from the past. The pillars loomed like frozen waterfalls, etched with the stories of gods and lost souls: open-armed deities, stars blooming from their hands, children curled into crescents of moonlight. Louis traced the carvings as if they might speak back.

While he was distracted, the sisters tiptoed around him and scurried off down the north corridor. Their door slammed moments later, a soft thud muffled by stone and time.

He paused.

“Anyone here?” Louis asked into the growing darkness.

No answer. Only the rustle of wind through high windows, the low hum of ancient silence returning to its rightful place. He waited a beat longer, then sighed and continued deeper into the Temple.

The winding halls felt like a labyrinth at night, twisting through memory and shadow. The Temple had many rooms, most unused, forgotten before any of the children had arrived. But it had a way of offering what you needed if you listened closely.

And then he found it.

A plain wooden door, cracked slightly open, light flickering from a single candle on the far wall. The room was small, but the bed looked clean. A folded blanket. A basin of water. Nothing grand—but after months of dirt and blood and cold nights under broken roofs, it felt like a cathedral.

He stepped inside, closed the door behind him, and sat heavily on the edge of the bed. His armour was gone, left at the Temple gate. His boots followed, dropped gently to the floor. The breath that escaped him then was deep, tired, and real.

For the first time in what felt like years, Louis lay down somewhere safe. Somewhere quiet.

The candle flickered beside him. A breeze stirred the curtain. And though he didn’t see her, he felt them—Haris, the silent goddess of the lost, standing watch.

He closed his eyes.

The Temple, still awake, exhaled.

And the candle blew itself out

Chapter Text

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Louis

Louis stirred to the sound of hushed giggles and the unmistakable sensation of being watched.

Something tugged at his blanket.

Then a giggle.

Then came the poke. Right between the eyes.

He flinched.

“He’s not waking up!”
“Try poking his face again.”
“I already did!”
“Poke it harder.”

Louis cracked open one eye, not noticeable to the three sets of eyes staring back at what was supposed to be his sleeping form. Wide and Expectant. Way too close.

“He moved!” one voice hissed.
“No, he didn’t.”
“Do it again!”

Louis’s eyes flew open to find three small faces hovering inches from his own. Random…children?

His breath caught.

“Back up,” he muttered, sharper than intended, already pushing himself up to sit. The blanket pooled around his waist as the kids scrambled back a step, not frightened, but nervous and amused.

One of them, the smallest—a boy, with deep brown curls, who wore a crooked paper crown. His blue eyes held a curious yet nervous gaze. Another, a girl this time, with blonde unruly curls, clutched a wooden spoon like a dagger, imitating the weapon as if he would hurt them. The third was uncanny in appearance to the curly-haired girl, who was probably her sister, and held a very serious expression and an upside-down book.

Louis’s pulse quickened. Where had they come from? He hadn’t heard anyone approach. And he hadn’t fallen asleep, expecting, well, company.

“Who are you?” he asked, voice still hoarse with sleep.

The girl with the book cocked her head, studying him. “We live here.”

Not like they answered his question. Louis looked around the room again—stone walls, candle stub on the table, figs on a plate he hadn’t touched. It wasn’t a dream. The Temple. He remembered arriving, the statue, the silence, and finally the ache in his bones. Feeling lost.

“You’re the new one,” the spoon-wielding girl announced. “And you sleep weird.”

Louis exhaled through his nose, and an airy laugh escaped him. “Do your parents know you're here?”

The three of them looked at each other, then burst out giggling together as he wasn’t privy to the secret they shared.

“C’mon,” the serious girl said, already turning toward the hall. “We’re going to the kitchen. Mom has breakfast ready for us.”

So, they did have a mother after all. 

Before he could object, they were gone, bare feet slapping against stone, voices echoing. Louis stood slowly, testing his legs. The limp reminded him he was still healing. The noise reminded him he didn’t belong here.

Still, something pulled him to follow.

He dressed quickly with the chiffon that had been laid out on the side of his hammock, careful with his limp, and followed the children down the winding corridor. Morning light poured through high windows, dust dancing like snowflakes in the golden beams. The Temple groaned softly, like it was stretching with him, almost like it was getting ready for the day. The children scampered ahead, already chasing each other again, voices echoing between the stones.

And then—he smelled it.

Bread. Rosemary. Something warm and citrusy. The air itself seemed richer the closer he got. His stomach clenched with sudden, aching hunger. Not just for food. For peace. For this. He missed this. Louis could barely remember what it was like to wake up and begin the day with giggles and the love of a family. He swallowed hard and tried to put the memories behind him. There was nothing left for him to remember; all he heard were the painful screams of his family.

Sighing, he began his journey following the light echoing of voices within the haven he may be calling his refuge for the foreseeable future.    

The kitchen was carved into the heart of the Temple, tucked between an open hearth and tall arched windows where vines peeked through like curious animals. He must have missed it when he arrived the night before, as it was tucked away in the back of the temple. A long wooden table ran down the centre, cluttered with chipped bowls and mismatched mugs. The children were already sliding into seats, still laughing. It was such a foreign sound to him, children laughing. Gods knows when the last time he heard children laughing, it felt like a balm to his soul.

And standing behind the table pouring tea into clay cups, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, hair loose and golden as if the sunrise had crowned him personally was him.

The person of the statue. The Goddess.

Louis stopped, frozen in the doorway.

He didn’t know what he’d expected. A matronly priestess, maybe. Or some old hag with a thousand-yard stare. But not... this.

He looked up.

Their eyes met.

And for a moment, everything stilled.

His features were gentle, almost androgynous—sharp cheekbones softened by a kind mouth, eyes the colour of sun-warmed stone. His skin glowed like he'd been carved from light itself, but there was something deeply human in his expression. Tired. Tender. Strong enough to hold a hundred grieving children and still make bread from scratch. The worst part was that he had a child, a baby, attached to his chest.

“Good morning,” the man said simply, his voice like a warm wind through the trees. 

“I hope you found your room comfortable. I hope the children didn’t bother you too much, trouble makers these are.”

“I heard that” 

“Shh, Thea, Mom has a guest, we can't be disrespectful. You know the rules by now.”

Louis glanced at the two girls, then nodded slowly, still staring, and his throat suddenly dry. “Yeah. They—uh. They didn’t bite.”

A smile tugged at Harry’s lips, and he hummed thoughtfully. “The Temple likes you. I think introductions are in order. I’m Haris, Goddess of the Lost—as you probably already figured that out, but you may call me Harry.” He turned to continue bouncing the baby attached to his body, humming a soft lullaby.

One of the girls elbowed Louis in the ribs, getting him to finally move slowly toward the empty seat. “You’re staring,” she said, then looked at Harry. “Mom, he’s staring.”

Harry only chuckled. “Calliope, let him.”

Louis blinked, his heart beating like a bird stuck in a bell tower. He felt foolish. Like a child again, gawking at a figure in a painting he thought would never step down from its frame.

“You’re real,” he said, because it was all he could manage, still standing in shock.

Harry nodded. “And so are you, Soldier.”

Louis almost flinched at the name, but Harry’s voice carried no accusation. Only understanding. Recognition.

“Louis, just Louis.”

“Well, just Louis, you’re safe now,” Harry said softly.

And Gods help him—Louis believed it.

He took the empty seat across from Harry as the children passed down bowls of fruit and still-warm bread, hands sticky with honey. Laughter rose again, soft and careless. The sun reached through the windows and spilled over the table, catching the glint of Harry’s golden hair.

Louis didn’t know what this place was yet. Or what he was, now that the war was over. But in that moment in that warm, sacred kitchen, he began to wonder if maybe he was allowed to start again.

“Shall I introduce my co‑conspirators?” Harry asked, quirking an eyebrow at the man before him.

“This is Atlas, still teething, still skeptical,” as Harry lowered him into a cradle by the hearth, then turned so the others could crowd his legs. 

At Louis’s mute nod, Harry began, one hand resting on Atlas’s cradle, rocking it gently.

“Calliope, as you may have noticed, is very judgmental,” he said, touching the eldest’s shoulder. “The serious one. She keeps our accounts of justice and peace, especially breakfast justice.”  Calliope straightened, trying not to grin.

“My Sweet Thea,” he continued, gesturing to the spoon‑wielder. “Sworn defender of all cutlery. Chaos incarnate.” Thea brandished her spoon in solemn salute.

“And King Elias,” Harry finished, adjusting the crooked paper crown. “Yesterday, he was just a toddler, but monarchies rise fast around here.” “Mama,” Elias whined, but bowed awkwardly but grandly; the crown slid over his eyes. Harry poured a final cup of tea and nudged it across the table. “Sit. You don’t have to talk—just exist. That’s enough today.”

Louis obeyed, the bench creaking under his weight. Warm bread and honey passed from sticky hand to sticky hand; sunlight pooled over the table, turning Harry’s hair to molten gold. Louis wrapped chilled fingers around the mug and let the heat sink deep within his skin.

He didn’t yet know what this place was, or what he could be now that the war was over. But here, in this sacred kitchen children laughing, Harry’s quiet radiance filling the room. Louis felt an unfamiliar thought bloom:

Perhaps being lost is only the first step in finding oneself.

And for the first time since the front lines fell silent, he let himself breathe.

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Breakfast was a comfortable affair until they were almost finished. Louis had barely finished swallowing his last two bites of bread before Calliope leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes sharp as they were curious, whispering. “So, Mom told us you were a soldier, what’s the worst thing you saw in the war?” she asked, almost hesitantly.

Thea gasped. “Callie! Mom said not to ask that.” 

“But everyone’s curious,” Calliope insisted, lowering her voice only a fraction. “He probably fought in the Roman campaigns. Travellers have said they saw whole cities burned.”

Louis’s jaw tightened. He kept his gaze on the rough wood grain, willing his pulse to slow. Not here. Not now. But the smell of ash crept in anyway—phantoms of oil‑soaked crossbows, screams bouncing off stone arches. A kettle whistled behind him, and the pitch mimicked the shriek of a flight horn. His vision narrowed.

Elias, paper crown askew, chimed in happily: “Did you stab anyone? Lots of anyones?”

Something inside Louis lurched. Deep breaths.

A brief vision passed his eyes: He was back on a shattered wall, shield splintering under iron strikes, comrades falling in crimson heaps. The clang of bronze, the thunder of marching feet —too loud, too close—

A gentle but firm hand landed on his shoulder.

“Enough,” Harry’s voice cut through the haze, velvet and steel in equal measure.

The kitchen went utterly still. Even Atlas, now perched on Harry’s hip, stopped gumming the teether and stared.

Harry’s green eyes flicked to each child in turn. “War stories are for warriors to choose, not children to drag out. Apologize.” His eye cut as he chastised the children. 

Calliope swallowed, bowing her head. “Sorry, Louis.”

Thea echoed it, cheeks flushing. Elias managed a half‑mumbled “sowwy,” already distracted by crumbs.

Harry set Atlas in the cradle and stepped closer to Louis, close enough that Louis caught the faint scent of rosemary and sun‑warmed stone. Close enough that the tremor in his own hands eased.

But Harry’s following words were for him alone, pitched low:

“These children are under my protection. If harm comes to them intentional or not there will be consequences even a seasoned soldier won’t wish to meet. Do you understand?”

A warning, yes but delivered with worry rather than menace. Louis met Harry’s gaze and found not suspicion, but the fierce tenderness of someone who’d already lost too many. He nodded once, steady. “I’d sooner harm myself.”

Harry’s shoulders loosened a fraction. “Good.” Then, softer, “Now breathe with me.”

It was almost absurd two grown men standing in a sunlit kitchen, inhaling and exhaling in unison while children pretended not to stare. Yet the shared rhythm drew Louis back from the ledge. The phantom horns faded. The walls of Rome crumbled into harmless kitchen brick.

Calliope watched, wide‑eyed. “Does breathing really help?”

“Sometimes,” Harry said without looking away from Louis, as if to memorize his face. “Sometimes it’s the only thing that does.”

A fragile silence settled —until Atlas squealed, hurling his teether like a tiny catapult. It bounced off Louis’s shoulder. The absurdity cracked something open; Louis barked a laugh, raw but genuine.

Harry’s smile was quiet, small, private, and bright enough to loosen something tight in Louis’s chest.

“Go on back to your room and rest,” he said softly, hand guiding Louis toward the kitchen’s archway.

Their fingers brushed brief, barely there, but it crackled in the space between them. A thread. A promise. A pause long enough for breath to hitch.

Louis gave a short nod, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. Then he turned and walked out, limping slightly but maintaining a tall frame. The morning light caught on his hair, on the broad slope of his shoulders, and the soft fray of fatigue stitched into his every movement.

Harry watched him go.

Didn’t look away until the sound of footsteps faded down the corridor.
Didn’t pretend not to ache.

Across the table, Calliope stirred honey into her tea and grinned behind her cup. “Mom,” she whispered in that singsong way of hers, “you’re staring.”

Harry didn’t deny it. “Let me.”

The kitchen settled again into warmth, breath, and clatter. Outside, the swallows wheeled above the roof tiles, singing of sun and soft returns.

And inside, where silence once reigned, a Goddess with flour on his fingers watched the space Louis had left behind—and hoped.

Not for worship. Not for forgiveness.
But for the simple, impossible thing of being chosen back

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

Chapter Text

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Louis

When Louis first surfaced from his nap, he thought he was drowning, sputtering the hot and thick smoke that once rolled over broken battlements. His pulse spiked, the old terror instinct clawing up his throat, darkness pressed at his eyelids, screams screeching in his ears, realizing they were only his own. The next breath he dragged in tasted only of warm linen and distant rosemary. Then: swallows cheeping in the rafters, stone cooling beneath midday air, a perfumed hush that smelled nothing like blood or ash. He let out a deep breath, trying to become aware of his surroundings.

The Temple. The children. Harry. He reminded himself, inhaling again more slowly. Not the front. Not the walls.

Again, he squeezed his eyes together to forget the memories as they flooded in his brain, the loss, the people, his comrades, as he lays on the narrow cot for a long minute, cataloguing the present: wooden beams above, the soft choke of a candle in its final inch, moonlight bleeding through a thin window arch. The war remained sealed beyond these walls—for now. He let the idea settle until his heart’s frantic drumbeat eased into something like steady percussion.

He sat up slowly on the cot, the linen rumpled beneath him, and looked toward the open window, where sunlight poured in broad golden sheets. Dust drifted lazily in the still air, caught mid-turn like moths. Somewhere outside, wind rustled cypress branches, and the low murmur of children’s voices echoed faintly from the west wing. No screams. No fires. Just a quiet afternoon.

Someone had draped a wool blanket over his legs while he slept—too heavy to be Calliope’s doing, too tidy to belong to Thea or Elias, it was far too warm for the hour. Tucked near his elbow was a cracked clay cup of water, barely touched. Beside it, a sprig of rosemary, still green. He smiled faintly.

He stepped into the corridor. The air was warm but shaded, held in check by thick stone and high ceilings. Sunlight pooled through arched windows in wide, honey-coloured shapes. The scent of flour and thyme drifted faintly from the kitchen. A breeze stirred a wall tapestry. It was the kind of afternoon that made silence feel thick and sacred, like the pause between two verses of an unfinished prayer.

He meant to head to the bathhouse, wash his face, maybe take stock of himself but as he passed the outer walkway, he caught the sound of soft humming.

He paused.

Through a row of columns, sunlight slanted into the courtyard garden, painting every hedge and flagstone in gold. And there, near the fig tree, Harry knelt beside a low wicker cradle, gently rocking it with one hand.

The breath caught in Louis’s chest.

The Goddess’s braid was half-loosened, the golden strands catching the light like threads of sunlight themselves. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow, and shadows from the fig tree moved gently across his skin. A bowl of halved peaches rested beside him, mostly ignored.

Louis approached without words. Harry looked up before he arrived and smiled—not the public kind, but the smaller one that made Louis’s stomach flutter in a way that made no tactical sense.

“Afternoon nap, then?” Harry murmured.

“Brief,” Louis admitted, voice low. “Didn’t mean to drift.”

“You needed it.”

A silence settled between them, soft, companionable. Louis’s eyes drifted to the cradle. Atlas was sleeping deeply, small mouth parted, a damp curl plastered to his forehead. One of his fists clutched a faded scrap of cloth, worn at the edges but clutched like treasure.

“Bad dream?” Louis asked.

Harry nodded. “He was fussing earlier. I walked him through the herb garden. Settled now.”

Louis hesitated. “May I?”

At Harry’s nod, he knelt beside the cradle and took over the gentle rocking. The baby’s weight shifted slightly with each motion, but he didn’t wake. Louis stared at the tiny chest as it rose and fell.

“He’s... so small.”

Harry tilted his head. “Most of them were. When they came.”

Louis looked up, his throat tight. “Am I allowed to know their stories?”

He rocked Atlas’s cradle until the baby’s fists loosened. Then he stepped away and followed Harry along the archway’s length. They did not speak. The Temple spoke for them a breeze through arches, faint glass clinking of the wind chimes, the rustle of nesting wildlife in the roof tiles.

Near the courtyard well, Harry stopped. A slab bench waited there, worn smooth by centuries of feet and prayer. He sat first, patted the space beside him. Louis obliged, careful to lower himself without a grunt.

The silence stretched again, but it wasn’t empty. It pressed warm against their shoulders. Louis found he could breathe inside it.

Harry folded one ankle across a knee, fingers tracing a groove in the bench.

“As their Mother, I suppose I owe you their stories,” Harry continued, though sadness flickered behind the gentle certainty. “If you’ve decided to stay even for a season you should know whose ghosts keep company here.”

Louis swallowed, tasting roasted grain from dinner still laced on his breath. “I want to help,” he said finally. “But I can’t—not well if I don’t understand what hurt them.”

Harry’s gaze slid sideways, as though measuring Louis’s resolve. Whatever he saw seemed to satisfy. “Very well,” he said, voice dropping to something like ritual. “Though they are children, and none of these stories belong on small shoulders.”

Louis set his elbows on his knees, ready. “Tell me, please,” He whispered.

Calliope & Thea

“Calliope first,” Harry began, thumbing the grooved bench again. “Because she arrived the oldest, and because she would insist on going before her sister.”

Louis pictured the solemn girl, with blonde braids blunt-cut at her shoulders, her eyes forever scanning the doors and ceiling corners. My little general, he had begun to call her in his head.

“She was seven when the raid came,” Harry said. “Their village sat along the River Orane. It was a small fishing community. A strategic crossing once the armies shifted south. One night, a legion came needing the river for quartering. They decided speed mattered more than mercy.”

Louis closed his eyes. He could map that route in blood if asked. He’d marched it. Different legions, he reminded himself. Different banners. But guilt didn’t care for banners.

“Thea was five,” Harry continued. “Their mother caught wind an hour before impact. She hid her daughters in a root cellar, floorboard disguised by barrels. Then she went outside to distract any soldier who might check the house.”

“Did Calliope see—?”

“She heard,” Harry said gently. “That was enough.”

Silence cracked open between them. Louis imagined the cellar’s darkness; the older sister’s hand pressed over the younger’s mouth to keep fear mute.

“They stayed there two days,” Harry said. “When hunger outweighed terror, Calliope opened the hatch. The house was gone, the village half ash. She took Thea and walked south. No shoes, no food, no map. Only a broken lid from a rain barrel—used it to fend off stray dogs.”

Louis pinched the bridge of his nose. Images blurred, as the tears flooded his eyes.

“They collapsed near the King’s Mile marker,” Harry finished. “I was returning from the market. Calliope tried to stand between me and Thea, though she could barely see straight. I asked if they wanted to rest. They couldn’t answer. So, I carried Thea, and Calliope limped beside me until we reached the Temple gate.”

He waited, perhaps for questions. Louis had none he wanted to voice. The story sat heavy, but it felt familiar—the shape of tragedy he’d worn like a second skin.

“Thea remembers it differently,” Harry said, half‑smile tugging. “In her telling, they chose to come here because the Temple smelled like bread.”

Louis blinked, a breath of humour cutting the gloom. “Let her keep that version.”

“It’s all she wants,” Harry agreed softly.

Elias

“Elias came next. Five winters ago, though he was perhaps barely two.” The late morning light caught behind Harry, washing his profile in soft gold. “I was travelling with supplies north. A fortress had fallen three days earlier—the garrison wiped out. The air still tasted of pitch.”

Louis’s gut twisted again; he stared at his feet.

“I found him wandering along the parapet,” Harry said. “Paper crown on his brow, soot smeared across his cheeks. Not crying. Just… looking. As though waiting for someone to finish a story.”

“Was anyone—?” Louis stopped, knowing the answer.

“None left breathing,” Harry confirmed. “He had scratches on his arms, burns on his heels. Likely carried by someone before the end, then set down when flames closed in. He doesn’t remember voices—only drums. The first week here, he woke screaming at thunder.”

Louis exhaled slowly, counting heartbeats. “He seems…”

“Gentle,” Harry supplied. “He is. But startles at doors slamming, flinches when people quarrel. The crown became his shield. Calliope fashioned a sturdier one from thicker parchment, but he prefers the original—the torn edges comfort him.”

Louis nodded, throat tight.

Atlas

“Atlas… he may be just a baby, but he’s mine," Harry said, breath catching as he steadied himself against the thought of anyone taking him away. "He’s my child."

He exhaled slowly, voice low and trembling. “Gods help whoever dares lay a hand on him.”

Harry’s gaze drifted to the wicker cradle nearby, where Atlas stirred softly. His eyes softened as he watched the baby sniffle in his sleep, the very thought of harm tightening something fierce and tender in his chest. “Atlas,” Harry said, voice softening further. “My youngest. He’s the reason I wander some nights: to check empty roads and fields for lost things.”

Sunlight gleamed over Harry’s lashes. He looked suddenly older than marble. “I found him at dusk, in a sea of rye. Wrapped in a torn banner, an old crest from a dissolved house. No hoof prints, no footsteps. Only him.”

Louis’s brows knitted. “An offering?” As archaic as it may be, it wasn't uncommon for children to be offerings to the Gods.

“Maybe,” Harry said. “Or desperation. A mother believing the Gods would pass that way when she could not.”

Louis’s hand drifted to his chest, curling around nothing.

“He was hardly breathing. Dehydrated. Sunburned along one cheek. I carried him here. Calliope claimed him before I could lower him into the bathing basin: ‘He’s ours now,’ she said.”

“Has anyone come for him?”

“No. And if they did, I’d never let them take him.”

Harry’s voice held steel under velvet again, it was a protective edge that made Louis’s pulse jump for reasons good and terrible.

“They’ve survived more than children should,” he whispered. Harry nodded.

Louis rubbed his palms together. Old scars rasped. “Are you sure about telling me this?”

“You asked,” Harry said simply. “And I, as their Mother, know you’ll be among them. And also, because stories lose power when shared.”

Louis lifted his gaze. Harry’s eyes caught the sun, turning them a dark evergreen. 

Stories lose power when shared. How he wanted that to be true.

He looked away quickly, afraid of what his face betrayed. “Thank you.”

Harry reached out, placed a hand over Louis’s restless ones. The touch startled him—warm, steady, grounding.

“You carry ghosts, too,” Harry said. “I see them in your shoulders, in the way you track every doorway. Minus your limp.”

Louis tried to laugh, but the sound cracked. “You make it sound poetic.”

“It isn’t,” Harry said. “It’s weight.”

The hand on Louis’s braced fingers squeezed once, then withdrew. “When you’re ready, I’ll listen.”

A lump rose in Louis’s throat. He swallowed.

“That may be sooner than I think,” he managed, voice uneven.

Harry’s expression softened—an invitation, not a demand. “Whenever.”

They sat like that, wrists near, words spent, until the sun tipped past the roof and shadows shifted again. Somewhere, a sparrow called. Atlas rustled in his cradle but did not wake.

︶⊹︶

The Goddess’ temple basked in the buttery glow of late afternoon, sunbeams slanting through clerestory windows and setting the dust alight. The hush of midday stories had already softened into lazy laughter, clattering dishes, and the distant song of cicadas outside the outer wall.

Louis leaned his shoulder against a cool marble column at the base of the bell tower, arms folded, watching Calliope and Thea race up the spiral steps two at a time. Elias lagged behind them, clutching his parchment crown to keep it from sliding off his head. Every so often, he glanced over the inner railing at the dizzying drop, gulps of air catching in his throat before he forced himself onward.

Louis knew that breath—knew that sensation of an invisible rope tightening around the ribs when the ground seemed to fall away beneath your boots. He straightened and offered a reassuring nod up the stairwell.

“You’re all right, Elias,” he called softly. “One step at a time.”

Elias’s thin lips pressed into the ghost of a smile.

Calliope appeared above him, scolding: “You promised no looking down!” Thea leaned into the curve of the railing, grinning wickedly, looking up at Callie. “If he wants to peek, let him peek—he’ll see how tiny he is from up here.”

“You’re not being helpful,” Louis said, voice gentle but firm. He started up the steps behind Elias, keeping an easy pace. The ancient stones hummed faintly underfoot, as though the Temple itself approved this small parade of living feet. Calliope shot Louis a crisp look, as if to remind him that she was in command of all younger siblings, my little general, he thought, then scrambled for altitude with renewed urgency. The bronze bell above them boomed softly in the afternoon heat, metal expanding in the sunlight.

The staircase ended beneath a small wooden hatch. Calliope pushed it open, and sunlight spilled down like molten gold. A chorus of “whoa” tumbled from three throats.

"I never get tired of this view!" Screamed Calliope.

The platform was larger than Louis expected   —an octagonal space of weather‑worn stone framed by half walls and eight arched apertures. Beyond those arches, red‑tiled roofs glowed like ember scales in the sun; the orchard rolled in gentle waves of silver‑green, olives whispering in the wind. Farther still, the river Orane glimmered like a broken sword.

Louis took it in, every detail mapping itself to memory. The world was still turning, still painting itself beautiful, long after battles ended.

“Can we ring it?” Thea chirped, hefting her wooden spoon like a lever about to bang the bell with it.

“Your mom told you it doesn’t work,” Louis replied, quickly grabbing her, preventing her from hitting the bell.

“What if it’s a fun emergency?” Thea countered, pouting at Louis. 

Calliope turned her head slowly, giving her sister a deadpan stare that screamed Don’t.

Louis chuckled but knelt beside Elias first. “How’s the view?” he asked quietly.

Elias’s gaze was out over the orchard. “Big,” he whispered. “Feels like I could fall into the sky.”

“You can’t,” Louis said. “The wall’s here to catch you.” He tapped the parapet. “And so am I.”

The boy studied him, eyes deep and storm‑lit. A breeze ruffled the jagged edges of his paper crown. He nodded once, almost regal, then moved cautiously toward Calliope, who offered a proud smirk, as if she’d been championing him all along and he’d finally caught up to her expectations.

Louis rose and dusted his knees. “So, General Calliope,” he said in a whisper, “what’s our mission up here?”

Her chin went up at the title. “Survey,” she declared. “We find dangers. Then we shout warnings.”

Louis cupped a hand over his brow, scanning the horizon. “I spy… a flock of swallows,” he announced. “They’re headed for the orchard.”

“That’s not danger,” Thea scoffed, balancing on her toes. “That’s dinner for cats.”

“I spy a goat chewing on Mom’s laundry,” Calliope noted, one eye squinting. “That’s trouble.”

Elias laughed. Actually laughed softly. Surprised by the sound, Louis’s heart pinched at the small miracle of it.

For the next quarter hour, they played at sentries, imagining wild scenarios: a roving band of bandits disguised as villagers, a dragon disguised as a cloud, a suspiciously tall pumpkin creeping through the rosemary patch. Thea tapped the bell’s wooden yoke with her spoon for each announcement, calling it the “tally of threats.” Louis corrected their posture and taught them how to pivot without tangling in each other’s reach. Calliope absorbed every instruction, storing it like ammunition for future reference. Elias practiced a whisper‑shout—low, urgent, but never loud enough to echo.

Time blurred into something honey‑slow. Eventually, the sun wobbled lower, shadows stretching across the parapet.

Louis wiped the sweat from his brow and straightened with a theatrical groan. “All right, troops. Ready to descend?”

“Aye, Captain—!” Thea started brightly, then paused mid-cheer. “...Captain Louis!” she corrected herself a little too fast, spoon wobbling in her grip.

The silence that followed was brief, but noticeable.

Calliope’s brows arched ever so slightly. Elias glanced between them all, lips twitching like he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or apologize. Thea looked mortified, pressing her free hand over her mouth as if she could rewind the last few seconds.

Louis raised a brow, then knelt to their level with a small, crooked smile. “Captain Louis has a nice ring to it,” he said, tone warm but easy. Calliope’s shoulders dipped in subtle relief. Thea offered a sheepish grin, cheeks pink. Elias leaned in, tugging gently at the edge of Louis’s tunic. Louis cleared his throat. A hush like fragile glass hung in the air.

Calliope exhaled as though she’d been holding up the roof beams by willpower alone. Elias tugged Louis’s sleeve and whispered, “Can we go read now?”

He knelt to their level. “So, as I, Captain Louis, say, to the library!” he exclaimed, eyes twinkling.

Louis ruffled Elias’s hair. “We absolutely can, son.”

︶⊹︶

The trek downward took less time, with more momentum, as hunger guided nimble feet. They reached the main corridor just as a golden beam lit the mosaics of the hallway floor, illuminating olives and pomegranates. Somewhere in the distance, a wind chime thrummed, its notes meandering lazily.

They passed the refectory door and glimpsed Harry kneading dough at the long table. His sleeves were rolled up, his forearms dusted white. He glanced up, caught the small parade marching by, and gave Louis a private smile—warm, proud, lingering longer than strictly necessary. Louis’s breath snagged, heat blooming behind his sternum. Harry’s dimples flickered as though he sensed the reaction, then he returned to punching down dough. The room smelled of yeast and soft dusk.

The Temple library occupied an entire wing—once an abbey scriptorium, now an accidental palace of mismatched scrolls, vellums, flute‑thin papyri, cracked leather tomes, and a corner of handmade wood toys. Shelves soared to the ceiling, punctuated by narrow windows where sunlight sliced the dust into geometric halos. Two wide wooden tables waited near the fireplace, flanked by sturdy benches. Elias gravitated to one and perched like a sparrow.

“Choose something,” Calliope ordered, scanning shelves labelled in spidery ink: Herbals, Poetry, Annals of Trade, Myths Uncensored, Uncharted Maps. She tugged at Louis’s belt gently. “Something not boring.”

Louis’s lips quirked. “I’ll do my best.” He combed the stacks, trailing a fingertip over spines. Stories. Histories. Manuals he hadn’t seen outside a royal armoury. He paused at a slim, battered codex with a green ribbon. Legends for Small Hearts—hand‑copied, illuminated in faded silver ink.

He slid it free and read the first line: “Once, in a valley where silence slept on the river like frost, there lived a king who swallowed the sun…” The margins were decorated with children’s sketches—crude suns, startled goats, a stick‑figure swallowing a circle. Someone had loved this book.

He brought it to the table. The children swarmed close as he sat, the benches creaking. Thea swung her spoon like a conductor’s baton. Calliope scooted nearer with cautious enthusiasm. Elias leaned until his shoulder touched Louis’s arm.

“Where did you get that?” Calliope asked, eyeing the ribbon with suspicion, like it might tether them to boredom after all.

“Back shelf,” Louis said. “Pages are worn thin; someone read this a hundred times before us.”

“That’s a sign it’s good,” Thea declared.

Louis opened the first story. A small gasp left Calliope’s throat—the first illustration: a king in gold armour swaddled inside rays of painted sunlight, mouth open as if preparing to swallow a gold disc. The paint flaked but still glimmered.

“‘Once, in a valley where silence slept on the river like frost,’” Louis began, voice adopting the cadence of old storytellers. “‘There lived a king who swallowed the sun each dawn to keep the light safe from thieves…’ ” He let the words roll, warm and measured.

Thea pinched Calliope’s sleeve. “He’s good,” she whispered. Calliope huffed, but the corners of her mouth curled.

Louis read on. Under his steady baritone, the mythical valley breathed: shining rivers, golden armies, secret songs guarded by children. When he gave each character a different accent—one twangy, one pompous—Thea giggled until she nearly fell off the bench. Elias’s crown slipped forward; Louis paused to set it right, never missing a beat in the narrative.

Halfway through the tale, Louis changed the pitch again—this time for a young village girl who dared challenge the king to a riddle. “If I win, you return the sun to the sky,” Louis intoned in a nasally falsetto, earning a delighted squeak from Elias. Calliope leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes enormous.

Louis saw something happen then—something shift behind Calliope’s face. Her wary posture eased; her shoulders rounded, relief pooling in small muscles. For a moment, she looked seven again and not his makeshift commander. It pierced his heart.

He finished the story: the girl wins, the king becomes shepherd to the valley's goats, and the sun chooses to rise each day on its own. The final flourish of words left a hush at the table, soft, perforated by the crackle of the hearth.

“Another,” Thea breathed.

Louis chuckled. “There are three more tales in here.”

“Read them all,” Calliope recommended—no, ordered. Elias nodded, fingers playing with the folds of his cloak. Louis cleared his throat, flipped pages. The second tale involved a tailor who stitched seashells into a dress for the moon, inadvertently trapping tides. Louis gave the moon a sleepy drawl, the tailor a squeaky excitement. Laughter spilled out of them in fits—loud at first, then muffled behind hands when they remembered the library’s sanctity.

After the second story, a shadow fell across the table. Louis looked up. Harry stood under the archway; flour was still dusted along one cheekbone. He held a tray: four shallow cups of chilled milk, each with a drizzle of date syrup, and a plate piled high with fig cakes. His eyes crinkled at the edges, soft amusement dancing there. “Thought you might need provisions,” he said.

Thea squealed. “Sweet cakes!”

Calliope’s posture straightened; she stared at Louis again—this time not in suspicion but in wonder. As though she could not remember the last afternoon someone had read to her for this long, nor served cakes just because there was joy to be fed.

Elias whispered, “Thank you,” so quietly that only Louis and Harry caught it. Harry winked, set the tray on the table, and ruffled Elias’s hair. Then his gaze drifted to Louis—a brush of warmth like sunrise.

Louis’s skin prickled with awareness. He set a fig cake on Elias’s plate, another on Calliope’s, and plopped one directly onto Thea’s spoon for dramatic effect, earning shrieking laughter. Harry’s smile widened, dimples deepening, before he slipped back toward the kitchen.

The third story came more easily, like words tumbling out of Louis’s mouth. The sun sank lower, gilding pages. The children leaned so close their heads knocked. By the fourth tale, Elias had fallen asleep halfway across Louis’s lap, crown sliding askew. Louis angled the book so Calliope and Thea could still see, reading softer, letting Elias’s tiny snores feather against his ribs.

When he finished, he closed the codex gently and looked down at the boy curled against him. Calliope chewed a crumb of cake, eyes shining but suspiciously glassy.

“You can leave him,” she whispered. “He sleeps in here sometimes.” Louis’s voice came rough. “He’s fine.” Thea slipped a small hand into Louis’s.

“Captain Louis,” she said, hushed. “Thank you.”

Louis squeezed, too moved for a witty retort. The library settled into that sacred hush again—a hush that had nothing to do with rules or dust, but everything to do with beating hearts and second chances. Outside, the last sunlight melted orange over the orchard. A swallow swooped past the window, curling its wings in salute.

At the threshold, Harry lingered unseen, one hand on the doorframe, watching the group—a soldier with a child across his knees, two sisters leaning in like twin stars, a book laid open between them as though it carried all the light they needed.

A soft, wistful smile played on Harry’s lips. The Temple sighed in its beams, content. And somewhere deep in Louis’s chest—where fear had lived so long it left claw marks—a quiet, unfamiliar word began to bloom:

Home.

Chapter Text

Louis

It had been over a month since Louis had been in the temple, weaving his way through the families' hearts. The sky had already dipped into blue-violet when the evening bells chimed across the Temple grounds. Their slow, mournful toll drifted through the corridors like a lullaby wrapped in silk. The kitchen had gone quiet. The fire embers were low. The last fig cake had been stolen by Thea, who swore she was storing it for breakfast.

But Harry was nowhere to be seen.

Louis noticed it gradually—the kind of silence that felt like it was missing something. No soft footsteps were echoing in the hall, no flour-dusted hum from the kitchen, no gentle rustling of robes trailing down the corridor—just quiet.

And children… were still very much awake. 

So, much for Mom duties. Louis thought.

Calliope sat cross-legged on one of the long benches, flipping through a faded astronomy chart like it held all the secrets of the world. Thea was curled up on the floor beneath the table, muttering something to her spoon and trying to braid it into her hair. Elias had long since been carried off to his room by Louis—he’d nodded off somewhere between the third fig cake and the story of the moon princess.

Louis stood in the doorway, unsure of what came next. He’d been trained to set a bone in under a minute, survive three days on half a crust, and dismantle siege traps in the dark. But this?

Bedtime?

He cleared his throat. “All right, I imagine it’s bedtime for you guys,” he said gently, “that’s enough adventuring for one day.” Calliope didn’t look up. “Mom always sings first.”

“Yeah,” Thea added from under the bench. “And then he carries us.” Louis blinked. “Carries... both of you?”

“We’re not heavy,” Thea said, rolling onto her back and raising her arms expectantly.

Calliope shot her a look. “You are.”

Thea stuck out her tongue.

Louis rubbed the back of his neck. “Well... I can’t sing. And I’m not as magical as Harry.”

“You’re shorter,” Calliope said, glancing up at last. “That’s something.”

“Not as pretty, though,” Thea murmured.

Louis choked on a laugh. “Thanks.” There was another pause.

“Do you know the stars?” Calliope asked suddenly, eyes flicking to the parchment in her lap. Louis stepped forward, lowering himself to sit beside her. “Some,” he said. “Not like a scholar. But I used to camp out near the northern ridge. You learn to follow the constellations, or you walk in circles.”

Calliope tilted the parchment. “I can’t find the River Queen. The lines don’t make sense.”

Louis leaned in. “There,” he said, tracing gently with his finger. “That’s her crown. And that long curve? That’s her boat. The Queen rides the stars every winter, ferrying dreams to sleeping children.”

Calliope’s eyes narrowed. “You just made that up.”

“Maybe,” Louis said, smiling. “Maybe not.” She studied the shape again, lips slightly parted. “You’re not bad at this.” Thea popped up from beneath the table, hair wild. “Story time, then bed?”

Louis nodded. “Deal.”

They walked the long corridor slowly—Calliope clutching her chart, Thea stomping like an elephant in bare feet. The flickering sconces cast gold patterns across the walls, the marble floors cold beneath them. When they reached the girls’ room—small, warm, paper lanterns dangling from a ceiling beam—Louis hesitated by the threshold.

Inside, soft quilts had been piled into makeshift nests. Shelves lined the back wall, stuffed with scrolls, ribbon scraps, rocks, and at least three questionable dolls made of twigs and button eyes. Calliope climbed into her usual corner, fussing with the blanket. Thea somersaulted into hers with little grace and a dramatic groan.

Louis stood awkwardly, unsure.

Thea held out her arms. “You’re supposed to tuck us.”

He raised a brow. “Am I?”

“Yes,” she replied. “And you have to tell a story.”

“Preferably not one where everyone dies,” Calliope added. “Mom did that once. It was ‘the moral of the story’ and we all cried.”

Louis chuckled and crossed the room. He tugged the blankets gently around Thea’s small body, then moved to Calliope, folding hers down like a tent flap.

“All right,” he said, easing down between their beds. “No death, no morals. Got it.”

They waited.

“Once,” he began slowly, “there was a soldier who lost his voice in battle. Not because he was wounded, but because no one wanted to hear what he had to say anymore. So, he wandered. Silent.”

Calliope curled deeper into her blanket. Thea blinked wide-eyed, already swaying at the edge of sleep.

“One day,” Louis continued, voice low, “he followed a star into a garden. It was quiet there. Full of light. He sat down and didn’t say anything, because he didn’t know if he belonged. But someone brought him a bowl of soup. Then a blanket. Then someone small handed him a wooden spoon.”

Thea grinned in her sleep.

“And the next morning,” Louis said, “he opened his mouth and found his voice was still there, after all. Just... waiting.” There was silence. Breathing slowed. A figment of a yawn escaped Calliope.

“Mama would like that story,” she murmured sleepily. Louis brushed a curl from her brow. “He probably wrote it,” he whispered.

He watched them for another long moment. The lanterns swayed gently overhead. Somewhere outside, the wind curled through the orchard trees. No terrors. No orders. Just sleep.

Louis stood, adjusted their blankets one last time, and moved for the door.

In the corridor, he hesitated.

Part of him wanted to search for Harry, to ask if he’d done it right—if he’d overstepped. But part of him already knew: the Temple had let him in. The children hadn’t just tolerated him. They’d leaned into him. Trusted him, even in Harry’s absence.

He turned and walked slowly down the hallway, toward the main cloister, where moonlight dripped through stone columns like milk through glass. Somewhere out there, he was sure, Harry stood under the stars—watching. Maybe listening.

And Louis hoped, quietly, that he was doing something right.

The air was cooler now, temple marble drinking the dusk, and the lanterns along the cloister glowed in their carved sconces, trailing soft firelight against the columns like brushstrokes. Louis lingered in the corridor outside the girls’ room, unsure whether to move or stay.

He could still hear their breathing inside: steady, tangled with sleep. Calliope had tucked the star chart under her pillow. Thea's spoon had clattered once onto the stone floor before she'd rolled over and murmured something about dragons in her dreams.

Louis exhaled slowly. He hadn't realized he'd been holding tension in his chest until the silence arrived to soothe it.

And then—

A faint shuffle behind him.

He turned. Harry stood at the far end of the room, just past the threshold of shadow and starlight, leaning one shoulder into the stone archway like he'd been there a while. Barefoot and loose cloak. Hair tousled and shimmering faintly in the golden light. Louis straightened, suddenly self-conscious. “They’re asleep,” he said, a little too quickly. “I—I didn’t mean to take over. You weren’t around and they asked and—”

Harry smiled.

Louis stopped talking.

“I know,” Harry said softly. “I heard the story.”

Louis froze. “You did?”

“I didn’t want to interrupt.” He stepped closer. Quietly. As if entering a sacred space—because maybe this moment was one.

“They like you,” Harry added, voice low and full of something Louis couldn’t name. “You don’t force anything. You don’t speak down to them. You don’t try to be someone they lost.”

“I’m not trying to be anything,” Louis said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just… didn’t want them to feel like I did. When I was young.”

Harry’s expression shifted—something gentle, something grief-tinged and shining. “They already don’t. That’s because of you.”

Louis swallowed hard, his voice caught somewhere in his throat. “I didn’t know if it was okay.” Harry tilted his head. “To comfort them?”

“To... belong here.” It slipped out before he could take it back.

Harry didn’t answer right away. He stepped in close, close enough that Louis could see the light reflecting in his lashes, the faint smudge of flour still clinging to one wrist, the way his eyes softened at the edges like he was looking at something breakable and precious.

“You already do,” Harry said. Louis’s heart beat once, then again, louder. There was a pause between them, too long to be casual, too brief to feel safe.

“I should go,” Louis said, meaning his room, but his feet didn’t move.

“You don’t have to,” Harry murmured. Louis looked up.

Harry reached out, slow and careful, and gently brushed a stray lock of hair from Louis’s forehead. Just that—barely a touch. But it sparked something that made the air feel heavy and sweet.

“Okay, I’ll stay,” Louis said quietly, but his words meant more than what he let on.

Harry didn’t answer—he just smiled, that small, private, achingly bright smile again.

Outside, the wind sighed through the olive trees, and from somewhere deeper in the Temple, a bell chimed softly and full, as if answering something unspoken.

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

Louis was around long enough that his nightmares began to go away, as did his limp, but the kids' nightmares were starting to ramp up. 

The soft sound came like a tremble under the door—bare feet on stone, a sudden hush, the stifled edge of a sob.

At the sound of a hushed sob, Louis sat up in bed.

It was well past midnight. The Temple had stilled into silence, moonlight stretched thin across the floor like pale thread. But he heard it again. A creak, then a soft whimper. He grabbed the shawl hanging over the back of his chair, slung it around his shoulders, and stepped into the corridor.

A figure rounded the corner—small, quick-moving. Thea. She stopped when she saw him, eyes wide, red-rimmed.

“I–I had a bad dream,” she whispered, voice wobbly with leftover fear. “Calliope, too. She’s still shaking. I promise we didn’t wake Elias.”

Louis knelt. “You came to find your mom?” She nodded. Louis glanced toward the girls’ room, then reached out gently. “Come on, let’s go.” They arrived just as Harry was emerging from his own chambers, already draped in a soft robe, candle in one hand, worry furrowed across his brow.

“Thea?” Harry blinked, then knelt immediately, setting the candle down to gather her up into his arms.

“I tried to wake her,” Thea sniffled into his shoulder, “but she was just crying, and Elias was talking in his sleep again, and—and I couldn’t—”

“I’ve got her, darling,” Harry murmured, brushing her curls back. “You did well. I’m proud of you.”

Louis stood nearby, unsure, until Harry turned toward him with a look that said, Please, stay. They moved together down the hallway, silent but steady, their shoulders nearly brushing. In the girls’ room, Calliope sat bolt upright, hugging what looked like a stuffed bunny like it was armour. Her eyes locked on Harry immediately.

“Shh, love, Mama’s here,” he murmured, setting Thea down beside her. “I’m here.” Calliope let out a ragged breath and folded forward into his arms. Louis could only watch as Harry held her close, rocking slowly, murmuring words in a language Louis didn’t know, but somehow felt the words, like safety and forgiveness and home. From across the room, Elias stirred in his sleep, twitching, muttering something unintelligible.

“I’ll get him,” Louis said quietly. Harry glanced at him, grateful. Louis crossed to Elias’s bed and sat at the edge, laying a hand gently on the boy’s shoulder, caressing his head gently. “Hey,” he whispered, “you’re okay. It’s just the wind outside. You’re safe here.”

Elias startled awake, but Louis was already there, steady and warm. He didn’t flinch when the boy grabbed onto his tunic in panic. He didn’t pull away. He waited. Eventually, Elias’s breathing calmed.

“Want to come sit with us?” Louis asked. Elias gave the smallest nod. Louis carried him across the room. They all sat together in the dim candlelight; Louis with Elias curled into his chest, Harry with the girls tucked close on either side. The silence stretched long but peacefully, like the lull between crashing waves. The nightmares wouldn’t vanish overnight—but neither would the safety of this moment.

“You’re good with them,” Harry said eventually, voice low. Louis shook his head. “I just... remember what it was like. Waking up alone.”

Harry’s expression shifted—something gentle, something grief-tinged and shining. “They don’t have to feel that way anymore. Not with you here.”

Louis met his eyes.

“You’re good at this,” he said. Louis tilted his head. “Being kind?”

Harry shook his head. “Being present." 

Louis didn’t know what to say to that. So, he just said, “You too.”

They stood there in silence, watching as Elias offered the new boy half a plum, and the Temple’s marble floor glowed golden in the sun.

The Temple didn’t speak. But it didn’t have to.

It approved. And neither spoke again.

Not for a while.

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

The day after was a gentle affair, with new visitors arriving, refugees fleeing the war, which made Louis hesitant.

Harry stood beside him, hands folded loosely behind his back, squinting into the morning light. Three figures approached from the outer path: a woman with a torn satchel, a young boy with a broken sandal, and an older man limping slightly, his eyes darting like those of a cornered bird.

“Wanderers,” Harry murmured.

Louis said nothing, but his hand hovered close to the latch on the gate—protective, instinctual. When the trio reached the steps, Harry stepped forward first, slowly and openly.

“You’ve found the Temple of the Lost,” he said gently. “You’re welcome here. We’ll ask no questions unless you want to speak. We’ll offer food, water, warmth, and a place to rest.”

The woman blinked. The boy began to cry. Louis moved forward then, slipping beside Harry, just in time to steady the man as he staggered. Up close, he could see the mud on their clothes, the bruises that didn’t come from falling, the hollow of dehydration in their faces.

Harry turned to Louis and gave a nod. “Can you take them to the courtyard? There’s warm bread on the bench. I’ll send for blankets.” Louis met the woman’s eyes. “This way,” he said softly, already leading them in. The boy clung to his hand by the time they reached the sun-drenched columns.

Later, after they were fed and clean and wrapped in borrowed robes, Louis sat with the boy near the fountain while Calliope introduced him to their “star books.” Thea handed him a spoon without explanation.

Harry appeared at his side again, smiling faintly.

“Go. I have it covered here with the children and the guests, the older man looks like he could use some company.” Harry faintly grabbed Louis' arm and leaned him to kiss him on the cheek.

“Thank you for everything you’ve done for the kids.”

“Always.” Louis blushed and looked down at his feet. He quickly smiled up at Harry and made his way to the bathing house to help the older gentleman. 

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

The Temple had quieted again. Afternoon pressed heavy against the courtyard tiles, and even the cicadas had softened to a lazy drone.

Louis crouched by the basin near the fig trees, wringing out a cloth and dipping it into the water. He’d spent the last hour helping clean the new guests’ robes, scrubbing dried mud from the seams. Beside him, the boy they’d taken in, the one with the broken sandal, played quietly with a stack of smooth river stones Thea had gifted him.

The older man, now washed and dressed in a spare tunic, approached slowly. His gait was uneven, as though one leg dragged the memory of an old wound behind it. Louis noticed him only when the shadow passed across the basin.

“You don’t remember me, do you?” the man said, voice coarse from years of dust and smoke.

Louis looked up sharply.

The man didn’t smile, but he didn’t scowl either. His face was lined with the marks of weather and war. His hands were scarred.

“I saw you at Mathur Ridge,” the man continued, his tone quiet now. “Third division. You weren’t much older than the boy playing with those stones.”

Louis said nothing. His body went still. Not afraid—but braced. Like waiting for a blow he’d long since learned to expect. The man nodded to himself. “You carried a boy off the field. He was already gone, but you wouldn’t let anyone else take him.”

Louis looked away. “He was my brother.” Silence stretched.

“I didn’t think many of us made it out,” the man said after a pause.

“My family didn’t,” Louis replied.

The man crouched, slowly, beside the basin. He reached into the water, let it run over his fingers.

“You looked harder, back then. Angrier. Like your bones were carved from rusted iron.”

Louis didn’t answer.

“But now,” the man said, glancing around the courtyard—the olive trees, the sun-warmed stone, the distant sound of a child’s laughter—“you look like something softened you. Or someone.”

Louis exhaled slowly. “What do you want?”

The man shrugged. “Nothing. Just wanted to say… You were a good soldier. You didn’t belong in that war. Maybe you don’t belong in this one, either.”

Louis raised an eyebrow. “Which war?”

The man gave a faint smile. “The one people fight inside their heart.” Louis didn’t reply. But his eyes softened. “You’ve got a place here?” the man asked, not unkindly. Louis hesitated. Then: “I think I do.”

The man stood with a grunt. “Good. Stay in it.” He walked off toward the dormitory, one hand on the small of his back. From across the courtyard, Harry leaned against the stone archway, watching. Louis turned his head and met his gaze. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

Harry gave him a soft nod that said, I understand. And Louis knew, even if the past still echoed through unfamiliar voices, it couldn’t take the present from him.

Not here.

Not anymore.

︶⊹︶

The temple had grown quiet again after the commotion of the new visitors in the temple; the corridors were dim with a soft lantern glow. Louis lingered in the hallway, the earlier words of the old man echoing in his head.

You were a good soldier. You didn’t belong in that war. Maybe you don’t belong in this one, either.

He should’ve felt proud. Honoured, even. But all it left him with was a raw ache and the ghost of blood on his hands. He hadn’t told Harry—not yet. He wasn’t sure how. He wandered toward the common room, drawn by the hushed sound of giggling. Inside, he found Calliope, Thea, and Elias curled up in a blanket fort made of woven shawls and overturned stools. Thea had tied two spoons together, always with the spoons this one, Louis chuckled to himself, watching as she held them like a sceptre. Elias wore his paper crown slightly askew.

Calliope sat upright when she saw him. “You looked sad earlier,” she said bluntly.

Thea nodded in agreement. “So, we made a fort.”

“It has snacks,” Elias added, pointing solemnly to a small plate of figs and honey cubes.

Louis blinked, then slowly smiled. “This for me?” Calliope shrugged like it was no big deal, but her eyes gleamed. “Only if you promise to enter as a knight of the realm.”

He chuckled. “Do I need armour?”

“No,” Elias said, “just no bad dreams.” Louis crawled into the fort.

They huddled there for a while, passing fig slices back and forth, whispering about imaginary quests and monster-proof blankets. The kids leaned against him, warm and real, anchoring him to the present.

When their yawns came closer together, Louis helped gather them into the hallway, one by one. He carried Elias, who fell asleep against his shoulder without a word.

As he tucked them in, Harry appeared at the end of the corridor, robes loose, curls damp from a basin wash.

“Busy evening?” he murmured, watching Louis pull the blanket gently over Calliope.

“They found me,” Louis said, voice low. “Built a fort to protect me.” Harry’s smile bloomed slowly. “You’re part of their sanctuary now.” They walked together back toward the quiet heart of the Temple.

“Someone recognized me today,” Louis said, when the silence felt safe enough. “An old soldier. From Thessela.” Harry’s pace slowed.

“I didn’t expect it to… shake me the way it did.” Harry stopped in the archway leading to the courtyard. The moon hung low, dusting his profile in silver.

“It’s hard to believe we deserve peace when we’ve only known war,” he said quietly. “But peace isn’t something you earn by bleeding—it’s something you build. Here. Now. With your hands and heart.” Louis looked at him.

“You’re building it,” Harry added, voice warm. “Every time you help Elias laugh. Every time Thea hands you a spoon, like it’s sacred. Every day that you choose to stay.” With me, goes unsaid. They stood in the stillness, moonlight stretching between them. Harry reached out, brushing his fingers gently over Louis’s forearm—just once.

“Come,” he whispered. “The night is kind. Let it keep us a while.”

And Louis followed, not because he needed to, but because he wanted to. 

The river behind the temple was barely more than a ribbon in summer—clear, slow-moving, shallow enough in places to walk across barefoot. Its banks were lined with wildflowers and tall grasses that leaned lazily toward the water as if listening for secrets. It was a quiet place, sacred in its own unspoken way, and tonight it belonged to them.

Louis walked beside Harry through the fields behind the temple, a slow stroll with no direction except away. Away from duty, from watchful eyes, from the ache of fear and the heaviness of what was still to come.

Harry carried his sandals in one hand, feet brushing through clover and warm earth. The setting sun caught in his curls, golden and soft, and Louis had to look away for a moment—not because he didn’t want to see, but because it made something in his chest twist in ways he wasn’t used to yet.

They said nothing for a while, just listened to the soft hum of insects and the gentle hush of the wind across the fields.

“I used to hate quiet,” Louis said eventually. “Back then… in the camps, in the war. Silence meant something was about to happen. It was never good.”

Harry looked over at him. “And now?”

“Now I think I’m starting to understand why people seek it. There’s peace in it, sometimes. With you, there’s peace.”

Harry’s eyes warmed. “Even after everything?”

“Especially after everything.”

They kept walking, slow and unhurried. As they reached the river, Louis paused to step onto a flat stone by the bank, crouching to dip his fingers into the cool water. He let it run over his skin like a reminder that he was here. That he wasn’t running anymore.

Harry stepped beside him and knelt too, watching the way the river wrapped around their hands like it knew them.

“What about you?” Louis asked, glancing sideways. “What did you used to be like before all this? Before the temple? Before, being you know, ” Gesturing to all of him.

Harry laughed under his breath. “There’s hardly a before. I’ve been here a very long time.”

“You must’ve been young once.”

“I was. Once.” Harry smiled faintly, eyes on the water. “I used to wander. I wasn’t always… rooted. I think I thought the world was mine to fix. I tried too hard. I bled too much.”

Louis tilted his head. “Were you ever angry?”

“Oh, Gods, yes. At everything. At war, at the way people hurt each other, at the way pain seemed to inherit itself down through families. I wanted to rip it all apart and start again. I’ve mourned more children than I’d like to say. I am, was, a Mother to all of them. It still hurts.”

Louis looked at him for a long beat. “You don’t seem angry anymore.”

“I’m not,” Harry said. “Not usually. I’ve learned that healing isn’t the same as fixing. It’s slower. Softer. Sometimes it just means sitting beside someone while they remember how to breathe.”

Louis reached down and skimmed his hand across the river’s surface. “You’ve done that for me.”

Harry turned to him. “You’ve done that for me, too. I didn’t realize how lonely I’d become. How much I needed someone to see me, see the children. Not a passing guide, or a guardian, or the whisper of some forgotten god—but me.”

Louis’s throat tightened. “I see you.”

Their eyes met, and the world pulled into focus. The breeze carried the scent of lavender and river reeds, and the last of the sun painted their skin in soft gold.

“Do you ever wonder what it would be like if we met somewhere else?” Louis asked quietly. “If there was no temple. No war. No empire.”

Harry smiled, a little sad. “I used to. But I think I’d always find you. Somewhere. Somehow.”

Louis didn’t respond at first. He looked down at his reflection beside Harry’s—two shadows in rippling water, side by side. Then he said, “I still think I don’t deserve this. Any of it. You. The children. A place to stay.”

“And now?”

Louis leaned just enough that their shoulders touched. “Now I’m starting to think maybe I do. Maybe I can let myself want more.” Harry turned his hand palm-up in the grass between them. Louis looked at it for a moment, then slid his fingers into Harry’s. “You make it easier.”

The silence that followed was soft this time. Not dangerous. Not waiting to break. Just quiet. Safe. They sat together on the riverbank as the sun dipped fully below the horizon and the stars began to scatter themselves overhead, their reflections visible in the water below. Harry leaned his head on Louis’ shoulder. “What do you want?” he asked, voice barely more than breath. “If you could have anything?”

Harry was quiet for a while before answering. “I want what we have now. But without fear. Without hiding. I want mornings where I wake up and you’re there. I want the children to be safe. I want to grow old with you, if I’m allowed that.”

Louis smiled softly against his arm. “I think you are.”

He shifted so he could look up at him properly. “And you?”

Louis hesitated, then said, “I want to stay. I want to teach Elias how to throw a real punch. I want to braid Calliope’s hair and pretend I’m terrible at it, so she keeps showing me. I want to help Thea build her bird traps, even though I know she’s just trying to catch songbirds to befriend them. And I want…” He swallowed. “I want to learn how to love someone without looking over my shoulder.”

Harry leaned in, forehead resting against Louis’s. “Then we’ll build that. Day by day. You and me.”

Louis closed his eyes. “Okay.”

They sat there long after the stars had fully arrived, the river whispering beside them like a lullaby.

And for the first time in a long, long while, neither of them felt the need to run.

︶⊹︶

Thea pressed her back against the cool stone of the outer corridor wall, just beneath one of the carved archways. Her knees were tucked to her chest, and her curls were still damp from bath time, smelling faintly of lavender soap. She held her breath—not because she was afraid, but because she didn’t want to ruin the moment.

Beside her, crouched low behind a crumbling column wrapped in flowering vines, Calliope squinted through the leaves, elbows digging into the edge of the window ledge. She was thirteen, but tonight she looked more like a child again, cheeks flushed with excitement, dark eyes wide.

“They’re back,” she whispered. Thea followed her gaze. Beyond the courtyard, across the open expanse of grass and olive trees, Harry and Louis were just cresting the slope behind the temple, walking side by side, bathed in silver-blue starlight. Their sandals swung lazily in their hands, and they were laughing— really laughing, like nothing else in the world existed but the sound of each other’s voices.

“They look… happy,” Thea said, a little surprised. Not because she didn’t think Harry could be happy. He was always gentle, always kind. But this was different. This was the kind of happiness that grew in someone’s chest and stayed.

“I think they’re in love,” Calliope whispered like she was admitting a spell. “Properly. Like in those stories about sailors and gods.”

“They’re already in love,” Thea replied. “Haven’t you noticed how they move around each other in the kitchen most mornings? It’s like the rest of the world gets quieter when they’re near each other.”

Calliope turned to look at her, startled by the sudden wisdom and depth of her voice. “You sound like you’ve been thinking about this for a while.”

Thea nodded. “Since before the wanderers came. Before Louis even started helping in the garden. I saw it in the way Mama stitched his bandages, with extra care. Mama never did that for anyone else. And in the way Louis holds the lantern when Mama and him are walking at night—like he’d stand in front of a storm if it meant keeping Mama dry.”

Calliope didn’t say anything for a while. She watched as their mother gently bumped Louis’s shoulder with his own and said something that made him laugh so hard he had to bend forward, hands on his knees. Their mom was grinning widely, eyes squinting in the way they only did when he wasn’t thinking about protecting anyone, when he just was.

“Do you think he’ll stay?” Calliope asked quietly. “I mean… do you think he’ll stay stay? Be part of us?” 

“He already is, Callie.”

“No, not like that. Not just protecting us. Not just guarding the temple or telling bedtime stories or bandaging scrapes. I mean…” Calliope paused, and her voice went softer. “Do you think he’ll ever sit at our table like he belongs to it? Like Mom? Like he’s… ours?”

Thea didn’t answer at first. Her eyes stayed on the two figures now crossing the courtyard’s far edge, their laughter gentler now, low like shared secrets. Harry reached for Louis’s hand and gave it a quick squeeze before letting go. It was so small, that gesture. So easy to miss.

But Thea didn’t miss it.

“I think,” she said slowly, “that Mom never imagined he could have something like this. And Louis never thought he deserved it. But now they’re starting to believe. And that means… maybe they’ll let themselves stay.”

“Even if the Soldiers come back?” Thea’s face darkened for just a moment, but she shook her head. “If they comes back, we’ll fight. But not alone.”

 Calliope turned to her sharply. “We’re not warriorsThea.”

“No,” Thea agreed. “But Louis is, and I don’t care, we’re a family. And sometimes, that’s stronger.”

Calliope sighed. “You’re taking the books that Louis read to us too seriously.”

Below them, the temple doors creaked open, and the light from within spilled across the stones. Harry and Louis paused at the threshold, silhouetted in warm gold. Louis said something, and Harry leaned close, resting his head briefly on Louis’s shoulder. The way Louis smiled—small, soft, stunned—made Thea’s heart twist in a way she didn’t have words for yet.

Calliope drew her knees up and hugged them. “Do you think he’ll be our father?” she whispered. “For real?”

Thea didn’t answer right away.

She remembered the way Louis had helped Thea braid her doll’s hair when she cried. The way he’d built a swing from an old fig tree, pushed Thea gently even when she said she was too big for it. The way he’d taught Elias how to grip a practice sword and said, You are strong, not because of your arms, but because of the choices you make.

She thought about how he carried the basket of herbs from the garden, how he hummed while cleaning wounds, how he knelt so the little ones could kiss his forehead like he was a prince in a fairytale.

And then she looked at Harry—how his eyes followed Louis even when he wasn’t looking, how his magic calmed when Louis entered a room, how his voice softened when he said his name.

Thea smiled, quiet and sure. “I’d like to think,” she said, “he already is.” The temple doors closed behind them, and the night settled again, gentle and still. The lanterns swayed softly above their heads, casting dappled light onto the stone floor like fallen stars. Somewhere nearby, Elias turned in his sleep and mumbled Louis’s name. Calliope wiped at her cheeks, surprised to find them wet. “Don’t tell anyone I cried.”

“I won’t,” Thea promised, linking their pinkies without a word. “But maybe one day… we can tell them we saw it happen. The night they chose us back.”

And in the quiet hush of the ancient temple, with vines curling like blessings and the last glow of sunset fading from the walls, two children clung to hope—not the fragile kind, but the kind that roots itself in love and refuses to be torn away.

Chapter Text

Harry

The late afternoon sun burned red against the horizon, casting long shadows across the worn steps of the Temple of the Lost. The children had long since retreated indoors, lulled by the scent of evening bread and the hush of story time. Birds had gone quiet, and even the wind stilled as if holding its breath. Harry felt it before he saw them — the heavy-footed march, the clatter of iron, the wrongness of war pressing into sacred soil.

He stood at the top of the temple steps, barefoot and cloaked in linen, his hands loose by his sides. The earth itself seemed to grow tense under the boots of the approaching Roman soldiers, dust rising like ash from every step they took. There were four of them, mounted and armed, their armor clinking with imperial arrogance, red plumes swaying in rhythm.

Harry’s jaw tightened. These were not wandering patrolmen. These were raiders. Pillagers. The same insignias had scorched the edges of nearby villages, and the same smirking faces had driven families into his arms, bleeding and broken.

The lead soldier halted at the base of the steps. His steed pawed at the dry earth, snorting.

“We were told,” the soldier called, his voice thick with practiced authority, “that a prisoner of war is being hidden here.”

Harry said nothing at first. His eyes slid briefly to the left, toward the stone wall enclosing the temple gardens. Beyond it, somewhere in the sheltering trees, Louis was likely helping Elias fetch water. Or training with Calliope. Or—Gods. The soldier dismounted, his boots landing with a solid thud. He ascended a single step.

“We’re not here to desecrate your little sanctuary,” he said, tone mockingly respectful. “We only want what belongs to Rome.”

“You won’t find war prisoners here,” Harry said at last, voice calm but cold. “This is sacred ground.”

“Sacred ground hides many things,” the soldier countered, stepping up again. “Refugees. Runaways. Traitors. And you.” His gaze raked over Harry’s tall form, unimpressed. “A priest? Or a God playing shepherd?”

Harry said nothing.

The soldiers behind him spread out — two on foot now, circling the courtyard like vultures scenting weakness. They were too comfortable. Too familiar with violence. He knew they had burned homes less than a week ago. One of the children —little Elias—had come to him crying about the smell of fire and the screams of his mother.

He swallowed his revulsion.

“You have children here,” said another soldier, peering through the arch of the cloister. “Some look… old enough to hold a sword.”

“They plant seeds. And silence. That’s all,” Harry murmured.

The first soldier tilted his head. “Interesting, you’d say that. Our informant was quite confident. A soldier, a former soldier, was seen limping through the outer woods. Near here.”

A flicker of fear darted across Harry’s heart. He didn’t move, but he braced himself. “You would threaten a place like this over a rumor?”

“We would raze an entire village over a lie if it served us. You should know that.” The soldier’s eyes gleamed. “So tell us. Where is he?”

Before Harry could answer—or stall — there was movement behind him.

Louis.

Barefoot, dust streaked across his neck, hair damp with sweat. He slowed as he took in the scene, eyes sharp and wary, shoulders drawing back instinctively.

The lead soldier turned slightly, distracted by the sound. “Ah,” he said. Louis stepped up beside Harry, placing himself just enough in front of him to shield. “They’re not leaving, are they?” he murmured, low.

Harry didn’t respond. His whole body had gone taut. Then the third soldier—younger than the others, with a jagged scar across his jaw—made a strangled sound.

“No—no fucking way.”

Everyone turned.

“Is that—” the soldier stepped closer, almost dropping his spear. “That’s him. That’s the aichmalotoi.”

Louis stilled.

“What?”

“The prisoner—” the soldier’s voice rose, breath catching. “We had him. At Vindobona. He escaped during the fire. Shit. That’s him!”

The silence that followed roared. The leader turned back to Harry, face split in a grin that didn’t reach his eyes.

“So. Our informant was right.”

Harry’s voice was a razor. “He is not your property.”

“But he is a fugitive,” the soldier said, expression smug. “Rome doesn’t take kindly to deserters. Especially ones who slit the throats of their guards before slipping away like rats.”

Louis didn’t flinch —not at the words, nor at the memory. His face was unreadable, but Harry saw it. The way his fingers clenched and unclenched at his sides. The way his jaw worked. The way his breath had gone shallow.

The past was pressing in like fire.

“Leave,” Harry said dangerously. “You’ve made a mistake. You are not welcome here.”

The lead soldier laughed. “You think I care about welcome? This man is a war criminal. And you’ve been harboring him.” Pointing to Louis.

“He is not what you say he is.”

“He’s a soldier.”

“He’s a person. One you tortured. One, you caged.”

The fourth soldier, previously silent, muttered, “That one cost us two cohorts at the border. We chased him through the ice for days.”

Louis finally spoke. “Then maybe you should have run faster.” It was quiet, but it landed like a thrown blade.

The lead soldier’s face changed, twisted. “You arrogant little—” He surged forward, grabbing Louis by the tunic. Louis didn’t resist. His eyes stayed locked on the man’s, unblinking. Daring.

“Let him go,” Harry said.

“Or what?”

The air shifted. The wind —so still— before being picked up suddenly, rustling the trees in a low, furious whisper. The skies darkened by a fraction.

“Let him go.”

And for a moment, no one moved.

Then Louis jerked his arm free and shoved the man back a step, hard enough that the soldier stumbled. His face flushed in fury.

“He belongs to Rome—”

“No one belongs to Rome,” Louis spat. “And I will not go back.”

There was a scream behind them — a Thea, from the far corridor. Calliope’s voice followed quickly, stern and firm, ushering the younger ones inside.

The sound broke something in Harry.

His shoulders rolled back. His expression blanked. He stepped down a single stair.

“Take another step,” he said softly, “and you’ll find the Gods you claim don’t exist.”

The soldiers hesitated.

“You want to know why the people come here?” Harry asked, voice now deeper, heavier. “It is not because of sanctuary. Or kindness. It is because there are things older than Rome, and you’ve forgotten how to fear them.” The wind surged. The earth trembled faintly beneath their feet. Louis turned his head, catching Harry’s eye for the briefest second — as if to say: I’m still here. I’m still me.

And Harry nodded.

“I give you one chance,” Harry said to the soldiers, his voice now layered with something ancient and vast. “Leave. Now. And never return.”

The leader gritted his teeth. “You think you can threaten the Empire?”

“I don’t threaten,” Harry said. “I warn. ”

The scarred soldier, the one who had recognized Louis, tugged at his captain’s sleeve. “Sir. Look at the trees.”

They all turned. The treetops that surrounded and enclosed had stilled completely. Even the birds had vanished. The sun, though not yet set, had dimmed unnaturally.

And from the mouth of the temple behind them, a soft glow began to radiate outward, like embers waking.

The leader’s jaw tightened. He spat into the dirt.

“This isn’t over.”

Harry held his gaze. “No. It isn’t.”

With a sharp whistle, the soldiers mounted and turned, retreating down the stone path. Their departure was fast, clumsy. They did not look back. The silence that followed was dense, electric. Harry turned to Louis, who was still staring after them, chest rising and falling.

“You shouldn’t have stepped in,” Harry said quietly, once they were alone.

“They were going to take you if you didn’t,” Louis said, equally quiet. “I’m not going to let them take you.”

Harry exhaled. His voice shook faintly, despite himself. “They’ll be back.”

“I know.”

“You shouldn’t stay here.”

“I know.”

Neither moved.

Then, softly: “They’ll tell others. That I’m alive.”

Harry looked up sharply. “You are allowed to live, Louis.”

Louis laughed bitterly. “Not in their eyes.” Harry stepped closer, and this time, he touched him —one hand on Louis’ shoulder, grounding. The other reached up to brush his hair back, gently.

“They don’t see you,” he whispered. “But I do.”

And Louis —war-worn, still trembling — finally let his eyes fall closed.

The courtyard settles into a hush after the soldiers disappear down the ridge. Evening cicadas pick up their timid song, and lamplight from the cloister’s flickers against weather‑smoothed stone. Harry lingers on the steps until he’s sure every child is indoors. Only then does he turn and follow Louis to the olive grove, where dusk unspools in lavender threads between the trunks.

Louis braces both hands on the low stone wall that rings the grove. He doesn’t speak, shoulders rising and falling with the slow, practiced breathing of a man calming a battlefield pulse. Harry stops a pace behind him, letting silence knit around them before he tries to touch it.

“Louis.”

A tremor skims Louis’ spine. “Don’t,” he says, voice hoarse. “If you’re kind right now, I’ll lose my nerve.”

Harry steps to his side anyway, elbows resting on the wall until their arms brush. “You don’t need nerve with me.”

Louis exhales a raw laugh. “I need it with myself.” He pries a pebble from the mortar and flicks it into the shadows. “You saw their eyes. They’ll return with a battalion if they must.”

Harry keeps his gaze on the distant tree line, where the last streak of gold clings to the horizon. “We’ve weathered soldiers before.”

“Not like this.” Louis turns, leaning his back against the wall now so he can watch Harry, lamplight haloing the curls at Harry’s nape. “These men remember me. They have names for me—Traitor, Ghost, and Gaul. Every one of those names carries a bounty. If I stay, I paint a target on you, on the temple, on the children.”

“The children are already marked,” Harry says softly. “By war, by grief. Rome can’t worsen what has already broken.”

“It can,” Louis answers, throat thick. “It can burn what little they have left.” He rubs a thumb over the scar at his temple, then drops his hand. “I thought I could outrun it. Thought months of hiding and healing made me something other than what I was. But the Empire remembers. They always remember.”

Harry tilts his head. “Then let me remember too—properly. Tell me what happened before the prison, before Vindobona.”

Louis’s breath catches. Moonlight silvers the line of his jaw; vulnerability makes it sharper than any blade.

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

Louis stared past him, into the grove. His voice came after a long pause.

“I was seventeen when Rome came. Our village was small—too small to matter, or so we thought. But that year they needed more men for the frontier. I remember watching them drag my uncle out of the fields, his hands still caked with dirt. They handed me a gladius and told me I was lucky. I was strong. I could fight. I could serve.”

He let out a shaky breath, eyes unfocused. “We were marched to the edge of the world. Fought in places where snow never melted, where even the trees looked like bones. I learned to kill fast or die slower. And I did it. Again and again. Because there was no way out. Because Rome doesn’t free the men it owns.”

Harry didn’t move. He’d known some of this—but not like this. Not with Louis’s voice this hollow, this raw.

“I was decorated,” Louis said. “For strategy. For silence. For following orders no one with a soul should ever obey. I stood in towns that we set on fire just to make a point. Watched people fall to their knees begging for mercy we didn’t have the right to offer them.”

He dragged a hand over his face. “When they sent us east, they told us we were protecting peace. But peace meant slaughtering tribes that hadn’t even drawn swords. I tried to refuse once. Just once. They chained me in front of my unit. Left me out in the cold overnight. After that… I stopped trying.”

Harry reached for him then, gently. Just his fingers brushing Louis’s wrist.

“Then came the camp,” Louis continued. “I was injured. Couldn’t fight. They said I’d become more useful elsewhere. They put us in pits—ex-soldiers who knew too much or disobeyed one too many times. Called us traitors. Stripped us of everything but our fear. And when the fire came—whether it was sabotage or divine mercy, I still don’t know—I ran.”

Finally, Louis looked at Harry. “I’ve been running ever since. And this place, this temple… it’s the first place I stopped. The first place I wanted to stop. But I never believed it could last.”

Harry swallowed hard, his heart aching under the weight of Louis’s words. “It can. If you let it.”

“No,” Louis said gently, shaking his head. “Not if I stay. I’ve seen what Rome does to temples that hide fugitives. I’ve done it. I won’t let them raze this place because of me. I won’t let the children—”

“They’d follow you into the mountains if you asked them to,” Harry interrupted, and Louis went quiet. “They’ve been on the brink of begging you to be their father. Do you understand that? Elias watches your every move. Thea only eats when you’re the one telling her stories. Calliope might be a general in her own right, but she looks to you for what to do next. If you go—if you disappear into Roman hands—they won’t survive it. And neither will I.”

Louis looked at him for a long time. The wind picked up, brushing his curls back from his face. “You don’t understand, Harry,” he said, voice thick. “You’re still safe. You’re the one thing about this place that’s untouchable. You can’t be hurt. But if they see you protecting me—if they realize how much you care—”

“They already know,” Harry said, barely above a whisper. “They saw it on my face today.”

“Then it’s only a matter of time.”

Harry stepped forward until their foreheads nearly touched. His hand slid to Louis’s cheek, thumb brushing the skin just beneath his eye. “I am not afraid of Rome.”

“You should be,” Louis breathed.

“I’m afraid of losing you,” Harry answered.

Louis closed his eyes. “You’re asking me to stay so you can die for me.”

“I’m asking you to stay so we can live. Together.”

“And what if that’s not possible?”

Harry leaned in, voice steadier than it should’ve been. “Then I’ll make it possible. Even if I have to face them alone.”

Louis opened his eyes. The vulnerability there shook Harry to his core. “You can’t protect everyone, Harry. Not by yourself.”

“There’s no one else left to call,” Harry said quietly. “No village army waiting in the trees. No forgotten brotherhood of warriors hiding in the hills. It’s just me. The old gods, if they’re listening. And you. That’s all.”

Silence followed. Not empty, but heavy. The kind that settles when a soul is being decided.

Louis reached out and gripped Harry’s tunic in one fist, pulling him forward until they were chest to chest. “I want to stay,” he said, voice almost breaking. “Gods, I want to stay. I just don’t want that choice to kill the people I love.”

“Then let me protect you,” Harry whispered, eyes burning. “Let me protect us. I’ll hide you in plain sight. I’ll teach the children to vanish into the catacombs if they hear boots on the stones. I’ll move heaven if I have to. But don’t ask me to wake up tomorrow and find you gone.”

Louis was shaking. Not with fear—but with the effort it took not to crumble.

“I’ve killed men who looked at me like this,” he whispered. “Like I was worth something. I don’t know how to be that person for more than a moment.”

Harry’s fingers threaded through Louis’s. “Then let the moment stretch. One hour at a time. One sunrise. One meal. One smile. You’re allowed to build a life here. You’re allowed to be loved.”

Louis didn’t speak. He just kissed him.

There was nothing polished or patient about it. No ceremony, no poetry. Just need. Mouths slanted together with years of silence behind them. Desperation carved into every brush of lips, every breath stolen. Harry kissed like he was saving them both. Louis kissed like it was the first thing he’d ever owned that wasn’t taken by force.

When they finally pulled apart, Louis’s forehead dropped to Harry’s shoulder.

“I’ll stay,” he whispered. “But if they come back, and you fall because of me—”

Harry cut him off with a kiss to the temple. “Then I’ll fall protecting what I chose. And I choose you.”

They stood like that until the lanterns burned low and the wind died again, as if satisfied. As if the grove had heard a vow and accepted it.

Later, as they slipped through the stone halls of the temple, Harry guiding them back to the dormitories, they passed the sleeping children: Calliope curled around a half-written map, Elias snoring beside a practice sword, Thea holding a cloth lion to her chest.

Louis paused in the doorway, watching them. Watching the life he thought he didn’t deserve.

“They trust you,” Harry whispered behind him.

Louis nodded slowly. “And you.”

Harry touched his back. “Especially me.”

And as the night thickened and they retreated into the quiet safety of Harry’s chambers, Louis allowed himself—for the first time—to believe in a future with no escape route. No final act of sacrifice. Just days. Just moments. Just staying.

No legions. No fleeing.

Only love. Only home.

Chapter Text

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

Louis

The morning light crept slowly across the courtyard, warm and golden, but it did little to soothe the tight coil of anxiety still lodged in Louis’s chest. He sat just outside the children’s quarters, elbows on his knees, thumb pressed to a faint bruise at his jaw. It throbbed — more a reminder of the tension than any real injury.

The soldiers hadn’t laid a hand on him. Not really. But their presence had been violent enough.

Louis closed his eyes, the echo of raised voices still ringing in his ears. The warning. The threat. The way one of them had smiled when they said his name — not “Louis,” but “the deserter.” It had turned his blood cold.

He didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until a soft rustle of footsteps pulled him back.

Calliope stood a few feet away, arms crossed over her chest, jaw set tight. Behind her, Elias hovered uncertainly with Thea clutching his sleeve. All three looked like they hadn’t slept.

“Hey,” Louis said softly, sitting up straighter. “Didn’t hear you coming.”

“You were loud,” Calliope said, voice flat. Louis’s heart twisted. “Yesterday?” She nodded.

“You scared Thea,” Elias said, not accusing — just stating a fact. Louis’s chest ached. “I know,” he said. “I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry.”

“You yelled at them,” Calliope said. “The men. The ones with swords.”

“I did.”

“Why?” 

Louis looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers like he could shake off the memory.

“They came looking for something,” he said. “Someone. Me.”

Elias stepped forward, eyes narrowed in confusion. “Why you?”

Louis hesitated. Then: “A long time ago, before I came here, I was a soldier. I stopped being one. I walked away. That’s something Rome doesn’t forgive.”

“They want to take you back?” Calliope asked. “Like… a prisoner?”

“Something like that,” Louis said. “They think leaving was a crime.”

“But it’s not,” Elias said, frowning. “You’re not bad. You help with Thea’s nightmares. You fixed the chicken fence. You made us tea with honey when we were sick. Just tell them.”

Louis smiled faintly at her innocence and didn’t want to taint it even more with what he knew, even as his heart tugged. “Those things matter more than they know.” There was a pause. Thea leaned into his side, whispering so quietly he barely caught it: “Are they coming back?” Louis didn’t answer at first. He looked out across the sunlit courtyard, where the wind had stilled and even the birds seemed to be holding their breath.

“I don’t know,” he said. “But if they do, I’ll make sure you’re safe.” Calliope stepped closer. “Harry told me to be ready. He said the temple’s breath was changing.”

Louis blinked. “He said what?”

“He was quiet yesterday morning. The goats were nervous. He touched the stones and said the valley felt unsettled.” Louis felt a chill run through him. He hadn’t known Harry had sensed anything. He hadn’t said.

“I think he knew,” Calliope added. “He always knows.”

Louis opened his mouth, unsure what to say —when a gust of wind swept suddenly through the courtyard, lifting dust and flower petals in its wake. The temple door creaked open behind them. Harry stepped into the light. He looked pale, serious, dressed in soft white linen, a golden thread laced through his wrap. The wind tugged at his curls. His eyes — usually warm, full of sun —were sharp. Clear. Focused.

“They’re coming back,” Harry said. All three children froze.

Louis stood instinctively, placing a protective hand on Thea’s back.

“How do you know?” he asked. Harry didn’t hesitate. “The land told me. The river changed its sound. The bees left their hives early. The temple stone feels… tense.”

Louis stared at him. He believed him. “They’re not finished,” Harry continued. “ You were right, yesterday wasn’t a mistake. It was a warning.”

Louis’s stomach dropped.

He turned sharply toward the courtyard, eyes scanning the wide open space where the rest of the outside villagers were gathered — their voices quiet, their own children's play hesitant. The air had changed. It wasn’t just the hush of morning or the stillness of tired limbs; it was something older, heavier. The breeze no longer danced — it clung, tight and watchful, like the land itself was bracing for impact. The earth beneath the stones felt tense, holding its breath, and the sky above had dulled, as if light refused to settle. They felt it too.

“Inside. Now,” Louis said, already moving. His voice was firm, but not loud —not enough to alarm. Just enough to be obeyed.

Calliope didn’t question him. She took Thea’s hand and started ushering the others toward the temple doors. Elias hovered for a moment, looking up at Louis.

“Will we be okay?”

Louis met his eyes. “We will. But I need you to move fast.” Elias nodded once and followed. When the courtyard had emptied, Harry stepped to Louis’s side.

“They’ll want answers this time,” he said. “Not just threats.”

“They’ll want me,” Louis murmured. “And they’ll keep pushing until they get what they came for.”

“Then we push back,” Harry said. Louis glanced at him — at his calm, his certainty. “What are we going to do?” Harry’s hand brushed against his. “We protect our family.”

The wind swept through again, as if the valley itself were listening.

And the temple, ancient and sacred, waited for what came next.

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

The temple had never felt so still.

Not even in the dead of night, when the wind whispered through the stone corridors. Not even during storms, when thunder rolled above the hills and the children huddled together under blankets.

This silence was heavy. Waiting. A warning. At this point Louis knew the Temple reflected Harry’s emotions. 

Louis stood near the arched entryway, eyes fixed on the far path below, where clouds of dust curled into the sky. Hooves. The unmistakable glint of bronze and steel beneath the sun. They were coming back.

Louis thought back to Elias one more time:

“We’re playing a hiding game, remember?”

Elias blinked up at him. “The one with the tunnel?”

Louis nodded. “The one where we’re very, very quiet and very, very safe. Just like last time. But this time, you’ll go all the way in.”

Calliope’s eyes narrowed, older, sharper. “Why?”

“Because there’s danger,” Louis said simply. He knelt so they were eye level. “And I need you to trust me. Can you do that?”

They hesitated. Then, slowly, Calliope gave a nod. “We trust you, Louis.”

“No,” he said, voice catching. “No, I’m not— I can’t be Louis right now.” He had to be a soldier again, not for himself but for his family . 

Calliope reached out, wrapped her arms around his neck, and whispered in his ear: “We love you, Dad.” The word cracked open something deep inside him —a place he hadn’t dared touch in years.

His eyes watered as he held her tight. “I love you, too.”

He stood, barking gently, “Go. Now. Take the others. Down through the mosaic room. Don’t come out until one of us opens the stone hatch.”

Calliope and Thea ran, ushering Elias while Calliope held Atlas in his wicker basket behind the old mosaic wall —a hidden panel in the floor leading to a narrow chamber, used in the old wars to store sacred scrolls and relics. Now, it was a bunker.

As the stone slid into place, sealing them in, Louis exhaled a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. Then he turned —and found Harry already waiting by the gate.

“You don’t have to do this,” Louis said. “You could stay with the children. Keep them safe.”

Harry shook his head. “No. This is my temple. My home . My family. I’m not letting you face them alone.” He grabbed Louis’ hand and squeezed.

Their eyes locked —and in that space, something passed between them. Understanding. Devotion. Love, loud and quiet all at once. The gate thundered as fists slammed into the wood.

Louis turned, drawing the blade he kept hidden behind the prayer bench. He hadn’t touched it in months, but it felt familiar in his grip. Like it remembered.

Harry raised a staff from the ceremonial altar —polished, carved with old sigils, and held it like a weapon.

“They won’t pass,” Harry said.

But the gate broke, like a dam bursting flooding in about 30 soldiers, ready to attack.

The wood gave with a splintering crack, a gaping wound torn open in the temple’s sanctity. Roman soldiers surged forward like a tide — metal and muscle and rage, their footsteps heavy on sacred stone.

Louis stepped in front of Harry without thinking. The first soldier came too fast — a blur of red and bronze —and Louis met him with steel. Their blades clashed, the sound ringing out like a bell tolling for war. He turned his body, twisted, struck. The soldier stumbled back, clutching his side.

Harry moved next — no hesitation, no fear. The ceremonial staff wasn’t made for killing, but in his hands, it became something divine. He struck low, knocking a soldier’s legs out from under him, then brought the staff down across his chest with a sickening thud. There was nothing soft in Harry now. No robes, no olive branches —only fire.

They moved together like they’d done this a hundred times. Like they’d been waiting for the moment fate would ask them to fight beside one another.

“You’re hurt,” Harry panted, eyes flicking to the shallow cut blooming on Louis’s arm.

“I’ll survive,” Louis bit out. “Watch your left.”

Harry ducked just in time to avoid the swing of a gladius.

More soldiers poured in, four, five —too many. One lunged for Harry, pushing him back toward the altar, and for a moment Louis’s heart stopped — until he saw Harry slam the base of the staff into the ground and whisper something ancient under his breath. The soldier recoiled as if burned.

There were cries — shouts in Latin, boots scuffing stone. The clash of sword against shield. The altar cracked as a body crashed into it. Somewhere near the door, one soldier let out a panicked yell.

“He’s the prisoner! That’s him! Take him alive!”

Louis froze. Recognition. They knew their mission. Harry’s head snapped toward him, an alarm flashing in his eyes. “Louis—” But Louis was already moving, blade swinging in a wild arc that knocked the soldier’s shield aside.

“You’re not taking me,” he snarled.

Another grabbed at him from behind. Louis turned, elbowed him in the face, then drove the hilt of his sword into the soft flesh beneath the helmet. Blood spattered across the stones. He didn’t notice when he fell to one knee —didn’t feel the pain until Harry’s hand grabbed his shoulder, hauling him back up.

“Don’t you dare leave me here,” Harry growled, voice cracking. “Not now.”

“I’m not going,” Louis swore, breathing hard. “Not unless you do.” Another soldier lunged. Harry spun his staff and knocked him cold. The fight blurred after that — fast, brutal, beautiful in its violence. Like two storms colliding in a sacred place.

And then, just as suddenly as it had started, it ended.

The last soldier dropped his sword. Looked between Louis and Harry, bleeding and breathless and unbowed. Then he turned and ran.

The temple fell silent again.

Louis staggered, breathing heavy. He dropped his sword and braced his hands on his knees, sweat and blood dripping from his curls. Harry limped forward, staff dragging. He was bruised, bleeding from a shallow cut on his jaw, but alive. They looked at each other across the ruined floor — the broken gate behind them, the temple walls still standing.

“You’re okay,” Harry said, voice barely a whisper.

Louis shook his head, a shaky laugh tumbling from his lips. “You’re bleeding.”

Harry stepped closer. “You’re crying.”

“I’m not,” Louis lied.

Harry reached up, thumb brushing under his eye. “You are.” Louis laughed again, soft and sharp, and then Harry kissed him —not like it was the first time, not like it was fragile, but like it was earned. Like it was necessary. The taste of blood and dust didn’t matter. The ache in their ribs didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except that they were alive, that they were together.

When they pulled apart, Louis rested his forehead against Harry’s, still panting.

Louis closed his eyes.

“I’m so tired,” he whispered.

Harry nodded. “Then rest. I’ve got you.”

Epilogue

The sun was rising over the valley, soft and golden, breaking through the cracks in the temple’s battered walls. The storm had passed. The Romans were gone. And though the air still carried the ghost of battle—smoke, blood, shattered stone—there was peace.

Louis sat on the temple steps with Calliope curled against his side, her curls tangled from sleep and war. The courtyard, once sacred and silent, now bore the marks of chaos: broken pottery, scorched ground, and the faintest smear of red across the stone where he’d fallen. But the children were alive. They were safe. And Harry—

Harry was standing barefoot in the garden, sleeves rolled up, tending to the herbs. Like he always did.

Louis watched him quietly, something too big and too tender swelling behind his ribs. It had been three days since the battle. Three long, aching, sacred days of recovery. Harry had hardly left the children’s side the first night, his touch a balm, his voice a tether to something steady. The next day, he’d helped Louis bind the bruises around his ribs, mumbling something about how warriors deserved softness too.

Calliope stirred, blinking up at Louis. “Are we still hiding?”

“No,” Louis said softly. “We don’t have to hide anymore.”

She squinted at the rising sun. "Good. I like the garden better."

He smiled. "Me too."

From somewhere inside, Thea shrieked in delight. Elias came bounding out after her, barefoot, a makeshift wooden sword in hand. They looked like children again—not ghosts of war. Not survivors.

Louis felt the tightness in his chest loosen just a little more.

“Hey,” Harry called softly, approaching with dirt on his hands and a sprig of lavender tucked behind one ear. “You haven’t eaten.”

Louis raised an eyebrow. "You offering room service?"

 “Only for war heroes.” Harry smirked.

“I thought you didn’t like that word.”

“I don’t,” Harry said, crouching beside him. “But I like you.”

Calliope rolled her eyes and slid off Louis’s lap. “I’m getting breakfast. This is gross.”

Louis laughed, the sound catching at the edges of something still healing. When they were alone, Harry reached out and gently brushed a thumb under Louis’s eye.

“Still hurts?” he asked.

“No,” Louis whispered. “Not anymore.”

They sat like that for a long time, knees touching, shoulders brushing, the quiet stretching wide between them. Then, gently:

"You could stay," Harry said. "Really stay. Not just until they stop coming. Not just until the children stop dreaming. But for good."

Louis looked out across the valley, the wind stirring through the tall grass like it was breathing again. Free.

“I’ve never stayed anywhere,” he said. “Not really. Not since I left the Legion.” Harry’s voice was steady. “You stayed through a battle. You stayed for them.”

“I stayed for you,” Louis said before he could stop himself. Harry blinked.

Then he smiled, slow and real. “Good.”

The temple changed after that—not in the way it stood or the way it held its age in stone, but in its breath. It was warmer. Fuller. The corridors didn’t echo with fear. The rooms didn’t feel like places to hide, but places to be.

The children returned to lessons. To games. To growing things in the garden. Calliope began carving little wooden animals for Thea. Elias declared himself the official guardian of the goat pen. Even Atlas started toddling, falling face-first into the lavender while Louis and Harry watched from the steps.

They rebuilt what had been broken. Together.

One afternoon, Louis found himself in the armory, staring at the sword he had fought with. Its blade still clean. Its weight still familiar.

He touched the hilt, then put it back. He didn’t need it anymore.

Harry found him there.

“You, okay?” he asked.

Louis nodded. “Just saying goodbye.”

“To what?”

“The version of me who only knew how to run.”

Harry stepped closer. “He kept the children alive. He protected what mattered. That version of you is still here.”

Louis turned. “You don’t mind that I’m not a priest or a healer or—whatever this temple was built for?”

Harry reached for his hand. “This temple was built for the lost. And you, my love, fit in just fine.” They kissed like it was the first time. Like it was safe to.

Later that night, the children hosted a feast—or their best attempt at one. Burnt bread, stolen figs, half-cooked beans. But they lit candles. They braided flowers into Harry’s hair. They handed Louis a crown made of olive branches and said he was their knight now.

“I thought you said I had to earn it,” he teased Calliope.

She crossed her arms. “You did.”

He wore it like it was made of gold.

When the stars came out, the children slept in a heap on the floor, limbs tangled. Louis and Harry sat outside under the moonlight, fingers laced together.

“Do you think they’ll come back?” Louis asked quietly.

Harry was quiet for a long time. Then:

“Maybe. But not for a while. And not while we’re watching.” Louis nodded. “Then I’ll keep watch.” Harry turned to him, eyes soft. “Not alone. Not ever again.”

Louis exhaled. For the first time in years, it felt like a promise he could believe. The temple would stand. The children would grow. And they—whatever they were becoming—would be there to see it.

Together.

The valley breathed again. And this time, it carried the sound of laughter, of footsteps on sun-warmed stone, of life after survival.

Of peace.

THE END.