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Content : killing, injuries, mentions of giving birth, nightmares, deaths, some fluff, gods, very bad jokes.
A/N : FINALLY GUYS YAYYY !! I finally got this super long chapter to get out of my head. I hope youâll enjoy it and sorry for the delay.
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"To one who enters the dark, let him knowâno road leads back the same way he came."
â Euripides, The Trojan Women
The morning air is cool, carrying the scent of damp earth and burning torches. You stand at the threshold of the temple ruins, watching Anakin move through the dust and light, his gladius flashing in the golden glow of dawn. His body is tense, each motion sharp, deliberateâhis strikes meant to cut through the invisible enemies he imagines before him. He doesnât know you are watching. Or maybe he does and refuses to acknowledge it.
It has been a month since Vesta revealed the existence of the Flectere. A month since you felt your powers fully return, since you realized your son was the key to channeling them. A month since you last ran from Anakin and he chased after you, shouting, only to watch you vanish into the darkness that swallowed you whole. The memory still lingers between you, like an open wound neither of you have tended to. You both know it is there, festering beneath your stolen glances and tense silences, but neither of you has dared to press against it and let it bleed.
Your hand drifts to your stomachâa subconscious gesture youâve caught yourself doing more and more. At four months, the change is undeniable now. The curve of your belly is small but growing, your body reshaping itself to hold the weight of the life inside you. A life that has already begun to alter the very fabric of fate. You can feel it in the way your power hums beneath your skin, stronger than it ever was, thrumming with potential you do not fully understand. And yet, the weight of what is coming is heavier than ever.
Anakin shifts, rolling his shoulders, and then launches forward again, his blade cutting through the air in a lethal arc. His strikes are near perfectâeach movement executed with the precision of a man who has spent his entire life wielding a weapon, who has killed more men than he cares to count. But there is something restless about the way he fights now. His frustration crackles in the space between his movements, an unspoken storm that has been building inside him since the gods put this war upon your shoulders.
You donât need to be a goddess to understand what haunts him.
He stops abruptly, breathing hard, and drives the gladius into the ground. His hands grip the hilt so tightly that his knuckles turn white. His head bows, damp curls sticking to his forehead, and for a brief moment, he looks exhaustedânot from the training, but from everything.
And still, you say nothing.
You should. You know that.
But the words do not come easily. Not when your last fight still lingers in the air between you, unresolved. Not when you are both so stubborn, so unwilling to be the first to break.
Instead, you step forward. The crunch of your footfalls on the stone draws his attention, and he lifts his head, eyes catching yours. For a moment, neither of you speak. The temple ruins around you seem to hold their breath.
His gaze flickers briefly to your stomach. His expression does not soften, but something shiftsâsomething quiet, something almost hesitant.
"Youâve been watching me," he says, voice rough from disuse.
"Youâve been training like a man possessed," you counter.
A wry, humorless smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. "Maybe I am."
You exhale, stepping closer, the tension between you shifting like tectonic plates beneath the earth. "AnakinâŠ"
He watches you carefully, guarded, like a man expecting a blow. "What?"
"You donât have to bear this alone."
His jaw tightens. "Iâm not alone."
His silence is answer enough.
You reach out, hesitantly at first, then press your palm against his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath the fabric. His heart beats hard, fast, like a war drum. He doesnât flinch away, but he doesnât relax, either.
"You love me," you whisper, the words barely audible between you. Itâs not a question. Itâs not an accusation. Itâs just truth, spoken into the space that neither of you has dared to touch.
Anakinâs throat bobs, but he does not deny it. He does not say it, either.
Instead, he exhales sharply, closing his eyes for a brief moment before speaking. "The gods want you dead," he murmurs, voice tight. "They want our son. They want Rome. And I canâtâ" His hand lifts, pressing over yours, holding it against his chest. His fingers tighten around yours, desperate. "I canât let them take any of it. I canât lose you."
You squeeze his hand in return. "You wonât."
His eyes open, blue and storm-touched. "Swear it."
Because you canât swear it. Because you have seen too many prophecies unravel, too many fates rewritten in blood. Because you are a goddess, and even you are bound by forces beyond your control.
But you donât want to lie to him.
So instead, you take his hand and press it over your stomach. His fingers twitch slightly as he feels the life stirring beneath his palm, as if the reality of it is still something he cannot fully grasp. You wonder if he feels what you doâthe power growing inside you, the tether that now binds all three of you together.
"I canât swear it," you admit, voice soft but unwavering. "But I can promise you this: I will fight. I will fight for you, for our son, for the future we deserve."
Anakinâs grip on you tightens, his breath unsteady. For a moment, it almost looks like he might break.
But he doesnât. He never does.
Instead, his forehead dips to rest against yours, his exhale shuddering between you.
"We find the Flectere," he murmurs. "And then we make them pay."
There is no hesitation in his voice, no doubt. Only certainty. Only war.
And this time, you do not correct him.
The streets of Rome are alive with movement, the scent of freshly baked bread and spiced wine thick in the air. Merchants call out their wares, children dart between stalls, and the hum of conversation fills the Forum.
You walk beside Anakin, your hood drawn low over your face, but it does little to hide the growing curve of your belly. It has been months since you last walked through these streets freely, and while the weight of war still looms over you both, there is something oddly peaceful about this momentâabout simply being here, together, among the people.
You walk beside Anakin, your hood drawn low over your face, but it does little to hide the growing curve of your belly. It has been months since you last walked through these streets freely, and while the weight of war still looms over you both, there is something oddly peaceful about this momentâabout simply being here, together, among the people.
Your steps slow as you pass a small stall near the corner of the market. Stacked neatly on a wooden tray are small, golden honey cakes, their tops glistening in the sunlight. Your mouth practically waters at the sight of them. The craving is sudden, insistent. You need them.
Before you can reach for one, a voice calls out.
"Blessings upon you, domina! A strong child, I am sure!"
Another joins in. "A son, no doubt! Rome will be lucky to have him!"
And then moreâwarm, cheerful voices from the gathered crowd, offering congratulations, well wishes, blessings for your unborn child. A few women even reach toward you, eager to touch the fabric of your cloak as if to pass on some kind of fortune.
Anakin stiffens at your side. His grip on your waist tightens, his jaw clenching. You can feel his irritation rising with every new voice added to the chorus. He does not like attentionânot on you, not on your child.
Then, before the crowd can grow any larger, he clears his throat and steps forward. His voice is deep, commanding, leaving no room for argument.
"My wife is tired," he announces, his arm securing you against his side. "Clear the way."
The effect is immediate. The crowd murmurs apologies, stepping back without hesitation, some even bowing their heads as they part for him. Anakin doesnât need to raise his voice or unsheathe his bladeâhis presence alone is enough to make them obey.
With the path now clear, he turns back to the stall, tossing a few coins onto the wooden counter. "The honey cakes," he orders.
The vendor nods quickly, placing the small pastries into a cloth pouch and handing them over. Anakin takes them without another word, then turns to you, slipping one into your hand.
"Here," he says, softer now, as if the tension from before never existed.
You take a bite immediately, the sweet taste melting on your tongue. A quiet moan of satisfaction escapes your lips, and when you glance up at him, you catch the corner of his mouth twitching upward.
"Youâre enjoying this too much," he mutters, shaking his head as he watches you take another eager bite.
You hum in response, licking a stray drop of honey from your thumb. "Iâm pregnant, I deserve this."
His smirk deepens, his eyes lingering on your lips before he exhales, shaking his head in amusement. "Come on, before someone else decides to touch you."
And with that, he tucks you close against his side, guiding you away from the market, his hand never leaving your waist.
The firelight flickers over the faces of your gathered allies, casting long shadows against the stone walls of your hidden sanctuary. Maps, scrolls, and fragmented inscriptions lay scattered across the wooden table before you, but no amount of reading or discussion has yet unraveled the mystery of Vestaâs words.
Anakin sits at the head of the table, his fingers drumming impatiently against the hilt of the god-killing gladius strapped to his waist. He has never had the patience for riddles, especially not when time is slipping away like sand through his fingers. His frustration is palpable, the sharp furrow of his brow deepening with every passing second.
"This is pointless," he growls, pushing away a parchment covered in scribbled translations. "Why canât the gods ever speak plainly? If the Flectere is powerful enough to threaten them, we should be focusing on taking it, not wasting time deciphering riddles."
"Because if we donât understand where to look, weâll never find it," you counter, though you share in his frustration. "Vesta wouldnât have given us the prophecy if it werenât the only way to reach it."
Anakin exhales sharply through his nose but says nothing.
You trace your fingers over the prophecyâs words once more, murmuring them under your breath.
"It is not in the heavens nor in the earth, stolen by Pluto, where the past weeps and the future bleeds."
You close your eyes, allowing the words to settle deep within you, to take shape beyond their cryptic phrasing.
"The first part," you say slowly, "itâs specific. Not in the heavens nor in the earth. That means itâs in neither the realm of the gods nor the realm of the living."
"Then it must be in the Underworld," one of your allies offers, glancing between you and Anakin.
Anakin scoffs. "That much was obvious from stolen by Pluto. The question is where in the Underworld."
You nod. That much you had known from the beginning, but it is the last part of the prophecy that has kept you all trapped in endless discussion.
"Where the past weeps and the future bleeds."
A place of sorrow. A place where time itself seems to stagnate, caught between what was and what could have been.
There is a place, whispered of in old myths. A realm of the Underworld often overlooked in favor of the punishments of Tartarus or the rewards of Elysium. A place that belongs to neither glory nor suffering, only to the forgotten.
Your breath stills as the realization strikes.
"The Asphodel Meadows," you whisper.
Anakin turns toward you, the tension in his body shifting. "What?"
"The Asphodel Meadows," you repeat, stronger now. "Itâs a place for souls who did neither great evil nor great good in their lives. Those who werenât wicked enough for Tartarus, but not worthy of Elysium either. Itâs where the dead linger, lost in memoryâ"where the past weeps."
Your heart pounds as you continue, the pieces falling into place. "And those souls⊠they were once people who might have shaped the world, people whose stories were never finished. Where the future bleeds."
A heavy silence settles over the room.
Anakinâs jaw clenches, his hands curling into fists. "So the gods let them rot in some forgotten field, mourning what they lost?"
"It is not a place of torment," one of your allies murmurs. "But neither is it peace."
Anakin lets out a bitter laugh. "Sounds exactly like something the gods would create."
You exchange a glance with him, feeling the weight of this revelation settle between you. The Flectere, the one thing that could turn the tide of this war, is buried among the deadâhidden in a realm where history itself has been left to decay.
And if you are to claim it, you must walk into the land of the forgotten.
The moment the words leave your lips, you know exactly how Anakin will react.
His body tenses like a drawn bowstring, his hands flexing as though preparing to grip the hilt of his sword. His storm-blue eyes burn with an intensity that could set the very air alight.
âIâll go.â His voice is ironclad, final. âIâll get the shield myself.â
A scoff rises in your throat, incredulous and sharp. âAbsolutely not.â
âI wasnât asking,â he snaps, already pushing away from the table as if the matter is settled. âIâll leave at dawn. Stay here. Stay safe.â
You move faster than him, stepping into his path before he can storm off into the night with nothing but sheer determination and that damned gladius in hand.
âNo, Anakin.â Your voice is firm, unwavering. âYou are not going alone.â
His jaw tightens, muscles working beneath scarred skin. âYes, I am.â
âI wonât risk you,â he growls. âI wonât.â
âAnd I wonât risk you,â you counter. âI am the goddess of legends, Anakin. I have walked through history, I have fought gods and seen the horrors of the Underworld. You havenât.â
Anakin exhales harshly, frustration rippling through his every movement. âYouâre pregnant.â His voice is rough with emotion, his hands trembling before he fists them at his sides. âI wonât let you put yourselfâor our childâin danger.â
Something in you bristles at his words. âYou think I donât know the risks? That I would ever endanger our baby?â You shake your head, disbelief thick in your voice. âThis isnât just about me, or you, or even the baby. This is about everything. If we donât get that shield, none of us will have a future.â
Anakinâs breathing is heavy, his fury warring with something deeperâfear.
âI canât lose you,â he mutters, barely above a whisper.
The rawness in his voice pierces through you. You soften, stepping closer, reaching for him. He doesnât move away. âAnd you think I could bear losing you?â You press a hand against his chest, feeling the steady, frantic rhythm of his heart. âWe are in this together. We have to be.â
His hands twitch, aching to touch you, to hold you, but he is still locked in his stubborn battle.
"You don't understand," he grits out. "I have to protect you. If something happened to youâ" He cuts himself off, his breath unsteady. "I can't go through that. Not again."
Your chest tightens. You know what he means. He has lost everyone he ever loved. His mother. His past life. Even you, once. He is terrified of losing you again.
But you are not some fragile thing to be locked away. You are a goddess. And you are his.
âI will not stay behind while you walk into the Underworld alone,â you tell him. âThatâs not who I am. Thatâs not who we are.â
His teeth grind together. His shoulders tense. His every instinct screams at him to fight you on this, to make you stay, to keep you safe even if it means breaking himself apart.
But he knows you are right.
He swallows hard, looking at you as if searching for a way to make you change your mind. You hold his gaze with unwavering certainty.
Finally, he exhales, long and slow, and shakes his head.
"Youâre so damn stubborn,â he mutters.
You smirk. âYou love me for it.â
His lips press into a thin lineâexasperated, resigned. And yet, behind all of it, there is something close to admiration.
"Fine," he relents, voice gruff. "We go together."
Anakin is quiet for a long time after conceding. The fire in his eyes dims, but not with defeatâwith something heavier, something that lingers between fear and acceptance. He rubs a hand down his face, fingers pressing briefly over his mouth as if heâs holding back words.
Then, finally, he speaks.
âIf something happens to me down thereâŠâ He swallows, jaw tightening. âI want our son to have a name.â
You donât realize how much his words unnerve you until silence stretches between you, cold and suffocating. Anakin never talks about dying. He never allows himself to entertain the possibility of it. He fights with the force of someone who refuses to be undone by fate, someone who has already died once and clawed his way back.
And yet here he is, looking at you with quiet resignation, as if he is preparing himself for the worst.
You shake your head, gripping his wrist tightly. âYou will come back, Anakin.â
His lips press together, unreadable. âName him.â
You want to argue. To tell him that naming the baby now is unnecessary because he will be here, because you wonât allow fate to take him from you again.
But the way heâs looking at youâso steady, so determinedâmakes you pause. He needs this.
Your fingers ghost over your stomach. You havenât spoken the babyâs name aloud before. You havenât even allowed yourself to think too deeply about it. Perhaps some part of you feared it would make everything too real.
Now, though, itâs all too real already.
You exhale, steadying yourself. âRoman.â
Anakinâs expression shiftsâsurprise, curiosity. âRoman,â he repeats, testing the name on his tongue.
You nod. âAfter his fatherâs sacrifice. It means from Roma.â
A slow breath escapes him. His hand hesitantly reaches out, hovering over your stomach before finally resting there. His palm is warm, fingers slightly calloused from years of wielding weapons. The touch is reverent.
"Roman," he murmurs again, softer this time.
You watch the way his throat bobs, the way his lashes lower slightly as he stares at where his hand rests against you. He is not just thinking of the name. He is thinking of the future. Of the tiny, growing life that neither of you expected but now cannot imagine the world without.
Then, something shifts in him.
His jaw tightens, and when he meets your gaze again, the uncertainty, the resignationâitâs all gone. In its place is something unyielding, something that burns hotter than any fire.
âI will come back,â he vows, voice low and fierce. âFor you. For him.â His fingers tighten slightly against your stomach. âFor our family.â
You nod, pressing a hand over his. âThen letâs go get our shield.â
The journey takes days. Days of searching through ancient texts, chasing half-formed myths, wandering the forgotten corners of Rome. Legends speak of many entrances to the Underworldâcaves where the living once sought the dead, rivers that flowed between realmsâbut few who crossed ever returned.
Anakin grows impatient quickly. His frustration simmers beneath his skin, his need to act at war with the slow, meticulous work of deciphering the past. Every dead end grates at him, every false lead only feeds his agitation. You see it in the way he grips the gladius, in the restless way his fingers twitch when he thinks too much. He is a soldier. A warrior. He was made for battles, not riddles.
But it is you who finally remembers.
You sit beneath the flickering torchlight of your hideout, exhausted, your hand absentmindedly tracing the curve of your stomach. Anakin watches you, quiet, as if he has been waiting for you to say you need rest. Youâre four months along nowâyour body is changing, and though you try to ignore it, the discomfort is growing harder to push aside.
It is in that moment, caught between weariness and thought, that it comes back to you.
"Rome itself stands over a gate to the Underworld."
"Anakin," you say suddenly, straightening. "Weâve been searching too far."
He blinks, frowning. "What?"
You push yourself up, gripping his arm. "The answer isnât in lost temples or distant lands. Itâs hereâbeneath Rome itself."
His frown deepens, but thereâs a flicker of interest in his eyes now. "What do you mean?"
"The Moirae once said that Rome was built atop a gate to the Underworld. An ancient gate, forgotten and buried over time. If we find it, we find our way in."
A beat of silence. Then, slowly, Anakin smirks. "Finally."
Finding the entrance is easier said than done.
Rome is ancient, its bones layered with the remnants of past empires, buried temples, forgotten ruins. The city has swallowed its own history, but you know where to start.
Beneath the Forum, beyond the crumbling remains of what was once a great temple, you and Anakin uncover the path. It is hidden beneath the ruins, beneath rubble and dust and time itself. You move carefully, prying away fallen stones, slipping through collapsed archways.
Your body protests the strainâyour back aches, and the weight of the baby within you makes balance difficult. You push through it, determined, though Anakin watches you with narrowed eyes, his mouth pressed into a thin line.
"You shouldnât be doing this," he mutters as he lifts a particularly heavy stone for you.
"Then work faster so I donât have to," you shoot back.
A snort. But he does move faster.
The air changes when you find it.
The descent is long, deeper than any mortal place should go. The further you walk, the colder it gets. The scent of damp earth fades into something elseâsomething dry and hollow, tinged with a scent you know too well.
At last, you step into a vast cavern. The ruins end here. The remains of the temple give way to something older, something untouched by mortal hands.
Before you stretches a chasm, impossibly wide, impossibly deep. The blackness within it is endless. A void that swallows all light.
Anakin exhales beside you. "There it is."
Your heartbeat thrums in your ears. You grip his hand, fingers tightening around his.
The moment stretches, silent and heavy, as you and Anakin stand at the precipice of the Underworld. Then, the air shifts.
It is subtle at firstâa whisper of movement, a flicker of shadow against stone. Then, a screech.
From the darkness of the chasm, a figure rises. Wings like blackened leather unfurl in the dim torchlight, talons scraping against stone as the creature emerges. It is a Fury, its body gaunt and twisted, its eyes burning with hatred centuries old.
"Intruders," it hisses, voice jagged like broken glass.
Anakin moves before you can.
The gladius is already in his hand, his body coiled with instinct. The Fury lunges, and he meets it mid-air, steel colliding with claw. The force of the impact sends them both skidding backward, but Anakin is faster. He pivots, slashing across its chestâthe blade burns where it strikes, cutting through immortal flesh as the creature shrieks.
"Stay behind me!" he barks, throwing you a glance over his shoulder.
But you know what a Fury is. It is not easily slain.
It rights itself with inhuman speed, wings snapping open as it circles. Its gaze lands on you, and something like gleeflickers in its expression.
"The goddess carries a child."
Anakin snarls. "You do not look at her."
He lunges first this time, rage rippling through him like a storm. His strike is brutal, the gladius slicing through the Furyâs shoulder. The creature screams, staggering back, but it is laughing too.
"The blood of gods will spill."
You do not get the chance to react.
"She is mine!" he roars, catching the Fury mid-air. "My woman!"
The force of his blow sends it crashing into the stone. The cavern trembles with the impact. Anakin does not hesitateâhe drives the gladius down, pinning the creature through the chest.
It lets out one last shriekâbefore crumbling into nothing.
Anakin stands there, chest rising and falling, the blade still buried in the stone. He is seething.
Slowly, you step toward him. "Anakin."
He whirls around, eyes still dark with fury. But the moment he sees youâwhole, unharmedâsome of the rage fades. He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair.
"Are you hurt?" His voice is rough, urgent.
You shake your head. "Iâno."
His hands are on you immediately, checking you over, his touch firm but careful.
"Damn it," he mutters under his breath. "Damn them all."
You place a hand over his. "Anakinâ"
"They will not touch you," he swears. "Not you. Not our child. I donât care if I have to kill every last god in existenceâ"
You press a hand to his cheek. His jaw is clenched, his body taut with unspent fury. But at your touch, he softens. Just slightly.
His arms wrap around you then, pulling you close. His hold is ironclad, as if to reassure himself that you are still here. That you are his.
"We go in together," you murmur against his skin. "No matter what waits for us."
The air is thick with the weight of something ancient. Something waiting.
The gate looms before youâan archway carved from obsidian, its surface etched with writing so old even you cannot decipher it. The air beyond it shifts, a whisper of things unseen, of voices long since silenced. The Underworld waits.
But the passage is not free.
A figure steps from the shadows. Cloaked in darkness, their face is unseen, but their voice cuts through the stillness like a blade. "The living may not walk among the dead without cost."
You expected this. You knew there would be a toll.
"What do you require?" you ask.
The gatekeeper does not turn to you. Their head tilts toward Anakin. "The goddess is not bound by mortal law. But youâŠyou must pay.*"
Anakin's grip on his sword tightens. "Name your price."
The gatekeeper lifts a skeletal hand. "A memory."*
Something shifts in Anakinâs expression. "What?"
"The living are creatures of time, shaped by moments. To enter this place, you must surrender one. A memoryânot just any, but the one that makes you who you are."*
This is worse than blood, worse than gold. This is a piece of his soul.
"And if I refuse?" Anakin asks, voice tight.
The gatekeeper is silent. Then, the doors of the Underworld groan, the weight of eternity pressing against them. They do not open.
Anakin curses. His knuckles go white around his sword. You can see the fight in himâthe resistance, the hatred of being at the godsâ mercy once again.
But then his gaze flickers to you. To your belly. To the path ahead.
To the war that still must be fought.
"Fine," he grits out. "Take it."*
The gatekeeper raises their hand, and the air crackles.
"What will you surrender?"
Anakin hesitates. You see itâthe first flicker of fear, of vulnerability. He has fought men, beasts, gods themselves, but this is different. This is not pain. This is loss.
Then, quietly, "The first time I felt safe."
The gatekeeper does not hesitate.
Their fingers clenchâand Anakin shudders.
It is not violent. There is no scream. No blood. Just a sharp inhale, his eyes widening for a moment as if he has been struck, his fingers twitchingâthen stillness.
He stares forward, expression unreadable, his breath unsteady. He does not know what he lostâonly that it was something important.
For the first time, you see true sorrow in his eyes.
He blinks. Swallows. Rolls his shoulders. Then, as if nothing has happened, he steps forward. "Open the damn gates."
The doors of the Underworld creak, and a gust of cold air rushes out, pulling at your clothes, whispering against your skin.
Anakin does not look back.
You take his hand. You squeeze.
He does not squeeze back.
Together, you step through.
The Underworld is not what Anakin expected.
He had imagined fire, torment, endless wailingâbut instead, there is only silence. Too much silence.
The air is thick, weighted with something unseen. It presses down on his chest, seeps into his bones. Every breath feels like he is breathing in the past itself.
You walk beside him, your face unreadable. The shadows do not touch you the way they do him. Of course they donât.You belong to legend, to eternity, but he? He is only flesh and blood, and the dead know it.
No eyes meet his, but he feels them. The ghosts of nameless men and women, wandering aimlessly through the fields of gray. Not suffering. Not at peace. Just existing.
The place for souls who did neither great evil nor great good. The forgotten ones. The ones who wasted their lives or let fate swallow them whole.
A shiver runs through him.
They whisper, though their lips do not move. Their voices brush against his skin like fingers, trying to pull him under.
You could have been one of us.
Your hand finds his, squeezing tightly. "Donât listen to them," you whisper.
But it is not just the voices. It is the air itself. It smells of lost time. Of choices unmade. Of roads never taken.
For a moment, his vision swims.
He sees himself as one of them. Another faceless soul wandering, drifting through eternity, nameless and forgotten. A warrior who died without a cause. A man who lost everything, whose name is erased from history.
"Itâs trying to pull me under," he mutters.
"It wonât," you say fiercely. "I wonât let it."
Anakin forces his feet forward, muscles tensed. His fingers are still curled around his sword, but what use is steel against regret?
The dead whisper again, their voices overlapping, rising and falling like the tide.
We are the could-have-beens.
The almost-heroes.
The ones who hesitated.
Who let others write our fates.
One of the souls lifts their head. A woman, young, her eyes hollow. Her mouth partsâand she speaks directly to him.
"Do you know why you are here?"
"We are here for the shield," you say.
The woman does not look at you. Only at him.
"No," she murmurs. "You are here because you do not know who you are."
A chill runs through him.
He does not answer. He only grips his sword tighter and keeps walking.
It is subtle at first, like the slow turning of a tide, but thenâeverything changes.
The Asphodel Meadows are no longer gray. No longer silent.
A new sky stretches above Anakin, one he has not seen in years. It is golden, burning, endless. The fields are no longer filled with wandering spiritsâthey are full of men, warriors, brothers.
Anakin takes a step forward, heart pounding. The world feels real in a way the Underworld never has. The scent of battle clings to the airâblood, sweat, the sharp tang of iron.
He stands before the city that he and his brother built, the city that was supposed to be theirs.
And across from him, waiting, is Obi-Wan.
He looks the same as Anakin remembers: tall, proud, wrapped in the golden armor of Rome. But there is something in his eyes, something cold and unyielding. The same look he wore the day he chose to spill his own brotherâs blood.
"Romulus," Anakin breathes.
Romulus tilts his head. "You say my name like it is foreign on your tongue."
Anakin grips his sword. "Because it is."
Romulus smiles. "Ah. So you remember now."
Anakinâs stomach tightens.
This isnât real. He knows it isnât real. The Underworld is toying with him, bending the past into a weapon.
But the illusion is perfect. Too perfect.
Because when Romulus speaks, he is no longer the brother Anakin lovedâhe is the man who killed him.
"You were never meant to rule, Remus," Romulus says, voice steady. "You were weak. You let love cloud your judgment. You would have let an impure woman sit beside you on Romeâs throne. The gods would have never allowed it."
Anakinâs grip tightens around his sword. "I built Rome with you. I fought for her. I bled for her. And yet youâ"
"And yet I what?" Romulus interrupts, stepping closer. "Did what needed to be done?"
The words slam into Anakin like a blade to the chest.
It is the same conversation. The same argument. The same moment that led to his death.
Romulus lifts his sword. "You are nothing but a shadow of what could have been. You are a man trapped in a fate that is not yours to change. Even now, in this new life, you cling to hope. You believe you can fight the gods. That you can win."
"I will," he says. "And I will do it without you."
Romulus shakes his head, almost pitying. "There is no victory for you. There never was."
A storm begins to rage above them, the same storm that raged the night Romulus drove his blade into Remusâs chest.
Anakin watches as his brother lifts his swordâthe same sword that had cut him down all those lifetimes ago.
"You will die here, as you always do," Romulus says. "You will always fall beneath my blade."
Anakin barely has time to raise his weapon before Romulus attacks.
The force of the first blow nearly sends him staggering. The impact reverberates through his bones, but he holds his ground.
Strike after strike, he forces Anakin backward. The clang of steel fills the air, sparks flying from every collision. Anakin knows this isnât realâknows it is nothing but an illusionâyet every attack feels solid, every wound real.
Romulusâs sword cuts across Anakinâs side, tearing through flesh. He chokes on a gasp, stumbling.
Romulus does not hesitate.
He moves in for the kill.
Anakin barely blocks the next strike, his arms shaking, his breath ragged. His vision blurs.
He is going to die hereâagain.
The voice cuts through the storm. Through the illusion.
He turns, just for a second, and sees youâstanding beyond the battlefield, watching with desperate, wide eyes.
And in that moment, something inside him snaps.
And he is not Remus anymore.
With a roar, Anakin lunges.
Romulus is fast, but Anakin is faster. He meets his brotherâs next strike head-on, pushing forward with everything he has.
The storm crashes overhead.
Anakin twists, driving his blade into Romulusâs chest.
For the first time, his brother falters.
Romulus stares at him, shock flickering in his eyes. He staggers backward, his sword slipping from his grasp.
Anakin does not let go of his weapon.
"You donât decide my fate," he growls. "Not anymore."
The battlefield disappears. The sky fades. The past crumbles around him like dust.
Anakin stumbles forward, gasping, and when he looks upâ
He is back in the Underworld.
Back in the Asphodel Meadows.
You are there, reaching for him, eyes full of worry. "Anakin?"
He exhales sharply, gripping your arms like a lifeline. His whole body trembles.
But the war has only begun.
The illusion begins softly.
You donât remember how you got here, nor do you question it. All you know is warmth. Sunlight filters through the open windows of a grand Roman villa, casting golden light over the smooth marble floors. A warm breeze drifts in, carrying the scent of myrrh and olive trees. Somewhere in the distance, you hear the gentle trickle of a fountain.
A laughâsoft and joyfulâechoes through the halls. You turn, and your heart stirs at the sight before you.
Anakin stands in the courtyard, clad in a simple white tunic, his golden hair illuminated by the sun. He is smilingâtruly smiling. And beside him, running on unsteady little legs, is your son.
He is beautiful. Small, chubby-cheeked, with your eyes and Anakinâs stubborn little scowl. He is laughing, arms outstretched as he runs to his father, who lifts him easily into his strong arms, spinning him around in the air.
Anakin chuckles. "Again? Iâll have to put you to work in the fields if you have this much energy."
You watch them, your heart swelling with something too large to name.
This is your life. Your real life.
Not war. Not prophecy. Not gods or fates or curses.
Anakin turns to you, your son still cradled in his arms, and his smile softens. "Come here," he murmurs.
You step forward, breath catching as he wraps a strong arm around your waist, pulling you close. You press a kiss to your sonâs soft curls, inhaling the sweet scent of him.
Anakin presses his lips to your temple. "This is how it was always meant to be."
A cold whisper slithers through the warmth, like a shadow passing over the sun.
You blink. The villa flickers, like a candle in the wind.
You turn to Anakinâhe is still there. Still smiling. Still holding your son.
His grip is too tight. His smile is too fixed.
You look down at your son. His tiny hands clutch at your tunic, but his fingers feel like ice.
"What is it?" His voice is the same. Too the same.
He tilts his head. "Wrong?"
The sky darkens. The sun vanishes. The warmth is gone.
The villa crumbles around you, marble splitting like old bones.
Your heart pounds. You try to move, to run, but Anakinâs arm tightens around you.
And when you look up at himâ
He smiles, slow and cruel. "What is it, wife?"
A scream erupts from your sonâs lips.
You jerk back, panic surging through youâbut Anakin wonât let go. His fingers dig into your skin, hard enough to bruise.
Your son is crying, his small body trembling in Anakinâs grasp.
"Let him go!" you scream.
Anakinâs smile widens. "But heâs mine."
You struggle, clawing at his arms, but his grip is iron.
The villa is gone. The world is gone.
And in that darknessâlaughter.
Not Anakinâs. Not yours.
The laughter of something older. Something that should not be here.
"You cannot fight fate," the voice whispers.
Anakinâs face begins to changeâhis skin darkens, cracks forming along his jaw, his eyes burning like molten gold. The arms holding you are no longer hisâthey are something else.
Your son is screaming, his tiny fists pounding against Anakinâs chest.
"Give him back!" you sob, struggling.
Anakin leans close. His breath is ice against your cheek.
"He was never yours to keep."
A shadow bursts from his chestâblack and endless. It reaches for your son.
The darkness swallows him whole.
You claw at nothingness, your hands grasping at the void where your child was.
You fall to your knees, gasping, sobbing, the weight of emptiness crushing you.
"You failed him." The voice slithers through the void. "You failed all of them."
"No," you whisper. "No, Iâ"
"You are a goddessâand yet you could not even save your own child."
The world is closing in. The darkness is swallowing you next.
You will never see your son again.
You gasp as something pulls you backâsomething warm.
Handsâreal handsâgrasp your arms, yanking you from the void. You choke on a breath, your body trembling asâ
You are kneeling in the Asphodel Meadows, gasping, clutching at your chest.
His strong hands cradle your face, his blue eyes frantic. "Youâre here," he breathes. "Youâre here. I thoughtâI thought I lost you."
Tears spill down your cheeks as you collapse into him, sobbing against his chest.
"He was gone," you choke out. "They took him. I couldnâtâI couldnâtâ"
Anakin shakes against you, his arms crushing you to his chest. "It wasnât real." His voice is hoarse, fierce. "It wasnât real, meshâla. Youâre here. Iâm here."
You cling to him, your entire body shaking.
And now, more than ever, you know what the gods are capable of.
The great halls of the Underworld are nothing like the chaos of Olympus.
There is no blinding light, no violent storms, no arrogance crackling in the air like static. Here, everything is still. The walls are carved from black obsidian, polished to a glass-like sheen. Ghostly blue torches line the vast chamber, casting long shadows over the empty throne that looms at the center. The air is thick with something ancient, something that hums beneath your skin like the slow pull of a tide.
The voice is smooth, unhurried. It carries across the hall as if it has all the time in the world.
From the shadows, a figure steps forward.
He is not like his brothers. Jupiter commands like a tyrant. Neptune looms like a storm. But PlutoâPluto is poised. He carries himself like a man who has seen every trick, every betrayal, every desperate plea for mercy, and has never once been surprised. His dark robes barely whisper against the floor as he approaches, his gaze sharp beneath his heavy crown.
Anakin moves instinctively, reaching for the gladius at his hip.
Pluto sighs. "Must we do this already?" With a flick of his wrist, Anakin is dragged to his knees by an invisible force.
"Let him go!" you snap, stepping forward, power rising in your chest.
Pluto waves a dismissive hand. "Relax. If I wanted to kill him, heâd already be a pile of ash. And trust me, Iâd make it look elegant."
Anakin growls, straining against whatever force is holding him down. "Fight me, coward."
Pluto exhales through his nose, as if dealing with a particularly stubborn child. Then, his lips twitch into a smirk. "Collect yourself, Skywalker. Weâre men, we donât kneel in front of anyone other than our wives."
Thereâs a long beat of silence, and thenâ
Pluto sighs again, rubbing his temples. "By the gods, do they not teach you humor in the mortal world anymore? I swear, people used to appreciate a well-placed remark. Now, all I get is scowling and sword-waving.*"
The invisible force vanishes. Anakin staggers to his feet, looking both wary and deeply, deeply confused.
"Youâre not stopping us?" you ask carefully.
Pluto folds his arms. "If I wanted to stop you, would you have even made it this far?"
The weight of his words sinks into your bones.
"You know why weâre here," Anakin says, stepping forward.
Pluto inclines his head. "Of course. You want the Flectere. And you think all you have to do is ask."
He turns slightly, and behind him, something shifts. The air warps, bending, and thenâthere it is.
The shield is no grand, gleaming artifact. It is ancient, its metal dark with age, its surface worn with scars of battles long forgotten. But there is a presence to it, something deeper than magic. It does not radiate power like a divine weapon should. Instead, it simply is. Immovable. Unyielding.
Anakinâs fists clench. "Then let us take it."
Pluto hums, studying him. "Before I doâŠ" He tilts his head, eyes gleaming with something unreadable. "Would you truly take this shield, knowing that it may cost you what you love most?"
Anakin does not hesitate. "Yes."
The word is sharp, cutting through the silence like a blade.
Because you know prophecies. You know the way they twist and writhe, like snakes in the dark.
The Flectere is a shield. It is meant to protect. But Pluto would not ask this question if protection did not come at a price.
And the gods never demand anything without sacrifice.
"What cost?" you ask, voice careful.
Pluto smiles. Not cruelly. Not kindly. Just knowingly.
"That," he says, "is for fate to decide."
Pluto studies you both for a long moment before exhaling through his nose. "Well," he says, dusting off his robes, "I suppose we should discuss this over dinner."
Anakinâs brows furrow. "Dinner?"
Pluto claps his hands together. "Yes, dinner. I assume you still eat, despite your whole âdestined-for-greatnessâ situation?" He turns on his heel without waiting for an answer. "Come along. Persephone hates when I keep guests waiting."
You exchange a glance with Anakin. He looks wary, suspicious, but thereâs also something tight in his jaw, something that tells you heâs considering whether stabbing a god in his own domain would go poorly.
"We donât have time for this," Anakin mutters under his breath.
"We donât have a choice," you murmur back. "Weâre in his realm."
Pluto doesnât look back as he leads you through the vast, shadowed halls. The walls are adorned with depictions of things long forgottenâbattles not recorded in mortal texts, lovers whose names have been lost to time, gods who no longer hold power over the world above.
You feel it before you see itâa shift from the heavy, solemn weight of the Underworld to something warmer. The scent of pomegranates drifts through the corridors, and a golden glow replaces the cold blue torchlight.
You step into a grand dining hall.
The contrast is staggering. The ceiling stretches impossibly high, draped in vines of ever-blooming flowers, their petals glowing softly. The walls are dark stone, but the air is filled with the soft hum of life. A long table sits in the center, already set with foodâbowls of figs, plates of roasted meats, steaming bread, and, of course, glistening pomegranate seeds.
And at the head of the table, seated with an air of effortless grace, is her.
She is unlike any goddess you have ever met. She does not have the cruel beauty of Juno, nor the harsh majesty of Minerva. She is something elseâsoft and deadly, warm and untouchable. Her dark hair cascades over her shoulders, woven with golden threads, and her eyes hold the weight of centuries.
She smiles as you enter. "Youâre late," she says, echoing Plutoâs earlier words. "But I forgive you. My husband enjoys his theatrics."
Pluto sighs, settling into his chair. "I enjoy order, dear wife."
"And yet, you let them barge into our kingdom unannounced?" She rests her chin on her hand, studying you. "Or did you invite them in?"
"Semantics." Pluto waves a hand, then gestures to the empty seats. "Sit. Eat."
Anakin doesnât move. "Weâre not here for pleasantries."
Persephone raises a delicate brow. "No, youâre here to steal from my husband."
You feel Anakin tense beside you.
Persephone shakes her head, plucking a pomegranate seed from the bowl in front of her. "You mortals never change. So stubborn, so single-minded." Her gaze flickers to you. "You, at least, should know better. You are not so mortal as he is."
"Sit," Pluto repeats, and this time, there is no room for argument.
Reluctantly, you lower yourself into a chair. Anakin follows, his movements stiff, reluctant.
Persephone gestures, and the food before you shiftsâchanges. The plates fill with dishes from your childhood, flavors you have not tasted in centuries. Before Anakin, the food changes tooâsomething warm, something familiar.
He stares at it, unmoving. "What is this?"
"Hospitality," Persephone answers. "Something Olympus has forgotten."
Pluto leans forward, fingers steepled. "Now," he says, "let us talk about why you are really here."
The dinner lasts longer than you expect.
Despite Anakinâs initial wariness, despite your own reluctance to let your guard down in the house of the god you are here to steal from, something about the atmosphere shifts. The tension that had coiled tight in your shoulders eases. The food is rich, decadent, and the warmth of the roomâso unlike the cold, empty halls of the Underworldâseeps into your bones.
Pluto and Persephone do not press you for answers. They do not threaten or scheme, at least not openly. Instead, they talk. Pluto tells Anakin stories of wars long forgotten, of warriors whose names have been buried in time. Persephone tells you of the things she has grown in the gardens of the deadâflowers that bloom only in darkness, vines that weave through the forgotten places of the world.
And then, somehow, the night drifts into something softer.
You donât know when you move, but eventually, you and Anakin find yourselves reclining on an expansive sofa in one of Plutoâs many chambers. The fire crackles low, casting flickering gold against the walls. The air is warm, laced with the lingering scent of honey and wine.
Across from you, Pluto sits, one arm draped over the back of his chair, the other idly stroking through Persephoneâs dark curls as she reclines against him. Her head rests in his lap, eyes half-lidded in something like contentment.
It is an intimate sight. A strange one, for a god and his queen. But there is no performance in itâno show of power, no pretense of indifference.
Without thinking, you move.
You shift closer to Anakin, hesitating only briefly before laying your head against his lap, mirroring the goddess across from you.
For a moment, there is only stillness.
ThenâAnakin exhales. A slow, deep breath, as if something in him has loosened. His hand lifts, hesitating only briefly before settling against the crown of your head.
It is not a surrender. It is not foolishness. But for this moment, in this strange, hidden corner of the Underworld, with gods who should be your enemies but feel like something else, you allow yourself to rest.
Anakinâs fingers move slowly through your hair, an absentminded gesture that he doesnât seem to realize heâs doing. Each stroke lulls you further into a state of drowsy warmth, the weight of the past few weeks pressing down on you, but not in the usual suffocating way. Instead, itâs as if your body is finally acknowledging just how exhausted you areâhow much youâve been carrying.
Your breathing slows. The flickering firelight, the distant hum of voices, the warmth of Anakinâs touchâthey weave together into something safe, something steady. You can feel the rise and fall of his breath beneath your cheek, hear the rhythmic beat of his heart, steady and unyielding.
Across from you, Pluto smirks, as if he sees something in this moment that you do not. His fingers still move through Persephoneâs curls, his free hand swirling the last remnants of wine in his goblet.
âYou should sleep,â Anakin murmurs. His voice is softer than usual, absent of its usual sharp edges.
You donât answer at first. The drowsiness is pulling you under, and for once, you donât resist it.
Pluto chuckles. âOh, donât let me interrupt this touching moment.â
Anakin scowls, but his hand never stops moving against your hair. âYou already have.â
Persephone lifts her head just enough to glance at you, her gaze knowing. âShe is safe here,â she says simply, as if that should be enough.
A strange word. An unfamiliar concept.
But in this moment, with Anakinâs hand in your hair and the warmth of his presence beneath you, you thinkâperhapsâit is true.
The first thing you register is warmth. Not just the warmth of the heavy blankets draped over you, but the steady heat of a body pressed closeâsolid, familiar.
Your eyes flutter open, the dim glow of the Underworldâs ever-present firelight casting long shadows across the room. The bed is far too luxurious for where you areâsilken sheets, impossibly soft pillows. A gift, no doubt, from your gracious hosts.
Anakin is beside you, lying on his back, one arm tucked beneath his head while the other rests over his stomach. His breathing is slow and even, his face relaxed in a way you rarely see. As if, for the first time in weeks, he has allowed himself to rest.
You turn slightly, just enough to take him in fully. The lines of tension that so often crease his brow are softened. His golden hair is a tousled mess against the pillow. He looks⊠peaceful. Almost boyish, despite the sharp angles of his face, despite the weight of war and prophecy that looms over both of you.
A strange pang twists in your chest. You reach out without thinking, fingers brushing lightly against the back of his hand.
His fingers twitch under yours, then slowly, his eyelids flutter open. The blue of his gaze is unfocused at first, hazy with sleep. Then they find you, and something in them sharpensânot in alarm, but in quiet recognition.
"Youâre awake," he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.
You nod, not pulling away. "So are you."
His lips curve just slightly, but he doesnât move, as if savoring this rare moment of stillness. Then, after a long pause, he speaks again, voice quieter this time.
"I could get used to this."
Something in your chest tightens. You swallow, forcing yourself to keep your voice steady. "To what?"
His fingers shift, brushing against yours. "Waking up with you."
The words are so simple, yet they carry a weight that settles deep in your bones. Because you knowâthis war, this prophecy, the gods themselvesânone of it will allow for something as simple as this.
And yet, for now, in this bed, in this moment, you allow yourself to believe in the possibility.
Your hand drifts instinctively to your stomach, fingers pressing gently against the curve of your belly. A frown creases your browâsomething feels different.
Your heart skips. Had it been this prominent before? You remember falling asleep with only the faintest swell, something barely noticeable beneath your robes. But now⊠now itâs undeniable. The weight, the shapeâitâs changed.
Your breath catches. "How long did I sleep?"
Anakin tenses beside you. That alone sets off alarm bells in your mind. Heâs never been good at hiding things, not when it comes to you. His hesitation is answer enough.
"Anakin," you press, your voice sharper now. "How long?"
He exhales slowly, then shifts to sit up, bracing himself on one elbow. His hand joins yours over your belly, his palm broad and warm. Protective.
"Three weeks," he finally says.
The words donât make sense at first. They hang in the air between you, impossible to grasp.
"Three�" Your voice barely rises above a whisper.
"You wouldnât wake up," he admits, jaw tight. "Persephone said it was your body adjusting. That the Underworld affects mortals and gods differently." His thumb moves absently over the fabric of your tunic, over the place where your child grows. "You were breathing, but you wouldnât wake up. I stayed here. Every day. Every night."
You stare at him, at the exhaustion lingering beneath his eyes, at the worry still carved into his face. Three weeks. Time had slipped away, stolen from you without your knowledge. And in those weeks, your child had grown.
Your fingers tremble over the swell of your belly. "But thatâs not normal. It shouldnât be growing this fast."
Anakin doesnât answer immediately. His gaze drops, his throat working as if heâs holding something back.
You feel it before he even says it.
His jaw clenches. "I donât know what they did," he grits out, voice low with restrained fury. "But I swearâIâll find out."
His protectiveness, his angerâitâs overwhelming, but beneath it, thereâs something else. Fear.
Not for himself. For you. For your child.
Anakin stands before the shield, his breath slow, measured. The Flectere rests upon its pedestal, bathed in an eerie glow. It is unlike any weapon or armor forged by mortal handsâits surface is smooth as still water, yet beneath it, colors shift like the ever-changing tides of fate itself. It does not reflect the world as it is, but as it might have been. As it could be.
The weight of Plutoâs words lingers.
"The shield can be taken, but only by one who has died before."
You feel the truth of it like a stone in your chest. You are a goddess. You have seen ages come and go, lived through wars and legends, but you have never died. Not like him.
In another time, another life, he was Remusâthe first sacrifice of Rome, the brother cast aside, the blood upon which an empire was built.
Your fingers twitch at your side, aching to stop him. "Anakinâ"
He doesnât look at you. He already knows what you will say.
"It has to be me," he murmurs, eyes fixed on the shield. His voice is steady, but you see the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers curl into fists.
You shake your head, throat tightening. "If you touch it, youâllâ"
"I know," he interrupts. His blue eyes flicker to you, and in them, there is no hesitation, no fearâonly certainty. "But it doesnât matter."
You want to argue. You want to scream. But the truth is already written in fate.
And so, with a breath, Anakin steps forward.
The moment his fingers brush the shieldâs surface, the Underworld remembers him.
The air shifts. The cavern trembles. Shadows ripple outward from the point of contact, and suddenly, Anakin is not here anymoreâ
The past crashes into him with the force of a tidal wave.
He is Remus again. The world is spinning, and his brother stands before him, sword drawn, eyes cold.
"Rome was never yours to build."
The blade drives into his chest. He gaspsâa raw, choked sound as fire rips through his lungs.
The ground rushes up to meet him.
Darkness swallows him whole.
Your voice tears through the Underworld, but he doesnât hear you. He is still trapped, drowning in the past, body trembling as if the wound has been carved into him all over again.
His knees buckle, and for a moment, you think heâll collapse.
And he refuses to let go.
A growl rumbles deep in his throat, raw and defiant, as he rips the Flectere from its resting place.
The entire Underworld shudders.
A furious wind howls through the cavern, and the air itself bends, distorting around him as if reality is fraying at the edges.
Anakin stumbles back, gasping, his chest rising and falling in ragged breaths. His fingers are locked around the shieldâs grip, white-knuckled, as if heâs afraid to let go.
You rush to his side, your hands finding his shoulders. "Anakinâ"
His body is trembling. His pulse pounds wildly beneath your touch.
But when he looks at youâ
His eyes are clear. Steady.
Before you can say anything else, the shadows around you lurch.
A great force yanks at the both of you, pulling you downward, as if the Underworld itself is furious that it has been denied him a second time.
Pain is the first thing you feel. A deep, aching throb radiating through your entire body, as if youâve been torn apart and pieced back together all wrong. Your eyelids are heavy, resisting your attempts to open them. The air is cold, but not in the way the Underworld had beenâit is the sharp chill of the mortal realm, the crisp bite of wind against your skin.
Youâre no longer in the Underworld.
A groan escapes your lips as you force your eyes open. Above you, the sky is dark, but not with nightâit is a storm, swirling clouds thick with divine fury. The gods know.
"Easy," a voice murmurs, rough with exhaustion.
You shift, wincing as pain lances through your limbs, but heâs already there, his hands steadying you, keeping you from rising too quickly. He is kneeling beside you, his body tense, his breath uneven. His face is shadowed, unreadable, but his handsâhis hands are gentle, careful as they brush strands of hair from your face.
"Youâre hurt," he mutters. His touch lingers at your cheek, tracing a bruise you hadnât realized was there. "We mustâve been thrown out of the Underworld. You hit the ground hard."
Your gaze flickers downward. Heâs cradling you in his lap, shielding you from the damp earth beneath you.
The Flectere is clutched in his grasp, its surface still shifting, still alive with the echoes of fate. He did it. He took it. But something about the way heâs holding itâhis grip too tight, his knuckles bloodlessâmakes your stomach twist.
Not from cold, not from exhaustion, but from something far deeper.
You reach for him, your fingers brushing his arm, and at your touch, he exhales sharply, as if only now remembering where he is. His eyesâstormy, distantâsnap to yours, and for a moment, you see it.
The ghosts still clinging to him.
The past refusing to let go.
He saw his own death again.
You swallow hard, heart hammering against your ribs. He wonât tell you. You already know that. The words wonât leave his lips, just as they hadnât the first time he spoke of his past life.
But you can see it. The way his body is locked with tension, the way his breath hitches every few seconds, like heâs forcing himself not to feel what he just relived.
You should say something. You should comfort him, tell him that he is here, that he is alive.
But you are a goddess, and he is mortal, and what words could possibly undo the weight of fate?
Instead, you do the only thing you can.
You reach for his face, cupping his jaw, and press your forehead to his.
A shudder runs through him. His breath is uneven, but he leans into you, his own hands gripping your waist, grounding himself in your presence.
"Did I lose you?" His voice is hoarse, barely more than a whisper.
You shake your head. "You found me."
He exhales sharply, like heâs been holding his breath this entire time.
For a moment, the war, the gods, the prophecyânone of it exists.
Him and you, tangled in each otherâs grasp, alive.
But the moment does not last.
The sky rumbles. The storm above grows thicker, and with it, the weight of an impending war presses down on your chest.
Anakin shifts, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze. His expression hardensânot cold, not distant, but determined.
"Theyâre coming," he says.
You nod. "Then let them come."
The battlefield stretches before you, endless and shrouded in mist. The sky is dark, thick with storm clouds that churn and twist, crackling with divine fury. Lightning splits the heavens, but the earth does not tremble beneath itânot anymore.
Because the earth belongs to him now.
Anakin stands at the forefront, the Flectere strapped to his arm, his gladius gleaming in the eerie light. But he is not alone. Behind him, an army risesâshadows of the past, warriors long since fallen, now bound to his will. They stand in silence, their hollow eyes fixed upon the horizon, waiting for the battle to begin.
The gods have sent their champions.
But Anakin has brought the dead.
You stand beside him, your heart still raw from the birth of your son. Your body has not yet healed, your strength is not what it once was, but none of that matters. Because in your arms, swaddled in the finest cloth Rome could offer, is the child who changed everything.
Your beautiful, perfect son.
Born of war, of prophecy, of love.
He is sleeping, peaceful despite the storm raging above. His tiny hands curl against your chest, his breath soft and steady. He does not know the fate that awaits him. He does not know the price that has been paid for his existence.
He turns to you, his gaze lingering on the child in your arms. His expression is unreadableâsomething between awe and grief, between love and fury.
"I should tell you to run," he murmurs.
You shake your head. "And I should tell you to stay."
A ghost of a smile tugs at his lips, but it does not reach his eyes.
For months, you have fought together, trained together, bled together. And now, at the edge of war, there is nothing left to say.
"You are my legend," he whispers.
"And you are mine," you answer.
He presses a kiss to your forehead, lingering there for just a moment longer than he should.
Then he turns away, raising his sword to the heavens.
"A father is not merely the man who gives his son life, but the shield that bears his burdens, the sword that cuts his path, and the hand that holds him steady when the world tries to take him away."
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