MARCH 8th 2003

Two days have passed and I still don't feel any better.  I'm still terrified.  The more I think about Dea and Uma, the more certain I become that there is only one way to deal with this.  Dino's presence is a comfort as is losing myself in these words... though I still long with all my heart for Lach.  I have been as truthful as I could about everything.  Shared my joy and heartbreak, revealed my secrets and fears.  And it is my most fervent hope in this explanation you might find it in your hearts to understand the why and the how of this place I have somehow found myself. 

And if not, I hope that in this collection of golden moments I have left behind, those who made them with me will know that I take them in my heart wherever I am. 

Heather     

DECEMBER 2003

The year is nearly gone.  Just a few days left now.  Christmas is over and in preparation for our coming holiday to Oz, we have taken down all the decorations, save one.  The nativity still rests upon the mantle.  I am busy in the kitchen.  Despite Lach's issues with Max (that are rooted around Uma and have smoldered for a while now) we extended an invitation to him to join us after Christmas and celebrate the remainder of the holidays with us in our home before we all flew together to the Temple on the 31st.    

The purpose for the visit was twofold, we wanted to tell Max about the baby and I wanted to be sure he didn't spend this joyous time alone in an empty house.  You know how I am about old soldiers.  There's just something about them...  A foolish girl's fancy, perhaps.  We have a strange relationship, Max and I.  Our first visit was.... unique.  Since then, we have crossed paths a few times.  Temple Week.  Terry's birthday party.  Once or twice online when he preferred his laptop to a lonely hotel bed. 

I wouldn't say it wasn't something worth writing about, but to be honest, we have never so much as shared even one erotic conversation.  Once in a blue moon, we share some treasured words.  Most often, they take the form of letters.  Only a handful in all the time that I've been in this World.  I'm not his lover.  Not his confidant.  Not even his friend.  I am simply a new Sister to him.  Someone with whom he has exchanged some beautiful words.  I think we are still sort of working each other out.

Maximus was arriving shortly and it seemed I had a few surprises in the queue for him this time around as well.  The thought made me smile.  You wouldn't understand why that amused me so unless you understood the circumstances of our first visit. 

JULY 2003         

I hope my plan hasn't backfired.

But I suppose even if it has, it's too late to do anything about it now.  I mean it's not every day the General of the Armies at the north comes to visit and gets stood-up at the airport.  It's not as bad as it sounds though, really.  I've been working on the plans for weeks now. 

Max and I spoke about it briefly.  I mentioned I was planning something different for our visit.  I think he wanted a hint but he wouldn't dream of asking for one.  All I would say was that it was something I hadn't read about in any other diary.  I don't know quite what he made of that.  I think he might have assumed I meant something sexual, so I hope he's not too disappointed.

The idea began forming ages ago as I chatted with my Sisters about some of the rules in this new World I'd joined.  'Ask a Brother for a visit and he'll come as his schedule permits'.  I wondered what would happen if he didn't want to come.  Could he refuse?  It was more a hypothetical question, since both Brothers and Sisters usually anticipate the visits with the same amount of excitement, but still, I was curious. 

The answer?  No.  He could not.      

I turned that over in my mind for a while and wondered if that ever bothered them.  They're not lapdogs. They are all intelligent, strong-willed men with hearts and minds of their own.  Surely, they have moments where that chafes a little, even if they are looking forward to the visit.  I think it is the nature of men to want to be their own master.

In tandem with this idea was the thought that perhaps Max might enjoy a small measure of time where no demands were made upon him.  No pressing work on the farm he needed to oversee.  No crisis that needed attention.  No strange woman he might feel obligated to entertain.  It has been many years since he was a soldier of Rome, doing what he had to do instead of what he wanted to do, but I often think his life today must be just as busy.  Filled with far more pleasurable things to be sure, but filled nonetheless.           

So, before I confuse you any further, let me tell you what I've done.  In essence, I offered him a holiday.  The freedom to spend his time exactly as he wished.  In truth, I hoped he would choose to spend a little time with me, but I also wanted him to take the lion's share of it for himself and I thought he might be more inclined to do so (and also less apt to think I was trying to keep him at arm's length) if I explained myself.

What I wanted was really very simple.  I have a great deal of respect and admiration for Maximus and I wanted to do something nice for him.  Something I thought he'd enjoy as well as something that would express the depth of my feeling.  I also wanted to have some fun.  In our few conversations, he'd been so kind to me, a little reserved but more lighthearted than I expected, and I thought a bit of unforeseen adventure might appeal to him. 

So, in keeping with that idea, I arranged for someone to meet his plane and I sent with them a letter that I hoped would set all my grand plans into motion.  And it wasn't just any letter.  I am a big fan of small tokens that may appear simple upon first glance, but in truth are really quite complex.  In this case, I also took special pains because I wanted it to set the tone for his visit, to give him the idea that there was more here than met the eye.

A couple of weeks ago, I found a place in the city that specialized in translation and had the body of the letter translated into Latin - and not that stilted online crap, either.  I'm talking about flawlessly fluid Latin, as he would have seen it written in his time.  Now while I'm no calligrapher, I do have some skill with a brush, so I took the thing home and recopied it using black ink on simple parchment, gave it a whimsical border of ivy and butterflies and then sealed it with a drop of scented wax.  The words themselves were quite simple.  I shared with him my thoughts.  Mentioned I'd taken the liberty of arranging a few surprises should he care to go the 'holiday' route instead of coming to see me directly and told him the decision was his to make. 

Considering I haven't heard so much as a peep from the man in five days, I know which route he's chosen, obviously.  What I don't know is how he received the idea.  Of course, a phone call would have taken the fun out of it; worked at cross-purposes with the spirit of what I'd planned.  But while I'm glad he embraced the idea as fully as I'd hoped, I was dying to know how it went over.  Had he been amused?  Irritated?  Intrigued?  Today was the last day of our visit.  Tomorrow we were scheduled to fly out for the opening of Hando's shop and from there, I was on to Manila to see Terry.  I wondered if Max simply intended to meet me tomorrow morning at the airport.  The thought made me smile.     

The letter was just the beginning, you know.  If he agreed to the 'holiday', I'd left directions for him to be taken downtown, to a hotel with a view of both bay and the mountains where he'd find a room already waiting for him.  I'd chosen a small suite and spent a glorious afternoon there getting everything set up, leaving all sorts of little things for him to discover.  A bottle of fine cognac on the bar.  A list of restaurants that served food I thought he'd like.  A shorter list of places I imagined he might find of interest.  An assortment of local foods, including a bowl of ripe summer cherries I'd left in the fridge along with a small note. 

Originally, I'd invited him because... well, never you mind about that.  I chose this time in particular because it's cherry season here in Washington and I thought he might like to share in a bit of their sweetness with me. 

In any case, I didn't stop there.  I took a page from his book and managed a bit of lightheartedness as well.  I left an assortment of sweetly scented massage oils on the dresser and with them, the card of a very fine masseur.  I'd paid the man quite handsomely to be available whenever the call might come.  Although I know he did think me a bit odd for requesting that he wear the nametag I'd given him.  I explained that, yes, I knew his name was wasn't 'Terry' but that the matter was a personal joke between myself and the gentleman in question and then I quietly doubled his fee.  I don't believe it will be an issue.  And I can hardly wait for Max's reaction.   

And in keeping with that tongue-in-cheek theme, I left the keys to a rental car for him at the desk and chose a black Ford SUV because I simply couldn't resist responding to his lightheartedness with a bit of my own.  I left a map to my house and another note for him in an envelope on the passenger's seat.   

I did other things too, used a bit of my perfume to lightly scent the sheets.  Left a note under his pillow.  That one wasn't in Latin as I really didn't want anyone else reading it.  I still made it pretty though, ink on parchment with the same ivy and butterfly motif I had used on his letter.  I left other surprises for him too, but like the words in that note, I think perhaps those are best left between Maximus and myself.

For all my planning, the only thing I hadn't anticipated was what the waiting would do to me.  Knowing he was here, that he could drop by at any minute made that sense of anxious anticipation a hundred times more intense.  I kept thinking what if he comes while I'm out?  Or worse, what if he comes and I'm here in the shower or some other equally inopportune moment?  I was making myself crazy so I finally decided to just go outside and find something to do to take my mind off of it.

I settled for weeding the herb garden outside the kitchen.  The late afternoon sun was pleasantly warm and I couldn't help but be glad it was.  Wherever Max was, at least he was getting to enjoy Washington without the rain.  Between the sun, the plants and the simple, familiar task, the world faded away.  Perhaps a bit too far away.  I didn't even register the sound of a car coming down the drive, or the footsteps on the gravel path that led from there to the house, until they had stopped.  Less than an arm's length away.

I knew instantly who it was.  Even if there hadn't been that strange tingle of awareness, his presence alone announced who he was far before his voice ever did.  Removing my gloves, I looked up at him and for a moment, his expression held the look of man who was very far away.  Little wonder.  I'm sure he has many memories of a dark head bent over a kitchen garden and I'm equally sure the woman he was seeing in that moment wasn't the one standing before him.

He recovered quickly enough, though, and gave me an unreadable look as I rose to greet him.  Stoic face.  Guarded body language.  No hint at all of being happy to see me.  Just when I was on the verge of thinking all my carefully laid plans had backfired, he smiled widely and embraced me briefly.  His chest was warm and solid and under the scent of clean man, I could detect the woodsy scent of the sandalwood oil I'd left for him. 

For just an instant, he pulled me closer and put his face to my hair.  I felt his chest expand as he inhaled.  I could hear the smile in his words.  "You smell of herbs."  He was right, of course.  Now that he mentioned it, I could smell the peppery scent of basil and the piney scent of rosemary.  His eyes grew warmer.  "And you smell of the sheets I've been sleeping in these last few nights."  There was a change in him then, subtle, but I still felt it.  He relaxed ever so slightly and made a soft noise of approval before he released me and fixed me with an appraising stare.

"It also seems you have been quite busy flitting about in the days preceding my arrival."  He gave me that look he has; face so solemn and serious but laughter dancing in his eyes.

"Mmm..."  An answer, if an evasive one.  I had been busy, but I thought he might be uncomfortable if he felt I'd gone to too much trouble on his behalf.  He knew enough, though.  He was an intelligent man.  The letter alone told him his visit was not something I'd taken lightly.  I only smiled at him.

His chin lifted.  "Just because you do not respond does not mean I am unaware of the answer."  The corners of his mouth turned up and his face softened.  "I enjoyed myself greatly.  Thank you, papilio."

"It was my pleasure, really, General."  

His brow furrowed.  "General?"

Before he could tell me to just call him by his given name, I raised an eyebrow at him.  "Papilio?"

He nodded.  "A butterfly.  You remind me of one.  I thought so even before I received your letter."  He touched his breast pocket and I heard the crackle of parchment.  "I like butterflies.  I used to chase them as a boy."

I bent, pushing the spade into the earth and then moved to lead him inside.  "And now?"  I knew I'd left him an opening there and I wondered if he'd take it.  He didn't, at least not in the way I thought he might. 

"Now I am too old to chase butterflies."  He looked thoughtful but his eyes were still glittering with amusement.  "But I have learned they may come to me if I am patient and offer the proper enticement."  He paused, gauging my reaction.  "And even if they do not, papilio, they are still lovely to watch."

 

~ * ~

 

We shared a simple, quiet evening. Food.  Wine.  Conversation.  He was friendly but reserved.  I enjoyed both his company and our conversation.  There were no erotic undertones, nor did I encourage any or give any myself.  As it grew later and the stars came out, I asked him if he'd care to end the evening with a relaxing soak in my hottub.  It isn't very grand.  Small and simple, made of redwood and big enough for two.

I knew next to nothing about the time from which Max hailed, but I'd done a little reading in preparation for his arrival that had jarred loose some memories from an old history class I'd taken.  I knew that Rome had been famous for its baths and that in his culture, nudity wasn't a big deal nor did they confuse it with sex.  The two could - and did - exist without overlapping. 

Soaking in the hottub was a wonderful way to spend the evening, one I much preferred, to tell the truth.  Summer nights here are cool and quiet.  You can hear the wind in the trees, the frogs in the nearby lake, and the rhythmic lapping of the water.  I thought he might enjoy the peace of it all.  I did.  I didn't wear a suit.  I never do.  Even if the darkness hadn't obscured most everything, I imagine he's probably seen hundreds if not thousands of naked women in his time.  What's one more?

I just asked him, "Are you OK with this?" dropped my towel and stepped into the warm bubbly water.  By way of answer, he simply stripped off and joined me.  I enjoyed the sight of his naked body but it wasn't a sexual moment in the least, nor was it romantic despite the stars over head, the wine and our nakedness.

It was all very quiet, really.  Normal and sort of domestic in an odd sort of way.  Peaceful.  I can't really explain it.  The wine loosened us enough that we had a more intimate discussion than we'd had over dinner.  Still, nothing erotically charged.  We shared some treasured childhood memories and had an interesting discussion about gender and the differences he had noted in the way people behaved in our time. 

I was, however, a little off the mark about the baths.  Oh, I was right about the nudity... but when I mentioned I had done some reading about Roman customs, including bathing, and that I thought this might make him feel a bit more at home, this little light glittered in his eyes. 

He smiled and said, not at all unkindly, "Well, I can't remember many women in the bathhouse at the fort... and we weren't quite so given to orgies as modern prurience likes to think."  His smile got a little bigger and then he added, "They did have separate baths for men and women, papilio."  And then he slipped beneath the water and came up again, relaxing totally without concern while I blushed and died a thousand embarrassing deaths.  His eyes touched my face and shoulders.  "However... I rather think I prefer the view."  His eyes danced.  I giggled. 

Book learning.... who says it's not dangerous?!  I smiled back, both in embarrassment and amusement.  "It's not so bad from over here, either."

He laughed softly and took a sip of wine, swirling the rich red liquid in the glass absently.  It was all very innocent but there was this feeling under it all, subtle, but still there all the same.  He was a boy.  I was a girl.  And neither of us were the sort to forget that, no matter what we did or didn't do.   

He might have been polite and a little formal, but there was this sense from him that he was letting me know that he understood I wanted to look at him.  Not with arrogance or vanity, really.  More like this feeling that he was accustomed to it, perhaps even expected it from the women within his sphere.  It made me smile.  There was little doubt in my mind that women had always looked upon him favorably and had wanted him.  As a coltish, gangly youth.  As a soldier.  As a general.  As a slave.  As a gladiator.  As a Brother.

I did look.  Not lewdly, but with curiosity and appreciation as both an artist and a woman.  He was finely made.  Thick with the rounded muscle, born of manual labor not pumped iron.  Graceful and exact in his motions for all his bulk.  Scars marked him, telling the story of his life.  He was a great man.  A humble man.  A simple man, too. 

I did look at the thick heavy flesh hanging plump and soft between his legs in its nest of dark hair- but I also noted the lines at the corners of his eyes when he smiled and the fine little hairs on the back of his hand and the shadow of stubble on his throat and the scar across his callused palm... and a hundred other inconsequential little details that all added up to make the man before me.           

I suppose it is only natural we wanted to look at each other.  Imagine his scrutiny?  Direct and intense.  He was not embarrassed to look and to let me see him do it.  Our eyes met.  I returned his gaze but blushed and looked away when his eyes left my face to travel lower. 

His eyes returned to mine and something passed between us in that moment, a promise of things to come, perhaps.  He gave a slight smile that I returned.  Acknowledgement that from that moment on, someday, something will happen.  But not yet.  Not yet.

And now, he was here again... and I had more surprises that would only extend our 'not yet'.  It was strange that there was no sense of impatience for this time when we might share more physical intimacies.  Instead, it felt like a gift.  Time to come to a different sort of knowing with each other.  Exchanging beautiful words on a page or sharing more conversations like we had under the stars that night.

We had found a different rhythm with each other.  Slower.  Softer.  We had spoken of our parents and our childhood, of our siblings and of the follies of our youth.  He had spoken of a boy and I, a girl- and we had enjoyed ourselves greatly.  I wished for more of that.  He did too.  It had been a long time, I think, since the mighty General Maximus had touched the boy inside him.  He ask me if perhaps I would like to be the girl to his boy, content with each other's company and dreaming of pleasures yet unknown that would someday be ours when the time was right. That was how we had parted.  Not so much as friends as just a boy and a girl looking forward to what might come in the fullness of time. 

The letters.  The 'holiday' I'd planned and the things I had left for him to discover... I had wanted to show him respect and give him the choice to be his own man.  What I didn't realize until much later was how much all of those things had revealed about me and the leverage it gave him to get to know me in his way, at his leisure and in the manner of his choosing. 

We did not have much time together.  A short few days between Christmas and New Year's.  The time he spent in our home was quiet and uneventful.  Max was polite, a little formal and slightly reserved, given the circumstances.  Lachlan was polite as well, despite his smoldering issues with Max.  Peace for Christmas?  A lot to ask from two such immovable men, but they managed to set aside their differences for the few days they were both under the same roof. 

Not that there wasn't an air of friction between them, but they both somehow found a way to get along fairly amiably.  Perhaps it was the spirit of the holidays, or the baby or the understanding of two men who knew what it was to be a lost soldier, alone in the world when it seemed everyone else was gathered around hearth and home. 

Max and I went for a walk together the afternoon he arrived.  It was cold outside but not icy.  My bulky sweater and long skirt easily hid the soft swell of my belly.  I had dressed carefully, wanting to tell him in my own way, not have my shape give me away.  His eyes lingered on the nativity as we made our way out the door.  At the time, I didn't remark on it but now I think of his thoughts and it makes me laugh. 

My eye is caught by a strange little scene. On a shelf of the bookcase near the floor, there is a little house like a child's toy. It is a rude shack, thatched roof and straw on the ground. The style is ancient...there are a group of people kneeling round a wooden box. Inside lies an infant. The story jars in my mind; it is familiar. Ah, yes? The Christian story...the reputed birth of a god in a stable. I scoff. The superstitious nonsense of illiterates woven into an epic legend, when the truth was much simpler. A Jewish woman finds herself with child by a Roman, either willingly or by force (the stories vary) and then passes the baby off as The Messiah. Clever girl.

We walked.  We talked.  Just a boy and a girl.  He told me a story.  I told him one as well.  The Christmas story.... you know- Bethlehem, Mary... Joseph... the baby Jesus.  He shrugged and made an offhand remark that showed how little he understood it.

"The Christ?  The Jewish messiah?  They used to say he was the bastard of a Roman soldier who raped his young mother... wouldn't make such a cute children's tale, would it?"

It made me laugh, his Roman interpretation of events.  It made sense to me, too.  We all view things through the eyes of our youth.  He was no more familiar with the nuances of a tale from my childhood as I would have been with one of his.  On his last visit, he'd told me that his people loved a well told story, that they used them like cautionary tales, and it just struck me as a grand way to tell him about the baby.  An allegory for our story, in a way.

It amused me.  Nash as the angel Gabriel bringing great news of joy.  The idea of a baby who is going to bring light and truth to the World.              

I finished telling Max the story and he nodded amiably.  "A pleasant fiction."

I smiled.  "More of an allegory, really...."  I stroked my stomach gently, smoothing the bulk of the sweater against the gentle swell.  His eyes widened briefly and then softened. 

He cocked his head and appraised me for a moment, thinking.  "So, you know about the other child?"  He paused.  "I was not sure who knew."

Unaware of how much Terry and Uma had told him, I was reluctant to give away too much, especially since I'd been Terry's confidant through some rough patches.  Max is clever and very sharp but I resisted his attempt to fish for more details.  And to tell the truth, he wasn't inclined to say too much.  He gave me an unreadable look and made a slight tsk sound that rubbed me the wrong way.  He sensed it and drew back a little. 

It wasn't surprising, really.  We were still tentative with each other.  I found out later, he'd been quietly impressed.  He approved of childbearing and it had only enhanced me in his eyes.  He also liked that I kept the secrets entrusted to me.  A test, perhaps?  Now he knew I would hold his secrets as well. 

That night as I lay in bed, I heard him talking with Lach.  The rich burr of their voices carried easily through the walls of our old house.  They were talking softly, but I heard Max's voice say, "I will pray for them."  He might have been stoic, but he was charmed by the idea of motherhood.  It drew him strongly.  He has a soldier's wonder for the world of women and hearth and home because it is so rarely his.  Especially now.       

It was still difficult, however.  Especially after I told Max about the baby.  We took long walks together every morning and evening.  It seemed very natural for him.  He was attentive and comfortable, sure in all that he did.  I wondered if it was something he'd shared with his own wife when he'd been at home.

It was pleasant enough with the three of us at home but there was still an edge between him and Lach.  In many ways, it was my first visit with Max.  The time I shared with him was very sweet and that annoyed Lach.  To see another man taking care of me and concerned for my welfare was his territory.  It just rubbed him the wrong way, especially considering this particular man had some deep feelings for Uma and a rather prickly way with Terry.  There was already some mistrust between them and he didn't like Max's attention directed at me, even if it was chaste.  Max was a bit hostile as well.  He reads what is written and was sure to have the sense Lach was moving in on his patch.  Uma.

But while Max was in another man's home, he was scrupulously good mannered- but watchful.  He was warm and gracious with me.  He likes women.  Particularly ones with a mischievous spirit and a lively intelligence.  He was naturally protective and patriarchal, almost like he was watching the two of us together to see if his younger Brother was treating his woman as he should.  It made me smile inwardly.  It made Lach's ears steam.  He also liked that I'd wanted to give Lach a child.  It was the way of his world.  Max might appear to be a man of rigid honor codes, but he's a rule breaker and, frankly, he doesn't give a damn for controls that cross his view of a man's rights.  No wonder the gods favor him.         

Lach tolerated the walks but he was glad when the time was over and we were due at the Temple for the New Year's celebration.  He would lay in bed with me and wind me up about it in that cheeky way he has.  "What do you two find to talk about on those walks?  He seems like a bit of a stiff to me."

I gave him a flip answer, of course.  "He tells me about shagging the other gladiators... you know the Romans...."  Lach snorted.  I smiled and then told him the truth.  "We are simply getting to know one another... talking of our childhoods."  A simple answer but revealing, I think.

Lach pulled a face.  "Little Maximus- did they have Roman choir boys?  I reckon he was a right swot.  Always washed behind his ears."  I enjoyed his commentary.  It's so rare to get a glimpse of what one Brother thinks of another.  "Bloody bet he played Mr. Perfect.  The Honorable Schoolboy...."

"Don't be so immature."  I thumped him.  "Not everyone gets into fights and puts worms in the girls' pockets, Lachlan Curry!"

He giggled.  "Well, he looks like he's never cracked a fat in his life... although he must have... or they are all lying."   

I snickered and stuck my tongue out at him.  "Well, gee... let me just go give it a pull... try my luck..."

"You try it, love, and he'll give you that look... like you just peed on the floor in front of him."

"You are so crude!"  You think maybe that chastisement would have been a bit more effective if I hadn't been giggling like a loon when I said it?

He chuffed softly.  "Besides, you've all the luck you need right here, Blue... three helpings of it..." he rubbed up against me and tucked my hand around the warm heft of his impressive package.  I hummed out my pleasure at that and somehow, conversation didn't seem quite so important any longer.  I crawled over him and licked his hip, smiling as he opened his legs so I could stroke and fondle at my leisure.  I massaged my fingers into his thick scruff of hair, rolled his heavy scrotum in my fingers and pressed my cheek against the soft, wrinkled flesh, rubbing against him like a cat. 

He smelled so good.  Arousal bloomed low in my belly and I felt myself grow wet even as I saw the first drops of his passion begin to seep from his swollen head.  He groaned softly.  "That's it, girl... touch yourself...." he whispered.  I didn't even realize I'd dropped one hand to my lap.  His big strong hands smoothed over the swell of my belly in the same rhythm as he moved restlessly under me. 

I remember that night with startling clarity.  We made love silently, aware we were not alone in this old house of ours.  The bed creaked softly as I rose and fell on him.  His hands touched me possessively.  My back.  My breasts.  My throat.  My belly.  Watching me with hooded eyes as he gently brought me to my pleasure.  I remember how watching it made his breathing change.  And at the moment of his own coming, he made the most erotic noise I have ever heard.  A breath caught in his throat, released involuntarily.  A near silent puff of air against my neck.  The softest grunt as his body shuddered and shed starlight into mine.

I cried afterwards, the way girls sometimes do when it's not just the Earth that has moved, but your soul as well.  He held me close and rocked me, the way boys sometimes do when they know they are holding in their arms all that they've ever wanted.  When you both seem to see the road before you stretch out past rough wild sex, past making babies together, past watching those babies fall in love and make babies of their own, past being doddering old fools with gray hair and wrinkles... even past laying each other to rest for that last final time.  When you finally come to understand your place in the world and acknowledge that it is with each other.  When you feel real love and truly know that it is timeless. 

It was the last night of Max's visit almost before I knew it.  In deference to the early morning flight, Lach had forgone a nightcap and had gone to bed a bit earlier than he usually does.  He takes no chances when he flies.  I'd gone to bed with him but where he had dropped right off, I'd drifted in and out of wakefulness several times until I just couldn't stand it any longer. 

Throwing a light robe on over my green satin pajamas, I shuffled down to the kitchen to make myself a cup of warm strawberry milk.  I know it sounds disgusting, but strawberry milk was the only kind I'd had any desire to drink in the last few weeks.  The cat wound around my legs and yowled to be let out.  I hissed at him to shut up and let him out, shivering at the frosty night.

A low chuckle from a dark corner just about scared me to death.  Max was sitting on the bench seat by the window with a glass of cognac in his large hand, watching the moon rise over the lake.

We exchanged a quiet greeting.  He raised his eyebrow and looked to the pan I had warming on the stove.  I smiled at him and teased, "Would you like some?" 

His face remained impassive.  "What is it?"  Typical Max question.  He'd watched me drink it for four days and had never before asked what it was- and yet you could tell he was curious.  I wondered how many times his ingrained conditioning and natural reserve kept him from asking after something he was curious about.  I also suspected he would prefer to be silent, especially in front of another man, if he was uncertain or unfamiliar about something from this modern world.

"It's milk."

"It's pink."  He said it like another man might have said 'it's curdled.'

I laughed quietly as I poured the steaming contents into a mug.  "It's strawberry milk."  I held it out for him to smell.  "Would you like a taste?"

He took a moment to breathe in the fragrant curls of steam and his stoic mask cracked as a little grimace pulled at his mouth and the corner of one eye.  "Thank you, no.  I shall stick with spirit."  The words themselves were pleasant enough but they carried the tone of, 'Ye Gods, woman!  How can you drink that swill?'

I laughed at his sour face and sipped my drink.  He shifted back in the window seat, seemingly unaffected by the cold seeping through the glass.  We didn't talk but the silence was warm and comfortable.  He sipped his drink.  I sipped mine.  The wind creaked through the trees.  I felt a little flutter inside me and rubbed my belly, looking down at it and wondering for about the hundredth time if it was indigestion or the baby.  I was surprised when he spoke.

"You have the look of Serena."

It was such a joyous time for us.  The army almost never fought in the winter months unless it was a full scale emergency, as it was that winter in Germania.  Usually the senior officers took leave for the winter.  I would go home for the harvest; to my lands and my beautiful wife.  Marcus, too, was conceived in October- the end of the war season in that world.  He laughed quietly.  The land could wait.  My young wife and I could not.   

I was to return in March.  We spent a very quiet winter together that year, just the two of us and our slaves.  I was much blessed to be allowed to remain home with her and watch her begin swell with child.  It was a time I remember fondly.  Spring came too soon.  How it cut me to have to leave just as she was quickening.  When it was real to me for the first time.  When I, too, could feel the little life with my own hand.

"I just remembered.... seeing you standing there." 

He chuffed a bit but when our eyes met, he gave me that little smile.  I was stunned.  It was the first time he'd spoken to me of a personal memory that extended beyond his youth.  And what a singularly intimate memory for a man like him to share.  I was surprised and humbled, and I understood now why he seemed so at ease during our walks.  He must have walked his lands with his pregnant wife many times that winter.

He rose and set his empty glass by the sink.  His manner was again one of polite reservation.  "I will retire now," he said a little stiffly, as if a return to formality would somehow blunt the enormity of the memory he had shared.

On impulse, I reached for his hand and pressed it to the soft curve of my belly.  He would not be able to feel the baby move.  I wasn't even sure if what I'd felt was the baby or indigestion... but I knew he would feel the gentle swell and remember another woman and another time. 

I removed my hand and he left his pressed to me a few moments longer, a small soft smile on his face before it became impassive once more.  "May the Gods keep and watch over you, little mother."  He drew away.

"Goodnight, Max."  

"Goodnight, my papilio.  Sleep well."  

And then he was gone.