39. Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Thirty-Nine

L aura

I wake up to the sound of Varro humming softly as he stokes the fire. The familiar melody brings a smile to my face before I even open my eyes. It’s become our morning routine—him waking first, tending to the hearth, while I slowly rejoin the land of the living.

“Morning, Laura.” His English is crisp and clear. He sings along to the pop music we listen to almost every day. Because of that, his speech is a far cry from the halting, heavily accented words that were his first attempts. Just another reminder of how much time has passed here on our little slice of heaven.

And it really is a slice of heaven. For the last two months, the weather has closed in and without Varro’s help, I most certainly would have died. The stream froze so hard that I can now walk over it.

Each night we batten down the hatches, stoke the fire with logs that Varro felled and chopped, and we huddle in sleeping bags covered with extra blankets as we listen to the howling wind outside, flurries of snow sneaking under the door frame.

Some nights it gets so cold that Varro pulls our beds together in front of the fire and tells me wintery folktales. We’re in our own frozen little world, the center of a snow globe, with the outside world whirling around us as we find peace in here.

People pay thousands of dollars for cozy cabins in the snowy wilderness. I guess I’m just lucky that mine comes with a handsome gladiator thrown in for free.

“Morning,” I mumble, sitting up and stretching. “What’s on the agenda for today?”

Varro grins, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Oh, I thought we might watch trellavision, then put our dirty clothes in the cleaning machine. You know, the usual.”

I snort, throwing my pillow at him. He catches it effortlessly, laughing. “Smart ass,” I retort, but I’m smiling too. “By the way, it’s television and the washing machine, but man, you obviously have a gift for languages. Your English is fantastic.”

As I get up and help with breakfast, I can’t help but marvel at how comfortable we’ve become with each other. The awkwardness from our argument two months ago has long since faded, replaced by an easy friendship that feels as natural as breathing.

“You’re quiet this morning,” Varro observes as we sit down to eat. “Everything okay?”

I nod, taking a bite of yesterday’s rabbit stew. He’s terrific with the spear he created with a diving knife fasted to a straight tree limb. Without him, I imagine I would have already starved to death. “Just thinking. Do you realize it’s been three months since… well, since we ended up here?”

Varro’s expression softens. “I hadn’t thought about it, but you’re right. Time flies when you’re having fun, eh?”

My chest bursts with pride at his use of modern slang. If it weren’t for the stab and slash wounds all over his body and his penchant for walking around in nothing but a loincloth made out of a torn sheet, he might be mistaken for someone born in this millennia .

“Yeah, something like that. Actually…” I hesitate, suddenly feeling nervous. “I’ve been keeping track of the date. It’s December 24th. Christmas Eve.”

Varro’s eyebrows shoot up. “Christmas? That’s the big winter holiday you told me about, right? With the trees and the presents?”

“That’s the one,” I confirm, impressed that he remembers. “I know we can’t exactly have a traditional celebration, but I thought maybe we could do something small. If you want to, that is.”

To my surprise, Varro looks almost… shy? He rubs the back of his neck, a habit I’ve come to recognize is a sign of nerves. “Actually,” he says slowly, “I’ve been preparing for Saturnalia. I didn’t know the exact date, but I knew it was around this time of year.”

My heart swells with affection. “Varro, that’s… that’s really sweet. Why didn’t you say anything?” Actually, I feel like a jerk for not mentioning it. I know that Saturnalia was celebrated around December 23 rd .

He shrugs, a small smile playing on his lips. “I wanted it to be a surprise. And I wasn’t sure if you’d want to celebrate a Roman holiday.”

“Are you kidding? Of course I do! We did it every year in my high school Latin class. The modern festival is actually a mix of loads of different pagan festivals, the Saturnalia included. We can combine them. A Chrismurnalia extravaganza!”

Varro laughs, the sound warm and rich. “Chrismurnalia? I like it. So, what should we do first?”

We spend the morning decorating our little cottage using pine boughs and holly we gather from the surrounding forest. What I assume are poisonous red berries give the cottage a pop of color. I tie sprigs of them onto rags from old clothing and make bunting. Mistletoe from the wooded patch behind the house was tempting, but it stayed outside—there’s no need for another awkward conversation .

Varro tells me about Saturnalia traditions—the role reversals where the masters served the slaves, the feasts, the gift-giving—while I explain Christmas customs. It’s a fascinating blend of old and new, and I find myself wishing I could show my old archaeology professors this unique cultural exchange.

As we work, I notice how freely Varro smiles now, how openly he shares his thoughts and memories. It’s a far cry from the guarded, haunted man I first met. The nightmares that used to wake him (and me) almost nightly have become less frequent. I can’t remember the last time I heard him cry out in his sleep. He’s healing, and I can’t think of anyone who deserves a peaceful life more than him.

“What are you thinking about?” Varro asks, catching me staring.

I blink, realizing I’ve been lost in thought. “Just… how different things are now. How different you are from when we met.”

He tilts his head, curious. “Different how?”

I gesture vaguely. “You’re more… open. Relaxed. You smile more. And you hardly have nightmares anymore.”

Varro’s expression turns thoughtful. “I hadn’t noticed,” he admits. “But you’re right. I feel… lighter, I suppose. Like some of the weight I’ve been carrying has lifted.”

“I’m glad.” My tone is soft and sincere: I mean it with every fiber of my being.

We lapse into comfortable silence as we finish decorating. Finally, Varro steps back, admiring our handiwork. “Not bad,” he declares. “Now, I believe it’s time for the feast!”

Our “feast” consists of our fish stew—note to self, eating nothing but fish and rabbit does not merit daily thoughts of jumping off a cliff. As a nod to the celebration, we throw in the last of our canned vegetables to make it special. As Varro stirs the pot, he suddenly grins. “Oh, I almost forgot! The garum is ready!”

I groan dramatically, but I can’t hide my smile. “I was hoping you’d forgotten about that.” Although no one is nose blind enough to forget about the caustic stew brewing just outside our door.

It wasn’t long after Varro made the garum mixture that he realized the sun wasn’t going to be hot enough to promote the fermentation as the outside temperatures continued to drop. He built a stone oven just outside the door, keeping the small fire stoked beneath the stones that enclosed the pottery in the chamber above. Not that I was invested in the garum, but I was happy to find the enclosure helped contain the smell.

“Forget my garum? Never.” His voice is solemn, but his eyes are twinkling. “Come on, it’ll be delicious. Trust me.”

To my surprise, it’s… not terrible. Strong, certainly, and unlike anything I’ve ever tasted before. But there’s a depth of flavor that’s actually quite interesting. “Okay,” I admit grudgingly, “I can see why you Romans put this stuff on everything.”

Varro beams, looking so proud that I can’t help but laugh. “Don’t let it go to your head,” I warn him. “I still prefer ketchup.”

After dinner, we exchange gifts. I’ve been working on mine in secret for weeks, stealing moments when Varro was out fishing, hunting, or gathering firewood (or watering the cucumbers). When I hand him the carefully wrapped package (okay, it’s just some leaves tied with flexible reeds, but I did my best), his face lights up like a child’s.

“Laura,” he breathes as he unwraps it, “this is… incredible.”

It’s a journal, made from handmade paper I crafted from plant fibers. I learned the technique in a craft class. Goodness knows it’s much harder without access to an electric blender.

The cover is a piece of leather I salvaged from an old bag in the men’s tent and then etched with designs inspired by Roman art. “I thought you might like to write your story,” I explain. “Your memories, your experiences. It could be a bridge between your past and your present.”

As Varro carefully runs his fingers over the journal’s cover, I notice his eyes glisten with unexpected emotion .

“Varro?” I ask softly, concerned by his reaction. “Is everything alright?”

He nods, swallowing hard before speaking. “It’s just… this is the first gift I’ve received since I was a boy in Hispania. My parents would give us small presents for Saturnalia, but after…” He trails off, then finally adds, “No presents were freely given.”

My heart aches at this realization. I reach out to squeeze his hand gently. “Oh, Varro. I’m so sorry. I didn’t even think…”

He shakes his head, a small smile forming on his lips. “No, Dulcis. Don’t apologize. This is perfect. Thank you for giving me back a piece of joy I thought was lost forever.”

I lean in to kiss him softly, feeling my own eyes mist over at the depth of emotion in his voice. In this moment, I vow to shower him with thoughtful gifts for the rest of our days together, determined to make up for all the years he went without.

Then it’s my turn. Varro hands me a small object wrapped in a scrap of cloth. When I open it, I gasp. It’s a necklace, made from small shells and stones, carefully drilled and strung together. In the center hangs a piece of green sea glass, smoothed by the waves, now shimmering in the firelight.

Wait. Drilled?

Then I remember when we were packing up to move to our cottage, Varro saw Rick’s cordless drill and wanted to know what it was. I showed him and all the attachments that went with it.

“When…how…” I stammer and see the pride on his handsome face.

“I wasn’t watering the cucumbers every time I went out.” He says with a cheeky grin. “But as long as you thought that’s what I was doing, you didn’t follow me. The magic power in the tool died just as I finished the last piece.”

“Varro,” I whisper, “it’s beautiful. ”

He helps me put it on, the heat of his fingers brushing my neck sends shivers down my spine. “I wanted to give you something to remember this place by,” he says. “When we leave this island, you’ll have a piece of it with you always.”

The confidence in his voice—not if we leave, but when —brings tears to my eyes. I blink them back, not wanting to ruin the moment. “Thank you,” I manage to say. “I love it.”

We spend the rest of the evening singing—Christmas carols from me, old Roman songs from Varro. Our voices blend together, filling our little cottage with warmth and joy. As the fire burns low and we prepare for bed, I find myself wishing this night could last forever.

“Merry Christmas, Varro,” I say as I climb into my sleeping bag.

“ Felicem Saturnalium , Dulcis ,” he replies, his voice warm with affection.

As I drift off to sleep, the necklace cool against my skin, I realize something. Despite everything—the isolation, the hardships, the uncertain future, and all the freaking fish—I’m happy. Truly, genuinely happy. And it’s all because of the man sleeping across the room, the impossible friend who has bridged the gap of two millennia.