The story of a certain infatuation in Gaul.

Water, water that gives life, solace, joy, and sadness. One thing is certain: you can't live without it. Her eyelids, closing more and more frequently, were sticky. They signaled that it was time for sleep, time to rest, a well-deserved rest after today's busy and pleasant day. Her fingertips touched the silver surface of the water. She shuddered, but immersed her entire hand, reaching the bottom of the wooden bowl. Now the wet hands touched her eyes, her eyelids, giving them as a gift a few more moments of sobriety. She didn't want to sleep; something intrigued her, irritated her, intrigued her. She looked into the water again, searching for answers. She didn't find them, perhaps she didn't want to? The massive shutters were open, though the late autumn nights were cold. Today she didn't complain; she leaned against the doorframe and gazed at the moon. Selene, too, was looking at her. The entire room was bathed in a silvery glow.

The smell of fresh bread, the morning song of nightingales, her father's grumbling. And a knock, such a powerful knock, on the door. She didn't know that when it opened, her entire world would change.

A young man stood in the doorway, wrapped in a musty cloak, in the sunlight. She couldn't see his face. The more she thought about him, the more difficult it was to imagine him, now he…

He spoke first, in Latin; unfortunately, she didn't know it, so she gave him a smile, trying to mask her lack of education. He spoke again, his soft, velvety voice still echoing in her ears, bringing incredible pleasure, but now it was a question, an act of understanding.

Father interrupted this beautiful moment. He brushed back his gray hair and answered the newcomer in rudimentary Latin. Sword and Latin, remnants of her father's hired labor. He didn't try to teach her; he thought a woman would be satisfied with just the ability to cook and clean, because it was easier to exploit.

They exchanged a few words, the newcomer reached for his purse and pulled out a few coins. Father's eyes lit up; she didn't like that; it always heralded trouble, hard to get out of. Now, grinning from ear to ear, he showed the newcomer a seat at the table.

Finally, she saw his face, rough, covered with dark stubble. His dark eyes radiated a magnetism that hypnotized, captivated, inspired trust.

She heard her father's harsh words again:

"Give me something to eat." The girl hadn't yet recovered from the hypnosis. "Why are you staring, you..." Father raised his hands; he often struck. She prayed, not knowing to whom. She asked for deliverance from her torturer. Would she ever see it? She felt no pain. Father wouldn't strike in front of a stranger; he only did it at night, and if only that…

The newcomer noticed the disturbing situation and whispered something in Latin, in a cheerful voice. Her father's hand caressed her head, he turned tensely and replied, imitating a pleasant tone...

The moon shone even brighter. Could he read her mind, could he know her pain? Could he know how the young woman felt? What was she saying? A girl entering the adult world, beaten, humiliated, and… She didn't even want to think about it, it hurt. Was there anyone there who could hear, who could help? Would the rest of her life be a string of failures? Only death brought solace, only she… She lacked the courage. Every time she reached for the knife, her hands trembled. She knew, or rather believed, that good would triumph someday, that this warrior would come… The one who would liberate. No – she abruptly dismissed those thoughts, she had had enough of dreams, of a blue-eyed, white-haired knight, with a beautiful white stallion, and a kiss that tasted like dew-covered strawberries. Today, she thought she'd met one, but she dismissed the thought again. She'd dreamed of him so much, called out to him for help so many times, as his rough hand touched her thighs. When it was over, she gazed at the sky, at the moon, searching for energy, for herself, for each day to come…

The meal, for the first time in days—what she thought, for years—was pleasant. Usually, she ate alone, sometimes with Father, enduring his grumpy and clingy remarks, sometimes enduring blows, sometimes…

She felt a strange heaviness in her stomach; someone had given her a sincere smile for months. He was playing with her, seducing her, at least that's how she felt. For the first time, she looked at a man without repulsion, without a bad taste in her mouth. His gaze pierced and hypnotized her. Every time her eyes met his, she felt incredible delight, ecstasy, wild pleasure. She blushed; she had fallen in love at first sight. Father was too stupid and callous to notice this wordless game. He smacked his lips like a small child, eating mushroom sauce—let him eat, let him not speak, even for a moment. She quickly pushed him from her thoughts. Now there was only him, the dark-eyed Roman stranger, the ideal? She hadn't known him long enough.

Their passionate game was interrupted by Father, growling in Gaulish:

"Show us the guest." He nodded at the newcomer. "He'll stay here for a few days, he'll pay handsomely." That was most important to Father. "His name is Cassius.

" "Cassius?" She asked, no, twisting the words. "He already had a name, her ideal had a name." Cassius laughed loudly, seeing her young blonde's tongue getting tangled, and replied cheerfully: "Cassius." He pointed to himself. Giving her a smile. He was hypnotizing her again and beginning the game.

"So, you've had your talk, show Cassius around." Father bowed low again and interrupted once more. "Around the orchard, and I'll have a drink." She knew that; then he couldn't be disturbed. It was best to lock himself in his room or go for a long hike in the forest. She felt a sudden surge of shame. She remembered well how her father had once dragged her out of the woods in front of the entire village. She had been little then, drunk, and dragged her home, and… After that, he had no restraint. She shook her head, trying to dispel the negative thoughts, but they wouldn't go away so easily.

Cassius stood up, stopped at the door, and gestured toward the exit. For the first time, she felt so important and appreciated by a man. She smiled again, another. Out of the corner of her eye, she glanced at Father's bulk as he clumsily slid down the wooden steps to the cellar…

Was Cassius the sum of gifts from his forgotten birthday, or just a whim of the deities, a single colorful day in a calendar of dark and gray ones? A scarlet rose among the branches of a withered tree, a drop of honey in a sea of ​​bitterness. She wanted to take advantage of this and drink it all down.

Golden chrysanthemums bloomed all around; they walked together, silently, gazing at each other intently. She wanted to lead him to the edge of the woods, show him the village, and hide on a small hill overlooking a beautiful stream. She stopped for a moment, an apple. A ruddy apple, waiting for the touch of someone kind. She tasted its pure sweetness and offered it to him. He bit into it where she had. "It's just like kissing," she thought, blushing again. She dared, she wanted to drink that drop of honey, though not so boastfully. Her hand took his, waiting for a reaction, expecting the worst, rejection. But that didn't come; he gripped her tighter, and like a young couple, they moved on. Finally, they reached her beloved place, where she poured out all her sorrows and sought solace. Like a pair of young teenagers, after all, she was young, this was, this was her first infatuation. They looked ahead.

The village wasn't as quiet as usual, a group of several people crowded around a soldier. Yes, it was someone from the Gallic Guard, waving a description and shouting: "Whoever saw this criminal and rapist, or whoever catches him, will..." She didn't hear his lips touch hers again, she felt an unbelievable feeling. Delight, the kiss tasted like a strawberry sprinkled with dewdrops.

He touched her shoulders gently, so tenderly, his touch wasn't rough, or perhaps the thought of perfection twisted her senses a little, deceiving her? Perhaps his lips didn't taste like strawberries, his touch wasn't as delicate as spider silk? She didn't want to think about it, didn't even try. Why poison this moment she'd been waiting for? She wanted to drink in that drop of honey, until the end...

She touched her cheeks, warm and probably crimson, the moonlight engulfing her again. It was brighter, so surely Selene could read minds, and her happiness brought her joy. He was sleeping in the little room under the stairs now, could he sneak in? And taste that drop of honey again? No, what if Father noticed? She hesitated. She was his property, after all, he wouldn't forgive her, he'd kill her, and… Cassius was supposed to stay for a few more days, there would be another chance, but what if he left and disappeared? What if he left me alone, should I remember this moment as the happiest of my life? She thought, hundreds of questions, doubts. And the urge to reach for the sweetness again. She looked up, seeking advice, but there was none, no one to help, no one to dispel her doubts. She had to make her own decisions. She went back to the bowl of water, cooling her fingers again, then her eyelids, pulling her from Morpheus's arms.

The concert of grasshoppers outside the window was interrupted by a dull thud. Father must be tripping over chairs, she felt a sudden surge of revulsion. She knew she had to help, it was her duty, but she didn't want to show this filth to the newcomer, didn't want to sever the perfect bond that had emerged between them for hours, but...

Like an apparition, she moved across the floor. She descended the stairs, praying her beloved wouldn't wake up. She peered into the kitchen. Her father's brown boots. She looked again, a pool of blood. A faster heartbeat, a rubbing of her eyes, a shake of her head. It was impossible, her heart was pounding furiously, her left breast quivering in rhythm with its beat. He, the knight, the ideal, the lover, stood over her Father's body. A drop of blood danced at the tip of his dagger. No, this couldn't be real. This was a dream; there was no charm, no hypnosis in his gaze. A thin man, dressed in dirty robes, stared at her, his cold, steely eyes piercing with coldness, a lack of any emotion. Even his name, "Cassius," lost all its magic.

She began to run, her heart beating like never before, leading to peace, fragments of thought trying to connect. "Guinevere and her daughter Arwen, stabbed to death, the murderer never found." "A soldier of the Gallic Guard searching for a rapist, was she his next victim?" "And her Father—the torturer, the man who most deserved death, tiny in a pool of blood, nothing of his power and strength left, as he gazed at her lasciviously, as he touched her, as he licked her flesh." Everything had vanished in the night.

She stumbled, and now, like a ghost, he slowly followed her. Her brown robe slid across the floor, the dagger gleaming in the moonlight. She crawled further to the door on all fours. She had never wanted to live as much as she did now; all these attempts at slitting wrists, drowning, and hanging seemed foolish to her now. This is what we have from birth; every living creature must and wants to live, wants to breathe, a person is nothing more than the sum of their breaths, but every life is important.

She crawled to it, the massive oak door collapsed, blocking Cassius's path. She leaned against the door. She heard his heavy footsteps and his breathing, strangely even and calm. Beads of sweat dripped from her forehead, just like Father then… but he was gone now. There was Him, She, and the will to survive. Her heart pounded, her body trembled, her eyes refused to obey, hot, hot.

A slight crunch and a slight gust of wind made her turn. To the left, at the level of her face, a sharpened piece of iron gleamed. She noticed her eyes, blue eyes reflected in the piece of iron. There was fear and disappointment in them, and she didn't have the strength to scream. Another dull thud, and she closed her eyes. She was still alive, the blade embedded in the wood, unmoving.

An impulse, she opened the door, he was kneeling, she saw tears on his cheek, his gaze hypnotizing, yet simultaneously begging for forgiveness. She forgave him without hesitation. They gazed at each other for a long moment. Their lips met again, she tasted strawberries, that ideal returned, like a knight, a warrior, a man with a velvety touch. She erased the memories of that last moment, that ideal that had freed her from her tormentor's clutches, that ideal that had given her life. The kiss lingered, she wanted to drink in every drop of honey...

They needed no words to say goodbye, a kiss and a look were enough.

Cassius rode away on a white horse, in the moonlight. The gods had answered their prayers.