Growing Pains

The news of Syrus and Annabeth’s union spreads quickly through Rome, whispered among the citizens and celebrated by those close to them. Annabeth isn’t surprised, she has suspected this announcement long before her father spoke the words aloud. When word reaches her, her emerald eyes shine with a knowing look. Alexandros, meanwhile, just grins as if he has waited years for this moment to arrive.

“About time,” Alexandros mutters, barely glancing up from the scroll in his hand as he lounges near the fire, a cup of wine in his grip.

Syrus feels a quiet excitement, though the flurry of wedding preparations leaves little chance to speak with Annabeth about the ceremony itself. He only knows the date: the twenty-third of Janus. Servants rush about with linens and flowers, organizing feasts and sending invitations. The noise sets his head pounding, as if he’s preparing for the empire’s downfall rather than his own wedding.

To escape the commotion, Syrus immerses himself in work. He sits hunched at a desk in a silent corner of Alexandros’s cottage, ink-stained fingers scrawling over parchment. Sketches of battlefield formations and notes on strategic manoeuvres clutter the surface. Although he tries to lose himself in tales of Rome’s greatest victories, his thoughts drift back to the approaching day. Its weight hangs over him like a looming storm.

“Syrus!” Alexandros’s sharp voice jolts him from his reverie.

“Yes?” Syrus calls, not lifting his head.

“Have you eaten yet?” Alexandros’s tone crackles with irritation. “I made you breakfast, and it’s sitting untouched!”

Syrus pauses, pen halting mid-stroke. He realises with a flash of embarrassment that he hasn’t eaten since early that morning, or maybe even the day before. His appetite has waned since his birthday, a fact he has ignored in favour of study. “Uh, no. Sorry,” he admits, sounding sheepish. He sets his pen aside and scrambles to his feet.

Entering the main room, he finds Alexandros standing by the table, arms crossed, a bowl of oats on the table. The old man’s eyes narrow as Syrus approaches, exasperation on his face. “You’re a man now, but you’re never too old to be scolded,” Alexandros says, gruff. “Wasting food is no minor offense.”

Syrus ducks his head, suddenly feeling like a chastised child.

“I’ve been busy,” he mutters. “I wasn’t hungry.”

With a sigh, he grabs the bowl and steps outside, emptying its contents for the birds. Alexandros peeks out the door, clearly disapproving, but shakes his head and lets it go. “Fine,” he concedes. “But you’ll join me for dinner tonight and eat every bite. Humour your old man.”

Syrus snorts softly, but nods. “All right, but first let us spar.”

The crisp winter air feels refreshing against his skin, though an unfamiliar sluggishness lingers in his limbs. His movements seem off, where they are usually precise, now they are slow; where they are typically quick, they feel heavy.

Alexandros frowns when Syrus fumbles with his stance. “Your footing is lazy,” he barks, circling him. “Have you forgotten everything I taught you?”

“No,” Syrus says, frustration edging his voice. He adjusts, forcing his body to obey. But when Alexandros swings, Syrus barely manages to parry, the impact rattling his arms.

“You’re holding back,” Alexandros accuses, his sharp gaze raking over him. “This isn’t like you.”

Syrus grits his teeth and lunges with a counterstrike, but Alexandros sidesteps neatly, pressing his blade lightly to Syrus’s chest. The match ends, Syrus has lost.

“You’re beaten,” Alexandros says bluntly, lowering his weapon. He extends a hand to help Syrus up from where he fell. “That’s the third time this week.”

Syrus accepts his hand, jaw clenched as he stands. “I’m just tired,” he mutters, avoiding Alexandros’s piercing look. “Too much on my mind.”

Alexandros tilts his head, unconvinced. “Your mind may be sharp, boy, but your body must keep pace. In an actual fight, you’d be dead this way.”

Syrus remains silent, stung by the truth. He isn’t ill, no fever, no genuine pain, but something feels off. His strength, appetite, and focus have all faded, leaving him hollow.

“Take the rest of the day,” Alexandros finally says, sheathing his sword. “Eat. Rest. Whatever this is, you need to shake it off before the wedding.”

Syrus nods stiffly, brushing dirt from his tunic. Alexandros gives his shoulder a firm pat. “You’ve proven yourself to Rome a hundred times over,” he says, tone softening. “You have nothing left to prove.”

They head back inside, Syrus’s thoughts heavy as he enters the dining room. Alexandros has prepared a simple meal of bread, olives, and watered wine, his usual no-nonsense fare. He sits at the table, eyes brightening a little when Syrus joins him.

“Sit,” Alexandros instructs, gesturing to the chair across from him. “And eat this time. I won’t have you wasting away before the wedding.”

Syrus forces a faint chuckle, though it lacks genuine warmth. He takes his seat and picks at the bread on his plate. The food tastes strange, bland and oddly textured. Each bite churns uncomfortably on his stomach.

“My cooking can’t be that bad,” Alexandros jokes, but his keen eyes never leave Syrus.

“It’s not that,” Syrus answers, setting the bread down and leaning back. “I just… lost my appetite. There’s too much going on.”

Alexandros grunts, his expression easing into concern. “Nerves are expected. Marriage is no small matter, it’s a bond of trust and commitment.”

Syrus nods absently, thinking of Annabeth. “Did you ever marry your partner?” he asks quietly.

Alexandros’s smile turns wistful, grief flickering behind it. “No. He never cared for ceremony. My presence was enough for him.”

“You rarely speak of him,” Syrus notes, heart aching at the idea of such loss. He can’t imagine losing Annabeth, that thought alone hurts too deeply.

“I don’t,” Alexandros admits. “But maybe I should have. He deserves to be remembered.”

Syrus hesitates before asking that has haunted him for years. “You said a vampyr killed him.”

Alexandros’s face clouds, gaze distant. “We were hunting near the empire’s northern border. It tore his throat open. I tried to stop the bleeding, but… he died in my arms. His last words were, ‘I love you.’” A single tear slips down Alexandros’s cheek as he stares at the table.

“I’m sorry,” Syrus whispers, reaching across to grasp Alexandros’s hand.

“It’s all right,” Alexandros’ voice thick. “I should speak of him more often. He deserves that.” He pats Syrus’s hand, then reclaims his gruff tone. “Now go rest. I won’t have you half-dead for your own wedding.”

Syrus musters a small smile and nods, leaving the table with Alexandros’s sorrow lingering in his thoughts. The hollowness in his chest intensifies as he returns to his room, hoping the darkness and sleep might offer a brief escape.