Page 56 of Thawed Gladiator: Quintus
Nicole
Six months later, I stand in front of the mirror in what used to be my single room when I first arrived, now transformed into a bridal preparation suite. Ava fusses with the buttons on my dress—a simple but elegant design that feels like me rather than some bridal magazine fantasy.
“Stop fidgeting,” she commands with the authority of someone who’s planned this wedding with military precision. “You’re going to wrinkle the silk.”
“Can’t help it. I’m nervous.” My gaze catches hers in the mirror. “Is that ridiculous? We’ve been living together for months. This should feel like a formality.”
“It’s not ridiculous.” Maya appears in the doorway carrying a bouquet of wildflowers gathered from the sanctuary grounds this morning. “Wedding nerves are completely normal, even when you’re marrying your best friend.”
The bouquet is perfect—Missouri wildflowers mixed with herbs from the Sanctuary’s garden, tied with a ribbon in the deep blue color Quintus loves. Simple, natural, representing the life we’ve built together rather than some impossible fantasy.
“Besides,” Ava adds, securing my veil with wooden hairpins (Thrax’s wedding gift to me), “today makes it official to the world. That matters.”
Through the window, I can see the ceremony site Laura and I designed together. An outdoor altar beneath the oak trees where Quintus first sang to me, chairs arranged in concentric half-moons so our community can witness our promises. Roman and modern traditions woven together like the life we’re creating.
“The gladiators are all in their formal gear,” Maya reports, peeking outside. “Quintus looks like he might faint, but in a good way.”
“He’s nervous too?”
“Thrax said he’s been pacing since dawn, muttering in Latin about worthy offerings to Fortuna.” Maya grins. “Apparently, ancient Romans took wedding ceremonies very seriously.”
“Breathe,” Ava coaches, reading my nervous expression. “No one from your past gets to steal this moment. Today is only about you, Quintus, and the life you’re building together.”
She’s right. I smooth my hands over the dress—not white, because this isn’t my first marriage, but a soft cream that looks amazing against my skin, which is now tanned from practicing my takedowns in the open-air sparring areas. When I check my reflection one more time, the woman looking back appears confident, radiant, and ready to make promises I know I can keep.
“Let’s go get me married.”
The moment I’m in place, the processional music begins—a string quartet playing a melody Quintus composed, weaving together ancient Roman themes with contemporary harmony.No one gives me away because I belong to myself, but Ava walks beside me as my maid of honor, and my sons escort us both, representing the family support that made this moment possible.
The gathered community rises as we approach the altar, and my breath catches at the sight of so many people who’ve become family. The sanctuary staff who’ve watched our relationship develop, gladiators who’ve accepted me as one of their own, program participants whose lives intersected with ours during their journeys toward strength.
And there, waiting beneath the oak trees in a black leather gladiator kilt that makes him look like a god carved from marble, stands Quintus.
His eyes never leave mine as I walk toward him, and the smile on his face could power the entire sanctuary. When we reach the altar, he extends his hand with the same steady certainty he’s brought to everything in our relationship.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs as Michael places my hand in his.
“So are you.”
The officiant—a retired judge who’s become a friend of the sanctuary—begins the ceremony with words about partnership and growth, about love that enhances rather than diminishes. But I barely hear him because I’m lost in Quintus’s steel-gray eyes, in the wonder of having found someone who sees all of me and chooses me anyway.
“The couple has written their own vows,” the judge announces, and Quintus goes first.
“Nicole.” His voice carries that musical quality that first captured my attention, but now it’s warm with intimacy rather than distant with sorrow. “Six months ago, I thought I was helping you fix a broken window. Instead, you fixed something broken in me—the belief that I was meant to face life alone.”
Tears spring to my eyes before he’s barely begun.
“You taught me that strength shared is strength multiplied, not divided. That true connection builds you up instead of tearing you down. That I could offer my whole heart without losing myself in the process.” He squeezes my hands gently.
“My promise is to support your dreams, celebrate your victories, and remind you of your strength when you forget it. You’ll have all of me—my music, my scars, my awkward wrestlings with this strange new age, and my absolute devotion to what we’re building together. Above all, I vow to love you exactly as you are while standing with you in who you’re becoming—and to fight for us with the same ferocity I once fought for survival.”
His words settle into my heart like music, and I realize I’m crying openly now.
“Quintus.” My voice shakes, but the words come from the deepest part of me. “You’ve taught me the difference between being wanted and being treasured. Between being managed and being partnered. Between making myself smaller to fit someone else’s needs and growing larger to meet my own potential.”
I take a shaky breath, aware of our entire community listening but speaking only to him.
“I promise to trust the love we’ve built instead of the fears I carried. To choose growth over safety, partnership over independence, us over the voices that say I don’t deserve this happiness.” Tears stream down my face, but my voice grows stronger. “I promise to sing with you, fight beside you, and build a life that honors both our dreams. I promise to love all of you—the gladiator, the musician, the man who fixes everything broken—for whatever time we’re given.”
