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pascalhowlett · 17 days ago

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Ethereal Chapter 9

A/N: OKAY I DON'T WANT TO SPOIL TOO MUCH BUT THIS IS MY FAVORITE CHAPTER OF ANYTHING THAT I HAVE EVER WRITTEN. THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING!!!

If you prefer to read on AO3, that can be found here!

Warnings: Mentions of r*pe, implied r*pe, graphic depictions of violence, major character death, smut (eventually)

Summary: After the Roman Empire takes over Numidia, Cecilia is purchased by Emperor Geta as a pawn in his attempts to take over Rome. What will happen when she meets General Marcus Acacius, the soldier who was responsible for the death of her lover, Atticus Claudius?

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x Original Female Character

This is Chapter 9! Find the rest of the chapters on my Tumblr here!

Word Count: 4k+

The next morning, dressed in her typical, frivolous silk gowns, she was given permission to see Acacius. They met in the familiar passage at the colosseum, where gladiators went to prepare for their matches…a path to their death. She shivered, knowing her precious Acacius was about to suffer a similar fate, because of her. He was adorned in armor for his match. The first thing Cecila noticed is that someone had beat him, as his lip was bloody, bruises scattered across his jaw.

Acacius stood silently, his head bowed as a guard adjusted the straps of his armor. The battered bronze plates gleamed, their purpose clear: not protection, but spectacle. His lip was split, dried blood staining the corner of his mouth. Dark bruises marred his jawline, their edges a sickly yellow-green, evidence of vicious blows delivered with cruel intent.

“Acacius,” she whispered, stepping closer, almost unable to look at him in this state.

His head lifted sharply at her voice, his eyes meeting hers. For a moment, the tension in his body eased, his hardened expression softening as if her presence alone healed any pain he was currently facing.

“Cecilia,” he said, his voice low and hoarse. “Why are you here? You shouldn’t—”

“They let me see you,” she interrupted, her voice trembling. She reached out, hesitating before her fingers lightly brushed his cheek, careful to avoid the bruises. “What did they do to you?”

He shook his head, catching her hand gently within his own. “It doesn’t matter,” he said, his tone firm but weary. “This is what they want—to weaken me before the fight. To make it a torturous death.”

“It matters to me,” she said fiercely, her eyes brimming with tears. “How can you stand there like this, knowing what they’re forcing you into?”

His thumb traced the back of her hand as he studied her face, a faint, bittersweet smile tugging at his lips. “Because I finally have something to fight for,” he said softly.

“What are you fighting for Acacius?’ She asked sadly. “The soldiers, the elders, they are dead.”

But part of her thought she knew the answer he was about to give her.

“You,” he said simply, without hesitation. His voice was steady, but his eyes betrayed the depth of his emotion. “I’m fighting for you… for the chance to see you free from all of this, even if it costs me everything.”

She shook her head, caressing his cheek once more in disbelief. “You can’t say that,” she said, tears spilling over her lashes as she looked into those beautiful brown eyes. “You can’t put all of this on yourself. It’s not fair.”

“Fairness doesn’t matter in a world like this,” Acacius said, his grip on her hand tightening. “What matters is keeping you safe. That’s what gives me strength. You are my strength, my purpose.”

Her breath hitched, her fingers curling around his. “You shouldn’t have to fight at all,” she said, her voice breaking. “This is madness, Acacius. You do not deserve this…there has to be another way.”

He glanced down, his jaw tightening. “If there is, I haven’t found it,” he admitted. “But whatever happens, you need to stay safe. Stay far from the arena, do not watch this.”

“No,” she said firmly, stepping closer.

Acacius’s eyes burned with emotion as he tilted her chin up to meet his gaze. “Cecilia,” he said, his voice low and strained but determined, “your strength keeps me standing. But I can’t bear the thought of you seeing what’s about to happen.”

Her tears spilled over, but she didn’t look away. “Then give me something to hold onto,” she said. “A promise that this won’t be the end. Not here…not now…not after this match. That I’ll see you again after this.”

His hand lingered on her cheek, his calloused fingers gentle as they danced across her soft skin. Something possessed him, an overwhelming feeling of love that propelled him forward.

He kissed her, their lips crashing together at first as a whisper of a promise, but then something more ignited between them. The passion, the pent up feelings that had been mere fantasies in both of their heads…it all poured into the kiss, transforming it into something more. He pulled her closer, his hand sliding to the back of her neck in a firm caress, his armor pressing against the delicate silk of her gown.

Cecilia’s fingers tangled in the straps of his armor as she kissed him back with equal fervor, her tears mingling with the taste of him as she pulled him closer. It was as if the world had fallen away, leaving only the two of them clinging to each other in defiance of everything that sought to tear them apart.

Their tongues danced as they tasted one another for the first time, both of them knowing it would now be their favorite addiction.

When they finally parted, their foreheads pressed together, their breaths mingling into a shared pace within the small space between them.“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I had to—”

“Don’t apologize,” she interrupted, her voice trembling but firm. “Never apologize for that.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, as if committing her words—and her touch—to his memory. “You’ve given me something to live for,” he said softly. “And I’ll fight for it until my last breath, my sweet.”

Cecilia cupped his face, her thumbs brushing over the bruises that only worked to define his strong features. “And I’ll find a way to keep you safe,” she vowed, her voice filled with quiet determination, “I promise. You will live through this.”

“I promise,” he repeated, his voice steady despite the odds stacked against them. “For you, I’ll survive.”

Acacius started to step away but she pulled him back in, giving him one more fiery kiss as a way of sealing their deal. “You have to,” she chuckled, trying to make him smile, “you can’t leave me hanging after a kiss like that, can you?”

Acacius froze as her words reached him, the weight of her touch and the meaningful kiss still lingering on his lips. For a moment, the corner of his mouth twitched, a hint of a smile breaking through his stoic demeanor. “No,” he said softly, his voice carrying a familiar warmth. “I suppose I can’t.”

Cecilia chuckled through the tears threatening to spill, her hand lingering on the edge of his armor. “Good,” she whispered in his ear, placing a kiss just beneath it. “Then you’d better come back to me, General. That’s an order.”

He let out a low chuckle, a sound she hadn’t realized she needed to hear until now. “An order from the Empress?” he teased, the tension in his voice easing just a fraction. “How could I refuse?”

She gave him a playful nudge, though her heart was breaking. “You’d better not,” she replied, trying to mask her fear with bravado as she continued to whisper in his ear. “Or I’ll come drag you back myself.”

Acacius’s smile faded as he lifted a hand to cup her face once more, his thumb brushing lightly against her cheek as he leaned back to examine her features. “Cecilia,” he murmured, his voice low and filled with emotion, “you’re the only thing keeping me standing right now. Don’t ever forget that.”

She nodded, her throat too tight to respond.

The sound of the guard shifting reminded them of the reality they were still trapped in. Acacius reluctantly stepped back once more, his eyes lingering on her as if afraid she might vanish if he looked away.

“I’ll see you again,” he promised, his voice steady despite the lingering fear within him. “For you, I’ll survive.”

And then he turned, the sound of his boots against the stone floor echoing in her ears as the distance between them grew. Cecilia stood frozen, her hands clenched at her sides, as the man she had come to care for more than anything disappeared into the shadows.

Acacius unsheathed his sword, the blade catching the pale light filtering through the open arches of the Colosseum. The weight of the steel in his hand was both familiar and sobering—a reminder of the countless battles he had fought, and the one waiting for him now. But, out of every battle he had fought, this one held more weight than all the others combined.

He took a steadying breath and looked up toward the heavens, the roar of the crowd fading into the background. The vast expanse of the sky stretched bove him, a stark contrast to the confines of the arena. Closing his eyes, he whispered a silent prayer, his voice steady despite the storm raging within him.

“Great Gods, hear me,” he murmured, the words a plea that carried all the weight of his heart. “Give me the strength to endure. Guide my hand, steady my resolve... and let me come back to her.”

The image of Cecilia flashed in his mind—her defiant gaze, her touch, her whispered words of hope, the way her lips molded to his in perfect unison. She had become his anchor, the reason his heart still beat with purpose.

A breeze stirred, brushing against his face as if the gods themselves acknowledged his prayer. When he opened his eyes, his resolve had hardened. He shifted his grip on the sword, the crowd’s cheers swelling around him like a tidal wave as it only acted to feed his determination.

No matter the odds, no matter the cost, he would fight not just to survive—but to return to her.

Cecilia felt sick as she entered the familiar box with Geta to watch the match. Caracalla had made his first appearance since Geta’s bold executions, the tension clear and evident between the two of them.

Emperor Caracalla sat stiffly, his hand resting on the hilt of his ceremonial sword, his sharp gaze fixed on the arena below as they prepared for the spectacle to begin. “You’re bold, Geta,” he said, his voice low but cutting. “Too bold. Executing senators, making the General fight gladiators… it will cost you.”

Geta chuckled darkly, swirling the wine in his goblet as if the accusations amused him. “Oh, brother, you mistake my actions for recklessness. I assure you, they are calculated.” His gaze flicked briefly to Cecilia, a cruel smirk playing on his lips. “Just as the match today is… calculated.”

Cecilia stiffened under his words, her nails digging into the silk of her gown as she forced herself to remain calm. She couldn’t show weakness, not here, not now, even as it threatened to consume her now more than ever.

Caracalla’s jaw tightened. “You’re toying with fire, Geta. The people may cheer for you now, but when they see the empire run by butchers, they will turn.”

“And they will still have me to fear,” Geta replied coldly, leaning forward. “Unlike you, I don’t rely on their love. Power comes from control, not sentiment.”

Cecilia swallowed hard, forcing herself to look out over the arena. Her breath hitched as she caught sight of Acacius entering, his broad shoulders framed in battered armor, the sword at his side shining and hanging from his strong arm. He looked broad and brave even from a distance, somehow still managing to make her heart flutter.

“Little dove,” Geta said to her, “do you worry for your dear friend?”

Friend. She almost chuckled at the word. Acacius was so much more than a friend now—her heart knew it, her very soul burned with the truth—but she could never let Geta see that.

To him, Acacius needed to be nothing more than a fleeting alliance, a useful tool…not the man who had claimed her heart in the shadows of an empire.

“I worry for anyone forced into the arena unjustly,” she said indifferently, tilting her chin up as if she were merely playing the part of a benevolent empress. “General Acacius is no different.”

Geta’s lips curved into a sly smile, but his eyes narrowed, feeling that there was little truth in her words. “So noble, Cecilia. Always so noble.” He sat back in his chair and laughed, but there was a predatory edge to his tone. “But you need not lie to me. I see the way your eyes linger on him.”

“You’re mistaken,” she said coolly. “I admire his loyalty to the empire. That is all.”

Geta leaned forward again, his dark eyes gleaming with amusement. “Is that so? Then let us see how admirable he is when the lions are set free.”

Her heart lurched, but she held her ground. “Lions? You told him there would be gladiators, not lions.”

Geta smirked, clearly relishing her reaction. “Did I?” he mused, swirling the wine in his goblet lazily. “I must have misspoken. Gladiators, lions… does it really matter, little dove? It’s all bloodshed in the end.”

She forced herself to take a steadying breath. “It matters,” she said sharply, her voice low but firm. “Because even in your twisted games, there are rules, Geta. Or has your desperation for respect made you forget that?”

His smirk faltered for a fraction of a second, but he quickly recovered, leaning back in his chair. “Rules?” he scoffed. “The only rule here is survival. If your dear General is as capable as you claim, then he should have no trouble proving it. Besides, rules were taken off the table after he betrayed me.”

“Acacius has faced far worse than beasts,” she said, her voice steely. “And if you believe this spectacle will break him, you do not know the man you’ve sent to fight.”

But her words were not what she was feeling in her heart. Her chest tightened, a wave of panic rising within her. Acacius had prepared for gladiators—a brutal but calculated fight against men he could predict. Lions were an entirely different horror, unpredictable beasts looking for their next meal. She could already see the crowd’s excitement mounting, their bloodlust tangible as whispers spread through the arena of the change to this match.

“You’re a coward,” she hissed, unable to stop herself. “You stack the odds because you’re afraid of him.”

Geta’s smile vanished, his expression hardening as she spoke the harsh truth he had tried to deny. He leaned close, his voice a venomous whisper as he kissed her neck. “Careful, Cecilia. It would be a shame if my leniency toward you were to... waver. You betrayed me as well, just like him. Yet…you still sit in this box, in your cage.”

She forced herself to remain silent, swallowing her retort. She knew she had agreed to follow Geta’s orders since he had let her see Acacius. The stakes were too high—she couldn’t risk provoking her husband any further. Instead, she turned her attention back to the arena, where Acacius stood in the center ready to face whatever came out of the gates.

Geta barked out a laugh, though the sound was devoid of warmth. “You speak such brave words, little dove. We shall see who is correct about the General.”

As he turned his attention back to the arena, Cecilia allowed herself a single, deep breath, her hands trembling slightly in her lap. She could feel Caracalla’s sharp gaze flicker toward her, but she didn’t look his way.

Caracalla had been watching the exchange between Cecilia and Geta with sharp, calculating eyes. His hands rested on the armrests of his chair, his fingers drumming a slow, deliberate rhythm as he observed Cecilia’s growing distress. He remembered what he had seen between Acacius and Cecilia a mere few days ago. When Geta leaned back with his smug smirk, Caracalla leaned slightly toward her, lowering his voice so only she could hear.

“Do you see it now?” he said, his tone soft but dripping with disdain. “The lengths my brother will go to prove his power? To break anything that threatens his fragile little ego?”

Cecilia didn’t turn to look at him, her eyes fixed on Acacius in the arena. “And you’re any different?” she muttered.

Caracalla chuckled darkly, shaking his head. “Perhaps not,” he admitted, his voice cold. “But at least I don’t mask cruelty as justice.” He straightened in his seat.

Her hands gripped the edge of her seat as she watched Acacius step forward, the tension in her body palpable. Caracalla’s voice dropped lower, almost a whisper now. “You’re a smart woman, Cecilia. Smarter than my fool of a brother gives you credit for. You know what happens if you fight him head-on. Be smart. You and I…we could be truly terrifying together.”

Cecilia shook her head, ignoring his words. Her focus remained on Acacius as he stood, his sword in hand, his face unreadable as he prepared to face the trial ahead.

With that, the gates opened, and two lions came pouncing out of a purposefully small steel cage. Acacius’ eyes widened as he realized he had once again been lied to, and that his opponents would not be the gladiators he was promised. No code of honor, no rules—just primal beasts unleashed for the amusement of a bloodthirsty audience.

His jaw tightened as he looked up toward the imperial box, his eyes locking onto Cecilia’s.

She was already on her feet, her silk gown clinging to her frame as she leaned forward against the railing. Gods, she looked beautiful…he thought. The anguish in her expression was unmistakable, her hands clutching the banister as if she could tear it apart to get to him.

For a moment, everything else faded. The roars of the crowd, the growls of the lions—it all fell away as he held her gaze. He thought of her lips again, her sweet taste that he was already craving more of. Acacius straightened his stance, his grip on the sword firming as a sense of clarity washed over him. He wasn’t just fighting for his survival. He was fighting for her, for the promise of a future they could build together, away from this twisted nightmare.

The lions circled him, their muscles coiling as they prepared to strike. The crowd’s anticipation reached a fever pitch, their cheers echoing in the vast arena.

He held up his sword, his voice steady as he muttered under his breath, “For you, Cecilia.”

Her lips moved as if she were trying to speak, but her voice was lost in the roar of the crowd. He didn’t need to hear her to know what she was saying. Stay alive.

The first lion lunged, its claws outstretched, and Acacius spun to meet it head-on, his blade slicing through the air with precision born from years of battle. The crowd cheered as he moved swiftly, pointing the tip of the blade at the lion’s outstretched jaw.

The second lion wasted no time, its powerful muscles rippling as it leapt toward him from the opposite direction. Acacius dropped to one knee, raising his sword just in time to deflect the attack, the beast’s claws scraping against his armored shoulder. The impact jarred his arm, but he held firm, spinning to face both predators as they circled him like vultures eyeing their prey.

The crowd roared, their cries a mixture of bloodlust and awe. Cecilia felt dizzy, unable to control the tears that seemed to fall naturally down her face. She prayed Emperor Geta would not notice her distress, but she knew that was a lost cause.

Acacius’s breath came in steady but deliberate intervals, his mind racing as he calculated his next move. He couldn’t outlast the lions in a drawn-out fight; he had to use their aggression against them and cut this match short.

The first lion prowled closer, its golden eyes locked onto his, its massive paws kicking up dust with each step. It feinted left, then darted right, swiping at his legs with its claws. Acacius jumped back, his sword slicing downward in a brutal arc, this time connecting with the beast’s shoulder. The lion roared in pain, retreating slightly but not backing down.

The second lion saw its chance in that moment and lunged again, its jaws snapping inches from Acacius’s side. He pivoted, using the momentum to bring the hilt of his sword crashing down on the creature’s skull. The beast staggered but didn’t fall, its growl vibrating deep in its chest as it recovered.

Sand sprayed beneath their feet as Acacius moved with a dancer’s precision, his eyes never leaving the predators. Already, he was tired, his muscles burning with the effort of keeping up with their relentless attacks, but he refused to falter.

The two lions regrouped, their instincts driving them to attack in unison. But then, the crowd changed. Voices could be heard from every corner chanting, “Acacius! Acacius! Acacius!”

Cecilia smiled at the sound, like a comforting symphony for her ears.

As if the sound upset the lions, they charged simultaneously, one from each side. Acacius acted on instinct, his mind sharp despite the chaos. He dropped into a roll beneath the first lion’s leap, its massive form flying over him as he came up swinging. The blade found its mark, plunging into the beast’s chest. It let out a final, guttural roar before collapsing in the sand.

The crowd erupted in cheers, but Acacius had no time to revel in the victory. The second lion roared in fury, its claws raking across his leg as it lashed out in a frenzy. He gritted his teeth against the pain, his movements slowing as blood seeped from the wound.

Cecilia saw the blood and nearly screamed, unable to tell from her seat if the wound was fatal. The final lion charged again, its massive jaws snapping at his throat. Acacius threw himself to the side, the sand beneath him slick with his blood, and thrust his sword upward in a desperate, final strike.

The blade pierced straight through the lion’s throat, and the beast let out a strangled cry before collapsing atop him. The arena fell silent for a moment, the crowd collectively holding their breath as the dust settled. Then, a thunderous cheer erupted, shaking the very walls of the Colosseum.

Acacius lay in the sand, his chest heaving, the weight of the second lion pressing down on him. He pushed it aside with a groan, rising to his feet on shaky legs. His armor was dented, his body battered and bleeding, but he was alive.

As he looked up toward the imperial box, his eyes sought Cecilia. She was standing, her face pale, her hands clutching the railing so tightly her knuckles were white. Their eyes met, and for a moment, the noise of the crowd faded.

Acacius gave her a faint, bloodied smile. Cecilia smiled back, letting out a sob of relief, he had done it. But her celebration was quickly cut short by Geta’s rage.

Geta rose from his seat, his expression thunderous. “Enough of this charade!” he bellowed, his voice cutting through the roaring crowd. The cheers faltered, replaced by a murmur of confusion and tension as the spectators turned their attention back to the imperial box.

Cecilia flinched as Geta’s hand slammed down on the armrest, his dark eyes blazing with fury. “You think this is a victory?” he sneered, his words directed at Acacius but loud enough for the crowd to hear. “This insolent dog defies me, and you cheer for him?”

The crowd fell into uneasy silence, the weight of Geta’s wrath palpable.

“Guards!” Geta snapped, his voice echoing through the arena. “Seize him! Let us see how well our hero fares in chains.”

“No!” Cecilia’s voice rang out before she could stop herself. All eyes turned to her, including Geta’s. His expression twisted with a mixture of amusement and suspicion.

“You promised him life, a second chance he survived this match. You cannot chain him.” She argued, not caring who heard.

“Little dove,” he said mockingly, his tone laced with venom. “Do you mourn for your pet? Or perhaps…” He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “Perhaps there’s more to this bond than you let on.”

Cecilia straightened, her trembling hands betraying her outward composure. “I mourn for a man who has done nothing but serve Rome,” she said firmly, though her voice shook. “A man who has proven his worth in blood while you sit on your throne, tainting it with your cruelty.”

Gasps rippled through the crowd, and even Caracalla raised an eyebrow, a flicker of intrigue crossing his face. Geta’s face darkened further, and for a moment, it seemed as though he might strike her. Instead, he turned his ire back to Acacius, who still lay collecting himself in the sand of the arena.

“Bring him,” Geta ordered the guards, his voice cold. “And bring her as well. Let Rome witness what becomes of traitors who defy their emperor.”

Cecilia’s heart sank as the guards moved toward Acacius, their spears raised as they dragged him away from the crowd.

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pascalhowlett · 22 days ago

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Ethereal Chapter 8

A/N: I know this is slow burn BUT I SWEAR ITS ALMOST OVER HINT HINT!!

If you prefer to read on AO3, that can be found here!

Warnings: Mentions of r*pe, implied r*pe, graphic depictions of violence, major character death, smut

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x Original Female Character

This is Chapter 7! Find the rest of the chapters on my Tumblr here!

Word Count: 3.4k

“Unhand me!” Cecilia’s furious, yet scared voice echoed through the stone passageway, cutting through the growing chaos of the Colosseum. She writhed against the guards’ hold, her defiance radiating like a flame. “I am the Emperor's wife, and you will let me go!”

Her words reached the ears of Geta and Caracalla, who had just descended into the passage, their faces twisted in anger and disbelief. Valerius stood nearby, his dagger still clutched in his hand, a grim satisfaction resting over his expression.

“What is this?” Caracalla demanded, his tone icy as his sharp gaze locked onto Cecilia.

“Why does the guard have my wife, Valerius?!” Geta yelled.

“She defies you, Emperor Geta!” Valerius said smoothly, bowing his head towards the brothers “I thought it prudent to detain her before her lies could spread further.”

Geta’s brow furrowed, his lips curling into a smirk as he approached Cecilia, his eyes glinting with malice. “Defies me, you say?” he drawled, circling her like a predator. “What an impressive act of courage—and stupidity. I thought you were learning to like your cage, little dove.”

Cecilia met his gaze with unyielding strength. “ I will not cower before you. You may hide behind lies and treachery, but the people will see you for what you are: a coward. A man who kills innocent soldiers and elders.”

Geta chuckled, though there was no humor in it. “You think your boldness will protect you?” He turned to Caracalla. “Brother, what shall we do with her?”

Caracalla’s jaw tightened as he studied her. “She’s not entirely wrong. Your acts have made us look like a villain.” He glanced at Valerius, his tone clipped. “You should have thought this through before pulling a dagger.”

Valerius straightened, his confidence faltering under Caracalla’s scrutiny. “She was calling for Acacius, my lord. The crowd could turn at any moment. I acted to prevent chaos.”

Caracalla sneered. “Calling for Acacius, you say?”

“Take her to the palace,” Geta suggested, his tone growing sharper. “Let her stew while we finish this business with Acacius. We’ll deal with her later.”

Cecilia’s eyes blazed with fury. “You think you can silence me? The truth will come out, no matter what you do.”

“Enough,” Caracalla snapped. He gestured to the guards. “Gag her if she continues, but don’t harm her. Not yet.”

The guards nodded, tightening their grip on Cecilia as they began to drag her away. Her eyes darted toward the arena, desperation and determination mingling in her expression.

Caracalla and Geta turned their attention back to Valerius.

“You’ve made a mess of things,” Caracalla said coldly to him.

“I can fix it,” Valerius insisted, though his voice lacked its usual confidence.

“You’d better,” Geta said with a sneer. “Because if you can’t, I’ll see to it that you take the fall instead of us.”

The three men shared a tense silence before turning their attention to the distant sound of the roaring crowd, where Acacius’s voice could still be heard, rallying the people.

“Please,” Cecilia began to beg the guards, “please, if you are soldiers of General Acacius, you will unhand me.”

The men hesitated, their grip on her arms faltering as her plea struck a chord. The name of their commander was a powerful one—Acacius had a reputation not only for his skill in battle but also for his fairness and loyalty to his men.

One of the guards, a younger soldier with uncertainty etched across his face, glanced at his companion. “What if she speaks the truth?” he murmured, his voice barely audible.

“Enough,” barked the older guard, his jaw set. “Our orders come from the council, not Acacius. Do not let her words confuse you.”

“But Acacius is an honorable man,” Cecilia pressed, her voice rising. “You know this. Would he stand by while innocent men are executed for the whims of a corrupt council? Would he let me—a woman he trusts—be treated like this?”

The younger guard faltered further, his gaze dropping to the ground as doubt flickered in his eyes.

“Think of your oath,” Cecilia urged, her tone insistent. “You swore to protect Rome, to follow a leader who fights for justice. Acacius fights for the people, for you. Can you say the same of those who ordered you to do this?”

“Silence her!” the older guard snapped, his face reddening as his authority was challenged. He tightened his grip, his knuckles whitening.

Cecilia winced but refused to back down. “You know what’s right,” she said, locking eyes with the younger guard. “Please. Help me.”

For a moment, the younger soldier hesitated, his internal conflict clear. He opened his mouth as if to speak but was cut off by the sound of heavy footsteps echoing down the corridor.

Valerius appeared, his expression dark and impatient. “What is this delay?” he demanded, his voice sharp. “You two are useless, I will make sure she has a front seat for the show.”

Cecilia’s heart sank as she was dragged forward, and shoved into Valerius’ grip. She caught the younger soldier’s eyes one last time. A flicker of something—regret, perhaps—shone there before he turned away.

Valerius leaned into her as he took her towards the center of the arena, his voice a low growl. “Nice try, Cecilia. But Acacius isn’t here to save you. You’re alone now.”

The crowd’s roar echoed through the Colosseum, an unrelenting wave of sound that threatened to drown out all thought. Acacius stood at the edge of the arena, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword as he scanned the stands for any sign of support—or betrayal.

But then his gaze locked onto the procession entering the arena’s center, and his heart lurched. Cecilia…

Her hair shimmered in the sunlight, and though her hands were bound, her posture was upright, defiant. She walked with measured steps beside Valerius, who held her arm in a tight grip.

Acacius felt a surge of fury and panic. He knew this was a deliberate move—a calculated effort to dismantle him. Valerius was parading her in front of the crowd, making her a symbol of rebellion to turn the people against him.

The crowd quieted slightly as they noticed the group approaching the center. Murmurs rippled through the stands, the name "Cecilia" or “The Empress” passing from lip to lip.

Cecilia’s eyes searched the crowd, desperate and determined. When they found Acacius, they widened for a brief moment, her expression a mixture of relief and warning for him.

Valerius stepped forward, raising his voice to address the crowd. “Behold the conspirators who would seek to undermine the unity of Rome!” His words carried, smooth and practiced. “Emperor Geta’s wife has conspired with General Acacius”—he gestured to Acacius—“to sow discord among our people.”

The crowd’s murmur grew louder, some jeering, others questioning. Acacius clenched his jaw, his hand tightening around the hilt of his sword. His mind raced. But as his gaze lingered on Cecilia, he saw something in her eyes— a silent plea.

He couldn’t stand by.

Acacius took a step forward, his voice cutting through the chaos. “Enough!” he shouted, his tone firm and commanding. The crowd quieted, their eyes shifting to him.

“Empress Cecilia is no conspirator,” he continued, his voice steady despite the storm of emotions raging within him. “She is a voice of reason, a beacon of hope for those crushed by the corruption of the council. And these men—these five—are not criminals. They are pawns in a game of greed and power.”

Valerius turned sharply, his eyes narrowing. “You overstep, Acacius. Will you defy the council outright now, in front of Rome? Our emperors?”

Acacius took another step forward, his voice growing stronger. “I do not defy Rome. I defend it. From men like you.”

The crowd erupted, divided between cheers and cries of outrage.

Cecilia, standing tall beside Valerius, locked eyes with Acacius. In that moment, despite the chaos around them, she felt the connection between them—an understanding that neither of them would abandon the other, no matter the cost.

Valerius shoved her to Acacius as Geta joined him in the center of the arena with the five men, a glint of pure anger in his eyes.

Acacius caught Cecilia as she stumbled, steadying her trembling body with his strong arms. His grip was firm yet gentle, his touch grounding her as the chaos surged around them. Together, they stood at the center of the storm, their eyes locked on Valerius and Geta.

Geta’s smirk was a cruel slash across his face as he unsheathed his sword, the metallic ring of the blade slicing through the air. The crowd roared in anticipation, their bloodlust drowning out reason, their excitement rising to a fever pitch.

“No!” Cecilia’s voice rang out, raw with desperation. “No!”

She twisted in Acacius’s grasp, trying to lunge forward, but he held her back, his arms tightening around her. “Cecilia, don’t,” he said, his voice low and urgent. “They’ll use this against you.”

Tears streaked her face as she struggled, her voice trembling as she sobbed. “They can’t do this! They can’t win!”

“They won’t win,” Acacius murmured, his gaze fixed on Geta, who was now addressing the crowd, his sword raised high.

“These traitors,” Geta bellowed, his voice booming over the cheers as he pointed to the five men on their knees, “would have torn Rome apart with their lies and deceit! Today, we restore order and justice with their blood!”

Valerius stood beside him, his expression smug, his hands clasped as if he had already claimed victory. The five condemned men knelt, their heads bowed, their faces resigned. Manius Cato lifted his gaze briefly, meeting Cecilia’s tear-filled eyes. He smiled faintly, as if to reassure her.

The sight shattered something in her.

“No!” she cried again, her voice breaking. She turned to the crowd, her voice rising above the cacophony. “Is this your justice? Is this the Rome you want to live in—a Rome ruled by fear and treachery?”

Her words momentarily silenced some of the crowd, their jeers turning to murmurs.

Acacius continued to hold Cecilia back as she attempted to lunge forward. He raised his voice, powerful and commanding as he fought her in his grip. “These men are not traitors! They are scapegoats, sacrificed to protect the corruption that festers in the heart of the council!”

The crowd’s roars dulled into a heavy, uneasy murmur as Geta strode toward the kneeling men. The executioner's blade gleamed under the harsh sunlight, a merciless reflection of his intent.

“Enough!” Geta bellowed again, his voice filled with venom, his eyes locking on Acacius and Cecilia with a cold finality.

Cecilia’s legs gave out, and Acacius held her close, his arms a fortress around her trembling body. She sobbed into his chest, muffling the sound of her own cries as Geta moved to the first man in line.

“No, no, no…” she whispered, her fists clutching Acacius’s armor as though holding him tighter could make it stop.

Acacius stared ahead, his body tense as stone. His mind screamed for him to act, to throw himself into the fray, to save them, but he was frozen. Armed guards surrounded the arena, and any move against Geta would mean instant death for Cecilia, himself, and anyone who dared to side with them.

The sound of the blade cutting through flesh filled the air, followed by a heavy thud as the first man fell. Cecilia flinched violently, her sobs growing louder. “No!” she screamed, muffled against Acacius’s chest. “Please, stop! Someone stop him!”

The crowd stood silent now, the weight of the moment pressing down on them like a suffocating fog. A few turned away, unable to watch. Others murmured in discontent, their earlier bloodlust tempered by the growing realization of the brutality unfolding before them.

Manius Cato was next. He knelt with dignity, his head held high as Emperor Geta approached. He glanced at Cecilia one last time, his expression soft.

“Do not weep for me,” he said, his voice calm, a faint smile gracing his lips. “We die for a better Rome. Remember that.”

Cecilia cried out as the blade struck, and Acacius held her tighter, his own chest heaving with restrained rage and grief. By the time the final man fell, the arena felt hollow, the air thick with unspoken condemnation. Geta turned to the crowd, raising his bloodied sword triumphantly.

“Let this be a lesson to all!” he declared. “Betray Rome, and you will suffer the same fate!”

The crowd was eerily silent. The victory Geta sought to claim now felt tainted by General Acacius’ actions. Geta’s display served as a stark reminder of the depths to which the brothers would stoop to maintain control.

“And as for these two!” Geta’s voice cut through the heavy silence, his sword still dripping with the blood of the executed men. He pointed dramatically toward Cecilia and Acacius, who remained on the ground of the arena. Her arms remained wrapped tightly around Acacius, as if she could shield him from the horrors around them.

“Their fates,” Geta continued, his voice dripping with malice, “will be sealed another way.”

Acacius’s muscles tensed, and Cecilia clung to him, her wide, tear-filled eyes locking onto Geta’s twisted smile. Geta spread his arms wide, turning to address the crowd with theatrical flair. “Would you like to see the great General Acacius fight the gladiators?”

For a moment, there was silence, a collective intake of breath as the crowd processed his words. Then, like a storm breaking, the cheers erupted. The bloodthirsty mob roared in approval, their earlier unease drowned in their insatiable desire for spectacle.

Five men had been killed for no reason, yet they cheered.

Cecilia’s heart sank further as she heard the crowd chant, their voices a deafening wall of sound. She shook her head, her hands gripping Acacius’s arms. “No,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “No, this can’t happen.”

Acacius exhaled slowly, his face grim but steady. He gently touched Cecilia’s cheek, forcing her to look at him. “Listen to me,” he said softly, his voice calm despite the chaos around them. “I will not let them hurt you. No matter what happens.”

“But you can’t fight them,” she said, her voice breaking. “You can’t win against the gladiators. They’ll—they’ll kill you…”

“I’ve faced worse odds,” he replied with a faint smile, though his eyes betrayed his own doubts.

Geta raised his hand, silencing the crowd. “Let it be known,” he declared, “that this is the price of defying Rome’s will. The General who dared stand against us will face his doom in the arena, like the traitor he is!”

Cecilia turned to the crowd, her voice rising in desperation. “Is this what you want?” she cried. “The death of a man who has served you, protected you? Can’t you see this is wrong?”

Her words barely reached the mob, their cheers drowning her out.

Valerius approached, his expression smug. “Save your breath, Empress,” he said mockingly. “The people have already spoken. And they demand blood.”

Acacius stood, pulling Cecilia up with him. He turned to Valerius, his eyes burning with quiet fury. “You forget, Valerius,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “The people may cheer for blood now. But even mobs have memories. And they will remember who turned this arena into a graveyard.”

Valerius’s smirk faltered for a fraction of a second before he stepped back.

Guards surrounded Acacius, dragging him toward the center of the arena. Cecilia tried to follow, but two soldiers restrained her, holding her back as she screamed his name.

“Acacius! No!”

He looked back at her one last time, his expression filled with unspoken words. “It’s alright.” Acacius’ voice said. His voice was still so soothing as he tried to comfort her amidst absolute chaos. Then he turned, squaring his shoulders as he was taken away, the jeers and cheers of the crowd roaring in his ears.

Cecilia struggled against the iron grip of the guards as they dragged her away from the arena, her cries for Acacius swallowed by the deafening roar of the crowd. Her heart pounded in her chest, torn between fear for him and the growing dread of what awaited her.

Geta led the procession back to the palace, his expression cold and calculating as the sun began to set. The gleeful cruelty that had animated him moments before was now replaced with a chilling resolve. He said nothing as they entered their shared bedroom, but his silence was far more menacing than any shouted command.

The guards shoved her into the room, where Geta dismissed everyone with a wave of his hand. The doors slammed shut, leaving the two of them alone.

Cecilia straightened, her defiance flickering despite her fear. “You have no right,” she said, her voice trembling but firm. “You’ll answer for this, Geta. The people won’t stand for your tyranny. You killed good men…your own soldiers…”

Geta laughed, a hollow sound that echoed off the marble walls. “The people?” he said, stepping closer. “The same people who cheered for Acacius to be torn apart in the arena? Don’t be naive, Cecilia. The crowd is fickle, easily swayed by blood and spectacle. They will cheer for blood, no matter whose it is.”

He circled her like a predator, his piercing gaze making her skin crawl. “You, on the other hand, are a far more dangerous adversary. With your words, your compassion, you inspire loyalty. That makes you a threat—a threat I must manage.”

Cecilia trembled, meeting his gaze. She was beginning to question how much more she could take. “I will be your wife, I will stand beside you…” she said. “I will stay in this cage… but Rome will see the truth eventually. They will rise against you.”

Geta’s smirk widened as he stopped in front of her, his eyes gleaming with twisted amusement. “You misunderstand, little dove. I don’t need you to bow. I need you to break.”

He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her face, his touch sending a shiver of revulsion down her spine. “You will stay here, under my watch, until you learn your place. If you refuse to cooperate…” His voice lowered, his tone dripping with menace. “…I will make Acacius’s suffering last as long as possible.”

Her heart sank, and her defiance faltered for a moment. Acacius. She had to conform, or he would face torture and pain. “Let me see him,” she said, “let me see Acacius once before he fights the gladiators.”

Geta’s smile vanished, replaced by a flicker of rage. He stepped back, clapping his hands sharply. “Let you see him?” he asked, “Why, little dove? To conspire one last time? To fuel his defiance with your tears?”

“No,” she whispered, her eyes downcast. “If you wish to break us both, give me this one mercy. I will do whatever you want, just let me see him one last time.”

Geta circled her, his footsteps echoing ominously in the cavernous chamber. He seemed to savor her request, his cruel grin returning. “You think mercy is something I grant?” He paused behind her, leaning in close enough that she could feel his breath. “What would you do for this, Cecilia? How far would you go to see him?”

She clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms. “Anything,” she said, her voice firm despite the tears threatening to spill. “If it spares him further suffering, I will do whatever you ask.”

He laughed darkly, stepping around to face her again. “Anything. What a dangerous word.” He reached out, gripping her chin and tilting her face up to meet his gaze. “But you’re clever enough to know that, aren’t you?”

Cecilia stared at him, her fear battling with her resolve. She refused to let him see her falter. “Do we have a bargain?” she asked, her voice even.

Geta released her with a dismissive shove, turning away. “You’ll see him,” he said over his shoulder, his tone cold and detached. “But remember this, little dove: every word you speak to him, every glance you share, I will use to control him. To control you. Don’t make me regret this generosity. And do not forget…you are my wife. You are bound to me, no matter what.”

Cecilia’s breath caught, but she didn’t respond. She had won a sliver of hope, and she clung to it with all her might. Whatever Geta’s intentions, she would find a way to protect Acacius, even if it meant enduring Geta’s twisted games.

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pascalhowlett · 25 days ago

Text

Ethereal Chapter 7

A/N: I know this is slow burn kinda but I promise we are getting closer to the *spicy* stuff.

If you prefer to read on AO3, that can be found here!

Warnings: Mentions of r*pe, implied r*pe, graphic depictions of violence, major character death, smut

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x Original Female Character

This is Chapter 7! Find the rest of the chapters on my Tumblr here!

Word Count: 3.8k

Cecilia slipped through the side streets, her heart pounding as the Colosseum loomed ahead. The scroll she carried felt heavier than it should, a burden of truth. She kept her cloak drawn tightly around her and her hood over her face, avoiding the guards along with the watchful eyes of the crowd. She found it hard to believe people were already gathering for this, ready to watch people die.

As she approached the holding area where the condemned were kept, she froze. The five men sat together, their wrists bound, their expressions varying from fear to grim resolve. A lump formed in her throat as her gaze landed on Manius Cato, the oldest among them.

His weathered face bore the lines of a life lived with purpose. Despite the ropes binding him, he held himself with quiet dignity, his piercing eyes scanning the crowd with calm defiance.

As Cecilia stepped in front of each one, they bowed to her. “Please, do not bow,” she said, approaching each man and untying their wrists, “my husband is a killer. You owe me no allegiance, you are being wronged.”

The men seemed confused, but allowed her to unbind them, thanking her softly. Cecilia stepped closer to Manius Cato as she went to untie his wrists, her presence catching his attention. His gaze softened when he saw her—a young woman moving with determination through a sea of apathy.

“You shouldn’t be here, child,” he said gently, his voice low and steady.

“I had to come,” she whispered, glancing around to ensure they weren’t overheard. “I’m helping General Acacius. The people of Rome must not think of me as a killer due to my husband’s cynical actions.”

At the mention of the name, Cato’s expression shifted. A faint smile tugged at his lips, a glimmer of warmth amidst the despair. “Acacius,” he repeated, almost as if the name were a comfort. “Of course, it would be him.”

“He’s fighting for you, for all of you” Cecilia said quickly, her voice thick with emotion as she pointed to all five men, “We both are. This isn’t over yet.”

Cato tilted his head, studying her with a mix of curiosity and admiration. “And what has that stubborn General done to earn your loyalty?”

She hesitated, unsure how to put her feelings into words. Her complicated, neverending admiration for him was confusing. “He believes in what’s right,” she said finally. “He’d give everything to save you and the others. He’s… he’s good.”

Cato chuckled softly, a sound that carried a hint of sadness. “Good? General Acacius is more than good, my dear. He’s the kind of man who sees the cracks in this world and tries to fill them with his own strength, no matter the cost to himself.” He paused, his eyes growing distant. “When I served on the council, I watched him lead his men with a heart that refused to harden, no matter how much the world tried to break it. That’s rare.”

Cecilia’s chest tightened at his words. Hearing someone else speak of Acacius’ strength and resilience made tears well in her eyes. “He blames himself for this,” she said quietly. “For not seeing this coming.”

Cato sighed, his gaze turning toward the horizon. “That sounds like him. But he’s wrong. This isn’t his fault. It’s the fault of those who twist loyalty and justice into weapons.” He turned back to her, his expression solemn. “Tell him that, if you can. He needs to hear it.”

“I will,” she promised, her voice trembling as a tear rolled down her cheek.

Cato nodded, a faint smile returning. “You care for him,” he observed, his tone gentle.

“I…” Cecilia faltered, unsure of how to respond. His words were the confirmation she needed.

She did indeed care for Acacius.

She’d been too overwhelmed to think much of it, but now, the weight of his observation settled over her. It finally felt tangible…his words rang true. She leaned against the cool stone wall next to Cato, her heart pounding not from fear but from something deeper, something that had been building inside her ever since Acacius had stepped into her life.

Care for him? The words felt too simple, too small to contain the depth of what she was starting to feel. She thought of his quiet strength, the way his voice softened when he spoke to her, the intensity in his eyes when he promised to protect the innocent, when he touched her. Acacius was a man of contradictions—fierce and gentle, unyielding and kind. And somewhere along the way, she had stopped seeing him as just an ally.

Cecilia exhaled shakily, brushing a hand through her hair at the realization. The thought terrified her as much as it emboldened her, the feeling stronger than anything she had once felt for Atticus. She wasn’t sure when it had happened—perhaps it was in the alcove when he’d first trusted her with the truth, or when her anger had melted into a rare smile as he called her brave. But now, there was no denying it.

Acacius meant more to her than she’d ever intended.

The realization was startling and overwhelming, but it wasn’t unwelcome. Despite everything, despite the danger that surrounded them, she felt a flicker of hope. She smiled, giving a small nod as she agreed with Cato’s words. Cato had been right—Acacius needed someone to believe in him, someone who could help him see the light when the world grew dark.

And maybe… she needed him, too.

Cato’s smile grew, a touch of mischief in his eyes despite the weight of the moment. “Good. He’ll need someone like you in the days to come. Someone who can remind him of the man he is when the darkness overwhelms him. He may be strong, but he gets into his own head...he is his own worst enemy.”

The sound of the crowd grew louder, a grim reminder of the limited time they had. Cecilia’s throat tightened as she realized she might never see this man again.

“Hold on,” she said urgently, clutching his hand. “We’re going to stop this. I promise.”

Cato’s gaze softened, his grip tightening ever so slightly. “If anyone can, it’s Acacius. And you, my lady. You have my allegiance.”

Her heart ached as she stepped back, more tears slipping down her cheeks. With one last glance, she turned and hurried toward the entrance where Acacius had said they’d meet.

Manius Cato watched her go, a flicker of hope in his eyes. Despite the fear, despite the looming shadow of death, he allowed himself to believe—for just a moment—that justice might still prevail. The other men watched her as well, admiring her bravery.

The eastern side of the Colosseum was bustling with guards and merchants, the chaos of the event spilling into the streets. Cecilia slipped through the throng, her heart hammering in her chest as she scanned the faces around her. She pulled her cloak tight, once again trying to stay as hidden as possible. The sun bore down on the stone arches, casting long shadows that offered little comfort.

Finally, she spotted him. Acacius stood near a column, half-concealed in the shadow of a pillar. His arms were crossed, his posture tense as he watched the crowd with sharp, calculating eyes. He was looking for her, and his posture did not relax until his eyes landed on her.

“Cecilia,” he murmured, stepping toward her. His hand reached out instinctively, brushing her arm as if to assure himself she was real. “Are you alright?”

She nodded, her breath catching at the concern in his eyes. “I spoke to Manius Cato,” she said, her voice trembling. “He… he knows what we’re doing. He believes in you…in us.”

Acacius’s jaw tightened, and he looked away, his gaze falling to the ground. “Cato’s a better man than most,” he said quietly. “He shouldn’t be in this.”

“No, he shouldn’t,” she agreed, her voice firm. “None of them should. And we’re going to make sure they walk out of here alive. I untied them… I could not bear to see them bound like animals.”

He looked back at her, his dark eyes searching hers. “You’re braver than I ever gave you credit for,” he said softly. “Coming here, facing this with me…you are the strongest woman I have ever met.”

She reached into her cloak, pulling out the scroll. “Valerius will act once you rally the crowd. He’ll present the evidence to the council’s allies. But you have to hold their attention long enough for him to get there.”

Acacius took the scroll, his fingers brushing hers. “This is our only chance,” he said, his voice heavy with the weight of the moment. “If I fail—”

“You won’t,” she interrupted, her tone fierce. “The people need to see the truth, and they’ll listen to you.”

For a moment, he said nothing, simply holding her gaze.

The ache to touch her now was louder than ever, but he could not. Especially in a public place. He thought about that for a moment. If he were to pursue her, he would be engaging with a married woman. With the Emperor’s wife.

Why could he not bring himself to care? The idea only excited him.

He brushed those thoughts away as he nodded, tucking the scroll into his cloak. “Stay close,” he said. “If something goes wrong—”

“Nothing will,” she cut him off again, her determination unshaken. “You worry too much, General.”

A faint smile ghosted across his lips, and he reached out, briefly brushing a strand of hair from her face. “You have more faith in me than I deserve,” he said, his voice almost a whisper.

She swallowed the lump in her throat, unwilling to let herself falter. “Then prove me right,” she said, her eyes steady on his.

Acacius straightened, the weight of his responsibility settling on his shoulders. “Stay close,” he repeated, his tone now all business. “When the time comes, I’ll need you to help guide the crowd toward Valerius’s evidence. Trust no one but him.”

She nodded, her hands clenching into fists at her sides. “Be careful,” she said, the words carrying all the emotion she couldn’t bring herself to say aloud. “I must go let Geta see me first.”

With a final glance, Acacius nodded and disappeared into the throng, his cloak billowing behind him. Cecilia watched him go, her heart pounding as she whispered a silent prayer.

Please, let this work.

Cecilia slipped through the crowd, her heart pounding with each step closer to the private viewing platform where Geta reclined. She quickly threw the cloak away, revealing her silk gowns. The brothers sat in the lap of luxury, surrounded by attendants and sycophants eager to curry favor. But their body language—rigid postures, clenched jaws, and the occasional sharp gesture—revealed their true intent.

She paused just out of sight, inhaling deeply to steady herself. If she wanted to help Acacius and ensure the plan’s success, she had to keep Geta distracted and calm. Anything less could spell disaster.

Gathering her courage, she stepped into the open, weaving her way toward him with measured grace.

“Cecilia,” Geta said, his tone dripping with surprise as she approached. He leaned back in his gilded chair, his dark eyes flicking over her with barely concealed suspicion. “I didn’t expect to see you here, little dove. I thought you’d find these executions…distasteful.”

“I do,” she admitted, letting just enough vulnerability slip into her voice. “But I came to see you. You are my husband, I must stand beside you.”

Geta raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued but wary. “To see me? How bold of you, considering you were missing from bed this morning.”

Her breath caught in her throat. Had they already been caught?

“I…was not feeling well this morning,” she said carefully, choosing her words like a soldier selecting weapons. “But I wanted to be with you. These events must be…exhausting, even for someone as composed as you.”

He smirked, clearly enjoying the flattery, though the tension in his shoulders didn’t fully dissipate. “They are,” he admitted. “Though it’s a necessary burden. Someone has to ensure order in this city, little dove.”

“Of course,” Cecilia said, stepping closer and lowering her voice. “But even the strongest leaders deserve a reprieve. Perhaps I could offer you some company?”

His eyes narrowed slightly, as if trying to decipher her motives. “And what would you gain from such a gesture, Cecilia?”

“Only your trust, my love,” she said, meeting his gaze without flinching. “In times like these, you need your partner. You’re a man of power, and power is most effective when it’s paired with love. I can offer you that.”

Geta leaned forward, the faintest glimmer of interest sparking in his eyes. “Little dove, you flatter me.”

“I am just being honest, your highness,” she replied, her tone steady as she sat next to him for a moment, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. The act made her sick, especially after her realization of her feelings for Acacius. But, she could not slip, not now, not when five lives were at stake.

For a moment, the noise of the crowd seemed to fade as Geta studied her. Then he gave a low chuckle, the tension in his posture easing slightly as he kissed her once more. “Very well, Cecilia. Stay by my side, perhaps you can make this ordeal a bit more…enjoyable for me later.”

She managed a polite smile, even as her mind raced. The longer she could keep him occupied, the more time Acacius would have to rally the crowd. “Anything you want, my love,” she said, sounding like a rehearsed poet, “Your wish is my command.”

As Geta turned his attention to the arena below, Cecilia took a steadying breath. She couldn’t afford a misstep—not here, not now. Stay focused, she told herself. This is for them.

For him.

Acacius stood just outside the Colosseum’s grand entrance, his heart pounding in time with the distant roar of the crowd. The scroll was tucked securely beneath his cloak, its weight a constant reminder of the task ahead. The faces of the five condemned men haunted him as they were brought to the center of the colosseum, their hope hanging precariously on the strength of his actions.

As he stepped into the light of the arena, the noise hit him like a wave—thousands of voices, cheering, jeering, calling for blood. His jaw tightened, and his hand brushed the hilt of his sword instinctively. But this wasn’t a battle of steel; it was a battle of words, of conviction.

The crowd’s attention shifted as Acacius climbed the steps to the central platform where the executions were to be announced. The herald faltered mid-sentence, his confusion evident as the commander approached unbidden.

“Acacius?” the herald hissed, his tone a mix of annoyance and fear. “What are you doing here? This is highly irregular—”

“Irregularity is the least of your concerns,” Acacius said coldly, his voice cutting through the noise like a blade. Without waiting for permission, he turned to face the crowd, his towering presence and commanding voice demanding their attention.

“Citizens of Rome!” he called, his voice echoing across the vast arena. The crowd quieted, curiosity overtaking their bloodlust.

Cecilia’s heart fluttered at the sight of him, standing tall in front of all of the people. Geta and Caracalla began to look confused.

“These men you see before you,” Acacius gestured to the five prisoners, their collars of chains glinting in the sun, “are not criminals. They are not traitors. They are scapegoats, condemned by those who wish to hide their own treachery behind false accusations.”

A murmur rippled through the crowd, growing louder as his words sank in.

Acacius reached into his cloak, pulling out the scroll with a deliberate motion. “Here,” he said, holding it aloft, “is the proof of their innocence. The orders for their deaths were issued not out of justice, but out of fear. Fear that their loyalty to Rome would expose the corruption at the heart of our council! Would you like to know who signed off on such plans?”

Gasps and shouts erupted from the stands, the crowd beginning to sway like a restless sea. From his position on the platform, Acacius scanned the faces below. He saw confusion, anger, and doubt—but also something else: a glimmer of hope.

“Emperor Geta,” he continued, his voice unwavering as he pointed to the box where Cecilia sat with Geta, “ He has ordered these innocent deaths. It is not justice. It is cowardice. And I will not stand by and let Rome be ruled by cowards.”

The crowd’s energy shifted, their voices rising in a chaotic blend of support and shock. Acacius knew he had only moments before the guards or council loyalists tried to silence him.

He turned his attention to the five men standing in the arena’s center.

“Rome sees you,” he said, his voice softer but no less resolute. “And Rome will not forget.”

In the opulent box overlooking the Colosseum, Caracalla stood with his arms crossed, his face a mask of barely contained fury as Acacius addressed the crowd. His younger brother, Geta, sat in a gilded chair, his fingers drumming against the armrest as the muffled roar of the crowd reached them. The tension between the brothers was palpable, a storm brewing beneath the surface.

“You gave that order without consulting me?!” Caracalla yelled, his voice deadly. His eyes burned with anger as he turned to face Geta.

“It was necessary,” Geta replied smoothly, though a flicker of unease crossed his features as he relinquished Cecilia’s hand he was once holding. “Those men were dangerous, their loyalty uncertain. Rome needs strength, not dissenters in its ranks.”

“Strength?” Caracalla’s tone sharpened. “Or an excuse to eliminate those who opposed you in the council? I am not blind, Geta. I may be harsh, but I am not blind.”

Geta stood, his posture defensive. “You speak of unity, but you refuse to make the hard decisions. Someone has to act for the good of Rome, even if it means getting their hands dirty.”

Caracalla stepped closer, his imposing frame casting a shadow over his brother. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were angling to eliminate me next.”

“Perhaps I will, brother,” Geta hissed, “Perhaps we could prevent any further…conflict that way.”

Caracalla’s face darkened further, his fists clenching at his sides.

Geta’s expression turned cold, but a flicker of panic danced in his eyes as he pointed to Acacius. “That insubordinate fool. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He wasn’t supposed to know.”

Caracalla whirled on him, his voice sharp. “You’re the one who created this mess. Now it’s threatening to spill over. If the people turn against us—”

“They won’t,” Geta interrupted, his voice rising. “We control the guards, the council. Acacius is one man, and even he can’t stand against Rome’s will.”

“Rome’s will?” Caracalla spat. “Or yours?” He paused, glancing toward the arena. The crowd’s roar had shifted, an unsettling mixture of anger and fervor. “We need to act. Now.”

Geta hesitated, his mind racing. “We’ll send in the Praetorian Guard,” he said finally. “Silence him before he turns the mob into a riot.”

Caracalla shook his head, his jaw tightening. “No. If we send the guard in now, we’ll confirm his accusations. The people will see us as tyrants.”

“Then what do you suggest?” Geta demanded, his voice shaking.

Caracalla straightened, his expression grim. “We confront him ourselves. If Acacius wants to play the hero, we’ll make sure he answers for it publicly. But this ends today.”

He strode toward the door, his every movement exuding authority. After a moment’s hesitation, Geta followed, his face pale but resolute.

Cecilia caught sight of the imperial brothers descending the steps toward the arena, their faces etched with fury. The crowd’s fervor was growing, the tension in the air thick enough to choke her. She darted through the throng, her heart racing as she calculated her next move.

“Caracalla! Geta!” she called, her voice cutting through the din. She stepped in front of her husband, gently placing her hand on his chest.

Both brothers halted, their heads snapping toward her. Caracalla’s expression darkened with suspicion, while Geta’s flickered with something closer to intrigue.

“You,” Caracalla said to her, his tone sharp. “What could you possibly want now?”

“Do not fall for this,” she said, pitching her voice low as she glanced around for eavesdroppers. “If you confront Acacius now, you’ll be walking into a trap.”

Geta narrowed his eyes. “A trap? Speak clearly, little dove. What do you know?”

She stepped closer, lowering her voice further as she weaved her intricate lie. “The crowd is restless. If you enter that arena with accusations and force, they’ll turn against you. Acacius has planted seeds of doubt, and the people are desperate for someone to blame. If you act too rashly, it could spark rebellion. You may have the highest power, but hundreds of citizens could kill you within a moment’s notice.”

Caracalla’s eyes flicked toward the arena, his brow furrowing. “You think I fear the mob?” he said, though his tone carried an edge of doubt.

“You should,” Cecilia said bluntly, her boldness surprising even herself. “But if you let me speak with Acacius, I can diffuse this before it spirals out of control.”

Geta smirked, his gaze raking over her. “And why would you risk yourself for him, Cecilia? Is it loyalty? Or something more?”

“That’s irrelevant,” she shot back, her voice firm. “Do you want this resolved or not?”

Caracalla exchanged a look with Geta, the tension between them palpable. Finally, Caracalla gave a curt nod. “Fine. You have your chance. But if you fail…” He let the threat hang in the air, cold and unmistakable.

Cecilia turned, her pulse pounding as she made her way toward the arena. She hoped the extra time would allow Acacius to solidify his position with the crowd—or for Valerius to present the council’s corruption to their allies.

But as she descended into the arena’s shadowed passageways, she stopped short. Standing at the edge of the chaos was Valerius, his expression unreadable.

“Valerius,” she said, relief washing over her. “You must hurry—”

“Hurry? I’ve come to see this farce end, this beautiful spectacle…” he interrupted, his voice cold.

Her stomach dropped as she noticed the way he avoided her gaze, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his dagger.

“What are you doing? Speak.” she demanded.

Valerius stepped closer, his tone low and dangerous. “You think I’d risk everything for a mere General’s rebellion? Acacius is a liability, and so are you. The council will reward me for stopping this more so than you ever could.”

The betrayal hit her in a panic. She realized that now Acacius was in grave danger. “You said you wanted to fight for justice,” she whispered, “You said your allegiance was to me.”He sneered. “Justice is whatever keeps Rome standing. Acacius’s idealism…your idealism… will destroy us all.”

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pascalhowlett · 27 days ago

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Ethereal Chapter 6

A/N: SORRY FOR THE LATE UPDATE LIFE GOT IN THE WAY :/ There is SO MUCH MORE from where this came from! I know this is slow burn kinda but I promise we are getting closer to the *spicy* stuff.

If you prefer to read on AO3, that can be found here!

Warnings: Mentions of r*pe, implied r*pe, graphic depictions of violence, major character death, smut

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x Original Female Character

This is Chapter 6! Find the rest of the chapters on my Tumblr here!

Word Count: 3k -ish

At dawn, Acacius led Cecilia to the library that was attached to the palace. The morning light spilled softly through the corridors, but instead of escorting her to the usual alcove, he brought her there.

“The orders for the day—the documents—should be on the scribe’s desk,” Acacius explained.

“Where is that?” Cecilia asked as they paused their footsteps outside of the library entrance.

“In the corner, with the scrolls,” he replied, glancing around warily. “You must go alone. It will look suspicious if I’m seen inside.”

“Why would it be suspicious for you to be in the library?” she asked, frowning.

Acacius hesitated, his expression hardening for a moment. “Because I’m not meant to handle such matters. My place is elsewhere, and questions would follow. Yours, however, is less constrained—use that to your advantage.”

Cecilia studied him for a moment, her frown deepening as unease settled over her. Still, she nodded, stepping toward the grand oak doors of the library. Acacius lingered just out of sight, his posture rigid, as though he were ready to attack anyone who dared to hurt her.

The library was silent, the kind of stillness that only indicated trouble. Shelves towered around her, their contents a treasure trove of knowledge and recent decrees. The faint scent of parchment and ink hung in the air, but it did little to soothe her.

A fire should strike this place, she thought, Rome could start anew.

She moved quickly, her steps muffled as she winded down the different aisles of books. The scribe’s desk was easy to spot in the far corner, a cluster of scrolls and papers spread out haphazardly. Cecilia hesitated, her eyes flicking toward the door as though expecting someone to burst in. When the silence held, she forced herself forward.

Her fingers skimmed over the papers, her pulse quickening as she searched for anything bearing the signature of her cynical husband. Finally, her hand stilled on a scroll sealed with wax, the names on the paper ironically written in red ink. Gaius Tiberius, Quintus Publius, Aulus Servius, Caius Nero, Manius Cato. Five innocent men signed away to death…just to make a statement.

She slipped the scroll underneath her gown, her movements quick but shaky. For a moment, she paused, ears straining for any sound beyond her panicked breathing. Satisfied, she turned and began retracing her steps toward the exit. Her pace was measured, her nerves taut like a bowstring. The door loomed closer, the hallway beyond promising a return to relative safety—

A creak.

Cecilia froze, leaning against a shelf as she caught herself. She held her breath, her ears straining. The sound came again, soft but distinct, from deeper within the library. She glanced over her shoulder, her heart hammering. Was someone else there, hidden among the shelves? Or was her mind conjuring shadows out of fear?

Shaking her head, she made a beeline for the door and gripped the handle, pulling the door open just enough to slip out. Acacius was waiting, his eyes scanning her face.

“Do you have it?” He asked in a low whisper.

She nodded, keeping her voice steady despite her unease. “No one was inside. But I heard... something.”

Acacius stiffened, his gaze darting toward the library. “We need to move. Now.”

“Five men,” she said as they reached the alcove, her voice steady but laced with urgency. “Five men will die today if we don’t stop this.”

Acacius took the scroll from her trembling hands. His fingers were rough against the delicate parchment, and his expression darkened as his eyes scanned the names:

Gaius Tiberius, Quintus Publius, Aulus Servius, Caius Nero, Manius Cato.

She saw the moment the meaning of those names sank in, his demeanor changing to one of pure rage. His shoulders tensed, and his breath came out in a sharp exhale. His hand clenched the scroll so tightly the wax seal cracked and fell away. When he spoke, his voice was low, as if restraining himself from a deeper reaction.

“Three of these are my men,” he said, his tone sharper than she had ever heard. “Men who’ve served loyally, with honor. And the other two…” His jaw tightened as he turned away, pacing in the small space. “Elders. Respected men who dared to challenge the council’s growing corruption. This isn’t justice—it’s slaughter.”

Cecilia sat heavily on the stone bench, overwhelmed by the weight of his words. She pressed a hand to her forehead, her voice barely above a whisper. “Why? I do not understand…why these men?”

“To send a message.” He stopped pacing, sitting next to her and holding his head in his hands. “The soldiers are expendable to them, scapegoats to spread fear. The elders? Their deaths will silence any who might follow their example. The elders, they trained me, made me who I am today…”

She looked at him, startled by the intensity of his anger. His face was a mask of fury, but his eyes betrayed something deeper—grief. She’d seen Acacius upset with calculated actions, but she realized his rage was a weapon as sharp as any blade. This was different, heavier than anything she had seen from him before.

“You blame yourself,” she said softly, the guilt practically seeping through his skin.

He stiffened, his gaze snapping to hers. “Of course I do. They’re my men, Cecilia. I should have seen this coming. I should have protected them.”

Cecilia scooted closer to him. The anger radiating off him was palpable, but she placed a hand on his arm, her touch light. “This is not your fault. They just want to kill anyone to make a statement.”

For a moment, he said nothing, his jaw clenching. He could not bring himself to look at anything but the floor beneath him. Then, slowly, he exhaled, his shoulders slumping. When he looked at her again, the rage was still there, but it was tempered by her gentle touch, her soft caress.

“I don’t want to fail them,” he said, his voice quiet now. “Or you.”

“You won’t,” she said firmly. “You could never fail me. We will do this together.”

His gaze softened, and for a fleeting moment, she saw the man beneath the soldier—the one who had risked everything to protect those he cared about. “You’re braver than most soldiers I’ve known,” he said, his lips quivering into the faintest hint of a smile.

Cecilia let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, her own lips twitching upward despite the gravity of their situation. “I don’t know if that’s bravery or recklessness,” she said lightly, trying to ease the tension that still hung between them.

“Sometimes,” Acacius said, his voice low but warm, “there’s no difference.”

She blinked at him, startled by the unexpected tenderness in his tone. He looked at her as though trying to memorize her face, as if this moment might be their last. He noticed the dimples when she smiled, the way her soft brown hair curled at the edges as they cascaded to her shoulders. She was breathtaking to him. Her cheeks were still a rosy red, his words clearly having an effect on her.

“You don’t have to say that for me,” she murmured, her voice barely audible.

“I’m not saying it for you,” he replied, stepping closer. “I’m saying it because it’s true. I’ve seen fear break the strongest of men. You feel it, and yet you stand. That’s not recklessness, Cecilia. That’s courage.”

Her breath hitched, the sincerity in his words cutting through her defenses like a blade. For all his strength, there was a vulnerability in him that made her chest ache.

“And you?” she asked, her voice trembling. “What about your courage?”

He looked away, the flicker of a smile fading as he shook his head. “Courage doesn’t stop the people you care about from dying.”

His words hung in the air, heavy and unrelenting. Cecilia reached for his hand without thinking, her fingers brushing his. “No, but it’s the only thing that gives them a chance to live. Your courage has saved countless lives before, and it will today as well.”

Acacius stilled, her touch anchoring him. He gave a short nod, his hand tightening briefly over hers as their fingers laced.

“We’ll give them that chance,” he said. “Together.”

She nodded, confidence building within her. His touch made her feel fearless. They didn’t have the luxury of dwelling on unspoken fears or unacknowledged feelings. Time was slipping away, and five lives depended on them.

His loving gaze was quickly replaced by a solemn determination. His composure was slowly returning from his previous fit of rage. “I will take the scroll with me to the colosseum and show it to the people prior to the execution.”

“That’s risky,” she said, “what if they discover it is gone?”

“They will,” he admitted, but a small, almost mischievous smile flickered across his lips. “Which is why we’re not going to let them pin it on me—or either of us.”

Her brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

Acacius began pacing as he let go of her hand. She automatically ached for his touch once more, but his mind was clearly racing as he pieced together a plan. “The scroll alone won’t be enough. We’ll need the crowd on our side, but we can’t rely on their outrage alone. We need someone within the council—or close to it—who can verify the authenticity.”

“Not a traitor,” Acacius said. “A sympathizer. There are still a few who believe in justice, even if they’ve been too afraid to act. I know someone who might help, he works directly with my soldiers.”

Cecilia was unsure, and not as quick to trust as the General. “And you trust this person?”

“Enough to know they want the council’s corruption to end as much as we do.” He turned to her, his gaze steady. “I need you to deliver the scroll to them. I can’t be seen leaving the Colosseum before the executions, and if they trace it back to me, this will all fall apart. You can move through the city without drawing suspicion.” He hesitated, his voice softening. “And because I trust you.”

Her cheeks warmed, but she quickly shook off the distraction. “Where will you be while I’m doing this?”

“At the Colosseum, preparing the crowd, making sure the Emperors are distracted,” he said. “If I can sway them before the executions, it will be easier.”

“Tell me who to find, and I will do it.” She said.

Acacius pulled her close, his hand resting briefly on her waist. “Near the south end of the palace. A merchant named Valerius. He deals in armor, but his loyalty lies with the people.”

“I’ll find him,” she promised, tucking the scroll safely back beneath her gown.

“Be careful,” he said, rubbing the small of her back, “If anything happens to you—”

“Nothing will happen,” she interrupted, a faint smile playing on her lips. “We don’t have room for failure, remember?”

He smirked, the weight between them lifting slightly. “I’ll see you at the east end of the Colosseum. And Cecilia—thank you.”

“Thank you, General” she said, her eyes brushing over his soft, delicate lips. Acacius noticed her glance, his heart skipping a beat despite the impending doom around them.

His heart skipped at the sincerity in his words, but he nodded. “Acacius,” he corrected her, “call me Acacius.”

“Acacius,” she said, smiling once more before turning on her foot and heading out of the alcove. As they parted ways, Cecilia couldn’t help but glance back at him. His anger still simmered beneath the surface, but it was clear that he’d harness it, turning it into the resolve they both needed to see this through.

As she disappeared into the palace, Acacius stood for a moment, his gaze lingering on the spot where she’d been standing, the smell of her sweet perfume still heavy in the air.

He wasn’t about to let five innocent men—or the woman who had become his partner in this fight—die for no reason.

Cecilia quickly dressed into her cloaks and left towards the south end of the palace. The south market was alive with activity, despite the early hour. Merchants called out their wares, their voices blending into a chaotic symphony of bartering and haggling. Cecilia pulled her cloak tighter, her eyes scanning the bustling square for the armor merchant Acacius had mentioned.

Valerius. A name spoken with trust, yet tied to danger.

She spotted the small building near the edge of the square, draped with metal pieces of armor, shiny silvers, brilliant golds, and soft red cloaks to compliment them. A stout man with a thick beard stood behind the facade of armor, his hands working with an open flame as she approached. Taking a deep breath, Cecilia stood in front of him, her posture friendly but guarded. She waited until he turned from the open flame to begin speaking.

“Valerius?” she asked, her voice low.

The man’s hands as he placed the tools he was holding on a table nearby. His green eyes flicked to her, sharp and assessing as he realized exactly who she was. “My lady…Empress Cecilia,” he bowed, making her cringe inwardly.

“Please, do not bow,” she told him, “I am just a woman, consider me a friend.” She hesitated, then pulled the scroll from her cloak, careful to keep it concealed as she held it toward him. “I was sent by Acacius. He said you could help.”

At the mention of Acacius’s name, Valerius’s expression hardened. He glanced around, as if he was worried they were being watched. He then leaned closer. “You must be careful saying that name out loud here,” he muttered. “Follow me.”

Before she could respond, he had grabbed her wrist and disappeared behind his building, lifting a heavy curtain that concealed a narrow doorway. Cecilia hesitated only a moment before ducking through.

The small room behind the stall was dimly lit, its air thick with the scent burning fire and casting irons. Valerius stood by the curtain, as if he was worried someone would try to walk in.

“Show me,” he demanded, his voice low but urgent.

Cecilia unfurled the scroll, holding it out so he could see the names listed there. As his eyes scanned the parchment, his expression shifted—from curiosity to anger, then to something heavier. “They mean to execute them?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

She nodded. “At the Colosseum. Emperor Geta…my husband… signed away on these orders. Acacius believes the brothers want to make an example of them. He thought you might be able to help expose the truth.”

Valerius exhaled sharply, his hand running over his beard. “This… this could change everything. But it’s dangerous. If they catch wind of this, it won’t just be me they come for.”

“I know,” Cecilia said. “But if we do nothing, five innocent men will die. Acacius is preparing to rally the crowd at the Colosseum. If you help him step forward with this evidence, he believes we can stop the executions.”

Valerius studied her for a long moment, his sharp gaze searching her face. “You’re not a soldier,” he said finally. “Why are you risking your life for this? Why are you turning against your husband?”

“Emperor Geta is not my husband by choice… and because it’s the right thing to do,” she said simply. “I trust Acacius, I believe he can fix what these brothers have broken.”

The corners of Valerius’s mouth lifted slightly, though it wasn’t quite a smile. “General Acacius. That man has a way of inspiring loyalty, doesn’t he?”

Cecilia chuckled at that as she nodded, clutching the scroll tightly. “Will you help us?”

Valerius hesitated, then gave a short nod. “I’ll do what I can. Meet me at the east entrance of the Colosseum just before the executions. I’ll need to find someone within the council willing to back this claim.”

“Thank you,” she said, relief washing over her.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Valerius replied grimly. “This will only work if Acacius can hold the crowd’s attention long enough for me to act. Tell him to be ready.”

“I will,” she said, putting the scroll away, “I will also ensure you are compensated for your efforts.”

Valerius thanked her once more before she pulled the hood of her cloak back over her head, vanishing into the bustling crowd.

The Colosseum loomed like a beast against the morning sky, its towering arches casting long shadows over the bustling crowds. Acacius stood near the main entrance, his cloak drawn tightly around him to conceal his face. The roar of distant cheers echoed through the stone structure, a grim reminder of the bloodlust that had drawn the people here today.

He attempted to remain hidden in the shadows, his jaw tightening as he steeled himself for what was to come. The names on the scroll burned in his mind, each one a life he was determined to save.

And yet, even as he surveyed the crowd, his thoughts drifted to Cecilia.

He could still feel the faint brush of her fingers against his hand, the quiet resolve in her voice when she’d insisted on standing by him. Her courage had caught him off guard, piercing through the armor he’d built around himself. She was no soldier, no seasoned warrior hardened by years of battle—but in her determination, she was every bit his equal.

A part of him hated sending her into the city alone. He wanted to go with her, protect her from anything she may face. The thought of her walking into danger twisted his gut. But, he knew she could handle herself, she had survived being married to a bloodthirsty killer.

If something happened to her…

He shook his head, forcing the thought away. He couldn’t afford to lose focus, not now, not when he felt his entire army’s lives were at stake. Cecilia would succeed—she had to.

Still, as he moved through the crowd, his gaze flickered toward the horizon, half-expecting to see her weaving through the throng, returning to him with the reassurance he didn’t dare voice aloud. The din of the Colosseum pulled him back to the present. Spectators jostled for position near the gates, eager for the executions to begin.

If he could sway even a fraction of them, their combined voices could drown out the brothers’ authority. But he would need the perfect moment—and the right words. This wasn’t just about saving the five men condemned to die; it was about exposing the corruption that had poisoned Rome. He knew he must remind these people that they had power, too.

Acacius exhaled, steadying himself as he saw the five men, tied up and thrown to the ground like animals to the slaughter.

Gaius Tiberius, the youngest of them, barely more than a boy, stared at the ground, his shoulders trembling as he tried and failed to maintain some semblance of composure. Acacius’s chest tightened. He had trained Gaius himself, watched him grow from an eager recruit into a disciplined soldier. The boy had once spoken of a family waiting for him in the countryside—a mother and two younger sisters who depended on his service to survive.

Quintus Publius and Aulus Servius stood side by side, their expressions grim but resolute. They were seasoned veterans, men who had followed Acacius into countless battles without question. Men who would do anything for the people of Rome, to serve a greater purpose. They didn’t deserve this. They had served with honor, their only crime being too loyal to question the council’s orders.

Caius Nero, a man well into his years, stood stoically despite the weight of his bonds. Acacius remembered how Nero had once defended him before the council, arguing for fairness and restraint when punishment was dealt. The man had always valued justice over blind obedience—a quality that had clearly made him a target.

And finally, Manius Cato. He was a former council elder whose calm wisdom had once guided the city through crises. A man whose words knew no limits when it came to saving his people. Now, he stood among the condemned, his grayed hair and dignity bearing a stark contrast to the injustice he was facing.

These men were not criminals or traitors—they were scapegoats, lambs led to slaughter to satisfy the council’s insatiable hunger for control. Acacius’ anger wasn’t enough to dull the guilt gnawing at the edges of his resolve. He had led three of these men in battle, trained them, trusted them—and they had trusted him in return. And now they stood here, awaiting death, because he hadn’t seen the council’s betrayal coming.

He tried to push those thoughts aside as he scanned the crowd again, searching for the subtle signals he’d arranged with his allies. He would need their help to amplify his voice when the time came.

And somewhere in the back of his mind, he held onto the thought of Cecilia—her strength, her trust in him, and the promise they’d made to face this together.

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pascalhowlett · 29 days ago

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tumblr is best app u just talk to urself and ppl go yep so true bestie

191K notes · View notes

pascalhowlett · 1 month ago

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Ethereal Chapter 5

A/N: Things are starting to heat up here I promise!! I already have 15 chapters written, so there is SO MUCH MORE from where this came from!

If you prefer to read on AO3, that can be found here!

Warnings: Mentions of r*pe, implied r*pe, graphic depictions of violence, major character death, smut

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x Original Female Character

This is Chapter 5! Find the rest of the chapters on my Tumblr here!

Word Count: 3k -ish

It was the second day of the games. As they sat in the box above the roaring crowd, Cecilia felt herself already getting sick. She looked down at the arena, at the gladiators dressed in armor and hoisting up sharp swords. Half of them would be dead by the end of the day, their stories unfinished in the name of a pompous game.

She sat with Geta, holding his hand. “I am glad you have come around, little dove,” Geta said, “It pleases me to see you here by my side.”

Then, in a move as unexpected as it was unsettling, Geta leaned in and pressed a kiss to her cheek. Cecelia leaned into it as she spoke. “Anything for you, my love.”

Acacius thought he could have died at the sight. He hated this—the games, the cruelty, the facade. But most of all, he hated seeing her like this. He knew how Geta treated her behind a closed door, and it enraged him like no other.

The crowd’s roar swelled as one gladiator fell to his knees, blood pooling around him as it poured from his throat. Cecilia flinched despite her attempts to seem unphased, her hand tightening on the edge of her seat. Geta laughed at her reaction, but was delighted by the spectacle. “Magnificent, isn’t it?” he asked, his eyes gleaming with cold, sadistic pleasure.

She managed a weak smile, nodding. “Magnificent,” she echoed, though the word tasted bitter on her tongue. Her gaze flickered to Acacius, who caught her eye for the briefest of moments from the seat behind her. In that glance, she saw his concern, his unspoken apology for what she was witnessing. It grounded her for just a moment, just enough to where she could turn her gaze back to Emperor Geta.

"Tell me, little dove," Geta said, his voice honeyed but laced with steel, "what’s on that troubled little mind of yours?”

Cecilia's heart skipped at the question, and her mind raced for an answer that would appease him. She looked at his hand, reaching out and holding it to avoid eye contact. "The bravery of the gladiators," she said carefully. "To face such odds with unwavering courage—it’s… inspiring."

Geta chuckled and rolled his eyes, his grip tightening on her hand as though testing the sincerity of her action. "Inspiring, indeed," his voice dripped with sarcasm. "Though bravery alone is nothing without the will to conquer. A lesson for us all, wouldn't you agree?"

She nodded, the motion almost automatic. "Of course, your highness."

Geta leaned back, satisfied for the moment, “You are becoming smart, my little dove. The cage is beginning to suit you well.”

Like clockwork, General Acacius approached the two of them, offering a goblet of red wine to both of them. “The wine will not drink itself, your highness,” Acacius chuckled, attempting to lighten the mood for her.

Geta accepted the goblet with a nod, raising it toward Acacius in a mock toast before taking a sip. His expression softened briefly as the wine worked its way into his system. “You’ve always had a knack for finding the finest vintages, General,” he remarked, his tone almost jovial as he patted Acacius on the shoulder. Acacius cringed inwardly at the touch, but did his best to seem sincere.

Cecilia accepted her goblet from Acacius with a faint smile, though her hand trembled slightly as she raised it to her lips. She let the rich aroma of the wine fill her senses, hoping it would steady her nerves. Acacius caught the subtle tremor and gave her a barely perceptible nod, a silent reassurance that she was not as alone. Geta had been isolating her from everyone else.

“The games have drawn quite the crowd today,” Acacius said, his voice calm and measured. “The people seem eager. Though I do wonder—does such fervor serve you and your brother’s greater ambitions, your highness?”

Geta arched a brow, intrigued and shocked by the General’s sudden question. “And what ambitions do you think we have, Acacius?”

“The ambitions of a ruler who understands the delicate balance of fear and loyalty,” Acacius replied smoothly. “The games provide both in equal measure, yet one must always consider the limits. Push too far, and even the most devoted subjects may falter.”

Geta chuckled, though his eyes glinted with something sharper, as if he was aware of Acacius’ little game. “You speak as though you doubt our wisdom, General. We have led Rome for years without falter.”

“Never doubt, your highness,” Acacius replied with a slight bow. “Only caution. Surely an emperor as perceptive as yourself would value the perspective of those who serve him, unlike your brother.”

Cecilia watched the exchange closely, noting and admiring the subtle manipulation in Acacius’ words. Acacius' ability to tread the line between deference and challenge was masterful, especially when he mentioned Caracalla. She allowed herself to hope that his influence might feed into Geta’s delusions about his own brother.

“I’ll consider your counsel,” Geta said at last, taking another sip of his wine. “But fear not, Acacius. The people adore me, not my brother. Tomorrow’s display will only solidify their loyalty.”

Acacius nodded his head. “As you say, your highness.”

But Cecilia wondered. Tomorrow’s display? Geta loved to use the word tomorrow, to always have some sort of trick rolled up his sleeve. When would the games, the killing… end?

Geta turned his attention back to Cecilia, his expression softening once more. “You should learn from Acacius, my dove. He knows his place and speaks with respect. A valuable trait that you have not quite mastered yet.”

Cecilia actually gave Geta a genuine smile, his words about Acacius ringing true. “I’ll strive to be as wise as the General,” she said, stealing shared glimpses with Acacius once more.

Geta seemed satisfied with her response, leaning back in his seat with an air of triumph. “See that you do, little dove.”

As Geta’s conversation shifted back to a common quarrel with his brother, Cecilia stole another glance at Acacius. His expression was unreadable this time, but she sensed the tension beneath his composed exterior. The unspoken understanding between them was a lifeline for her, a fragile thread resembling her one true human connection.

Acacius once again had an empty chair next to him, just like yesterday. Cecilia pointed to the seat, as if asking if she could sit next to him. Acacius nodded, his inviting smile urging her to come fill the seat. She sat next to him, a slight chill going down her spine as her nose picked up the familiar scent of his cologne.

“My lady,” Acacius greeted, his tone low and deliberate, ensuring their conversation stayed between them.

“General,” she said, unable to fight the blush that spread across her pale features.

His sharp eyes studied her, as if checking on her. Then, he asked a deeper question. “Is it peace you seek, or simply an escape?”

Her lips tightened into a faint smile. “For whom? Me? Or the people?” she whispered, glancing at Geta, who was still absorbed in his loud camaraderie with the senators. “Both feel equally unattainable.”

Acacius’s expression softened, his body shifting towards her as he ached to touch her. “Peace is rarely given freely. Escape, on the other hand, is temporary. Which are you willing to fight for?”

Cecilia hesitated, her fingers dancing atop his for a brief moment as they rested on the arm of the chair. “It’s hard to say. When every path seems perilous, every choice feels like a death wish.”

The general leaned slightly closer, the scent of cedarwood and faint spices from his perfume calming her frayed nerves. “Every path will have its risks,” he murmured. “But every path will also have its moments. You simply need to spot them.”

She raised an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued despite her exhaustion. “Moments for what, exactly?”

“For serenity…for peace…” Acacius replied, leaning closer to her ear. “For happiness. The moments down a path aren’t always visible, but they are there, waiting for someone to find them.”

Her heart tightened at his words, the gravity of them making her feel as if she may actually have answers to all the questions spiraling in her mind. “And when I find these moments?” she asked, staring forward so Geta did not get suspicious of them, “What then? What do I do with them?”

“Then you choose whether to cherish them or build upon them,” Acacius said, admiring her beauty. “But either choice demands courage.”

Before she could respond, the crowd erupted into cheers, signaling the death of another gladiator. The roar echoed through the stands, drowning out her thoughts. Her eyes drifted to the arena, where a group of men dragged the lifeless gladiator out of the way for the next match. The sunlight glinted off the victor’s sword, a cruel reminder of the violence that had just unfolded before their eyes.

Cecilia tightened her grip on Acacius’ fingers, trying to suppress the nausea building within her. “And if courage isn’t enough?” she whispered, more to herself than to him.

Acacius’s voice was barely audible over the cries of the crowd, but its firmness cut through the noise. “Then you’ll find that it was never courage you lacked—it was belief in your own strength. Or perhaps, you were lacking the one who will help you find that courage.”

She turned her head toward him, startled by the certainty in his tone. His words lingered, weaving through her thoughts like threads in a tapestry. Even with the crowd roaring around them still, her eyes locked with his. Within Acacius’ eyes, she felt the faintest ember of desire and love pass through her veins.

She quickly diverted her eyes after a moment, letting go of her grip on Acacius’ hand. She knew that Geta would soon turn around and question their closeness. She had no choice but to bottle her emotions, yet she clung to the General’s words. If there were moments to be found, she would find them…with him. And when the time came, she would decide whether to cherish them, or build upon them.

“May I share something with you, General?” she asked softly as her eyes undeniably locked with his once more.

“Anything, my lady,” he said, his voice a soft purr.

“Your touch,” she looked down at his large hand that rested between them, “it comforts me.”

Acacius's gaze softened, and for a moment, the brave face he always wore seemed to slip. His eyes lingered on hers, the weight of her words showing in the softness of his brown doe eyes.

"My touch?" he questioned carefully, as though afraid to disturb the vulnerability in her admission. He looked down at his hand, now resting still beside hers. Slowly, almost tentatively, he turned it palm-up, inviting her to place her own within it. He quickly looked to make sure Geta was not watching, but either way, Acacius did not care.

"That is a comfort I do not take lightly," he said, his tone laced with gentle honesty. "To know that, even amidst all this chaos, I can offer you some solace—it humbles me, my lady."

Cecilia hesitated for only a moment before placing her hand in his. She noticed how much larger his hand was than hers. His warmth enveloped her as he laced their fingers together. She felt the strength in his grip, not overpowering but steady, like an anchor. Her heart quickened at the intimacy of the gesture, and she did not dare to pull away.

"Your strength has been a lifeline for me," she whispered. "In a world where I feel so powerless...so alone…"

Acacius's thumb brushed against the back of her hand, a gesture so small yet overflowing with unspoken emotion. His eyes searched hers, the weight of his own feelings threatening to bubble over into his next words. "You will never be alone, Cecilia," he murmured. "Not as long as I draw breath."

His words took her breath away. The silence that followed was thick with a tension neither of them dared to address fully. She squeezed his hand tighter before letting go, her fear of Geta preventing her from enjoying the moment for too long.

They did not notice the lingering eyes of Emperor Caracalla. From his vantage point, Caracalla watched the exchange between Cecilia and Acacius with ease. His goblet hung loosely in his hand, the wine untouched as his dark eyes narrowed. The subtle intimacy between them—the way her hand lingered in the General’s, the almost imperceptible softness in Acacius's gaze—did not escape him.

Caracalla leaned forward slightly in his chair. At first, he thought it was a trick of the dim torchlights in the box, but no. The warmth in their shared glance was unmistakable. It was purse love. Caracalla’s mind raced, his thoughts a mix of suspicion and possessive fury. The General? Of all people? It wasn’t merely jealousy—though that burned brightly—it was the audacity of it. The gall of a soldier to encroach upon a woman of royalty.

But then, his thoughts changed. This would destroy Geta. If this were something that would break his brother down, then who would he be to stop it? His lip curled, the sharp edges of his teeth visible as he fought the urge to act impulsively. His lips turned into a quiet smile. Any accusation or outburst would draw attention he wasn’t prepared to explain, not without undeniable proof. He knew this was a situation that he must use and play with carefully.

Let them have their moment, he thought darkly. It will make Geta’s downfall all the sweeter.

Later that night, as the moonlight filtered through the latticework of the palace, Cecilia lay awake beside a snoring Geta, his arm loosely draped around her. Her mind churned with fragments of plans, of dangerous fantasies she had fabricated with Acacius. She knew she wanted to act on them, but the how of them all was lost on her.

Her mind constantly replayed the intimate moment she had shared with Acacius at the games. The way he looked at her, the way his hand engulfed hers made her stomach flutter in a way she had not felt since she fell for Atticus all those years ago.

Atticus. She had not even thought of him as of late, her mind set now on the alluring General. She felt no remorse for her drifting thoughts, as she still was coping with the idea of Atticus’ dishonesty and betrayal. Acacius had yet to lie to her. She prayed to the gods that this would remain true. If he was lying, she was doomed.

But somehow, she knew Acacius was not a liar. Perhaps she had come to respect his status, or perhaps she was losing her mind. She tossed both ideas around in her mind, feeling as though her sanity was questionable in such a situation as this.

A soft knock at the door startled her. She froze, her heart pounding, but she quickly composed herself. Sliding out of bed silently, she slipped her nightgown on and crossed the room, her feet gently padding against the cool stone of the floor. She opened the door just enough to see who it was, the creaking sound of the hinges making her flinch in fear of waking Geta.

Acacius stood there in the doorway, his expression shadowed but resolute. He was dressed in his nighttime tunics, clearly losing sleep over whatever he had come to share. He thought she looked beautiful in the thin material of her night gown, her curves hugged in all of the right places.

Cecilia’s heart warmed at the sight of him. Even with the risk of Geta waking and seeing him, Acacius’ presence still made her feel excited and seen.

“General,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “What are you doing here?”

“I needed to see you,” he said, his tone firm yet quiet. “We don’t have much time. There’s something you need to know.”

She stepped outside into the hallway, closing the door softly behind her. The tension in the corridor was palpable as they stood facing each other in the dim light. Was the tension that of romance, or foreseeable doom? That was the question.

Before he even began to speak, he embraced her, her body relaxing in his unrelenting grip. She was startled by the action, but enjoyed it and held him back nonetheless.

“What is it, Acacius?” she asked wearily, her voice trembling slightly as they backed away from one another.

Acacius hesitated, his gaze searching hers. “Tomorrow,” he began, his voice low. “Caracalla and Geta plan something more… elaborate than just the games. Something meant to solidify their rule through fear. I was just told by some of my soldiers.”

Cecilia’s brow furrowed, worry beginning to settle in every fiber of her being. “What do you mean?”

“They have ordered public executions,” Acacius said grimly. “Not just gladiators. Political dissidents, prisoners of war. Innocents, my men, paraded as traitors. They want to send a message to those who speak ill of them, those who dare to defy them.”

Her stomach turned, and she clutched the edge of a nearby table for support. “And you’re telling me this because…?”

“Because it’s an opportunity for me,” he said, stepping closer. “To expose them. To undermine their authority for killing innocent soldiers.”

Her eyes widened, the implications of his words sinking in. “You mean you wish to challenge them… openly?”

Acacius nodded. “But I need your help. You’re the only one who can get close enough to disrupt those plans from within.”

Cecilia hesitated, the weight of his request bringing an intense wave of anxiety. She quickly glanced back into the room where Geta lay oblivious, and then back at Acacius. Her mind raced, torn between fear and her unwavering dedication and admiration for the General.

“What do you need me to do?” she asked finally.

Acacius’s expression softened, and he reached out, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “I’ll guide you. Together, we can find a means to an end. But you must trust me.”

“I do,” she said, the words slipping out before she could second-guess them. “I trust you…with my life, Acacius.”

The faintest smile touched his lips, and he nodded. “Then let’s begin.”

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pascalhowlett · 1 month ago

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pascalhowlett · 1 month ago

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pascalhowlett · 1 month ago

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Ethereal Chapter 4

A/N: HELLO HI VERY IMPORTANT! This chapter has some triggering scenarios when it comes to r!pe and non-consensual relationships between Geta and Cecilia. If that is something that triggers you, I ask you please do not read this chapter!

If you prefer to read on AO3, that can be found here!

Warnings: Mentions of r*pe, implied r*pe, graphic depictions of violence, major character death, smut

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x Original Female Character

This is Chapter 4! Find the rest of the chapters on my Tumblr here!

Word Count: 3k

That evening, Cecilia took her place beside Geta at the long dining table. Caracalla sat across from them, his expression a perpetual mask of discontent. The feast laid out before them was almost obscene in its abundance—a spread that could have easily satisfied a dozen soldiers, yet it was prepared for only the three of them. Golden loaves of bread still warm from the oven, succulent porchetta glistening with herbs and juices, bowls of vibrant fruits bursting with color, and pitchers of red wine stood in silent testament to the brothers’ grotesque privilege.

Despite the abundance of Roman delicacies, Cecilia could barely touch the slice of bread resting on her plate. Her stomach churned, not with hunger, but with unease. She knew she had to sing a different tune with Geta now in order to make him believe she had become smitten.

“I cannot believe the General,” Geta suddenly muttered, his voice thick with disdain as he speared a piece of meat. “Running off like a coward and leaving us to fend for ourselves. Taking my wife like she is more important than us”

Caracalla snorted in agreement, his grip tightening on his glass. “The man deserves nothing less than execution for such betrayal. Beheading would be a mercy for General Acacius.”

Cecilia hesitated, her fingers brushing the rim of her cup. She noticed that their words about the General angered her in a way they had not before. “He was shocked, that’s all,” she said softly, willing her voice to remain steady. “I’ll make sure he understands his duty—to protect the both of you—next time.”

“Next time?” Geta shot her a sharp look, his brow furrowing. “Where did he even take you, Cecilia? I pray there will not be a next time.”

“He… he just brought me back to the palace,” she replied, forcing a smile that she hoped seemed genuine as she picked at her food. “I stayed in our room until you both arrived.”

Geta seemed satisfied with her answer, nodding as he resumed eating, though Caracalla’s narrowed eyes lingered on her a moment longer. Cecilia lowered her gaze to her untouched bread, her heartbeat quickening. Lies came easier with practice, but the weight of them never lessened.

She still was shaken up from the news of Atticus. She felt betrayed, like he had been lying to her. What would she have done if Acacius hadn’t told her? She asked herself.

Breaking the tense silence, she looked to Geta, her voice trembling despite herself. “Geta, my love?”

Her words felt foreign, unnatural, as if they belonged to someone else. She cringed inwardly, but there was no turning back now.

“Speak, little dove,” Geta commanded, putting down his utensils to drink his wine.

“I…I just wanted to apologize for my behavior at the games today,” she swallowed, she felt like her throat was swelling as she forced the words, “I love you, and I shouldn’t speak unless spoken to.”

For a moment, silence once again enveloped the room, broken only by the faint crackle of the torches mounted on the walls and the clinks of dishes as they were passed about the table. Geta leaned back in his chair, studying her with a faint smirk curling his lips.

“Well, well,” he mused, swirling his wine. “I suppose even a bird can learn its place with proper training.” He reached across the table and tilted her chin up with a finger, his grip deceptively gentle. “You’ll remember that next time, won’t you, my dear?”

“Yes,” she whispered, her heart pounding in her chest. “I will, your highness.”

Caracalla snorted softly but said nothing, his eyes flicking between Geta and Cecilia before returning to his plate. Cecilia lowered her gaze, her cheeks burning with humiliation. She fought to steady her breathing, desperate to hold onto the mask she wore.

Beneath it all, her mind churned, replaying the words of General Acacius. Atticus had known of the plans that were made for her. He’d lied. The sting of it was almost unbearable, but now was not the time to unravel. If she crumbled in this room filled with watchful eyes, she would lose more than her pride.

She forced herself to lift her goblet, the wine sloshing slightly as her hands trembled. “To your honor both of you,” she said to the brothers, her voice thin but clear.

Geta raised his cup, his smirk broadening. “To mine.”

As they drank, Cecilia’s thoughts swirled with growing clarity The room buzzed with conversation again, but Cecilia’s mind was already elsewhere, turning over the plans she barely dared to entertain. If she wanted to survive, she would need more than apologies and submission. She would have to give him what he really wanted.

“Will the games continue tomorrow?” she asked, assuming she could speak.

Geta paused, his goblet midway to his lips. His dark eyes fixed on her, narrowing slightly, as though weighing whether her question warranted his breath. “They will,” he finally said, his tone clipped. “Why do you ask?”

Cecilia hesitated, feeling the weight of Caracalla’s gaze settle on her like a predator studying prey once more. She licked her lips, trying to keep her tone neutral. “I was just curious,” she replied. “The people seemed so lively today. I thought they might want more.”

Caracalla let out a sharp laugh, setting his goblet down with a thud. “The people always want more,” he sneered. “Blood and spectacle—that’s all they understand. That’s all they’re good for. But I must say, I find pleasure in it as well.”

“Enough,” Geta said, raising a hand to silence his brother. He turned his attention back to Cecilia. “If you must know, tomorrow’s games will be grander. More beasts, more gladiators, more death.” A thin smile played on his lips. “I imagine you’ll enjoy it, little dove.”

Cecilia forced a small smile, though her stomach twisted at the thought. She nodded, lowering her eyes to her plate. “Of course, my love,” she said softly, “I am sure whatever you two have planned will be a spectacle.”

“What I have planned, little dove,” Geta corrected her, “Caracalla is no use when executing the games. He does no more than pleasure himself to the sight of the gladiators’ bloodshed.”

Caracalla’s goblet clinked against the table loudly as he set it down with deliberate force. “Careful, brother,” he said, his voice low but dangerous. “Your tongue wags a little too fiercely.”

“Oh, does it?” Geta replied, leaning back in his chair with a smirk. “Tell me, what exactly do you contribute, Caracalla? Besides criticism and the release of your desires?”

The tension between the brothers thickened, and Cecilia sat frozen, her pulse quickening. The air felt charged, like a storm waiting to break. She did not realize how much they argued, purely to see who was more powerful than the other.

“I contribute more than you could ever hope to understand,” Caracalla shot back, his eyes narrowing. “While you play your games and parade your purchased wife like a pompous fool, I see the bigger picture. The games are nothing without the politics behind them, the alliances they secure. The relationships they create. Perhaps you should pay attention to the matches rather than your trophy of a woman.”

Geta’s smirk faltered for a moment, but he quickly recovered, waving a dismissive hand. “Politics,” he scoffed. “You mean the web of lies you so enjoy weaving? Spare me.”

“Enough,” Cecilia interjected softly, surprising even herself with her words. Both men turned to her, their sharp gazes cutting like knives deep into her soul. Her heart pounded, but she kept her voice steady. “Please, this is dinner, not a battlefield.”

For a moment, neither brother spoke. Then Geta chuckled, breaking the silence. “You see, Caracalla? Even my little dove has more sense than you.”

Caracalla’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing, reaching for his goblet instead as he shot daggers at Cecilia. She exhaled quietly. The tension had momentarily diffused, but she knew it was far from gone. The animosity between the brothers was a fire constantly smoldering. She took a sip of her wine. If she could navigate their rivalry, perhaps there was a way to exploit it. If they were too busy fighting each other, they might overlook her. And if they overlooked her, she could crumble the two of them from within.

The conversation moved on without her, Geta and Caracalla discussing the logistics of the games and the political power they wielded through them. Their voices faded into a dull hum in her ears as she stared at the table, her mind elsewhere.

Tomorrow. The games would be bigger, louder, bloodier. She would be expected to sit there, to smile and applaud like a devoted wife. But the thought of it churned her stomach. Tomorrow would come, and with it, more pointless death. But perhaps, it would also bring a chance to tip the scales.

The only comfort she could find as she tried to prepare herself for the games was the idea of General Acacius. Even if she had to act like she enjoyed the horrid events, she would have the General to guide her, to ground her. Even amidst the looming dread of faux smiles and forced applause, the idea of his presence brought a sense of peace. She thought about his embrace that seemed to pull her in when she felt she was drifting away. The same embrace that kept her sane when her world had changed forever just mere hours ago. In that moment, as her world had tilted and fractured, his touch had grounded her, keeping her from drifting into the darker corners of her mind.

The memory was bittersweet. She thought about his broad stature, the way he exudes a commanding yet understated allure, a quiet confidence that draws the eye without demanding one’s attention. She thought of his bold attributes—sharp cheekbones softened by a well-kept, gray beard. His face carried a weathered charm, as if etched by the passage of time and the weight of countless decisions. His gaze is always one full of thought, one that always peered into his soul.

There’s a sense of quiet passion about him, an intensity that suggests he loves with the same fierce devotion he brings to his duties. The thought of that overwhelms her, a crimson blush painting her cheeks as she brings herself back to the dinner table. There was comfort in the thought of Acacius, but also an uneasiness that ebbed and flowed along with it. She knew her reliance on him was growing into a…dependence. That scared her, especially after the news of Atticus’ dishonesty.

“Little dove,” Geta said, bringing her back to reality, “are you ready for bed?”

Her stomach churned, not for sleep, but for the forced implications of laying with the emperor. “Yes, my love,” she stated, standing from the table and bidding goodnight to Caracalla.

Caracalla smirked at the two of them. “You should send her my way sometime, brother,” he nearly laughed, “we always enjoyed each other’s company at the brothel.”

Cecilia froze, Caracalla’s suggestive words hung in the air. Her face burned with humiliation, though she refused to look at Caracalla. She was always disgusted with him, but he was always the highest bidder, of course. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, hidden by the folds of her dress.

Geta’s expression darkened, an arm wrapping around his wife as he spoke. “Watch your tongue, Caracalla,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “She’s mine now, and I don’t share.”

Caracalla chuckled, raising his goblet in mock surrender. “Of course, brother,” he said, his voice laced with amusement. “I wouldn’t dream of it.” But the glint in his eyes suggested otherwise, a deliberate taunt that left the tension evident. Caracalla was a disgusting man. She knew Caracalla probably did dream of her, her image radiating in his disturbing fantasies. Emperor Caracalla did not care if Cecilia was wed to his brother, he would have her either way.

Cecilia forced herself to move towards her shared bedroom with Geta, her legs stiff as she stepped away from the table. Every step felt like she had bricks tied to her ankles. As she reached the doorway, she dared a glance back to look at her husband. Geta was looking at her hungrily, his eyes full of lust and desire.

There was no denying that Geta considered Cecilia one of the most beautiful women in Rome. She had heard him boast about her beauty countless times to senators, dignitaries, and even his own brother. But to her, his admiration felt hollow, empty and seated only in expected desire. She wasn’t his equal, nor his partner. She was his possession—a living, breathing trophy he displayed to assert his dominance in comparison to his older brother.

Her fingers tightened around the doorknob as she tried to collect herself. She had learned long ago how to endure, how to play the role of a pleasured woman. But tonight, as the memory of Caracalla’s taunt echoed in her ears and the weight of her husband’s gaze lingered on her skin, she felt her act begin to diminish.

For now, all she could do was walk forward towards the mountain of sheets, step by agonizing step, toward a night she wished she could escape. As Geta locked the door, he turned to kiss her. She forced herself to stay still, her lips barely responding to him as his lips pressed against her own. When he finally pulled away, his gaze lingered on her, searching for something she wasn’t sure she could give. “You’re mine, little dove,” he murmured, “Don’t forget that.”

Cecilia managed a faint nod, her throat tight as if the words she wanted to say were caught there. “Of course, all yours…your highness,” she whispered, the lie slipping from her lips with practiced ease.

Geta smiled, seemingly satisfied, and moved to the edge of the bed, removing his ornate outer garments. Cecilia stood frozen in place for a moment, her hands trembling at her sides as she urged her body to do something…anything. She felt trapped, suffocated by the weight of his high, impractical expectations for her. She moved toward him, her mind racing for ways to endure another night of this charade.

Just before the rise of dawn, she met Acacius in the alcove just as they had promised one another the afternoon prior. Acacius had beat her there, and was welcoming as she entered their small hideaway. His broad frame was bathed in the faint glow of the first hints of morning light, his silhouette calm and steady as he leaned against the wall, posed just like the support she needed him to be. When he saw her approach, his face softened, and he straightened. He stepped toward her with a warm smile.

“Cecilia,” he said, his voice low but filled with adoration, “You made it.”

“I couldn’t stay another moment in that room,” she replied, but still managed to smile at his comforting gaze. The tension she had carried all night was still coiled tightly in her chest, but something about Acacius’ presence began to ease it. She started to feel like she could breathe again.

As she stepped fully into their little hideaway, he reached out, his hands brushing her arms in a gesture that was both protective and grounding. “You’re safe here,” he murmured, reminding her gently. “What happened?”

Her throat tightened as she looked up at him. The words threatened to spill out, but she hesitated, unsure of where to begin or how much to say. She did not like speaking about it. She felt she could never truly tell him, as the reminder stirred feelings deep within her that caused terror. “It’s…it’s nothing new,” she finally managed, “Just more of the same.”

Acacius’ jaw clenched, his hands briefly tightening on her arms before he let out a controlled breath. “You don’t deserve this,” he said, his voice rough with restrained anger. “Any of it.”

Cecilia shook her head, tears pricking at her eyes. “I don’t have a choice, Acacius. Atticus signed me up for this pain, and I must follow through.”

“Atticus wronged you,” he said firmly, his tone leaving no room for doubt. “But I won’t let you be.”

His words wrapped around her like a balm, soothing the raw edges of her hurt. She let herself lean into him, her forehead resting against his chest. She knew he was right. Atticus had wronged her, and she had needed someone else to tell her that. For a moment, the world outside the alcove faded away, leaving only the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

Acacius wrapped his arms around her, pulling her closer as though he could shield her from the weight of the world. His touch was firm yet tender, his hands settling on her back with a protective instinct that warred against the fire steadily growing within him. He knew he shouldn’t let himself feel this way about her. She was young, fragile. But she was also forbidden to him, bound to a man unworthy of her. Yet, no matter how fiercely he tried to fight it, his feelings for Cecilia only grew stronger with each stolen moment they shared in the small hideaway. Every glance, every word, every touch chipped away at his resolve, leaving him powerless against the tide of emotions he felt soon he would be no longer able to control.

Acacius closed his eyes, his cheek brushing the top of her head as he tried to bring himself back down to earth. Her presence was intoxicating—a bittersweet ache that made his heart race. He wondered if she could feel his heart rate quicken as he held her. He wanted to fight it, to push her away for both their sakes, but every time she sought him out, every time she looked at him with those pleading, vulnerable eyes, he was a goner.

“Cecilia,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion, “I wish I could take you far away from here. Away from all of this.”

She pulled back just enough to look up at him, her gaze filled with a mix of gratitude and sorrow. “If only it were that simple,” she whispered.

He reached up, his hand brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. His fingers lingered, his touch gentle as though she might break under his touch. “One day,” he said quietly, the words more a vow than a hope. “One day, I’ll find a way. You will not live in this reality forever. I promise.

For a long moment, neither of them moved, the weight of their unspoken feelings hanging heavily in the air. Acacius knew the dangers of this attachment. He knew it could cost them both dearly, but in that moment, with her in his arms, he couldn’t bring himself to care.

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pascalhowlett · 1 month ago

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Ethereal Chapter 3

A/N: Hi! Thank you so much for all of the love and support on Ethereal so far! If you would like to read this on A03, you can find that here! Things are finally going to start moving a little this chapter. :)

Warnings: Mentions of r*pe, implied r*pe, graphic depictions of violence, major character death, smut

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x Original Female Character

This is Chapter 3! Find the rest of the chapters on my Tumblr here!

Word Count: 3k

General Acacius took Cecilia back to the palace, leading her through winding corridors until they reached a discreet alcove hidden behind a thick stone wall. A small, almost imperceptible gap revealed a hidden door. It was dark and dimly lit within.

The air there was cooler, tinged with the scent of aged wood and damp stone, a stark contrast to the warmth of the main hall. Soft, muted light filtered in from a single narrow window high up on the far wall, its panes obscured by thick ivy that grew wild and untamed, casting shifting patterns of shadow across the floor. The light wasn’t harsh, but gentle, as though it respected the privacy of this hidden corner.

The alcove’s stone walls, worn smooth by centuries of neglect, were lined with shelves, some holding dust-covered books, others bare except for the occasional forgotten object—an old sword, a tarnished goblet, a broken shield. On the far side, a wooden bench sat against the wall. The bench, though simple, was worn from years of use. It was a place meant for solitude, for reflection, and perhaps even for an escape.

It was quiet, almost sacred, as if it had been forgotten by all but the stone itself. There was no sound here except the occasional rustle of the ivy outside brushing against the window. If you listened closely, sometimes you could hear the soft murmur of distant voices from the main hall.

It was a sanctuary of sorts, hidden from view, a place for secrets, for whispered conversations, or simply a refuge for one who needed a moment of peace away from the weight of the world. The alcove seemed to hold its breath, offering a stillness that stood in stark contrast to the ever-moving world beyond its walls.

“What is this place?” Cecilia asked Acacius in disbelief. Not only was this alcove a safe spot from the threats outside, but it was a small armory, stocked with weapons from swords, daggers, and crossbows to even rations of food and water.

“It is a safe place, unknown to the emperors,” Acacius explained, “a refuge of sorts. This… this is where I gather, train, rest, and try to come up with plans.”

Cecilia's eyes widened. "And you," she said, “you discovered this place?”

Acacius nodded, his gaze fixed on the shadows that danced in the flickering torchlight. "I have kept it hidden for years," he admitted, "I believe it was built by the previous emperor. It’s quiet, a place I come to…escape. ”

“I do not recommend escaping with your thoughts,” Cecilia said, running her hand over the stone wall, “especially not with what you have witnessed as a seasoned General.”

Acacius looked at her, a flicker of something akin to gratitude passing through his eyes. "Perhaps you are right," he conceded, a weary sigh escaping his lips. "Maybe it is time to share this burden."

“Acacius,” she said, begging him, “I need to know more about your connection to Atticus. I must know why I am here and how you know him .”

Acacius looked at her, his eyes filled with a mixture of sympathy and passion. "You are here," he said, his voice low and grave, "because of Atticus."

"What do you mean?" she whispered, her heart pounding.

Acacius hesitated, his gaze now fixed on her.. "The prophecy," he began, his voice dropping to a hushed whisper, "it speaks of a time of great darkness, a time when the Empire will crumble from within."

He paused, his eyes searching her face for some sort of emotion. "Atticus believed in this prophecy. He saw the signs, the cracks in the foundation of this empire before he fled to Numidia. He believed in the people, in their ability to rise up and fight for freedom."

"And he believed in me?" she asked, "but how would he know I would make it here? Let alone be chosen to wed Emperor Geta?"

Acacius's eyes hardened. "Geta's marriage to you was part of Atticus' plan."

Cecilia gasped, her blood running cold. "What do you mean?" she whispered, fear gripping her. How could Atticus put her through such trauma? Was he ever made aware of the consequences, the pain she had suffered with no warning?

Acacius looked at her, his eyes filled with a mixture of grief and pure confusion. "Atticus believed that by marrying Geta or Caracalla, you would be able to infiltrate the heart of the Empire, to gain their trust, and ultimately bring them both down from within."

"But how did he know the lenos would choose me out of all the other women at the brothel? " Cecilia asked, her voice trembling with a mixture of fear and disbelief. "They were far prettier than me, much kinder, and more willing…"

Acacius's eyes met hers. "The lenos are my former soldiers," he said, firmly, "They were made aware of this plan and given the gold to purchase you far before you even set foot on Roman territory."

The realization that her being, her very existence, had been manipulated was unbearable. Atticus, her beloved Atticus, had sacrificed himself to ensure her safety. But, he also had signed her up for a cause bigger than life.

"I do not like this," she said, her voice rising in anger. "Why are men toying with my fate? A fate I was not even aware of?"

Acacius reached out, his hand gently resting on her arm. "Believe me, Cecilia," he said, his voice laced with a sincere apology, "this was not done lightly. Atticus would never have wanted to see you hurt.”

Tears welled up in her eyes, blurring her vision. "He sacrificed himself," she whispered, her voice choking with emotion. "He knew what would happen. He knew your army was coming to attack, didn’t he? He knew he was going to die?”

"He knew, and he knew the risks," Acacius said, "But he also knew that the fate of the Empire could rest on your shoulders."

Cecilia sat down abruptly, the weight of his words crashing down on her. She thought this was a nightmare, but it was a plan. A carefully orchestrated plan, all created and developed in the hands of silly men.

“He believed in you, Cecilia," Acacius added , "He believed in your strength. He believed you could be the one to lead us."

“What if I do not want this? What if I want to be left alone?” she asked.

Acacius regarded her with a mixture of sympathy and unwavering resolve. "You may not want this now," he acknowledged, "but I believe, deep down, you will. Atticus saw something in you, something special."

“Atticus is a liar!” she yelled, “a dirty fool who used me!”

Acacius was taken aback by the ferocity of her outburst. He had not expected this reaction. "Cecilia," he began, his voice calm but firm as he tried to quiet her, "I understand your anger, but…"

"Understand?" she scoffed. "How can you possibly understand? He was my love, my life! And used me, he used his death to manipulate me!"

Acacius reached out to touch her arm, but she flinched away, her eyes wide with panic. He realized that he had misspoken, that his attempt to comfort her had only served to further alienate her.

“I hate him!" she screamed, pacing around the small room, her fists clenched. "I hate him! I don't care what he wanted! We were happy." Tears streamed down her face, hot and angry. "We were planning our future, a life together, away from this… this madness. Or at least I thought...”

She crashed into his chest, sobbing violently, her body wracked with grief and anger. "I hate him!" she repeated, burying her face in Acacius’ chest. The only thing grounding her was his scent, a sweet musk that filled her nose.

Acacius held her close, his arms wrapping around her protectively. He said nothing, simply allowing her to release the torrent of her emotions. He understood the depth of her pain, the raw, unfiltered grief that consumed her in this moment of shock.

As he held her, a strange comfort settled over him. He had always admired Atticus, his courage, his compassion, his unwavering belief in justice. Now, holding Cecilia in his arms, he felt a strange kinship with the man. He felt the weight and the responsibility to protect her.

He looked down at her, his gaze lingering on her tear-stained face. Cecilia, in her grief, was more beautiful than ever. Her spirit, though wounded, remained unbroken. He knew, with a certainty that surprised even himself, that he would do anything to protect her, to help her fulfill the destiny that had been thrust upon her.

He gently stroked her hair, his thumb tracing the delicate curve of her cheek. "Cecilia," he whispered in a desperate attempt to calm her, “I will help you through this. You are not alone.”

Cecilia looked up at him, her eyes red-rimmed. "Neither are you, General.”

The words hung between them, fragile as the night air. His hand remained on her cheek, warm and steady, grounding her, as if he could erase the weight of her sorrow with a simple touch. She drew in a shaky breath, her heart pounding not from the grief that had been consuming her, but from the unexpected tenderness of his presence.

She’d known him as a leader, a warrior—a man of strength and coldness who had killed hundreds. But that night, in the quiet of the room, he was simply… human. A quiet warmth spread through her chest. Here, now, he was a man vulnerable in his own way, reaching out to her, offering something more than just protection—he was offering a connection that she thought she would never need again after Atticus.

As they sat there in the darkness, two souls now becoming bound by grief and a shared purpose, Acacius did not let go of her. He allowed her to cry, doing his best to wipe away the tears that seemed to overflow, one after another, as if each drop carried with it a lifetime of sorrow. He could feel her tremble in his arms, the fragile sound of her sobs breaking his heart piece by piece.

He didn’t speak, knowing there were no words that could fill the empty space between them, no promises that could erase the weight of her loss. There was absolutely nothing he could do to fix what she had experienced in mere hours, and he knew that. The only thing he could offer was his presence—his unwavering support in this fragile moment. His hand gently stroked the back of her head, his fingers threading through her tangled, now unkempt hair, as if he could somehow steady her with the rhythm of his touch.

"Cecilia," he murmured softly, "you don't have to carry this alone."

But she shook her head, the motion small and defeated. "I do," she whispered back, her voice breaking. "I have to. There’s no one else left." Her words were sharp, like jagged glass, and they sliced through the air, leaving a bitter taste between them. "You don’t understand…"

Acacius’s heart tightened. He could feel the weight of her isolation, the way the burden of everything she had lost and experienced pressed down on her. It was too heavy to bear alone. The silence between them stretched, thick and heavy, as he simply held her, his chest rising and falling with each breath. He knew her pain all too well. He, too, had lost so much. The endless battles, the years of fighting, the faces of those who had fallen—he carried them with him, like shadows that never left.

But this—her—was different. She was different.

"You’re not alone anymore," he whispered, his voice raw and vulnerable. His arms tightened around her, as though his embrace could offer some measure of protection from the storms raging inside her. "Not as long as I’m here."

Cecilia wiped her tear-streaked face with the back of her hand, trying to steady herself. "I don’t deserve this," she whispered hoarsely. "I don’t deserve your kindness, Acacius. I am not the chosen one. I called you a killer, I drew conclusions before you could tell me the truth.”

Acacius’s heart ached at the fragility in her voice. He reached out and gently cupped her cheek once more, tilting her face up to meet his. There was a softness in his eyes now, a quiet resolve that seemed to melt through the tension between them.

"You do," he said firmly. "You deserve peace." His thumb traced the outline of her jaw, the touch so tender it almost felt reverent. "Let me help you. I’m not asking for anything in return, I owe this to you. I’m not going anywhere. Not now, not ever."

For the first time since he had met her, there was no battle or tension between them. No politics, no war, no secrets. Just two people trying to navigate a situation that neither of them had asked for. And in that silence, a deeper connection formed between them, one from the raw, untamed human need for comfort and understanding.

Acacius broke the quiet first, his voice unexpectedly steady, as though he'd found a place of calm amid the storm of his thoughts. "I don't know what comes next," he said, his eyes scanning the room as if looking for answers in the shadows. He exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face in frustration. "I’ve spent my life fighting, Cecilia. I’ve learned how to strategize, how to lead armies, how to survive." He paused, almost as if reconsidering his own words. "But I do not know where to begin with this, I am at a loss.”

“We start with what must be done,” she said, slowly releasing herself from his grip to speak, “I will begin listening to Emperor Geta. I will follow his orders, be a wife.”

The words hung in the air between them. For a moment, Acacius didn’t respond, his mind whirling with the implications of what she was saying. He understood the necessity behind her words, but the resignation in her voice struck him deeper than he expected. He could see it in her—the way she held herself in check, as if bracing for the weight of something she could no longer avoid.

"You don’t have to do this,” he said softly, his eyes searching hers, trying to read the resolve behind them. “If you don’t trust him, we can find another way. There are other alliances, other ways to fight this. You do not need to go through any more pain.”

She shook her head slowly, the motion faint but definitive. "It’s not about trust anymore," she replied, her gaze unwavering. "It’s about deception. If I want any chance of influencing Geta, of keeping a hand on this, I need to play my part. I need to be his wife, fulfill his desires, at least in the eyes of those who still believe in him."

Acacius knew she was right, but his heart ached for what she would have to endure under those conditions.This was not a fight she could win with strength alone. This was the quiet war of submission, of manipulation, of being forced into a role she never asked for. And worse, she was choosing it, for the sake of a cause greater than her own freedom.

His gaze softened as he watched her, her expression resolute, the flicker of uncertainty buried deep beneath the surface. He could see it in the tightness of her jaw, the way her eyes held a distant, haunted look, as if she were already mourning the part of herself she would have to sacrifice in order to follow through.

"I know you think this is the only way," Acacius said quietly, his voice low with emotion. "But it doesn’t have to be. You don’t have to do this, Cecilia."

She turned to him, her face a study of quiet strength, but beneath that, he could feel the conflict, the raw fear of her situation. She wasn’t doing this for the emperor. She wasn’t doing it for power. She was doing it because there was no other choice left. She was choosing to endure the cage so that others could have a fighting chance.

"I’m not doing it for anyone," she replied, her voice tight. "I’m doing it because we need to know what he's planning, how far these emperors are willing to go to hold onto their power. I’m doing it because I need to know… how far I can go.

She was right—this was their way in. Their best chance of finding out what Geta was really after. But the cost... the cost was too high.

"I can’t bear the thought of you playing that role," he said, his voice rough. "Not when I know the kind of man Geta is, what he’s capable of. He’ll use you, Cecilia. He’ll twist everything about you, every part of you that makes you …you. You’ll be nothing more than a pawn in his game, and I can’t let that happen to you."

She looked at him then, her expression softer than before, but still filled with a quiet determination. "I’ve already been a pawn in this game, Acacius. We all have been. The only difference now is that I’m choosing my role, choosing how I play."

He wanted to say more, to argue, to tell her she didn’t have to do this, but the truth was, she was right. They didn’t have the luxury of time or perfect choices. They couldn’t wait for another opportunity to fall into their laps. She had made her decision, and there was no turning back now. Any time wasted at that point was the lives of innocent individuals.

"We will meet here every morning," Acacius said, "As the sun rises. I will have an update for you every day as I build the rebellion."

Cecilia nodded, absorbing the weight of his words, the quiet resolve in his tone reaching deep into her. She repeated his words softly, almost as a vow to herself, "Every day before dawn."

Acacius’s gaze softened for a moment, but the intensity in his eyes remained unshaken. "You will not suffer much longer, my lady," he said, his voice low but firm. "I make an oath to you on that."

His words hung between them, heavy with promise. But there was fear too, creeping into both of their thoughts like the chill of the night air. What if it didn’t work?

And yet, there was something in Acacius’s voice, something in the way he spoke with such unwavering certainty, that made her wonder if perhaps—just perhaps—they might succeed.

"I trust you," she whispered, her voice barely above a breath, the weight of the statement more than just words. "And I will wait for you."

"I will not ask you to wait forever, Cecilia," he said quietly, stepping closer, his presence like a steadying force. "I will not let them take any more from you than they already have."

And for the first time since they had met, Cecilia believed him.

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pascalhowlett · 1 month ago

Text

𝐏𝐄𝐃𝐑𝐎 𝐏𝐀𝐒𝐂𝐀𝐋 as 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐋 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐔𝐒 𝐀𝐂𝐀𝐂𝐈𝐔𝐒

Gladiator II (2024). Acacius' ceremonial armor and cloak.

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pascalhowlett · 1 month ago

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Ethereal Chapter 2

A/N: Hello everyone! This is my first time posting a novel length fan fiction on Tumblr, so be patient with me! If you would like to read this on A03, you can find that here!

This is chapter TWO, you can find chapter one HERE.

Warnings: Mentions of r*pe, implied r*pe, graphic depictions of violence, major character death, smut (eventually)

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x Original Female Character

This is Chapter 2! Word Count: 3k

All Parts Here

The air was thick with the scent of jasmine and the distant trickling of the Moulouya River. Cecilia lay sprawled on the bank of the river. Beside her, Atticus traced lazy patterns on her back, his green eyes gazing at her lovingly.

"Tell me a story, Atticus," she pleaded, her voice a soft murmur.

He smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "A story?" he smiled, his voice a low, hypnotic rhythm as he tucked a loose strand of hair away from her face.

“Once…there was a flightless bird, who dared to defy the gods..."

He wove an intricate tale of a mythical bird, imprisoned in a gilded cage, who yearned for freedom. He spoke of courage, of resilience, of the power of love. As he spoke, Cecilia felt a sense of peace course through her, a sense of possibility and hope.

"Who inspired this little bird?" she asked Atticus softly, her voice barely a whisper.

Atticus looked at her, his gaze filled with a tenderness that took her breath away. "Perhaps a lady," he said, his voice husky, "a certain young woman, with eyes as bright as the stars."

Cecilia, blushing, playfully pushed him away. "Atticus!" she chuckled, but her heart soared. Atticus always knew what to say, even if it made her cringe. He knew her, truly knew her. Atticus saw the fire within her, the spirit that rumbled.

He leaned closer, his breath warm on her cheek. "You are more than just a woman, Cecilia," he whispered, his voice soft, reassuring, and loving. "You are a force of nature, a storm waiting to break free. My darling, I thank the gods everyday that I fled Rome. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here with you.”

Cecilia smiled, leaning over and pressing a soft kiss to his lips. His words made her stomach flutter as he fortified a confidence in herself that she hadn't known she possessed. She ran her fingers through his silky black hair, her other hand resting on his broad chest, tracing the contours of his muscles beneath the thin fabric of his tunic. His salt and pepper beard tickled her skin, showing his age. But she did not care, for she loved him all the same. In fact, the lines etched around his eyes, the silver strands in his hair, only served to deepen her affection. They spoke of a life lived, of experiences shared, of a wisdom that came with age.

A low growl rumbled in his chest, a sound that sent shivers down her spine. He deepened the kiss, his hands moving to cup her face, his thumbs gently stroking her cheeks. Cecilia surrendered to the kiss, pulling him closer in a haze of desire and need.

The memory, vivid and poignant, washed over her. She could almost feel the warmth of the sun on her skin, Atticus’ lips against hers. Then, with a jolt, she was brought back to the present, the rustling of the bed sheets bringing her back to reality.

She rolled over in the bed, seeing Emperor Geta sleeping soundly and reminding her of the harsh reality she was facing.. She was bare, cold and shivering from the events of the night. The scent of his cologne, a cloying, nearly sickening mixture of musk and spice, clung to the air, a constant reminder of the violation she had endured. Every inch of her skin seemed to burn with a feeling of regret, a feeling of guilt for something that wasn’t even her doing.

Geta awoke shortly thereafter, blinking against the morning light. He looked around the room, his gaze finally settling on Cecilia, who lay beside him, seemingly asleep. A slow smile spread across his face. He loved seeing her like this, vulnerable, bare, and defenseless.

He leaned closer, pressing a kiss to her cheek. "Good morning, my dove," he murmured, his voice a low caress. He was attempting to be romantic, as there was still a glimmer of hope in him that Cecilia would fall for it somehow.

Cecilia feigned sleep, her heart pounding against her rib cage. She could feel his gaze upon her, a predatory glint in his eyes as he mapped out her naked body. He reached out, peeling the covers back to expose her as he traced the curve of her waist.

"You are so beautiful, little dove," he whispered, his voice husky with desire. He leaned down, his lips brushing against her ear. "Time to awaken," he murmured, his voice a purr. "The day awaits."

"I wish not to go with you today, Geta," she murmured, her voice muffled by the pillow.

Geta knew what she was referring to – the games. In celebration of General Acacius' conquest over Numidia, Rome was holding a special series of events at the Colosseum. A spectacle of brutality and bloodshed designed to impress the masses and solidify Roman dominance. In Cecilia’s opinion, a waste of time, money, and precious resources.

"You must go," Geta said, his voice unrelenting, "they will expect to see the Empress there."

She shook her head, her back still turned to him. "I will not support pointless bloodshed, nor will I be considered an empress."

Geta rolled his eyes and took a deep breath, clearly annoyed with her petulance. "You will go, little dove," he said, stroking her back gently, "this is not up for debate."

"And if I don't?" she asked bitterly.

Every action or breath that came from Geta only made her defy him even more. There was no love present, just his drive to conquer. Geta's smile vanished. "Then," he said, his voice a low growl, "you will learn the true meaning of regret."

"I already know the meaning of regret," she said, silent tears forming and hitting her pillow, "for I have to lay with you."

Geta was taken aback by her words. He had expected defiance, perhaps even a plea for mercy on her soul. But this…this was different. This was a raw, unfiltered expression of her pain. He saw the tremor that shook her body, the way her shoulders slumped in despair. For a fleeting moment, a flicker of something akin to remorse crossed his features. But it was quickly extinguished, replaced by a calculating resolve.

"You will learn to enjoy it, little dove," Geta said, his voice hardening as he pulled her close to his chest, "or you will learn to suffer the consequences."

She closed her eyes, letting more silent tears fall as her body was pressed tightly against his. She craved comfort, the arms of someone who actually cared for her. A handmaiden entered the room, bearing their tunics and robes for the day. Geta, startled by the interruption, released Cecilia abruptly, a flicker of annoyance crossing his features.

Cecilia, seizing the opportunity, quickly slipped out of his grasp, her eyes fixed on the floor. She felt a surge of relief, a momentary escape from his suffocating presence. She thanked the handmaiden, taking their clothes and handing Geta his cloaks.

Geta’s eyes roamed her body once more before he took his clothing and muttered, “get dressed. We must be at the Colosseum within the hour.”

Cecilia, shivering despite the warmth of the room, quickly pulled her gowns over her body. She felt violated, not just physically, but emotionally. He had used her, not just as a political pawn, but as a doll for his deepest desires.

————

They sat in the box on the south side of the colosseum upon their arrival. Along with them sat the Imperial court and General Acacius.

General Marcus Acacius sat behind her as Geta and Caracalla addressed the people. Cecilia sat in her chair, unable to comprehend the vastness of the crowd that had gathered. These people had come to watch others die in celebration of a forced wedding and the killing of innocent people. And she, Cecilia, was a part of it.

"Welcome to the games! A grand tournament," Caracalla announced, his voice booming across the colosseum, "a contest of champions! The victor will be rewarded with riches beyond measure, and perhaps, freedom!”

A roar of approval erupted from the crowd. This was not a celebration; it was a barbaric spectacle for unsolicited entertainment.. The tournament, with its promise of wealth and power, would undoubtedly attract the most ruthless and ambitious gladiators in the Empire.

Geta sat down next to Cecilia as the match began. "Wipe the frown off your face," he whispered in her ear, "you will smile and acknowledge the people in such places as the colosseum."

She sat up a little straighter and tried to plaster on a fake smile. She turned around and locked eyes with Acacius once again. He didn't say anything, but his gaze was warm and inviting, just like the looks they shared the evening prior.

"I've never been to the games before," Cecilia said to Acacius, trying to avoid looking down at the gladiators who were about to be slain.

Acacius’ face contorted at her words as he turned to Geta. "Perhaps this isn't the best place for the lady if this is her first viewing of a fight."

Geta frowned at her, then back at the General. "She'll be just fine. I'm sure she's seen far worse in the brothels."

Cecilia looked at Acacius, shame overcoming her emotions as the truth behind Geta's words stung. She really was born from nothing, and had nothing to show for the life she once lived in Numidia. She had been used, exposed for the pleasure of any man with gold in his pockets. The truth stung, it made her realize how different she was than the people sitting around her.

"They might be able to put the finest gowns on me," she said to Acacius, her voice low, "but they will never change what I am."

She could have sworn she saw a small smile spread across Acacius’ lips.

Emperor Geta slapped her for her smart remark. "From now on you will not speak unless you are being spoken to."

Acacius looked surprised at the act of sudden aggression. Her face stung, a burning ember hue shining where Geta's hand had struck. She simply nodded and turned back around, focusing on the gruesome spectacle unfolding before her. The roar of the crowd, the smell of blood and fear, it was all too much for her ro handle.

“I am speaking to her,” General Acacius spoke out to Geta, his voice firm yet laced with a hint of concern.

Geta, his face a mask of fury, scoffed. "You have no business speaking to my wife, Acacius."

Acacius' eyes met hers, a flicker of something else unreadable passing through them. "Are you alright, flower?" he asked, his voice low and gentle, a stark contrast to the brutality of the arena. He gently touched her cheek. Cecilia flinched at first, but then found solace in the warmth and unexpected kindness of his touch.

"A slap gives no pain like what I endured last night, General," she murmured, her voice barely audible.

Acacius's hand tightened slightly on her cheek, a muscle in his jaw twitching. He knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, the depths of what she had been through in one night with the Emperor. He had seen things that would curdle the blood of the strongest men, but somehow he knew whatever she had been through was much worse.

He looked away, his gaze sweeping across the arena, where the gladiators battled for their lives. "You are stronger than you think," he said, his voice low and gruff. "You have survived this long. Most could not."

Cecilia looked at him, a flicker of hope igniting within her. Perhaps, just perhaps, this man was someone who held her ideals.

"Just think," Geta smiled at her, bringing her attention away from Acacius, "your family died for you to be sitting here with royalty. You've been blessed by the gods, little dove."

Cecilia clenched her jaw. "Sounds more like a curse to me," she muttered.

Geta smacked her once more, and she sighed, holding her cheek that now felt like it was on fire. "Lose the attitude before I throw you into this match myself," Geta said.

Acacius handed her a glass of wine in a desperate attempt to remedy the situation. "Thank you," she murmured to him, taking that as her signal to straighten up and watch the match.

The fights were brutal. Cecilia had never seen so much pointless bloodshed in her life. Bouts of men fought for the entertainment of bloodthirsty politicians. Geta shared drinks with his brother as Cecilia sat in her chair, posed like a doll, a grim spectator to the carnage. Cecilia could have sworn she saw Emperor Caracalla gaining immense, intimate pleasure with himself as the fights ensued.

"Watch your breath around your husband," Acacius whispered in her ear, his voice low and cautionary.

"I'd rather die than conform to his beliefs like a puppet," she replied.

Acacius's eyes met hers, a flicker of passion passing through them. "Then don't conform," he murmured, his voice low and encouraging.

Cecilia felt a surge of unexpected warmth. "I won't," she vowed, her eyes fixed on the gladiators, but her gaze burning with a fierce determination.

"Meet me at the east corridor tonight," Acacius said matter-of-factly.

"Are you trying to lay with me, General? I may be from a brothel, but I am married now, General," she smirked softly, trying to play around with him.

General Acacius liked her attitude and her clear distaste for tyranny. He smiled at her wit. "Not lucky, my lady. I just want to help you."

Cecilia nodded at him as Geta interrupted and pushed her face forward towards the match, an aggressive hold on her cheeks. "Look at them, dove," Geta chuckled, "a fight. Bloodshed, celebrating Rome."

Match after match went on before her, all to please the hungry crowd that continued to cheer it on. The General was the only man who seemed to see the uselessness of it all. "I would like to go to our quarters, please, Emperor," she said quietly to Geta after she felt she had seen enough.

He chuckled, "Not in the middle of a match, little dove. You must stay for the entirety of the games.”

Cecilia sighed, running her fingers over the rigid pattern carved into her wine glass as a sort of grounding mechanism. The glass alone cost more than anything she had ever owned. It was hard to comprehend how these cynical men had everything while people were dying from starvation and illness in the streets of Rome. Not only that, but the poor were the same men they were pitting against each other for entertainment.

"Another glass, my lady?" Acacius asked, his fingertips brushing against hers as he took the cup from her.

"Please, General," she murmured, gratefully accepting the drink.

If she couldn't go to bed, she wanted to drink away the memory of all this useless, pointless death. Acacius filled her glass, still not breaking his eye contact with her.

"May I sit with your Empress, Emperor Geta?" Acacius asked, motioning towards the empty seat next to his own.

Geta, engrossed in the battle, waved Cecilia off to sit with Acacius, not even realizing what he had agreed to. Cecilia let out a small sigh of relief as Acacius took her hand gently, helping her into the chair that was next to him.

"Thank you," she whispered. She realized she found herself thanking the General an awful lot.

"I don't like it either…the games," General Acacius said, "it's not worth the men we lose, potential soldiers if you ask me."

"Soldiers for your army of killers?" she sipped her wine, her voice low.

"I do not expect you to understand, my lady," Acacius said, "but this, the territory Rome conquers, is bigger than you could ever imagine it to be."

"Perhaps you could show me. Maybe you could show me what my lover died for," she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm and challenge.

Another soft smile spread across his lips. "East corridor, flower. Don't forget."

Each time he mentioned the corridor, he spoke quietly, more secretively. Cecilia dared not breathe a word about it to Geta.

"East corridor," she whispered back to him as he clinked his wine glass to hers, giving her a swift wink.

General Acacius was intriguing to her, even with her knowledge of who he was. He was like a game she wanted to play, a puzzle begging to be solved. All the while, he was also warm, inviting, something she had never experienced from a man before. Well, something she had never experienced in someone besides Atticus.

Around the time their glasses met, an arrow went flying between the two of them, landing in the pillar that rested behind their chairs. Screams erupted from the crowd as General Acacius pushed Cecilia down towards the floor, taking her arm to quickly escort her out of the arena.

“General!” Geta yelled, his voice filled with rage. “You do not protect her, you protect me and my brother!”

But his fit was no use. Acacius was already leading Cecilia away, his gaze unwavering as he navigated through the panicked crowd. He had anticipated the danger, it seemed.

Emperor Geta, left alone with his brother, could only watch as Acacius disappeared into the throng, taking Cecilia with him. Cecilia, heart pounding, clung to Acacius's arm. She had never felt so grateful to anyone in her life. He had saved her, just as he had promised.

"You have paid your debt, General," Cecilia told him as he continued to escort her away from the Colosseum, her chest heaving. "Although I am still unsure as to what that debt is."

Acacius paused, his gaze fixed on the chaos unfolding behind them. "Let's just say," he said enigmatically, "I will never be able to pay off the debt I owe to this man.”

Cecilia felt a shiver crawl down her spine. His words were chilling, the implication clear. She was not simply a woman in need of rescuing, Acacius had known she was more than that from the moment they met.

“Who do you owe this debt to?" she asked, her voice quivering, her heart pounding in her chest. She feared she knew the answer, the breath leaving her lungs.

Acacius pulled her into a shadowed alleyway, away from the chaos of the fleeing crowd. "I owe a debt to Atticus Claudius," he admitted, his voice low and somber.

Cecilia froze, her blood running cold. She shook her head, "How... how do you know him?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper, disbelief washing over her. She pushed Acacius as she sobbed violently, "How dare you speak his name?"

Acacius's eyes hardened. "Atticus," he began, the word catching in his throat, "was a close friend before he fled Rome. We served together. We faced down barbarian hordes together." He paused, his gaze fixed on the gravel below. "He was a good man, a brave man. He would have hated this."

Cecilia shook her head. Atticus, her beloved Atticus, had served alongside this man, and had faced war together. But it all didn’t make sense. She knew Atticus had fled Rome, but not that he was an experienced soldier, a soldier strong and memorable enough to have known the General.

"Then why did you let your people kill him?!" Cecilia cried, her voice rising in anger as she pounded against the General’s chest plate.

Acacius flinched, his face hardening as he grabbed her hands gently. "It was war, Cecilia," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "War is messy. There are always casualties."

"But you could have stopped it!" she argued, her voice trembling with rage. "You could have refused the order, you could have…"

She trailed off, the weight of her own grief and anger momentarily overwhelming her. Atticus, her beloved Atticus, died at the hands of the very man who now claimed to mourn his loss.

Acacius remained silent, his gaze fixed on her as he held her wrists. He knew she was right. He could have protested, he could have refused to participate in the slaughter. But ambition, duty, and the weight of his own ambition had clouded his judgment.

He looked at her, his eyes filled with a mixture of guilt and regret. "I… I failed him," he admitted, his voice barely a whisper. "I failed them all."

Cecilia, seeing the genuine remorse in his eyes, felt a surge of unexpected sympathy. He was not just a ruthless general; he was a man haunted by his own failures, a man who carried the weight of his past on his shoulders.

"We both failed him," she said softly, her voice filled with a shared grief. "We both failed to stop this madness."

As Acacius released his grip on her wrists, her hands fell to rest on his chest. She let out a quiet sob, leaning into his broad figure. She found a strange comfort in the hardness of his chest against her bruised cheek. “What must we do, General?” she cried, “how does one stop this pain?”

It was a comfort born from shared grief, from a recognition of the shared pain they both carried. Acacius, surprised by her sudden embrace, hesitated for a moment, then gently wrapped his arms around her, offering a silent comfort.

"We fight back," he said, his voice low and grim. "We find allies, we build a resistance, we expose the corruption that lies at the heart of this empire."

He pulled back slightly, his eyes searching hers. "Are you with me, my lady?"

Cecilia, her heart pounding, met his gaze. "I am," she whispered, a newfound resolve hardening her voice.

"We find others who see the injustice of it all," he said, "People who are tired of this bloodshed, tired of living in fear. We build a resistance, a network of those who believe in a better future."

Cecilia, looking into his eyes, saw a flicker of passion she once saw in Atticus. In that moment, she realized this was about something bigger, about fighting for a better future, a future where people were not mere pawns in a deadly game played by ruthless men such as the Emperors.

He took her hand, his grip firm and reassuring. "We may be few, but we are not alone. There are others out there, others who see the rot at the heart of this empire. We'll find them, I'm sure of it."

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