#Aurelius Flood

[spiritsonic]

Hi Evan! Big fan here, hope I'm not disturbing you at an inconvenient time. I love your work as an artist and writer, but it's not just Sonic that you work on. It would be cool to know more about your work Ensouled. What is it about? Who is the ghost guy and the human girl?

Sure, I’ve been wanting to write some new character bios. Check it all out under the break!

CHARLEY PARKHEARSE

Once, long ago, Charley was the best teamster in Santa Alma county. His stagecoach flew over treacherous mountain roads, One crack of his whip could snuff a candle’s flame from six yards, and any bandit who dared to stop his stage would meet the business end of a rifle. Anyone who cared to comment about his sour temper or murky past knew to keep their voices low… and God help any fool who questioned Charley’s refusal to remove his heavy greatcoat, no matter the weather. 

But Charley’s fame was bound to earn him enemies… When the bandit Sugarfoot learned that Charley was in fact born a █████, the secret spread like wildfire through the mountains. Charley was ruined. He thought his life was over, until he was visited by a being dealing in black magic; a devil known in his human guise as Aurelius Flood. This devil promised to erase Charley’s secret from the minds of Santa Alma’s people, restoring Charley’s reputation, in return for his soul. Charley accepted, though he would not learn the depth of his folly until the night he died… and was raised as a ghost by that same devil, now bound to his service. Still, the devil was true to his word. Charley’s secret was safe, even beyond the grave.

At one point in the many decades since his death, Charley thought he could escape Aurelius’ control. But today… he’s given up that hope. He haunts the roads he was once the master of, frightening drivers to meet his quota of Soul and waiting ‘till his memories fade away, taking the pain of his mistakes with them. That is until, in a flash of ill-advised mercy, Charley spares the life of a young woman he scared off the road…

(Charley is LOOSELY based on Charley Darkey Parkhurst, a real historical figure. Look him up! He's a really cool example of a queer, probably trans person ((by today's standards)) in history. The real Charley's dying wish was to be remembered as a man; a wish that has not been respected by history. I want to explore the pros and cons of living closeted or stealth in an ever-changing world, while also honoring his memory and wishes as best I can in a modern context.)

SEQUOIA LOGANBERRY

Sequoia would like you to believe that she is a monster. It’s easier that way. Ever since her father left for a mistress on the east coast in her senior year of high school, Sequoia has been working a dead-end job at the local amusement park and doing her damndest to drink and drive herself into an early grave. And she almost does it… Until a friggin' SKELETON GUY fishes her out of the lake she drove into?! And now she’s getting these insane migraines and seeing spooky shit everywhere???? 

After a close encounter with death (and Charley), Sequoia develops an unpredictable 6th sense that threatens to finish what she started in her car the other night… Until she’s found by the misanthropic wizard Monty and his much nicer siren husband Luka, who help her get her new powers under control… in trade for her helping them with a few odd jobs. Nothing crazy, just, oh, infiltrating the local magical crime lord’s fey court. Sequoia is just the wild card they need to break a fifty-year standoff between the supernatural powers vying for control over Santa Alma. Sequoia will need to learn fast, about both magic and herself, or else end up a pawn in other people’s plans. Will she be able to make the friends she desperately needs and find direction in her life before she’s swept away?

OTHER CHARACTERS INCLUDE...

MONTY MOUROS, aforementioned misanthropic wizard. Older than he looks. Came to Santa Alma in the 1930’s to earn his fortune, and ended up embroiled in one of Charley’s bids for freedom. It didn’t go well, and he still holds a bitter grudge. He’s guarded the local amusement park, the Boardwalk, from Aurelius Flood for years, but other than that has hidden himself from both the magic and mundane worlds for decades.

LUKA, a siren who lost his singing voice in a trap set by Flood. If not for Monty, it would have taken his life. When they were young the two fell in love, and Luka defied his family’s traditions to be with Monty. They’re still together, and Luka is the only person who can get past Monty’s harsh exterior. Luka now runs a speakeasy for spirits hidden beneath the Boardwalk, where he mixes magical cocktails and turns the rumor mill. He is a kind soul who defines himself through service to others…perhaps to a fault. 

AURELIUS FLOOD, The mastermind behind most of Santa Alma’s woes. A cruelly ambitious leprechaun who thrives on greed, he’s been following the money since the time of the Romans. In the 1800’s he came to the new world, where he found fabulous opportunity during the California gold rush. Assuming a human disguise he carved out a business empire in the mundane world, and a criminal one in the magic world. He built Santa Alma himself, engineering the city’s growth. Fattening a pig for the slaughter. Now, the only thing standing between him and his ultimate payday is Monty and the pivotal bit of territory he controls at the Boardwalk. It’s stymied him for years, but he’s got a new plan…

SUGARFOOT, Flood’s left-hand man. As the illegitimate son of a powerful Californio rancher and an Ohlone woman trapped in the California mission system, fate did not deal Sugar a kind hand. After his father’s family lost their rancho, Sugar turned to a life of crime. He got his sarcastic nickname from a festering leg wound he earned in a shootout with Santa Alma’s top teamster, Charley Parkhearse. As his infection grew, so did his hatred… These mountains should belong to him, not some johnny-come-lately from New Hampshire. So he turned to another stranger for help; Aurelius Flood. In trade for his soul, he gained information; a secret that, if it were to get out, would ruin Charley forever. Sugar leapt at the deal, and got exactly the revenge he’d wanted… until Charley came for him, blinded by rage and shame, and shot him dead in the street. In death, Sugar and Charley found themselves in the same situation… bound to serve Flood forever. As coworkers. Hell would have been a mercy. 

(Sugarfoot is also based on a historical figure of the same name, but almost nothing is known about him other than he was a bandit with a very stinky foot. IRL Charley shot him when he tried to raid his stagecoach.) 

ZINNIA LOGANBERRY, Sequoia’s annoyingly precocious little sister. While Sequoia turned to delinquency after their parents’ divorce to avoid her feelings, Zinnia threw herself into her studies for the same reason. She has become the model student and daughter, earning their workaholic mom’s favor… but man, this kid is Burnt. Out. When she finds out about Sequoia’s new adventures with the supernatural, she throws herself into this new world as a release from her demanding daily life only to once again take things too far. And now, the consequences come with fangs, and hair, and claws…

DEBORAH LOGANBERRY, Sequoia and Zinnia’s mother. She knows she could be doing better by her daughters, but ever since her no-good husband left them, she’s been the family’s sole provider. Her job in the city’s planning and zoning department is the only thing keeping them off of the streets, and the price of housing in Santa Alma is only going up. It’s a matter of survival; surely, once they’re more financially stable, she’ll be able to patch things up with Sequoia. And maybe something will come of the new friendship she’s struck up with Mr. Flood. He IS quite the successful developer, after all… perhaps they could be more than friends?

[suitelifeoftravel]

A Look at Rome's Capitoline Hill: A Walking Tour

Caffe Greco has become somewhat of a Roman institution, and I could not wait to order a cup of coffee, grab an outdoor table and people watch for a couple of hours.  A fellow American, standing in line with me when I ordered my cappuccino, leaned over and said that Italians look down upon ordering coffee after 11 o’clock in the morning.  The server did not seem to mind, so I handed him my money…

[ihavemanyhusbands]

Veni, Vidi, Amavi

Also on AO3

Part I // Mini-Series Masterlist

Pairing: Lucius Verus Aurelius x Fem!Reader

WC: 2.8k words

Summary: After your first encounter, you attend the next games to watch Lucius fight, and celebrate his victory with him after.

Warnings: SMUT (18+ ONLY MINORS DNI), canon naval battle with some canon divergence, graphic depictions of violence, mentions of blood and death, reader is a courtesan (so SW), some angst, mutual pining, semi-exhibitionism (there are guards around), sort of audio voyeurism, unprotected p in v, aaaaand I think that's it but lmk if anything else!

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The roar of the crowd was near deafening as you made your way to the Emperor’s box behind Queen Lucilla, General Acacius, and Senator Gracchus. Hundreds of feet pounded in a war-like rhythm, all eager — or more like absolutely salivating — for a good spectacle. Snapping and jeering like rabid, bloodthirsty dogs.

You would never understand that insatiable, sadistic need to see another’s brutal destruction. Nobody ever thought they would watch somebody they loved be subjected to it, just strangers who weren’t really people in their eyes. But it was more common than most would like to admit, the sand forever stained not just with crimson, but also with the salt of mourning tears.

You hid your unease behind a cool, placid mask, smiling back at Senator Gracchus as he glanced at you over his shoulder. He had been curious when you had first requested to attend the games with him, but having just found out about Prince Lucius’ return and rising fame in the arena, he was amused at your antics. 

Your patron might be old, but he was no fool. Gladiators always caught the eyes of pretty, young girls like you, especially ones such as Lucius. It was really no wonder you’d want to see his glory for yourself, so he had conceded if only to indulge you.

And when he’d helped you off the litter that had carried you to the Colosseum, he had not been surprised to notice you were hiding a garland of myrtle inside your sleeve. A common enough offering to Venus, goddess of love. He made no mention of it, though, content to just watch how things played out. 

Once you’d arrived at the box, each of you knelt in front of the twin emperors and kissed their rings. Emperor Geta smiled down at you in that enigmatic, impish way of his, but his brother mostly ignored you. Not that you really minded escaping his notice, though. Better than his scorn or, worse, his interest.

“Let us begin,” Geta said, his excitement palpable as he rose to address the crowd. “We are all in for a real treat.”

You went to stand next to Queen Lucilla, sensing that her tension matched yours, even if she was perfectly poised and regal. She’d had many more years of experience hiding her true emotions, after all. You shared a small smile with her, both silently recognizing it as a moment of solidarity.

“Citizens of Rome!” Geta called out, his voice rising above the crowd. “Today, in honor of General Marcus Acacius' triumph in taking over Numidia, you will be witnessing no mere games!”

A heavy, metallic noise resounded throughout the arena as it seemed to shift, the ground underneath you shaking fiercely. But what you heard next made dread sink into your stomach like a heavy stone – rushing water. A flood’s worth of it. Soon enough, the arena was immersed and massive sharks were fed into it, menacingly circling about. At opposite sides, great iron gates groaned open to reveal two war vessels flying different colors – Roman and Barbarian.

And captaining one of them was a figure you recognized all too well, even at a great distance. You felt as if a fist were closing in around your throat, robbing you of breath. Instinctively, you stepped forward to try to get a better look, but Senator Gracchus put a hand on your back to stop you from going past the thrones. 

This seemed to anchor you back to the present, and you reminded yourself that the Lucius that you saw in the arena was not the tender one, but the fearsome warrior.

Let him live, you thought pleadingly, clutching the garland tighter. Oh, Gods, please let him live.

General Acacius waved at the crowd, muscles tensed even as he smiled, thanking them for the great honor. Emperor Caracalla, infected by the madness of bloodthirsty enthusiasm, jumped to his feet. 

“It is war!” he cried, smiling sadistically from ear to ear. “Real war!”

If it was even possible, the crowd roared louder, the cacophony railing against your eardrums. Queen Lucilla clenched her jaw, gripping the headrest of one of the thrones tightly. With a shaking hand, you accepted the wine Senator Gracchus offered you and clinked your glass against his.

The two vessels circled each other closely, quickly searching for any weaknesses and readying to strike. The Roman fleet was cocky, though, moving in without a shred of uncertainty. The Barbarian vessel narrowly missed their initial attack, but they came close enough that a few Roman fighters jumped onto their boat.

The loud clash of swords followed, a few bodies falling overboard, some still living. The waters bloomed crimson, the sharks going into a frenzy at the scent of blood. You spotted Lucius again in the chaos, driving his sword through the last invading Roman fighter and yelling out commands to his fellow gladiators. 

Both Emperors leaned over the edge of the balcony, shouting and jeering along with the rest of the Roman populace. General Acacius hovered near them, but he watched as somberly as the rest of you. The vessels came close again, but in a cunning move, Lucius made his rowers pull the oars at the last moment before impact. 

The oars of the Roman vessel tore into the side of the Barbarian one, tipping it sideways but effectively getting them both stuck together. Fighters from both sides clashed once more, desperation seeming to take place as both boats were threatening to capsize. 

Without noticing, you grasped Senator Gracchus’ arm as you waited for the outcome. He placed a hand over yours, watching just as raptly. Numbers dwindled quickly in favor of the Barbarian fighters, and you felt like you could almost sight in relief. But what happened next was so fast that you almost thought you’d imagined it.

Before anyone could actually be declared victor, an archer loosed an arrow that sailed towards the emperor’s box, landing between their thrones. Chaos ensued, the two of them crying in outrage and surprise. Immediately, General Acacius and the Praetorian guard moved to safely evacuate them. 

“Let’s go, all of you!” he commanded, voice booming.

Senator Gracchus ushered you and Queen Lucilla to follow as some guards encircled the three of you. You tried getting one last look at the arena but saw nothing more than the splintered masts of the vessels. Thankfully, Lucius was still alive, at least for the time being.

But just in case, you sent a prayer up to the Gods that nobody else noticed he was the one to shoot the arrow. 

—--------------

A small torch was your only source of illumination as you navigated through the streets of Rome to the prison where Lucius and his fellow gladiators were being kept. After relaying Lucius’ demand to see you, Queen Lucilla insisted on sending one of her guards with you. He marched at your side, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword, ready for any possible assailants leaping forth from the dark. 

You hid your face under a hooded cloak and let your companion speak to the jail’s guard as you arrived at the iron gates. The jail was cavernous, damp, and cool, and oppressive in the darkness of night. You shuddered, unable to fathom being imprisoned in such a place, even for a day. Your heart ached for those who already were, ignorant of when – or if – they might be released.

He guided you to Lucius’ cell, opened the large, heavy padlock, and let you in. Both guards waited outside of the cell to give you some privacy, and you removed your hood so Lucius could see you. He stood up from his cot, a smile slowly breaking out on his handsome face.

You let him take you into his arms and kiss you, leaving you swaying on your feet. You pulled away just enough to look him over as if reassuring yourself he was alive and all in one piece. His smile didn’t falter under your assessment – in fact, it seemed like he was proud to have proved himself to you, keeping the promise he’d made at the bathhouse. 

“Today was… I don’t even have the words to describe it,” you said, hugging him close. “When I realized it would be no ordinary fight, I feared for you… I still do.”

He placed one of your palms on his chest, right over his heart. “You have nothing to fear. I’m here.”

You glanced over your shoulder to make sure the guards weren’t watching, then lowered your voice to a whisper.

“What you did at the end, it was beyond foolish,” you said, shaking your head slightly. “I made an offering to Fortuna for all the favor she bestowed on you today. I do not think anybody else realized, or else we would not be standing here.”

“Another reason to celebrate,” he said, not bothered in the slightest. “Perhaps it was even luckier that the arrow didn’t strike true.”

“You really meant to kill one of the Emperors?” 

He shook his head. “Not them. Acacius. But in reality, I wouldn’t have minded if either of them had fallen.”

“I suppose it was a good thing the rest of us were out of range,” you murmured, looking down.

“I would never harm you,” he said gravely, grasping your chin and making you look him in the eye. “Never.”

You were nearly floored by the sincerity in his gaze, but even more so by the passion you found there, as well. It went beyond lust, even. Nobody had ever looked at you in such a way. You leaned forward and kissed him gently, letting him know that you trusted him.

“I know, Lucius,” you said.

“Then, let us not concern ourselves with anything, or anyone, else for now,” he said. “Tomorrow, the sun will rise and Rome will still be Rome. In the meantime, there is only us.”

The echo of his words at the bathhouse made you smile softly. A part of you wanted to ask more questions about his wanting to kill Acacius, but there was a slight edge of finality to his tone. Regardless, it wasn’t like you wanted to waste what little time you had together lecturing him. 

You reached up to undo your cloak, intently holding his gaze, and let it fall on his cot. “Claim your prize, then, fierce warrior. I am all yours.”

With a glance outside, he extinguished the torch in his cell and closed the distance between you. His lips melded against yours desperately, tongue slipping into your mouth. With ease, he lifted you into his arms, your legs wrapping around his waist.

He sat on the cot so you could straddle him, his hands wandering down your back and settling on your ass, giving it an appreciative squeeze. He groaned into your mouth, his chest rumbling against yours. He pulled your dress over your head as best as he could, leaving you in your thin shift. 

His hands traced the curves of your hips and waist, like a sculptor working clay into a masterpiece. He cupped your breasts, your nipples poking through the fabric, and you leaned back to give him access. He managed to pull the shift down to your midsection, revealing your chest. He trailed open-mouthed kisses on your sternum, moving lower. 

His tongue teasingly flicked one of your nipples, making you suck a breath through your teeth. He lavished them both with attention, the graze of his teeth and the pinch of his fingers igniting a fire within you. You continued trying to be as quiet as possible, even if he made it extremely difficult.

You reached between your bodies to palm his growing erection over his tunic. His hips bucked upward, seeking more of your touch. One of his hands cupped the back of your neck, leaning your forehead against his.

“How does it feel,” he rasped. “To be the only one who can disarm me so completely?”

You felt a heady, triumphant rush, nipping at his bottom lip. “I’ll keep the secret for you.”

He chuckled, surrendering to another fervent, dizzying kiss from you. You hiked up your shift as he lifted you slightly so he could free his cock from beneath his tunic. You spat on your hand and reached down to spread it on the sensitive head, moving to grip the base so you could line it up with the entrance of your cunt. You sank down slowly, your face so close to his you seemed to share breath. 

“Just like that,” he groaned, hands gripping your hips tightly. “I needed this more than you know…”

“Let me take care of you,” you whispered, letting out a breathy moan, head tipping back in ecstasy. 

You felt like you were filled to the brim by him, clouding all your other senses. He slid in and out of you easily, your arousal dripping down his length and pooling on his sac. His mouth was on your chest again, your fingers weaving through his hair. 

“Oh, Lucius…” You sighed dreamily. 

He pulsed at the sound of his name on your lips. In order to prolong the pleasure for both of you, he rolled you onto your back on the cot, keeping himself sheathed inside of you. He pushed your legs back, driving your knees past your elbows, his weight pinning you down. 

His thrusts were deep and hard, but not fast, intent on letting you feel him in his entirety. Your face contorted with pleasure, the intensity of it all nearly too much for you to bear. He groaned your name with the intensity of a supplicant. His sac tightened as he felt you squeeze around him, knowing he wouldn’t last too long no matter how much he tried. 

“Say my name again,” he said, eyes blazing. “Say who you belong to.”

“Lucius,” you panted deliriously, tears gathering on your lashes. “Ah, Lucius!”

His thrusts picked up the pace, frenzied, the sound of flesh slapping together unmistakable. You cupped his face in your hands as you felt yourself coming apart under him, trembling. A cry threatened to escape you, but he covered your mouth with one hand, muffling it. 

He shushed you gently, but his breathing became ragged as he reached oblivion himself. You felt warmth flooding your cunt, his last thrusts shallow, fucking his spend deeper inside you and making sure no drop was wasted. He uncovered your mouth and kissed you as if in apology, both of you dazed and content.

He rolled over to lie very closely at your side, the cot barely big enough for the two of you. His strong arms enveloped you once more, making you feel safe perhaps for the first time in your life. There were still a few hours before sunrise – before Rome and everything else that came along with it became real again – so you could languish with him for a little while longer.

The last thing you wanted was to untangle yourself from him, anyway, instead nuzzling closer. Your fingers softly traced patterns on his forearm as you pondered what this might mean for the two of you.

“Do you… really intend to stake your claim on me?” You asked tentatively. “Outside of this?”

You deliberately avoided any specific labels, not foolish enough to presume anything. Things were still precarious and new, but you already felt bonded to him in a way you couldn’t truly explain, and a part of you had to believe he felt the same way.

“Of course,” he said, but seemed hesitant to say more.

You shifted onto your belly to look at him, his fingers now tracing up and down your spine lazily. 

“Are you certain?”

He nodded, sighing deeply. You’d already known there was a lot weighing on him that he did not speak about, and while you didn’t want to add to his burden, you needed to know this. If only to save yourself some pain.

“There are a great many things at stake right now, including my freedom,” he said, looking up at the ceiling pensively. “Much of what I still have to do is dangerous, and only the Gods know the outcome of it all. I intend to do everything in my power to protect you, in the meantime, and I cannot allow you to become a part of what must happen. I cannot risk losing you.”

You weighed his words for a moment, then nodded in understanding. “You are lucky, patience is a virtue I possess in great quantities.”

He looked back at you and kissed the tip of your nose affectionately. 

“I don’t make promises I don’t intend to keep,” he said, lacing his fingers through yours. “And I can promise you that as soon as I walk a free man, the first one I will run to is you.”

-------

[blueiscoool]

Rome’s Ancient Arch of Constantine Struck by Lightening

During a storm on September 3, lightning struck Rome’s Arch of Constantine, chipping the structure’s marble surface. The 1,700-year-old arch and its neighbor, the Colosseum, were two of several sites affected by the thunderstorm, which produced 2.36 inches of rain in less than an hour. Usually, the city sees a similar amount over the entire month of September.

“A lightning strike hit the arch right here and then hit the corner,” a tourist at the site told Reuters’ Alberto Lingria. “We saw this fly off,” the tourist added while pointing to a fallen block of stone.

Finished in 315 C.E., the Arch of Constantine is one of Rome’s three surviving ancient triumphal arches, each erected to honor a person or event. This arch commemorates Constantine I’s 312 victory over the emperor Maxentius. That same year, Constantine devoted himself to Christianity—the first Roman ruler to do so.

The fierce storm also felled two large trees near the Circus Maximus, flooded the Trevi Fountain and flooded the Colosseum’s subterranean tunnels, reports CNN. After lightning struck the arch, staff of the Colosseum Archaeological Park quickly gathered its dislodged pieces and placed them in a secure location, according to a statement from Italy’s Ministry of Culture.

In the days that followed, some tourists stumbled upon additional pieces on the ground.

​​“My American group found these fragments, and we’re handing them over to the workmen,” tour guide Serena Giuliani told the London Times’ Tom Kington on the morning of September 4.

Specialists are now examining the condition of the fragments. Officials say the damage was limited to the monument’s southern side, where unrelated restoration work had started just days earlier, allowing for quick repairs.

At roughly 70 feet tall and 85 feet wide, the Arch of Constantine contains three separate arches, each framed by columns. The intricately decorated structure is adorned with recycled fragments, or spolia, taken from other ancient buildings, including monuments honoring Trajan, Hadrian and Marcus Aurelius.

The arch is also decorated with carvings of Constantine, including a series of reliefs depicting his victorious fight against Maxentius in the Battle of the Milvian Bridge.

In 306, Constantine was leading Roman troops in Britain—then part of the Roman Empire—when his military declared him their emperor. His brother-in-law, Maxentius, also declared himself the emperor around the same time. After years of complex power struggles, the two rulers ultimately faced off in 312 at Rome’s Milvian Bridge, which overlooks the river Tiber. Panels on the Arch of Constantine depict the battle’s conclusion, showing Maxentius’ troops drowning in the river.

The arch’s recent encounter with lightning may have carried spiritual significance for its ancient builders, as “the bolts were believed to be the work of the gods,” per the Times. These spots were sacred for the Romans, who sometimes erected temples at such sites.

By Sonja Anderson.

[megraen]

Chapter One - Vessel of Venus

WORD COUNT: 5,673

@barcelonaloverf1life @quuinyoung

Imperial Palace - Rome 190AD

Lucia lay on her soft, silken feather bed, gazing at the marble stone ceiling without thought or care. She had been lying there for hours, having hardly slept a wink at night. She wasn’t sure if she was just restless or was wracked with anxiety over today.

All the senators of Rome were gathering at the Imperial Palace, ready to send off General Acacius on his conquest of Numidia, as the two new emperors ordered. Caracalla and Geta were twins; therefore, they were made co-emperors when their father passed away just four years ago. Both were not that much older than her, but they were adults, just twenty-one years of age, ambitious and naive to ruling a vast Empire as glorious as Rome.

Lucia’s grandfather had been Emperor once. Marcus Aurelius had ruled for nineteen years before being murdered and replaced by his son, Lucia’s uncle, Commodus. After Commodus’s death, within weeks, a senator named Lucius Septimius Severus convinced the senate to vote him Emperor. He only ruled for seven years. Lucia couldn’t help but ponder how long these twin emperors would last, as they always seemed to die like flies, with some other power-hungry soul grasping for the throne for themselves.

“You’re still in bed?!” The shrill and lecturing tone of her mother made her turn her head, seeing the woman standing in the open chamber doorway with three imperial enslaved people behind her, all female. They waited patiently as Lucilla darted around the bed, forcing her daughter to sit up. “I expect more from you. You’ll be eighteen soon.” She continued to lecture, pulling Lucia to her feet and guiding her to sit at a small vanity table. Lucilla gestured to the enslaved people, and they rushed in to prepare Lucia.

They combed at her dark hair, pinning it and ensuring her cheeks were rouged with crushed rose petals. Having spent so long trapped within the imperial Palace, Lucia’s skin was attractively pale, adding to her richness.

Lucilla approached with a pale gold silk chiton draped over her arms, holding it out to the enslaved people. They got Lucia to stand before stripping her out of the cotton gown tunic she’d used for sleeping. They dabbed a rich, scented perfume on her naked body before helping her into her dress, clasping the metal pins that held it to her frame. Lastly, they pinned jewels to her ears to create the final adornment of her garment.

“Perfect.” Lucilla smiled. But it was a forced smile. She rarely truly smiled anymore. The years hadn’t been kind to her. The gods had taken away everyone she’d loved, leaving her daughter untouched, yet as soon as the senators began clawing for power before Commodus was even buried, they had locked Lucilla and Lucia within the Palace, using the excuse that they were ‘guests under their protection’. It was all lies. As long as Lucilla had a working womb, she could birth an heir for Rome.

Lucilla was fortunate to have married a good man after the death of her family. Yet, Lucius Septimius Severus kept sending the man away any chance he could, ensuring no child would take root in Lucilla’s womb. And now, with him gone and his sons as emperors, Lucilla’s husband was being sent off to fight another war to add another kingdom to Rome’s Empire.

“Come, let’s not keep the Emperors waiting,” Lucilla spoke, latching onto her daughter’s wrist and pulling her out of the chambers. Lucia looked deathly bored as her mother guided her to the throne room. General Acacius wouldn’t enter until his wife and stepdaughter were by his side, which meant delaying his send-off and would anger the two co-emperors. The twins were eager to see the conquering of Numidia and, no doubt, had many other kingdoms in mind to add to their growing Empire. But wars took time and resources, something that was limited. Soldiers and people died, crops withered, plagues came, floods and fires. It took away from Rome, limiting her ability to grow and expand over nations.

General Acacius had been pacing back and forth in the hallway outside the throne room, listening to those within talk and mingle, voices raised. His tardiness wouldn’t go unpunished, but so would entering without Lucilla and Lucia. His rank as general was one thing, but his wife and stepdaughter were considered princesses of Rome, and the peasants greatly admired the women. Acacius turned his attention sharply when he heard the sounds of sandals clicking against the marble floors. He wants to smile at the sight of the two women who held his heart but signed instead. “You’re late.” He hissed lowly, his brows creasing.

Lucilla frowned and gestured behind her to Lucia. Acacius’ face softened at the teen, noticing the displeased look on her face.

“My sweet Rosa…” Acacius reached for his stepdaughter, taking her by the shoulders and bringing her in close, hugging her tight. Rosa had been a nickname he’d given her when she was eight after she had made a crown of roses for both her mother and stepfather at their wedding. “I will return to you and your mother.” He promised.

Lucia continued to scowl as he pulled away from the embrace. “You’re going off to war again. Only the Gods know when you shall return, or even return at all.” She spoke sombrely. The last two campaigns he’d let had lasted three and five years, a total of eight of the ten that he’d been her stepfather. And she feared he wouldn’t return each time, knowing that Acacius was the only man in Rome who cared for her and her mother, not wishing to use them for his own glory and power.

General Acacius might have been the only perfect soul left in Rome. He didn’t desire riches or power to have a name held in history. All he wanted was for Rome to survive and its people to prosper.

“Here,” Acacius pulled a chain from around his neck, revealing the necklace hidden under his arm. He carefully guided it over her head, allowing the pendant to rest just past her breasts. “It had been my mother’s. I’ve always worn it to have her with me. I want you to have it so you know I will return for it.” Acacius spoke. He smiled when Lucia studied the pendant, twirling it in her fingers. It was an old coin adorned with gold and pearls. It wasn’t the most precious piece of jewellery or even something that screamed wealth with its simple design, but the meaning behind it had Lucia’s heart swelling.

“Then I shall keep it safe for your return,” Lucia spoke firmly, letting the pendant fall from her fingers. Acacius nodded, approving of the idea.

“We mustn’t keep the Emperors waiting any longer.” Lucilla pressed, interrupting the sweet moment between the stepfather and stepdaughter and guiding her husband to the large ornate doors. Lucia fell into place behind them just as Acacius gestured to the guards to open the doors. The sound of the loud hinges echoed as they were pushed open, silencing those inside the throne room.

All eyes were on Acacius and his wife as they walked through the hall, approaching the twin thrones of the Emperors. Yet Lucia could feel eyes on her. Senators gleaming at her with ambition. She was just like her mother. A golden womb that bore the potential for power and the next Emperor to be born to a wealthy and influential family. Lucilla and Acacius were already aware of the whispers and plotting of several senators, who looked at Lucia, waiting for them to sink their claws in and bind her to them in marriage. But it wouldn’t happen. Lucilla wouldn’t allow it. She wouldn’t have her daughter face the same fearful encounters as she had.

It was common for noble-born girls to be married by fourteen, two years after becoming marriageable in Roman culture. Until Lucia reached twenty, she was protected from the Lex Papia Poppaea law, which dictated that a woman must be married by the time she was twenty years old or face penalties, such as being barred from inheritance if her mother and stepfather were to pass. It had been ironic that the law had been decided long ago by two unwed senators.

They stopped before the thrones and bowed, with Acacius placing his fisted hand over his heart in a salute. Geta and Caracalla smiled at the sight, but their annoyance was evident.

“I thought you’d miss your send-off,” Geta said calmly, yet his voice sounded threatening. He was lecturing Acacius for making them wait.

“Apologies, your majesties. My stepdaughter was mourning my departure.” Acacius stated, looking at his Emperors. The excuse was meant with narrowed eyes from the senators, many seeming it flimsy. Acacius and Lucilla didn’t flinch. The general knew to be firm with so many eyes on him, but Lucilla struggled inside, one straw from breaking her facade.

Geta and Caracalla looked past the married couple, their eyes on Lucia. She was meeting their gaze, just as courageous as her mother. Geta’s lip twitched.

“I see,” Geta said. His eyes travelled back to the general. The twins had lived at the Palace since they were eleven and, with that, spent their days playing with Lucia in the Palace gardens, just as caged as she was. But as the twins aged, they had drifted apart from her, their interests taking on the more expected whoring and drinking of teenage boys, while Lucia drifted towards reading and music.

Geta had gestured for an enslaved person to step forward, carrying a well-forged sword, to be gifted to Acacius for his new campaign. The general had accepted it graciously from Geta. Caracalla stood still, watching it all occur, clearly bored and not wishing to be there. He wanted to be in his chambers, chasing naked enslaved women around as he laughed and drank himself into a stupor, yet his twin had stressed formalities. They had to be united and imperial in front of Rome’s populace and its senators; at least, they came off as weak and effortlessly brought down by others who sought their throne.

Acacius stood poised as the enslaved person attached the sheathed sword at his waist. “It is a fine weapon. You honour me, your majesties.” He bowed again, the enslaved person stepping away. Geta smiled, pleased with the praise.

“We expected the conquering of Numidia quickly, general.” Caracalla drawled. There was a cheeky smile on his face, boasting of his power and influence within the throne room. Many senators nodded along and murmured. Acacius kept a straight face. Unlike the senators and Emperors, he knew war. He knew it wasn’t easily won with just thought alone. It took strength, determination, planning, and loyalty. As long as his men were well-fed and in good spirits, they had a fighting chance.

“As my Emperors command.” Acacius bowed again.

Geta smiled, ushering everyone from the throne room to the palace steps to see off the general and his army. The two emperors strolled behind, uncaring to take their time. Unlike Acacius, they were allowed to be late. The populace cheered as they lined the streets, some weeping for their husbands and sons going off to fight, not knowing if they would ever return.

Acacius had given Lucilla a long and passionate kiss, his hands cupping her face like he never wanted to let go. The public cheered at the sight, enthralled by the general’s love for the princess of Rome. When Acacius finally and reluctantly pulled away, he turned to Lucia, pulling the teen into a tight embrace.

“Be strong for your mother,” Acacius whispered into her ear. “And do behave yourself.” He lectured when he stepped away, giving his stepdaughter a pointed look. Lucia smiled as she watched him step down the long carved stairs to this awaiting chariot and second-in-command, Darius.

Lucilla wrapped her arms around her daughter, holding her close. Both needed comfort from one another as they watched the chariot begin to move down the paved streets, the formation of soldiers moving behind towards Rome’s docks, where a fleet of ships would be waiting for them.

Streets of Rome - Rome 195AD

The Praetorian Guard ran through the streets of Rome, shoving any poor citizen that happened to be in their way aside as they searched for their target. It was the thirteenth time Lucia had managed to abscond from the Palace, sneaking out in some ungodly manner and hiding among the populace, increasing each time she did. When she did, the twin Emperors had sent their royal guards after her, knowing that only their best and personal guards could drag her back to the Palace safely. The Emperors had held many investigators into how the woman was escaping their Palace, deeming it a risk to her safety and their own. If someone could sneak out, someone could easily sneak in, and that someone could be an assassin.

It was no secret to the populace of Rome that Lucia had a knack for sneaking out and evading the Praetorian. Every time the people saw the guards running through the streets, they knew it was because Lucia had escaped. Some more affluent Romans liked to bet on how long the guards would take to find her and return her to the Palace.

One Freewoman, Fosca, stood in the doorway of her home, watching a handful of guards run past with a bored expression. She was the wife of Darius. She had been alone with her husband’s departure to the Numidia war five years ago. While she had been with child when he left, the Gods had been cruel to take her son from her when it had only been weeks old. Her eyes narrowed as the last soldiers rushed by before finally reentering her home and shutting the door behind her.

“They have passed!” She yelled out, stepping through the entranceway into the atrium and around the shallow pool that collected rainwater. Her home was in an upper-class district of Rome, given her husband’s rank as second-in-command. Around her, her family’s slaves scuttled past, their eyes down as they didn’t wish to anger their mistress. Fosca stepped into the tablinum, an office space used for entertaining guests that overlooked the gardens at the back of her home. There sat Lucia, dressed in a slave’s gown she’d stolen from the Palace. “You look ridiculous,” Fosca commented, sitting on one of the sofa opposite the princess.

“No one looks twice at a slave,” Lucia commented. It was a wise statement. The only women who seemed to have eyes following them were wealthy ladies due to the fortunes attached to their names and their great beauty. As an enslaved person with dust and grime on her skin, Lucia didn’t look appealing, and if a man did happen to touch her, she could claim to serve a powerful senator, making them flee from the influence that offending a senator could bring. One didn’t touch another man’s slave unless he was willing to pay a hefty sum for his offence.

Fosca rolled her eyes. She clicked her fingers impatiently at a passing slave. “Why do we have no wine?” She snapped, making the slave bolt to the storeroom to fetch a good vintage. Fosca would only want the finest for entertaining Rome’s royalty. Fosca lounged back on the sofa. Her golden hair curled and perfectly styled, and her body draped in deep red stola. Lucia found Fosca to be a strong personality, a bold and forceful woman when interacting with others, making Lucia ponder if Darius had chosen the woman because of how much she reminded him of his fellow soldiers.

When the slave finally returned carrying the wine and two goblets, they quickly placed them on a carved stone table and poured each glass to the top. Fosca outstretched her hand expectantly, and the slave gave her a glass. She smiled when she could finally take a sip, the rich taste flowing over her senses. Lucia swirled and sniffed her glass before taking a sip. While the wine was indeed good, it couldn’t compare to the collection at the Palace.

“So…what made you flee luxury today?” Fosca enquired, eyeing the younger woman. Fosca was only four years older than Lucia and married her husband when she was seventeen. Sadly, she had yet to bless her husband with a single child, which was hard to do when he was often away at war.

Lucia wanted to snort at the question but held back. Of course, Fosca would call her life luxury; she hadn’t experienced being locked away and followed by enslaved people and guards day and night. She and her mother were prisoners, unable to communicate or see the world outside the Palace.

“A cage is still a cage, no matter how gilded it is,” Lucia remarked, earning a quirked brow from the woman. The blonde’s eyes followed Lucia as she moved into the doorway overlooking the well-maintained gardens. “Had I been born male, I would have been sent away like my brother. I know not if he is alive or dead, but he is free from Roman politics.” She stated firmly. Lucia pondered what type of man her brother had become now that they were twenty-three. When she saw herself in a looking glass, despite being twins, Lucia knew her brother would look vastly different to her, as he was male and she female. But did they look similar now to when they were children? She thought of Geta and Caracalla. They had similar characteristics, but they had never been identical look-wise.

“Then marry.” Fosca retorted boredly. “You are a woman with a fertile womb. Any man would be fortunate to call you wife.”

Lucia rolled her eyes noticeably as she turned to face her friend. “It is this very womb that keeps me caged. The Emperors fear me baring a son that would threaten their rule, just as their father feared my mother doing the same.” Her hand came to rest on her stomach, just over her womb. “Even if a suitable man came along who I could love, they would never allow me to marry.”

“Then marry one of them. They’re both handsome, rich and powerful.” Fosca sighed, clearly having no interest in such a conversation. She did not understand Lucia’s plight and didn’t wish to, deeming that the younger woman’s issues could all be fixed with marriage—and they usually were. Lucia frowned at the suggestion. Yes, Geta and Caracalla were handsome, rich and powerful, with many young women throwing themselves at the twins and risking scorn and death for giving the men their virtue in the hopes of marriage; the Emperors were still her captures.

Fosca groaned dramatically. Handing her wine off to her slave, she got to her feet and stomped towards Lucia, poking her hard in the stomach. “You’re twenty-three, you won’t have your youth and beauty forever, and soon your womb will wither. Turn your prison into your key to escape rather than sneaking out and causing trouble for all of Rome.” Fosca’s words were spat from her pained lips like venom, painting a far harsher version of Fosca than Lucia was used to. “Our Emperors are twenty-six, and soon they will need heirs.” The blonde tried to reason.

“So you suggest I turn myself into a breeding sow?” Lucia asked callously. Fosca snorted and rolled her eyes. All women were breeding sows for their husbands; it didn’t matter if it was a slave or a Freewoman of various castes. It was a glory for a woman to provide her husband with sons; the more, the better. Lucia’s face softened when she realised why Fosca spoke to her so coldly and without heart. Ten years of marriage, and she hadn’t a single living child to so for it. In the eyes of Rome, Fosca would be deemed cursed or barren, and it would be all her fault Darius had no children. Lucia hadn’t wedded yet and had never tried to fall pregnant; therefore, the matter of her fertility was a mystery and something Fosca could be jealous of.

“Forgive me, my friend,” Lucia murmured, searching Fosca’s hazel eyes for an understanding. Fosca relaxed, understanding that she had overstepped towards someone of a higher status than her, but the scowl didn’t fall from her face.

“You’re forgiven,” Fosca grumbled. She moved back to her spot on the sofa, and her hand outstretched toward her slave for her drink to be returned to her. As soon as the goblet was back in her hands, she took a large gulp of the wine, wishing to calm herself further.

Lucia sat beside her, her fingers tightening around the stem of her cup. “I do not think I could ever trust them,” She said, looking down into the rich red wine and seeing her face reflected on the surface. Fosca’s eyes narrowed as she thought about the statement. It was well-known between the two women that General Acacius and Darius held no love for the two Emperors and didn’t even trust the twins. Many whispered about Geta and Caracalla being tyrants, using Rome as their playground. Lucia knew never to leave her chambers when they held their debaucherous parties, the Palace littered with intoxicated nobles drinking and fornicating. There were rare moments when Caracalla would coax nobles into sword fights just for entertainment, Geta smirking as he watched.

“Make them trust you,” Fosca spoke earnestly. She reached out a hand, touching Lucia’s thigh motherly. “Men would let a pretty face lead them off a cliff if she battered her eyes hard enough. All of Rome’s influential men see you as a pretty face and a walking womb with no thoughts inside your head. Let them.” She suggested, sipping her wine coyly.

Lucia sat quietly, thinking about her friend’s advice. It was true that no man took a woman seriously in Roman culture, expecting her to be subservient to what he wanted, even if she was the wife of a powerful senator. Women were considered weak and simple-minded, unable to measure up to their male counterparts. But to use that very thought against them was tempting and dangerous. If Lucia had attempted such a feat and been discovered, there would have been no telling how far Caracalla or Geta would go when their rage controlled them.

“Now, you’ve taken up much of my time, and I don’t wish to have the Paediatricians kicking down my front door,” Fosca spoke, rising from the couch and handing her empty cup to the slave.

Lucia obeyed, standing up. “They won’t expect to find me here. The wife of a loyal Roman soldier, they would expect you to hand me over.” Lucia said she would drink the last of her wine before placing the goblet on the carved stone table. Fosca laughed at her friend’s observation. The guards most likely did expect that. They also assumed Lucia would go to ‘obvious’ hiding places, such as busy markets, taverns or plays. Fosca walked her through the lavish home to the entranceway, adjusting the shawl to conceal Lucia’s face better.

“You be careful now.” The blonde lectured, eyeing her friend sternly.

Lucia chuckled. “And you.” The two women hugged briefly before Fosca opened the front door and peeked outside to ensure no guards were in sight. With a nod to Lucia, the princess slipped outside, quickly casting her eyes around the busy streets for anyone watching and paced away from Fosca’s home. To anyone, she looked like a slave being sent on an errand by her mistress, but Lucia still needed to keep her guard up. Rome wasn’t as safe as the senate deemed it to be, but they strolled around with their guards without a care for the peasantry.

She looked at Palatine Hill in the distance, home of the Emperors and the senate. It was a collection of temples, government buildings, and the Palace of Domitian, all surrounded by walls and heavily guarded. It was the seat of Rome’s power, nestled between the Colosseum and Circus Maxima, where the Emperors could travel safely to gladiator fights and chariot races. The Palace of Domitian was built over a hundred years ago for Emperor Domitian and all the Emperors who followed. Some smaller villas, such as the House of Augustus, couldn’t compare to the majesty of the Palace of Domitian.

Stepping closer along the walls that circled Palatine Hill, Lucia peeked around the corner, searching for any guards who could be patrolling, but saw only the guards keeping watch over the entrances. None of the lower public dared to get too close. They would never be allowed onto Palatine Hill’s grounds as they were not nobles or senators, and only enslaved people who bore the Imperial brand on their skin could pass.

Making her way to the aqueducts that boarded the high walls, Lucia stayed out of sight as she pushed a large bush aside and crept forward. Hidden low in the wall and behind a cluster of bushes was a metal grate that gave access to a secret tunnel into the Palace of Domitian. Lucia wasn’t sure when it had been built into the Palace structure, only knowing that her grandfather had informed her mother about it, and her mother passed that knowledge on to her. The young woman assumed it was a hidden escape route built for a previous royal family. Such precautions were deemed necessary with the dangers that constantly loomed over the Emperors and their heirs.

Lucia knew that Geta and Caracalla did not realise that the secret tunnel existed, much to her and her mother’s benefit; if they had, they would have taken action to ensure it was inaccessible.

Slipping inside a long, dark passage, with only the straight ongoing trek to guide her, Lucia ignored the sounds of rodents that scrambled past her feet until she reached the end of the passage. A false wall acted as a door into a storeroom in a far dark corner to hide the comings and goings of those who knew of the passage from spying eyes. Lucia entered quietly, pushing the wall closed while glancing around, noticing the room was empty of any lingering slave or servant. She reached for a basket, holding a fine chiton and a jug of water to clean her skin, quickly using a rag to wipe the purposely placed grime from her arms and face before finally changing her clothes. Folding the slave’s tunic and shawl into the basket and tucking it away from being easily noticed, Lucia made for the storeroom door, slowly pushing it open and peering outside.

Smiling, Lucia stepped into the hall and made quickly for her chamber. She knew if caught, she’d be taken straight to the Emperors, where they would lecture her and confine her to her chambers as punishment, just as they did every other time she snuck out, but it did nothing to discourage her. Being chamber-bound or locked to the Palace was just as bad as the other. Lucia needed to experience Rome, its people, and what existed outside of Palatine Hill. The coy smile on her lips fell when she rounded the corner to her chambers, spotting two guards outside the doorway, something the Emperors had never ordered.

“Ugh…” Lucia grumbled when the guards snapped their attention to her, their eyes narrowing coldly. They took one step towards her, their posture threatening. “Yes, yes.” She muttered, her hands raised defensively. “Lead the way.” Lucia stepped forward, one guard leading her while the other followed behind, ensuring she couldn’t flee.

Palace of Domitian - Rome 195AD

The twins lounged back on the plush sofas of the Palace banquet hall, surrounded by some of the finest prostitutes money could buy, each one scantily clad and faces heavily painted. Caracalla was laughing garishly, a goblet of wine in one hand as his free hand traced over the skin of the closed woman, leaning into him eagerly, wanting his sole attention. His eyes flickered to his older twin brother, Geta, pacing the room hastily while sipping his wine. The sight made Caracalla’s lips quirk.

“Relax, brother. Calm yourself with one of our guests.” Caracalla suggested, running his hand along the thigh of a prostitute, the woman giggling fakely at his touch.

Geta scowled. “Lucia is missing, and you can only think of whoring?” He stopped pacing, staring down at his brother with an exasperated look. Caracalla shrugged, muttering that ‘she was only a girl’. Geta’s hand clenched. “A girl who could bear an heir who can steal Rome from us.” He hissed, trying to address the importance of Lucia’s detainment to their care.

“Then we should kill her,” Caracalla suggested, shrugging playfully.

Geta stared at his brother, wondering how thoughts formed in his brother’s brain. It seemed Caracalla was only ever interested in sex, drinking, narcotics and violence. Geta shook his head. “The death of Lucia or Lucilla will cause an uproar among Rome’s people. They love their princesses too dearly.” It felt like the millionth time that Geta had to explain something so simple to his brother, but Caracalla just frowned, clearly bored by such a notion. Geta groaned, going back to pacing and drinking his wine.

His gaze flicked when a guard entered the room, and Geta felt his blood rush. “Did you find her?!” He asked hastily, not bothering to hide his enthusiasm. It had been several hours with his men searching Palatine Hill and Rome. He didn’t understand how a single woman could evade the Praetorian guard, the elite Imperial soldiers trained to be capable of anything.

The soldier nodded. “She’s returned, your majesty.” He spoke awkwardly, revealing that the guards hadn’t been responsible for finding Lucia. Geta’s jaw was tight, but he gestured for the guard to bring her into the hall.

Lucia strolled calmly into the room, her eyes draping over Geta and Caracalla. The younger twin wasn’t paying her any attention, too focused on the painted whores that surrounded him, but it was Geta that was staring down at her menacingly. “Emperor Geta.” She bowed, acting as if she hadn’t had the city being torn apart to find her.

Geta’s lips twitched. “Your respect is ill-placed.” He commented, stepping closer towards her. His eyes flickered to the guards behind her, and they stepped out, leaving the pair somewhat alone. “Three hours. That’s how long the Praetorian have been searching for you.” His tone was even, but Lucia could hear the bubbling of his anger. “You must cease these reckless endeavours,” Geta ordered sternly. “You and your mother are our guests for your own protection, a privilege you greatly take for granted.”

Lucia’s brows twitched. His ideas of ‘guests’ and ‘privilege’ differed significantly from hers. She was followed day and night by slaves, servants and soldiers, bound to the private wings of the Palace of Domitian and its gardens. If she were a guest with privileges, she could walk freely, without eyes following her, and leave Palatine Hill whenever she desired. “You may lie to yourself, your Majesty, but do not lie to me,” Lucia spoke, her eyes narrowing and meeting his heated gaze. “I see no protection in a gilded cage. I am a Freewoman of Rome, yet I have less than a slave.”

Geta visibly flinched, his anger starting to overwhelm him. How dare she speak back to him in such a manner, to talk down to him like he was a fool. He was Emperor, and all of Rome was his to command.

“If you have no more need of me, I shall retire for the evening.” Lucia bowed. She didn’t allow him to speak before turning sharply and exiting the banquet hall. Geta yelled in frustration, tossing his goblet harshly against the marbled floor, spilling its rich red contents across the white stone. It had dinged when it made contact, its echoing sound and Geta’s roar earning the eyes of the prostitutes and Caracalla. The prostitutes swallowed thickly, a shiver of fear going down their spines at having witnessed the man’s sudden outburst, but Caracalla scowled, his mind once more wondering if it would be easier to kill Lucia than deal with her ongoing trouble.

Geta closed his eyes, taking a moment to breathe and calm himself. Since Lucia started sneaking out and causing havoc last year, she has become annoying. He had preferred her when she had hidden away in her chambers, stuck reading poetry or playing the lyre. When she was quiet and hidden away, Geta didn’t have to even think of the woman. Now, she was acting out almost daily. It would be easy to send her away, but they had to keep her close. Unwed senators had become persistent in wishing to speak with the girl, and Geta knew why. They wanted the power and influence of marrying a princess of Rome and having a son born of that union become Emperor.

Everyone was out to see Geta and Caracalla fail, to see their reign end, just so those who envied them might have the opportunity to replace them. Lucia was the key to their end. Caracalla couldn’t see it, but Geta could.

[literary-motif]

Act V — The Sacrifice

Scene iii — The Price

previous scene // overview // read on ao3 // next scene

Warnings: mourning/grief

You avoided funerals like the plague. It was only out of a sense of deep-seated sympathy — and guilt so crushing it made you bolt upright at night, drenched in sweat and pleading for forgiveness to the empty air around you — that you attended the one in Mr. Rhoades's backyard. 

(Tara’s was not for another two days, but you doubted Warden would appreciate you showing up.)

Asirel stood beside you, holding a black umbrella over both of your heads. It kept the downpour from drenching you in a matter of seconds as it looked like the heavens had opened up, intending to flood the earth once more. The sound of the rain plummeting around you accompanied the quiet gasps and sobs. They brushed over the rift in your heart, making it ache. 

Mr. Rhoades did not seem to care about the rain. He was dripping, swaying before the empty grave and nearly toppling over if Vic had not put a hand on his shoulder to steady him. The river of his tears mixed with the rain, rolling over his face before falling to the earth. 

You saw little Isaac standing only a few paces behind his grandfather. His eyes were wild, darting around the trees, flinching at every noise as he kept his distance from the grave his parents would be buried in. The blue orchids beside it buckled and snapped under the force of the rain.

It was only natural after what the little boy had gone through in this very garden. It was an act of bravery that spoke for Isaac’s character — or the persuasion skills of his grandfather — that the child attended the funeral at all.

This experience — trauma, you corrected — would leave a scar. You were sure of it.

“Poor boy,” Asirel muttered. His hold on the umbrella tightened as the wind picked up, but he kept his voice light. Both of you watched the coffins being lowered into the ground. The rain was nearly loud enough to drown out Mr. Rhoades’ quiet sobs. Nearly.

“Yes,” you said, suppressing a wince at the coldness seeping into the muscles of your back. The chill clinging to your bones reawakened the pain you had kept under wrap for the better part of the day. “I wonder what will become of him one day. If he is anything like his grandfather, it would be best not to let him stray too far.”

Asirled hummed, filing the thought away for a later time. (It would resurface years from now when Mr. Rhoades lay on his deathbed and Asirel needed a new private investigator.) “Memento mori, I suppose,” he said.

You could not help a sad smile. “Right next to Amor Fati,” you replied, glancing at Asirel, who was already looking at you. “Stoicism was your father’s favorite philosophy. We had long discussions about Marcus Aurelius when time permitted.”

Murder. Arsenic poisoning. 

“I have found it easier to remember the fact that you yourself must die,” he said, watching Isaac as he carefully took a step closer to the grave. Perhaps he, too, saw white roses covered with black earth. “Than it is to accept the certainty that those around you must.”

Asirel had no problem picturing his own death. He would look at his cards, realize that he had no chance at winning this impossible game, and fold. That would be the last of it. Once his time was up, he knew there was nothing more he could do about the unfinished plans and half-baked ideas in his mind. He would have given all he had to offer, ready to retire and clear the stage for another play. 

But when he pictured the death of his mother, or — god forbid — his little sister, his mind broke.

The wind picked up, harshly whipping around you. The chill made you groan softly, your hand reaching up to hold onto Asirel’s arm and keep yourself steady against the tide of burning sharpness that traveled up and down your spine. 

He looked at your hand briefly, noting the tight grip you had on him and the firm press of your lips, and decided not to comment. 

“It’s all about who dies first, in the end,” you bit out despite the pain, continuing the conversation. “It’s a race to the finish line nobody wants to win. At least the first one there gets spared the pain of loss.”

The pain of loss. He was intimately familiar with it. 

It felt like a gray branch of thorns winding itself across his chest, squeezing tightly while it cut him open. It made him bleed, pulling the breath from his lungs until he could only tear open his mouth in a silent scream. Instead of his voice, a broken sob would crawl up his throat, his lungs laden with lead while his mouth felt stuffed with a mass of fog, clouding him, settling in his chest, and chilling him from the inside while the thorns tore at his skin ruthlessly.

Normally, the pain was different. Normally, he was not sure if he could call it pain at all.

It was like a black cloud looming over him, lowering its blinding white tendrils of apathy until they wrapped around his throat. They choked him until there was nothing left in his chest but a deep, hollow well. 

It hurt, but the pain was distant. Somehow he thought that was worse. 

At least with the cutting sorrow, there was something there. However faint, it was a tangible agony in his chest. But instead — when he felt like this — he was just empty. 

Not even the burning despair at this nothingness was enough to break through the haze around his heart. Nothing was enough to stuff the well in his chest, and the effort it took to haul one pebble stone after another into this hole and wait for it to fill and bury his sorrow and pain, offered insufficient revenue. 

No, he had been long since caught in the well, the water reaching up to his throat. He listened to his own emotions reverberate on its humid edges, feeling them dulled and tainted, unless there was an unexpected feeling sharp enough to shake him — a pain piercing through him that made him forget about the void and the ache, and the never-ending pebble stones. 

“Sometimes that’s all I could ask for,” Asirel said cryptically, staring into the distance. 

He watched Mr. Rhoades approach and felt your hand drop from his arm. The man was soaking wet, but Vic’s umbrella was sheltering him now. His friend held it above his head protectively, not minding to get caught in the rain himself as he walked beside him. 

Mr. Rhoades came to stand before you, his eyes bloodshot and hazy as they moved over your features, hardly recognizing you. His gaze flickered to Asirel briefly, an afterthought that someone else was there. Rhoades looked wretched. 

Isaac sneaked up beside him, hoovering at his grandfather’s side. The little boy was shaking, either from fear or the cold, you did not know. 

Asirel thought he was keeping his sobs locked away in his chest, trembling from the force it took to keep his grief bottled up. He felt a pang of sympathy for the orphan — the word alone tearing apart his heart. 

Morley had sold his secrets. She was responsible for doing this, but he had provided her with the opportunity. This was as much his fault as it was yours for putting Mr. Rhoades on the Kennedy case. He felt blood on his hands and longed to step into the rain so it might wash him clean again, cleanse him of the guilt and sorrow he felt bubbling in his chest. 

“You were right,” Mr. Rhoades said, his voice rough and empty. He looked at you with dead eyes, soulless as they already glimpsed into the future and the rest of his miserable existence. 

Alone. Hated. Lost. 

He would bear the weight of many sleepless nights, wishing he were dead but refusing to turn the gun on himself, lest she— Allie — won and Isaac would be left with nobody at all. 

“You were right to keep them away. You did everything right,” he said.

He was talking about your family. You tensed. The many times he had urged you to reach out to them again, warning you that you would regret it once they were gone flashed through your mind. 

“I’m sorry for your loss,” you said, knowing your words were insufficient to obstruct the drowning tide of sorrow overtaking him. And I’m sorry you believe that. “I am truly sorry, Rhoades.”

Asirel’s eyes were on Vic, watching as the older man held out his hand to little Isaac, waiting patiently as he worked up the courage to take it. Without saying a word, Vic shrugged off his coat, draping it over the child’s shoulders and pulling it over his head slightly to shield him from the rain. “All good?” he asked gently.

Isaac shook his head, his eyes suddenly filling with tears as the pressure in his chest rose to a crescendo. He buried himself deeper in the coat, trying to disappear within it. A choked sob escaped him, making Vic wince. 

“Yeah, alright,” he whispered, gaze snapping up as he handed you the umbrella, revealing a turmoil of emotions in his eyes — anger, protectiveness, and bitter, burning sadness. 

You took hold of the handle without taking your gaze off of Rhoades, half-stepping into the downpour yourself to keep him shielded. Asirel followed your step forward, assuring you both stayed dry. 

“Let’s get you inside,” Vic said, placing a hand on Isaac’s shoulder, grounding him while he led the little boy back towards the house. 

Under his hand, he could feel Isaac shaking, broken sobs now tumbling freely from his lips. At least he wasn’t alone. For a short while, at least, he had a chest to bury his face in and strong arms that would hold him together. 

“I’ll get you nice and warm, yeah?” Vic said, his voice hardly audible over the plummeting rain. “Come with me, little one. You’re safe with me.”

“I have not made progress with the Trimedian,” Mr. Rhoades said, snapping Asirel’s attention away from the retreating backs of Vic and Isaac. His tone was flat. “I have new leads now. I will follow them thoroughly.”

“Take a break,” you said, trying to cut the business talk short. 

He was a mess. You could see it in his eyes, they were dulled despite the anguish in his expression, dark circles under them betraying his restlessness. His hands trembled the way they only did when he was buckling under the pressure. Hewould down a tumbler of whiskey as soon as your back was turned, you knew, wanting to ease the weight grinding him into dust. 

“There is no benefit in working yourself into the ground,” you said. “Take care of yourself. Take care of Isaac.”

“I will.” His voice cracked, and he wiped furiously at the fresh wave of tears with the back of his hand. “But I did not sacrifice them to get thrown out of the loop. I can manage this. I can manage everything. I need to continue my work. It is all that matters now — this and Isaac.” 

He choked on a sob, his hands clenched into fists at his sides as he ducked his head, half-heartedly attempting to hide his sorrow. 

“The price I paid for this case was too high for me to abandon it,” he rasped, clearing his throat and pulling himself together enough for the facade of control to slip back over his face. “Our meeting in two days is on as scheduled. I’ll have new information for you then.”

“Rhoades—” you tried. 

“Please,” he begged, and with the pain you saw in his gaze, you found it hard to deny him anything. “If my work should not be up to your standard—”

You shook your head as if to disperse the ridiculous notion. 

“If it should no longer be,” he insisted, “I expect you to retire me. Throw me into permanent oblivion, let the damnatiomemoriae take me, and call it a prolonged vacation. I don’t care. But don’t you dare cut me off sooner!”

His eyes burned with fierce determination despite the tears still streaming down his face. His black suit stuck to his body, his hair drenched as wet strands clung to his forehead. His appearance did not warrant the surge of admiration overtakingyou. 

You could not imagine the heaviness in his chest, nor the pain in his heart at the loss he had suffered. The price he paid for secrecy. You were in awe that he wanted to continue, that he could not abandon his sense of duty and responsibility even as his life lay shattered and buried in the garden. 

Still, you cursed the path you had set out on that led to this.  

“Of course,” you said. “Whatever you need.”

He nodded. His gaze dropped to the ground, and you knew he was in the throes of grief again. “Two days,” he breathed, heaving a sigh. He turned, walking towards the house. “Goodbye.”  

You did not follow, closing the umbrella and stepping closer to Asirel again. You would have to return it to Vic at your next meeting. 

The garden was empty now, only you and the dead left. The rain crashing down painted the ground in a shimmer of silver. You took a last look at the headstones — memento mori — and turned to face Asirel. 

He was caught in a reverie, battling with a thought that would not leave his mind. “Do you think it was my fault?” he asked quietly. Had you been further away from him, it would have been impossible for you to hear him over the sound of the rain. 

You frowned. “What?” 

“Morley— who knows what she noticed,” he said. “She could have gone through the papers, pieced together something to tell Lazarus. Tell him enough to make it clear Rhoades was the informant. Tell him enough to—” He cut off. Make it my fault. 

“No,” you said decisively, “Even if Lazarus sent the organization to retrieve the tape and he got the information from Morley. If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine for putting Rhoades on the Kennedy case in the first place.”

“You could not have known it would lead here,” he said.

“And you could not have known Morley would betray you,” you countered, reaching up slowly to place your hand on his. The silver rings on your fingers clinked together. “The chain of events is unforeseeable, and we can always blame ourselves in hindsight, but the truth is that we simply could not have known. Remember what I told you about information? People will kill for it ruthlessly. Both to get it and to keep it hidden.”

“I know that,” he said, wrenching his hand away from you. He took a step back, leaving you standing in the rain. “And I know people are willing to betray for it as well.”

Droplets of water rained down on you, soaking you. The thought of opening Vic’s umbrella to stay dry did not cross your mind. You looked at Asirel, standing before you with his jaw clenched, and wondered if you had ever felt as alone as you felt now. 

“You learn fast,” you found yourself saying, voice strained. You thought he did not need you anymore. 

Fresh earth covered two coffins a few paces behind you. White roses were buried with them, left to rot and fall away into nothing beneath the wet earth.  

“Do you want to change the world?” you asked him. “You can, with the Collective.”

Asirel frowned, seeing your black VW pull up to the driveway from the corner of his eye. He opened his mouth to reply, but you cut it. 

“A piece of advice,” you said, raising your hand to let the driver know you would be there in just a minute. “Remember that old systems are resistant to change. Seize every opportunity to steer things in the direction you want, never push them, or they will topple over and you lose control. Do the best you can with the hand you’re dealt, and if the cards are shit” — you said, staring at him intently to make sure he caught the meaning of your words — “and the secret stack you have hidden under the table is not enough to help you win, you bide your time and wait for the next round. Time might not always be on your side, but it is a powerful resource. You play the long game, after all.”

[chronicallyday]

Okay so because Jena Malone made a TikTok video to respond to the question of what makeup was worn for the Pride & Prejudice movie, I came up with a crack au idea that I shared on discord with friends for post-mockingjay (Finnick lives ofc). It was me telling them my thoughts on how the victors probably all wanted to live privately away from the spotlight even though people like Plutarch wanted them to continue having public personas (like when he asked Katniss to sing for a show)

But what if Johanna Mason one day out of boredom and annoyance decided to do some behind the scenes reveals, just unhinged stuff and she like broadcasts this live and Plutarch has no idea how she’s streaming it. It’s Beetee ofc.

Johanna: oh you wanna know why you never saw me shit? Oh it wasn’t Capitol censorship. You see bears when they hibernate they eat a whole bunch of stuff to clog themselves up before hand and—

Plutarch: make it stop make it stop make it stop

Beetee: I’m gonna need a while to fix it. I did my job too well when I gave her access

Johanna: —and I was 17 of course I didn’t want anyone to see me shitting on national television and then someone sneaking up behind me to kill me while I was doing my business

Haymitch watching with Katniss and Peeta in D12: I should have asked Blight (most likely her mentor) more questions when he was alive

Finnick: pls pls someone be recording this somewhere

Annie: genius. I was too stressed to think about needing to go I just held it in most of the time

Johanna hearing about that later: you held it in for how many days??

Annie: pretty sure the first time I peed that whole time was during the flood

Finnick would try to be supportive with head pats but he’s slowly losing it. Boys had it easier when it came to relieving themselves and he was her mentor so he knew she struggled T^T

But also

Finnick: The real reason the Career pack exists is so we can use the facilities and not be killed with our dicks out

Enobaria just agrees with what he says for the laughs

And honestly I wonder about the bathroom situation cuz Katniss mentions one time that her urine is brown from dehydration in THG but in CF there is not a single mention of any of them needing to use the bathroom

I’m going to assume they were all peeing in the salt lake whenever they were swimming in it

Dr. Aurelius is probably so fed up with the victors at some point cuz they decide to meme their own lives and laugh through the pain

[saradika-graphics]

thank you so much for answering my previous ask! i’ve thought it over and asked some friends, and we gathered some ideas. sorry if it’s a lot!!

for some of these, i removed will’s name from the quotes. i figured it’d look/flow better that way

- will’s clock (i attached an image as an example at the end)

- “this is all i ever wanted for you. for both of us.”

- “if i saw you forever, i would remember this day.”

- “this is my design.”

- “i’m not fortune’s fool. i’m yours.”

- “this poet wrote you a poem. are you going to let his love go to waste?”

- “i’ve never known myself as well as i know myself when i’m with him.”

- “killing must feel good to god.”

- here’s the full quote: “killing must feel good to god, too. he does it all the time, and are we not created in his image?”

- could maybe make cool matching dividers?

- “it’s nice to have an old friend for dinner.”

- “i am who i’ve always been. the scales have just fallen from my eyes. i can see you now.”

- “No one can be fully aware of another human being unless we love them.”

- full quote: “No one can be fully aware of another human being unless we love them. By that love we see potential in our beloved. Through that love we allow our beloved to see their potential. Expressing that love, our beloved's potential comes true.”

i also am a huge fan of the movie “the silence of the lambs,” and, if you don’t mind, i compiled some quotes from the movie you could maybe use?

- “a census taker tried to test me once. i ate his liver with some fava beans a nice chianti.”

- “i do wish we could chat longer, but i’m having an old friend for dinner.”

- “well, clarice, have the lambs stopped screaming?”

- “you fly back to school now, little starling. fly, fly, fly.”

- “quid pro quo”

- full quote: “quid pro quo. i tell you things, you tell me things.”

- i think maybe this one could make a good divider too? or naybe like a matching set?

- “Caterpillar into chrysalis, or pupa, and from thence into beauty.”

- here’s the full quote: “The significance of the moth is change. Caterpillar into chrysalis, or pupa, and from thence into beauty. Our Billy wants to change, too.”

- "Of each particular thing, ask: What is it in itself? What is its nature?”

- full quote: “First principles, Clarice: simplicity. Read Marcus Aurelius, "Of each particular thing, ask: What is it in itself? What is its nature?””

- “his pulse never got above 85, even when he ate her tongue.”

- maybe as two dividers, split where the comma is?

- “memory, agent starling, is what i have instead of a view.”

i’ve looked over this list and it’s WAY longer than i initially thought it was, i’m sorry 😭 i don’t mean to flood you or anything, genuinely — i’m just a big enjoyer of the show & movie 😭🙏🙏 thank you for entertaining my ask!

and last but not least, will’s clock:

Thank you so much for these suggestions! I had thought of Will’s clock initially - the dividers are just so narrow, that I worried the detail would be lost. I have some ideas for it, though!

I’ll also pick some quotes from this list, and have a set queued for later this week (right now I am thinking about 12 or so dividers total, including the clock!) 💕

[hollowfaith]

「✧」 "There's a place you might like," Klaus had mentioned yesterday, "where you can get your powers back."

And that was already enough for Aurelius to say yes.

He felt it the moment they soared into the air above the Sky-Strewn Isles, Klaus' hand around his waist and his own arm slung casually around the man's shoulders. A warmth flooding into his body and all his nerves as his breaths grew light. Senses sharpened, power swelled, and by the time they reached the area proper, Aurelius was airborne on his own without much help.

He squeezed Klaus' arm before pushing away, and ended up hovering in the air a few feet away from the other man. The sight of his companion's two-winged form was expected, but a little underwhelming—for some unfathomable reason, Aurelius had been expecting...more. He cleared away the frivolous thought and smiled at Klaus while his eyes began to glow in soft, beautiful hues.

"What a lovely surprise you've gifted me, Klaus."

"I've been longing to stretch my wings."

Pausing in mid-air, Aurelius stilled...before falling backwards to plummet head-first towards the ground. Seconds later, there was a low boom as four wings appeared on his back, gloriously golden and glittering. Effortlessly, the divinus arced back up until he was hovering above Klaus and reached out a hand.

A golden feather rested between his fingers.

"I don't know if it'll last," Aurelius began. "But please, take this as a token of my gratitude."

@anghexescu ໒꒱

[fire-fira]

Oh noooo the horror of comicvine yet again. Is this character actually in the issue, or just a single background panel? Read to find out, lol. I'd absolutely love the fic recs for when Im done facing said horror though, and what's your favorite headcannon? Also happy La'gaan is precious.

Yuuuup. (Thus part of why I'm planning on eventually combing through myself so I can-- hopefully-- give a better thought out list.)

As for the fics:

From The Bones by MsWikit (otherwise known as @insuffera6le6itch here on tumblr) is-- bar none-- one of my favorite deep-dives on La'gaan's history, and extrapolates and builds additions to the subtle details seen of him in the animated series. Forewarning, this one will emotionally punch you in the gut and probably make you want to bundle La'gaan up in a pile of blankets, because the poor kid goes through A LOT.

School Days by MsWikit/insuffera6le6itch. This one gets into La'gaan's early days at the Conservatory of Sorcery and is part of what initially put in my head the idea that it's thanks to Queen Mera that La'gaan was admitted in the first place, and that she's a bit protective when it comes to him. I don't go back to it quite as frequently as From The Bones, but it's definitely left an impact.

Impure by insuffera6le6itch. This one touches on the headcanon that La'gaan was branded and goes into the event itself. Forewarning, it's brutal.

Four Days by insuffera6le6itch. This one touches on the aftermath of La'gaan being branded. Be ready for FEELS.

Week of La'gaan: Free For All by insuffera6le6itch. If you want some fluff of La'gaan's time with insuffera6le6itch's OC Aurelius then you'll probably enjoy this. (I love the man so much that I would say it's a crying shame he's not DC canon, but considering DC's track record I'd be worried what they would do to him.)

Baby La'gaan by insuffera6le6itch. A mini-fic focusing on baby La'gaan and his parents, Kai and Cor'rel (also insuffera6le6itch's OCs). Kai is 10/10 one of the best dads in my opinion.

Lagoon Baby by insuffera6le6itch. More fluff of La'gaan and his parents. Forewarning for some harsh realities of The Bones due to extreme poverty.

Lagoon Baby v. a Crab by insuffera6le6itch. And yet even more fluff of La'gaan and his parents, this time with La'gaan 'hunting' a crab. Forewarning for the lousy shit of poverty and La'gaan being entirely too well acquainted with going hungry at way too early an age.

Lagoon Baby Takes a Nap by insuffera6le6itch. Tiny La'gaan winds up taking a nap in a hole because he's tired and cold and gives his parents a heart attack due to thinking he got snatched by a predator. Yet again, poverty sucks.

Kai's Death by insuffera6le6itch. This one is exactly what the title says, and it is heavy, but it 100% makes sense as part of why La'gaan is so guarded.

Bad Dreams by insuffera6le6itch. This one follows on the heels of Kai's Death and is... really heavy, but wonderfully done.

To say the least, insuffera6le6itch has loads more and I highly recommend looking through her Lagoon Boy tag. And if you want art (and other fun things they've accumulated) I recommend looking through @captainjerkface's blog and their own Lagoon Boy tag. (10/10 captainjerkface's La'gaan art and comics are on point.)

As for my favorite headcanon for La'gaan, I'd have to say it's the fact that when he actually fully relaxes and is comfortable around someone, to the point that he's willing to just drop his walls around a person and play around and goof off, it's a guarantee that he's going to hit that person with a giant flood of puns.

And the boy doesn't just do it in his first language; this is a kid who is canonly implied to have learned English by nosing around on the internet-- when the rest of Atlantis did not have internet access-- and he isn't above throwing puns in his second/third/fourth-whatever language. (His friends are particularly doomed if he decides to slip in multi-lingual puns that play the various languages he knows against each other.)

Additionally, if he does let his walls down enough to throw puns around that freely, then it's safe to assume he cares about that person a lot and might have pretty well adopted them.

[forgottnseccnd]

"I heard you crying, so I brought you some cocoa." ((@tertiusdecimusfilius))

supportive / protective vibes … sentence starters

Aurelius still wasn't used to it-- used to the little ways Guilliman would help out now that he's taken the helm.

His eyes were milky, unable to focus and often he had to wear a blindfold due to their sensitivity to such bright lights around the ship. It was hard for him to properly make his way around, but with the help of Nirisch, his own spear, and of course Guilliman, he was slowly learning over time...

... it just seemed to be that Guilliman had caught him during a moment of weakness.

It had been during his work, bringing his hands along the slightest of indents of old ink on paper as Nirisch would try to read out what it was that Aurelius wished him to read, the two of them working together to sort through paperwork, get acquisitions done, cross-reference... it was just hard to do that after being blinded by your Father's sheer presence. But during all the time he had been working a little on his own-- as Nirisch had to fetch something for him-- that the memories resurfaced.

The pain in his throat. The flooding of memories, the pain that he had inflicted upon him... Failure. Traitor. Hinderance. Weakness.

... and next thing he knew, he had been crying. Quiet little sobs, hushed, like a child not wanting to bring any attention to himself, hiccupping, hiding. His hand had been moved to hide his eyes, teeth clenched, wishing he had just put his helmet on and been done with it. Maybe use the bolts to silence himself like he used to when he was on the wall. But... then...

The scent of a sweet delicacy reached his nose, filling his lungs-- of cocoa and milk and marshmallows. Then, his head snapped up when he heard Guilliman's voice. He glanced around, worried, wishing it was just an illusion, but when his hand had very gently grazed Guilliman's shoulder, he squinted his milky eyes beneath his blindfold and mumbled, " ... Guilliman? " As always, using the more formal last-name basis now that he was Warmaster.

... He patted Guilliman. Once, twice. Yes, that was indeed him. He was there. He was not, in fact, blessed by the God-Emperor to cry by himself.

" ... t-thank you... Robu. " Aurelius finally mumbled after he was able to find his words, glancing away as his hands moved to cup the mug of hot cocoa, letting it warm his auramite hands. Warm... comforting... reminded him of his little hearth and home on Iskaarre.

" ... I will admit, I am embarrassed. I did not think you would hear me. "

[stoicbreviary]

Sonnets from Marcus Aurelius 6

James Vila Blake

6.  

Ποταμός τις ἐστι τῶν γινομένων καὶ ῥεῦμα βίαιόν ὁ αἰών: ἅμα τε γὰρ ὥφθη ἕκαστον καὶ παρενήνεκται, καὶ ἄλλο παραφέρεται, τὸ δὲ ἐνεχθήσεται. 

Time is like a river, or a streaming on, of all things that come to pass, even a violent flood of them. Each thing is no sooner seen than swept past, and another is sweeping by, and this also will be carried away. 

—Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 4.43 

6. 

There be drops small, and large drops, all being rain, Making the ocean, rivers and rivulets;  There be moments slender, and mighty moments amain— Time’s tide, or torrents of hours, or minutary jets.  The brooks and rivers that to oceans run,  Navies and nations on their bosoms bear;  The pendule’s pulses into centuries done  Torrential whirl alike the foul and fair.  All things rush on. One doth but well arrive  Before ’tis gone—another hath his room—  That too is sped in cresty fog and dive—  All with distinguished shapes, all to one doom.  Here do I halt to see them swirling by;  And as they go, I drown them in mine eye. 

IMAGE: Hermann Herzog, Raging River (c. 1860) 

[aestheticvoyage2023]

Day 33: Thursday February 2, 2023 - “I Love You”

Since the day he was born, I have flooded his subconscious with daily affirmations of love.  His Mama has too.   He is a very loved boy.  And probably the words he has heard most in his life other than “William” and “Huck No” is “I love you” - and tonight, on a night where I was really gearing up high hopes for a good smooth weekend, and preparing to gut out a bedtime routine with the pinched nerve in my back, out of the complete wild blue, William muttered “I love you” back.  Now in all honesty, the first time may have been directed at the dogs as we said goodnight to them, before sending William off to night-night himself.  But feeling like he really nailed it, he continued to play with the phrase, and I am sure was motivated by my sudden interest in what he said, and so I got one too.   I pulled out my camera to try to capture the moment, and of course he got a little star struck seeing that little boy in the selfie cam, but I still got a big hug and a kiss, which basically is all the same thing.   The best part is that while he was saying it, he had that special charm in his face that let you know that he also understood the context...  that this phrase is something that you say to let the person know that you appreciate them, that they are safe, and that they are home.   Affectionate little lion, our William is.  But it was so good for my heart tonight to get that first little I love you.  And now Ive got three days to work with him on it so that when Mama comes home Sunday night, she can get one too because if anyone deserves to hear this little boy express his love - its her.

Song: Feeling Blew - Sweet Disposition

Quote: “Remember that very little is needed to make a happy life.” ~Marcus Aurelius

[amortentva]

student  file:  lílian  osorio-moon  ✶  25,  transwoman,  she/her,  half-blood,  hufflepuff,  sixth  year,  teaching.  member  of  broom  racing,  aurelius  choir,  and  quidditch  club.  can  be  described  as  optimistic,  naive,  sensitive,  and  nurturing. wanted connections. pinterest.

"tell me, atlas. what is heavier: the world or its people's hearts?"

full  name.  lílian  xiomara  osorio-moon.  aliases.  lily.  age.  twenty-five  years  old.   birth  date.  december  twenty  second,  nineteen  ninety  seven.  house.  hufflepuff.   blood  status.  half-blood.  wand.  nine  and  a  half  inches,  ashwood,  phoenix  feather  core.  pet.  a  budgie  (  parakeet  )  named  belle,  often  perched  on  her  shoulder  wherever  she  goes.   spoken  languages.  english,  portuguese,  korean.

parents.  cesar  osorio  (  father,  deceased  ),  isabel  osorio  (  mother,  deceased  ),  sangcheol  moon  (  adoptive  father,  alive  ),  sunhwa  moon  (  adoptive  mother,  alive  ).   siblings.  elias  osorio  (  older  brother,  deceased  ), minji moon ( adoptive sibling ), minseok moon ( adoptive sibling ),  wc for one more adoptive sibling here !!   before  aurelius.  attended  herleva  school  of  witchcraft  and  wizardry.

tw’s to follow: death of a parent, description of blood, death of a sibling, suicide, trauma, child neglect.

lílian was the second born to the osorio family, after her brother elias. her half-blooded magical father never fell out of love with his childhood crush, and eventually the two fell in love over the summers they spent together when he would return from school. it was difficult lying to her, but once he proposed years into their relationship he finally told her the truth so that she would know what she's marrying into and their future together if they decide to have kids. when they did, their first born is elias, a young boy obsessed with broom riding as soon as his little legs could hop over them. their second born is lily, and she's a curious child who doesn't ever seem to have stopped speaking after that first word left her mouth.

the young wix is only seven when her father and brother are killed in a magical accident of which the ministry refused to release specific details due to the location being where her father worked in the department of mysteries, a section of the ministry of magic that carried out confidential research. with no answers and no closure, no certainty that herself and her child would be safe moving forward, isabel osorio spent most of the next two years refusing to allow lilian to leave the house and forbidding her to use magic ever again. sheltered for years on permanent house arrest with her paranoid, grief-stricken mother, lily only used magic as a means for escape once. just one night, to breathe fresh air that wasn't through the crack of a window. only an hour later, she would return to the smell of rust flooding her senses and the sight of her mother's body on the floor of their kitchen.

lílian was nine when she was sent to live with her godparents who she hadn't seen in years, and they took her in without question as if she was their own. she was different, somewhat quieter than before the accident and much more observant. after spending years so acutely attuned to her mother's emotions, she became a watcher. over time, lily could look at someone and tell by the position that their lips take when they don’t think anyone is watching how they feel in that particular moment, by the way they speak to people how they were raised and how those who raised them might have been like by paying close attention to the way they treat their company. she knew the direction of a gaze that differentiated lie from truth, the telling habits of nerves, distraction, or sadness, the tone of someone’s voice that gave away just what they were feeling even though that was exactly what they were trying to keep hidden.

positive.  optimistic,  nurturing,  benevolent,  devoted,  receptive,  intuitive.   neutral.  sensitive,  inquisitive.   negative.  puerile,  fussy,  obsessive,  dependent,  self-indulgent,  unassertive,  impetuous.

character notes. headcanons, school notes, and more

def  has  nightmares  and  has  grown  accustomed  to  not  being  able  to  get  a  good  night's  sleep  pretty  much  ever.  she  always  looks  tired  tbh

there  are  some  days  where  any  triggering  words  that  remind  her  of  her  past  with  her  mother  cause  lily  to  space  as  her  mind  transports  her  to  the  very  memory.  she's  unresponsive  for  minutes  on  end  until  she  or  someone  else  manages  to  shake  her  out  of  it

she's  taken  to  intellectualization—a  ‘flight  into  reason’  where  a  person  avoids  certain  emotions  by  focusing  on  the  facts  and  logic  of  them  ??  makes  her  a  great  teacher  figure  bc  she  will  mansplain  u  to  death  basically

not  a  very  touchy  person,  and  doesn't  rly  like  hugs  or  physical  affection

loves  ballet  !!  originally  only  signed  up  for  it  to  get  herself  out  of  the  house  during  the  summers  bc  it  would  send  her  into  fits  of  panic  every  day  being  'stuck  in  the  house'  ?  and  fell  in  love  with  it

almost  always  has  bruises  somewhere  on  her  body  due  to  ballet,  and  she’s  prone  to  poking  and  prodding  at  them  out  of  boredom.

her  pet  is  a  budgie  (  parakeet  )  named  belle,  often  perched  on  her  shoulder  wherever  she  goes  !!  lily  literally  never  goes  anywhere  without  her

has  never  stepped  foot  in  the  kitchens,  and  the  great  hall  is  a  saving  grace  but  she  won't  even  go  into  the  kitchen  in  her  own  house  during  the  summers

[megraen]

Below is a sneak peek of what I've written so far for chapter one.

Imperial Palace - Rome 190AD

Lucia lay on her soft, silken feather bed, gazing at the marble stone ceiling without thought or care. She had been lying there for hours, having hardly slept a wink at night. She wasn’t sure if she was just restless or was wracked with anxiety over today.

All the senators of Rome were gathering at the Imperial Palace, ready to send off General Acacius on his conquest of Numidia, as the two new emperors ordered. Caracalla and Geta were twins; therefore, they were made co-emperors when their father passed away just four years ago. Both were not that much older than her, but they were adults, just twenty-one years of age, ambitious and naive to ruling a vast Empire as glorious as Rome.

Lucia’s grandfather had been Emperor once. Marcus Aurelius had ruled for nineteen years before being murdered and replaced by his son, Lucia’s uncle, Commodus. After Commodus’s death, within weeks, a senator named Lucius Septimius Severus convinced the senate to vote him Emperor. He only ruled for seven years. Lucia couldn’t help but ponder how long these twin emperors would last, as they always seemed to die like flies, with some other power-hungry soul grasping for the throne for themselves.

“You’re still in bed?!” The shrill and lecturing tone of her mother made her turn her head, seeing the woman standing in the open chamber doorway with three imperial enslaved people behind her, all female. They waited patiently as Lucilla darted around the bed, forcing her daughter to sit up. “I expect more from you. You’ll be eighteen soon.” She continued to lecture, pulling Lucia to her feet and guiding her to sit at a small vanity table. Lucilla gestured to the enslaved people, and they rushed in to prepare Lucia.

They combed at her dark hair, pinning it and ensuring her cheeks were rouged with crushed rose petals. Having spent so long trapped within the imperial Palace, Lucia’s skin was attractively pale, adding to her richness.

Lucilla approached with a pale gold silk stola draped over her arms, holding it out to the enslaved people. They got Lucia to stand before stripping her out of the cotton gown tunic she��d used for sleeping. They dabbed a rich, scented perfume on her naked body before helping her into her dress, clasping the metal pins that held it to her frame. Lastly, they pinned jewels to her ears to create the final adornment of her garment.

“Perfect.” Lucilla smiled. But it was a forced smile. She rarely truly smiled anymore. The years hadn’t been kind to her. The gods had taken away everyone she’d loved, leaving her daughter untouched, yet as soon as the senators began clawing for power before Commodus was even buried, they had locked Lucilla and Lucia within the Palace, using the excuse that they were ‘guests under their protection’. It was all lies. As long as Lucilla had a working womb, she could birth an heir for Rome.

Lucilla was fortunate to have married a good man after the death of her family. Yet, Lucius Septimius Severus kept sending the man away any chance he could, ensuring no child would take root in Lucilla’s womb. And now, with him gone and his sons as emperors, Lucilla’s husband was being sent off to fight another war to add another kingdom to Rome’s Empire.

“Come, let’s not keep the Emperors waiting,” Lucilla spoke, latching onto her daughter’s wrist and pulling her out of the chambers. Lucia looked deathly bored as her mother guided her to the throne room. General Acacius wouldn’t enter until his wife and stepdaughter were by his side, which meant delaying his send-off and would anger the two co-emperors. The twins were eager to see the conquering of Numidia and, no doubt, had many other kingdoms in mind to add to their growing Empire. But wars took time and resources, something that was limited. Soldiers and people died, crops withered, plagues came, floods and fires. It took away from Rome, limiting her ability to grow and expand over nations.

General Acacius had been pacing back and forth in the hallway outside the throne room, listening to those within talk and mingle, voices raised. His tardiness wouldn’t go unpunished, but so would entering without Lucilla and Lucia. His rank as general was one thing, but his wife and stepdaughter were considered princesses of Rome, and the peasants greatly admired the women. Acacius turned his attention sharply when he heard the sounds of sandals clicking against the marble floors. He wants to smile at the sight of the two women who held his heart but signed instead. “You’re late.” He hissed lowly, his brows creasing.

Lucilla frowned and gestured behind her to Lucia. Acacius’ face softened at the teen, noticing the displeased look on her face.

“My sweet Rosa…” Acacius reached for his stepdaughter, taking her by the shoulders and bringing her in close, hugging her tight. Rosa had been a nickname he’d given her when she was eight after she had made a crown of roses for both her mother and stepfather at their wedding. “I will return to you and your mother.” He promised.

Lucia continued to scowl as he pulled away from the embrace. “You’re going off to war again. Only the Gods know when you shall return, or even return at all.” She spoke sombrely. The last two campaigns he’d let had lasted three and five years, a total of eight of the ten that he’d been her stepfather. And she feared he wouldn’t return each time, knowing that Acacius was the only man in Rome who cared for her and her mother, not wishing to use them for his own glory and power.

General Acacius might have been the only perfect soul left in Rome. He didn’t desire riches or power to have a name held in history. All he wanted was for Rome to survive and its people to prosper.

“Here,” Acacius pulled a chain from around his neck, revealing the necklace hidden under his arm. He carefully guided it over her head, allowing the pendant to rest just past her breasts. “It had been my mother’s. I’ve always worn it to have her with me. I want you to have it so you know I will return for it.” Acacius spoke. He smiled when Lucia studied the pendant, twirling it in her fingers. It was an old coin adorned with gold and pearls. It wasn’t the most precious piece of jewellery or even something that screamed wealth with its simple design, but the meaning behind it had Lucia’s heart swelling.

“Then I shall keep it safe for your return,” Lucia spoke firmly, letting the pendant fall from her fingers. Acacius nodded, approving of the idea.

“We mustn’t keep the Emperors waiting any longer.” Lucilla pressed, interrupting the sweet moment between the stepfather and stepdaughter and guiding her husband to the large ornate doors. Lucia fell into place behind them just as Acacius gestured to the guards to open the doors. The sound of the loud hinges echoed as they were pushed open, silencing those inside the throne room.

All eyes were on Acacius and his wife as they walked through the hall, approaching the twin thrones of the Emperors. Yet Lucia could feel eyes on her. Senators gleaming at her with ambition. She was just like her mother. A golden womb that bore the potential for power and the next Emperor to be born to a wealthy and influential family. Lucilla and Acacius were already aware of the whispers and plotting of several senators, who looked at Lucia, waiting for them to sink their claws in and bind her to them in marriage. But it wouldn’t happen. Lucilla wouldn’t allow it. She wouldn’t have her daughter face the same fearful encounters as she had.

It was common for noble-born girls to be married by fourteen, two years after becoming marriageable in Roman culture. Until Lucia reached twenty, she was protected from the Lex Papia Poppaea law, which dictated that a woman must be married by the time she was twenty years old or face penalties, such as being barred from inheritance if her mother and stepfather were to pass. It had been ironic that the law had been decided long ago by two unwed senators.

They stopped before the thrones and bowed, with Acacius placing his fisted hand over his heart in a salute. Geta and Caracalla smiled at the sight, but their annoyance was evident.

“I thought you’d miss your send-off,” Geta said calmly, yet his voice sounded threatening. He was lecturing Acacius for making them wait.

“Apologies, your majesties. My stepdaughter was mourning my departure.” Acacius stated, looking at his Emperors. The excuse was meant with narrowed eyes from the senators, many seeming it flimsy. Acacius and Lucilla didn’t flinch. The general knew to be firm with so many eyes on him, but Lucilla struggled inside, one straw from breaking her facade.

Geta and Caracalla looked past the married couple, their eyes on Lucia. She was meeting their gaze, just as courageous as her mother. Geta’s lip twitched.

“I see,” Geta said. His eyes travelled back to the general. The twins had lived at the Palace since they were eleven and, with that, spent their days playing with Lucia in the Palace gardens, just as caged as she was. But as the twins aged, they had drifted apart from her, their interests taking on the more expected whoring and drinking of teenage boys, while Lucia drifted towards reading and music.

Geta had gestured for an enslaved person to step forward, carrying a well-forged sword, to be gifted to Acacius for his new campaign. The general had accepted it graciously from Geta. Caracalla stood still, watching it all occur, clearly bored and not wishing to be there. He wanted to be in his chambers, chasing naked enslaved women around as he laughed and drank himself into a stupor, yet his twin had stressed formalities. They had to be united and imperial in front of Rome’s populace and its senators; at least, they came off as weak and effortlessly brought down by others who sought their throne.

Acacius stood poised as the enslaved person attached the sheathed sword at his waist. “It is a fine weapon. You honour me, your majesties.” He bowed again, the enslaved person stepping away. Geta smiled, pleased with the praise.

“We expected the conquering of Numidia quickly, general.” Caracalla drawled. There was a cheeky smile on his face, boasting of his power and influence within the throne room. Many senators nodded along and murmured. Acacius kept a straight face. Unlike the senators and Emperors, he knew war. He knew it wasn’t easily won with just thought alone. It took strength, determination, planning, and loyalty. As long as his men were well-fed and in good spirits, they had a fighting chance.

“As my Emperors command.” Acacius bowed again.

Geta smiled, ushering everyone from the throne room to the palace steps to see off the general and his army. The two emperors strolled behind, uncaring to take their time. Unlike Acacius, they were allowed to be late. The populace cheered as they lined the streets, some weeping for their husbands and sons going off to fight, not knowing if they would ever return.

Acacius had given Lucilla a long and passionate kiss, his hands cupping her face like he never wanted to let go. The public cheered at the sight, enthralled by the general’s love for the princess of Rome. When Acacius finally and reluctantly pulled away, he turned to Lucia, pulling the teen into a tight embrace.

“Be strong for your mother,” Acacius whispered into her ear. “And do behave yourself.” He lectured when he stepped away, giving his stepdaughter a pointed look. Lucia smiled as she watched him step down the long carved stairs to this awaiting chariot and second-in-command, Darius.

Lucilla wrapped her arms around her daughter, holding her close. Both needed comfort from one another as they watched the chariot begin to move down the paved streets, the formation of soldiers moving behind towards Rome’s docks, where a fleet of ships would be waiting for them.

“He’ll be okay. He’ll return to us.” Lucilla whispered, more for herself to hear than Lucia. Lucia knew she had to heed her stepfather’s words. She was no longer a child in the eyes of Rome but a budding womb ready to bear the future Emperor, and with that knowledge, there would be many snakes and spiders inching towards her, desperate to sink in their fangs. To men, Lucilla wasn’t a threat. They didn’t see the ageing princess as an obstacle to Lucia. No, it had been Acacius, they feared—the general who’d won many wars for Rome. With him gone and Lucia being two years from the Lex Papia Poppaea law’s effect, she was ripe for marriage.

I'm happy to answer any questions or queries. My ADHD brain is currently on a tangent.

[eleanorjane0690]

Solidarity In Sonder

Excerpt from Chapter 5

Spring '76 - Peeta

Placing the loaf on the telephone table and picking up the handset, I answer  "Hello."

"Good afternoon Peeta." Dr Aurelius replies in his cheerful yet clipped Capitol tone.

Shit it's Wednesday!

Instantly, my happy mood perishes. 

Caught up in the events of this morning, the day of the week had completely slipped my mind, meaning I'd forgot to expect his weekly routine telephone appointment this afternoon.  Although, if I'm honest, I don't particularly want to do this right now, as while his therapy sessions can be helpful they're also tediously tiresome.  However, many months ago, I made a silent promise to be a model patient and nothing lees than cooperative in an attempt to repay him for his unrelenting professionalism.  I also made a promise to myself, to be relentless in the pursuit of the former Peeta and to successfully complete the jigsaw.  The jigsaw that today gained a little more clarity. A fact he should undeniably know.

Lingering images of Katniss, of my memory, my dream, flood my mind, and the realisation of what we've lost and could possibly regain ignites something deep within me.

A persistence.

If I'm to find redemption, then this is the man to help me.

Sliding my back down the wall, as I wont be going anywhere any time soon, I sink down into a cross legged position on the floor.  Once comfortable, after a deep breath, I sigh  "Hi Doc."

Immediately, our conversation starts in its all too familiar fashion.

Have I been eating and drinking well? With Sae around I’m given no other option but to eat well.

Have I unintentionally lost any weight? Once again, thanks to Sae, no. If anything, I’m gaining weight at home easier than I did in the Rehabilitation Centre.

Are my bowels and waterworks functioning as normal? I think so.

Is my sleep regulated? No, and no I do not want a prescription for sleeping tablets.

Am I able to manage my activities of daily living? I can still wipe my own ass and brush my own teeth, so I'd say so.

Am I maintaining some semblance of a routine? It’s far from being full-on or busy but I’m trying. I paint and bake. Sae visits me twice a day, and I visit Haymitch every evening.  Not that he’s much company as he’s usually passed out and dead to the world, but I drop off a loaf of bread, stoke his fire, and sit by him for a while. It's not much of a routine but it’s enough for now.

Have I been compliant with my medication? Yes, three pills twice a day, without fail.

Am I still gaining a response from the topical burn salve? I think so, my skin is still salmon pink in some areas but no longer as scabby.

How would I categorise my general mood over the past week? Urgh, I hate this question! Overall much the same, a few anxious spells but they were manageable. No violent outbursts.

Now for the big question, which until today has remained reliably stagnant in its reply.

"Have you experienced any significant episodes or events this week?" he monotonously asks.

He's probably pre-empted my answer, as I think he too is beginning to find our repetitive weekly conversations wearisome, but at least I can shake things up a bit today.

"Yes."

To say he becomes more animated would be an understatement.  Instructing me to start from the very beginning, he states that in minute detail he'd like me to describe the events of the past twenty-four hours.  

https://archiveofourown.org/works/56641270/chapters/147201754