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beckyninja · 25 days ago

Text

Promises

Pairing: Demetrian Titus x FemReader

Warnings: description of battle wounds, death

Description: In the aftermath of the battle on Demerium, both Titus and his Little Healer struggle with doubts.

After the intensity of my last few fics, I thought we'd slow things down with a bit of Hurt/Comfort.

(This is a continuation of my Titus x Reader series. To find the previous works, check out my Masterlist.)

“Medica! Medica! Medica!”

You curled into a ball atop the cot in your and Demetrian’s quarters, covering your ears. But the desperate cries echoed in your skull.

“Medica, over here!”

“God Emperor, have mercy!”

“The voices…the voices! Can’t you hear them?!”

“It hurts it hurts it hurts….”

With most of the Ultramarine Apothecaries called to the battle on the planet below, the senior Medicae had been left in charge of the wounded Guardsmen ferried aboard The Resilient. Soon, broken, bloodied bodies lined the hallways.

Overwhelmed, the Medicae conscripted any serf they could. You remembered Vesta, face devoid of her usual cheer, cornering you outside the Chapel where you’d stopped to pray for Demetrian’s safe return.

“We need you!”

You’d welcomed the distraction from worrying about your lover. You’d often helped treat the everyday accidents suffered by the serfs in the Watch Fortress. Burns, lacerations, broken bones.

But the sheer trauma of battle… human beings turned into slabs of screaming meat… the stench of charred flesh and excrement… the raving of minds shattered by corruption….

Those were the worst.

Your arms bore bruises from the grasp of one maddened Cadian.

“I see it! I see it” He’d howled, though his eyes were nothing but red ruins, torn by his own fingernails. “I’ll make you see it, too!”

It took four serfs to drag him off you. You’d stumbled away, only to hear the retort of a laspistol a few moments later.

Time lost all meaning. Your eyes burned, your lips cracked, your limbs grew numb and caked with filth. The hood, sleeves, and hem of your robe went to tourniquet torn arteries. And still the casualties came.

You remembered a canteen being shoved into your hands. A rasping voice you barely recognized as Vesta’s ordering you to take a moment of rest. You stumbled out of the Apothecarion, searching for quiet, aching eyes finally landing on a small shrine alcove.

But more suffering waited for you.

A single stretcher lay in the cramped space. And from that stretcher, a gurgling whimper.

“Mum….”

You’d thought yourself numb. But your heart ached anew for the Guardsman laying in his own blood. Hastily wrapped bandages covered his entire body. A single, blackened hand reached up, fingers grasping at nothing.

“Mum… help….”

Just looking at the extent of his wounds made you realize why no Medicae tended him. They couldn’t afford to waste their time on the hopeless.

But you could.

You’d taken the flailing hand and pressed it to your heart. “Shhh. I’m here.”

The charred fingers tightened with surprising strength. “Hurts….”

“I know. I’m sorry.” You’d used the last of your pain suppressants ages ago.

“Don’t go….”

“I won’t.”

“Pr… promise?”

“I promise.”

You’d stayed. As the chaos outside finally calmed, shouts and screams fading into whispers and whimpers, you held the Guardsman’s hand and sang lullabies from your childhood…

…until his grasp loosened for the last time.

Now, back in your quarters, you lay upon Demetrian’s cot and stared at your bloodied fingers.

Useless. Useless!

You wept until exhaustion claimed you.

***

Titus’s feet dragged as he stumbled down the hallway. Every bone, every muscle in his enhanced body throbbed. His vision blurred and it took all his rapidly dwindling energy to keep moving.

Toward rest.

Toward you.

The younger Ultramarines still celebrated, revelling in the glory of victory against Chaos. Once, he would have done the same. But these days the rush of victory faded all too quickly, leaving only the faces of the dead in its wake. And exhaustion.

Throne, I am weary.

He yearned for your solace. His arms were greedy for you.

Greedy. Selfish.

Imurah’s taunts during the battle had stung. But he’d known their falsehood, swatting the lies away like annoying insects. Only one, whispered in the darkest depths of his mind even as the Chaos sorcerer screamed his last breath, still haunted him.

“When you return to your little slave girl, Titus, consider this: did you save her from her old life? Or did you doom her to this one?”

He gritted his teeth, pushing the gnawing doubt away.

He’d rescued you. He hadn’t stolen your future to satisfy his own desires. He hadn’t forced you to be with him. You were happy with him.

By the time he’d reached his room and keyed in the door code, he’d almost convinced himself.

Then he saw you on the cot.

You lay in a ball, asleep, knees tucked to your chest. The ragged remnants of your robe were stained with blood and sweat. Your tangled hair fell from its bindings into your face, but failed to hide tear-swollen eyes.

Titus swore he could hear Imurah laughing.

He took a step forward, reaching for you, then stopped. Filth caked his gauntlets, staining the armor he hadn’t had time to remove. He shouldn’t touch you.

I should not have ever touched you.

His arms fell back to his sides.

You jerked at the rasp of ceramite, reddened eyes flying open. He cursed his carelessness.

“No, Little Healer. Go back to sleep.”

“Demetrian!”

You rose onto your knees and he saw the sway of exhaustion in your movements. Guilt ate at him.

“I am sorry I disturbed you. I will let you rest-”

“No!”

The desperation in your voice jolted him. You reached out and he came to you like iron to a magnet, helpless to resist. Ceramite clanged against metal as he dropped to his knees before the cot. Your arms encircled his neck. Your face nuzzled against his gorget.

So soft.

Still, he could not bring himself to return your embrace.

“Demetrian,” you whimpered, “I’m sorry.”

What?

Before he could begin to form a reply, you rambled on.

“Vesta called me to assist the Medicae soon after you left, and I went gladly, thinking I could… I could….” Sobs shook your little body. “Demetrian, it was awful and I was scared and overwhelmed and, and I tried so hard but they still died. So many died.”

Throne, what have I done to you?

He tried to speak, but his tongue seemed molded to his palate. You pulled away and looked at him for the first time. Your teary eyes widened.

“Oh Emperor, Demetrian.” You touched his face and he resisted the urge to jerk away.

Do not stain yourself with me!

“Sit here.” You patted the cot before scrambling down and rushing toward the lavatory.

He sat, head bowed. The damned sorcerer had been right. He’d doomed an innocent soul to a life of death and horror.

You returned with a cleansing cloth and a basin of water, placing them on the cot next to him.

“Hold still, and close your eyes.”

He did, and felt warm, wetness against his filth-encrusted skin. You washed his face and neck, your hands gentle, your voice soothing. What little strength you had left you spent in caring for him.

Giving and giving and giving.

And what have I ever given in return?

Reaching out, he caught your wrist in a loose grip. “Enough.”

“But Demetrian-”

He opened his eyes and looked at you, silencing your protest. Then he took the wet cloth from your hand and rinsed it in the basin.

“Let me.”

Cupping your face with all the gentleness he could muster, he slowly cleansed it, wiping away the stain of blood, sweat, and tears. You leaned into his touch. You looked at him as if… as if he….

A word pushed through his gritted teeth. “Stop.”

You blinked at him. “What?”

The cleansing cloth fell from his armored fingers into the basin with a splash of murky water. “Do not look at me as if I am a saint to be revered.”

“But-”

“You deserve better than this.” All at once, the words wouldn’t stop. “I should never have taken you into my service. I should have found a place for you, far from suffering and death. You have seen horrors you should never have had to witness, and it is my doing.”

Inside his armor, his shoulders sagged with the weight of his sins. “You surrendered everything to me. Your future. Your happiness. Even your body. For what?”

You cupped his face. “Oh Demetrian, never once have I regretted coming with you. I’ve told you this!”

He finally met your eyes. “Not even today?”

“No. Not even today.” You sighed. “I only wish I could do more.”

Something weighed on you, Titus could tell. Something more than just the general horror.

“What happened, Little Healer?”

He listened as you told him about the Guardsman, his hearts swelling with more emotions than he’d ever felt in his long life. More emotions than any Astartes had the right to feel.

“...he died. I didn’t even know his name.” Tears flooded your beautiful eyes once again.

Throne, I love her.

Titus leaned his forehead against yours. “Listen to me, my love. I have seen more death than you will ever know. And I know, for Guardsmen, it is often a lonely thing. But not for that man.”

His head slid from your forehead, down to rest upon your shoulder. “Even if you could not heal his body, in his last moments, you healed his soul. As you heal mine every day. That is a gift beyond price.”

Soft lips brushed against his cheek. “I offer it freely, with all my heart.” Your hands came up to rest over his breastplate. “All I ask in return is yours.”

“Both belong to you.”

Once again, your arms wrapped around his neck. This time he returned the gesture, clinging to you like his life depended on it.

“There will be other trials.” He rasped. “I can promise neither peace, nor comfort.”

“Demetrian, just promise to love me, and I will be content.”

The uncertainty had vanished from your voice. Hope flickered in his chest. The sorcerer had been a liar, after all.

“I swear it, Little Healer.”

Titus felt you smile against the skin of his neck.

“Throne of Terra,” he groaned, “for the first time in my life, I wish I had the silver tongue of a Son of Sanguinias, just so I could sing your praises.”

You giggled. “You would sing for me?”

He felt the corners of his mouth curve upward. “I would.”

“I believe I would like to see that.”

“You would not enjoy it.”

“Oh?”

He buried his nose in your hair to hide his growing grin. “Sidonus used to say I sounded like a dying grox whenever we sang hymns during Chapel.”

You laughed out loud, and he found himself joining you, the stress of the last few days melting from his body.

“Ohhh, I am tired.” You finally sighed, going limp in his arms.

He shifted and laid you back on the cot. “Sleep.” He hesitated. “If you feel well enough, there is a… ceremony planned for tomorrow.”

“Mmm?” You yawned.

“Chapter Master Calgar will be reviewing the company and I-”

You bolted upright. “The Chapter Master is here?!”

“I assumed you knew.”

“I haven’t exactly had the time to listen to the serf gossip recently, Demetrian.” You shot him an annoyed look before your eyes widened. “Oh Throne, your armor…!”

He glanced down at his wargear.

“Look at the state of it! It’ll take me hours to clean!” You rubbed your hands over your face. “All right. I can do this. Go to the armoring room and get it removed, I’ll get fresh cleaning supplies-”

Titus shook his head. “No.”

“What do you mean, no?!”

“I will find other serfs to tend me.” He placed a hand on your chest and gently pushed you back. “The ceremony will take place at the beginning of the day-cycle, in the hangar. Come only if you feel rested enough.”

“But-”

He arched an eyebrow.

You closed your mouth with a huff.

“Good girl.” Biting back a groan, he stood and made for the door.

“Demetrian?”

He paused and turned back toward you.

“Try to find time to rest.” Your eyes drifted closed. “Love you.”

Before he could reply, your body relaxed. He marveled at the beauty of your features in slumber. Baselines called the Astartes “angels”, and yet, here lay a truly divine being.

Let others call him selfish. He could no longer imagine life without you.

Emperor, make me worthy of this woman.

@remembrancer-of-heresy @solspina @sleepyfan-blog @moodymisty @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan

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As always, comment if you'd like to be added to the Taglist!

#warhammer 40k #demetrian titus #demetrian titus x reader #space marines #space marine x reader #ultramarines #Space Marine 2 #these two are so soft for each other 😭

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softpascalito · 16 days ago

Text

Dulcissima I Marcus Acacius x Vestal!Reader I Chapter XII - Tears

Summary: Set before and during Gladiator II. General Acacius finds himself entranced by a highly valued priestess of Rome – A Vestal Virgin. But you both have taken vows that make sure your paths may never cross. Until they do.

Aka a fix-it fanfic where Acacius survives the Colosseum.

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x Vestal Virgin Reader Rating: Explicit / MDNI Word count: 34k+ Tags: Secret Relationship, Vestal Virgins, Religious Guilt, Gladiator fights, Gladiator II compliant (more or less), Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Ancient Rome, Age Difference, Slow Burn (ish), Injury, Kissing, Historical Inaccuracy, (Attempted) Sexual Harassment, Smut, First Time, Oral Sex (f receiving), Vaginal Sex, Unprotected Sex, Slight Breeding Kink, Semi-Public Sex, More tags to be added

AO3 // Series Masterlist // Masterlist // Fic Playlist // Ko-Fi

notes: smooches to all of you and sorry for making y'all suffer a bit this time, i swear i'll make it up to you! ♡

Chapter XII - Tears

The house has long fallen silent when Acacius finally climbs the path that leads to his front door. Two or three braziers are placed between the withered plants, the flames the only spark of color in the otherwise bland winter landscape.

He tried to scrub it off. He tried to ignore the stabbing pain in his chest as he watched you rush out of the caldarium, your clothes and feet leaving a trail of water behind you. You looked so lost in his large cloak, the dark fabric shrouded around you like it could protect you from what was behind the doors. Acacius stood frozen to the spot, the thermae quiet enough to hear the front door close. You were gone.

He stayed still for a few more moments before he found one of the large brushes and rubbed it over his skin in the water in rough, circular motions. Trying to scrub off the guilt that settled over him. Guilt over starting this entire thing. And guilt over ending it.

It was the right thing to do, he kept reassuring himself in his own head. There was no way that you could be together. He’s not a stranger to difficult decisions, neither in battle nor his personal life. But usually they don't leave him feeling like he made a significant mistake. They don’t leave him feeling this hollow.

The image of your body in the water swims in front of his eyes. A thin sheet of water over your skin, your back arched in pleasure, his name falling from your mouth.

He fucks his own fist beside the pool before he leaves.

The night air is cold and ruthless and he hopes that you managed to be back in your bed more quickly than him, a shiver running through his body as he ascends the stone stairs towards his bedroom. He leaves his shoes outside, wanting to make as little noise as possible. The door barely creaks and the sigh of relief is already on his lips when his eyes fall on Lucilla's form on the further side of the bed, sheets draped over her body, blonde curls peeking out at the top.

Acacius slips his clothes off, finding that his skin still feels as heavy as it did before. He looks down at his own body, like he expects it to carry a written account of what he did tonight. But there is nothing there.

So, he lifts the sheets enough to crawl under them beside his wife. Despite them having agreed on this arrangement, that they remain to be seen as lovers in public, it is another complication in the situation with you. He’s certain that he’s seen Lucilla pass into the temple of Vesta on one occasion or another and knowing she is a woman of deep faith, Acacius makes a mental note to ask her about it, maybe find a reason to keep her away from the temple–and more importantly, from you. It may not do well for you to see her after tonight. Or him. Which will be difficult to upkeep, considering you are set to join him on a weeks– if not months–long trip.

The General settles on his back, staring up at the dark ceiling when he feels the bed shift beside him. And even without light, Lucilla's eyes on him feel as clear as day.

For a few moments, neither of them speak. He wonders what she is thinking but he knows better than to ask. But he doesn't have to.

“I was waiting for you.” Her voice doesn't carry a hint of accusation, sounding more like a gentle statement. A fact that is not to be changed. Like he had no choice but to leave her waiting throughout the night.

He hasn’t kept track but it must be nearing three in the morning by now.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, his eyes still quite not meeting hers. “I fell asleep at my desk.” He knows she doesn't want to hear about his work but he figures it may be better than the truth.

Lucilla sighs quietly, her hand stroking his cheek, dainty fingers rubbing over his beard. “Is it the campaign? How is your chest?” Acacius shakes his head, a silent denial that they both know isn't the truth. But for the second time tonight, the words he needs to say to a woman he loves seem to be stuck in his throat.

“It is nothing of the like. It has just been a few busy days.” Brown eyes meet blue just in time for him to see her face change as her hand reaches his hair, the tips still wet from the water. He can lie to soldiers and emperors alike. But not to the person that knows him best in the world.

“I wish you would tell me the truth.” She whispers, pausing briefly before adding; “But I understand why you don't." Her lips find his cheek and Acacius reaches for her. Before he can pull her into his embrace, she has pulled him into hers. His head settles against her chest and everything seems a bit lighter with her smell around him and her steady heartbeat below his ears.

“I did not want–” He pipes up, dimly aware of how broken he suddenly sounds but Lucilla just shushes him, one hand returning to pet his hair. It's why they still sleep in the same bed. Because they understand each other and she does not even make him tell the truth. She simply lets him cry into her chest until he wears himself out.

“Acacius?” She whispers eventually, the blanket tucked tightly around both of them. “Will you promise me something?”

“Anything.” He hums, keeping his eyes closed. It feels too hard to open them.

“You will come back, right?” The tremble that was in his voice a few minutes ago is now found in hers and he inwardly curses himself for mentioning the campaign in the first place. “Promise me you will come back.”

“I always come back, my lady.” Acacius whispers, opening his eyes and looking up at her. This time with nothing but truth in his eyes. “I always come back to you.”

She nods, seemingly satisfied for now and his eyelids begin to droop again. “If not for me, come back to whoever it is that brings those tears to your eyes.” He barely registers the sentence, already drifting off into a land of dreams where you are still there, where there is no war looming and where no gods stand in your way.

***

Sleep won’t come. You braided your hair and hung your clothes out to dry the minute you snuck back into your bedroom, stuffed Acacius’s cloak deep into the wooden chest in the corner of the room, not wanting to see it, and by extension, to see him.

But the thoughts of tonight are all-consuming. His words echo in your head, occasionally interrupted by the memories of his touch or his moans.

‘I knew it was a mistake to talk to you in the temple.’

You inwardly curse yourself for ever falling for his stupid tricks, for letting yourself believe that he was actually interested in anything other than an illicit, fleeting version of love. One that you fell for because you were not supposed to have it, never did have it and likely never would. Everyone hears what they say about soldiers on the streets, about those passing through and spending their hard-earned money on whores wherever they go. You figured a General would be above such things. But clearly, you were mistaken.

The house of the Vestals is quiet at night, the women usually retiring rather early. Often, after passing through busy streets filled with drunks and thieves after nightfall, stepping back into the house below the hill with the large courtyard felt like an escape. No one bothered you here, even the lowest people too respectful to risk the safety of Rome’s priestesses.

Tonight, for the first time in very long, you don't find comfort in your room. You've never felt so much like you're stuck in a prison, your vows hanging like bars in front of your doors and windows. You have no way of avoiding Acacius, much less a way of leaving Rome.

“Oh gods–” Between the midnight meeting and the ensuing conversation, you completely forgot that you are due to leave in two days. The excitement in your stomach has turned into dread and you feel tears prickle at the corners of your eyes. You rarely cry, usually just reprimanding yourself and deciding that your tasks are too important to get caught up in such childish emotions.

But the tears keep coming, quietly flowing down your cheeks and you rush back to the chest in the corner, pulling the dark cloak out and pressing it to your front as you crawl back into bed. You sling your arms around the soft fabric and imagine that it was him, that his calloused thumb would stroke your cheeks and brush your tears away. His smell surrounds you as you drift off into a fitful sleep.

***

You manage to avoid him the next day. You’ve accepted your fate, packing up the last things and saying goodbye to your friends. After washing your hair and stepping out into the sunlight, you feel much better, like everything that happened was just a bad dream. You’re ready to be polite and nothing more, to fulfil your duty as you have been asked to. Maybe it will lessen Vesta’s grievances against you, somehow make up for the sins you have committed.

The Vestalis Maxima is waiting for you with a large package of food when you step into the common room the morning of your departure. “Here you are, dear. I will take you to the General’s house, a few soldiers are waiting outside to carry your belongings.”

“Thank you,” you smile gently, taking the package from her and making your last round of goodbyes. Severa throws her arms around your neck when it's her turn, squeezing you against her.

“Be safe. And please, tell me everything when you get back.” She practically begs, reaching out to adjust your veil one last time.

“I will,” you promise, laughing quietly. “I will leave out no detail. You be good, yes?” She promises. Then, she hugs you again until the Vestalis Maxima steps forward.

“Alright, you two. It is time to go. Are you sure you are all packed? Are your clothes thick enough? It is cold today.” She gives you a once-over much like a mother would with a child, her gaze flying over each piece of clothing like she could judge their thickness just by looking at them. You reassure her that you have prepared well and she walks you all the way up to Acacius’s house, directing the soldiers behind you that carry your belongings. Then, she asks you to be good and serve Vesta well one more time, the soldiers leave to prepare the carriage, and suddenly, you are alone in the large atrium, only a few rays of sunlight filtering in so early in the morning.

It feels odd and you’re not quite sure what to do. You know the house fairly well by now but you remind yourself that this knowledge is only a reminder of your sins so you try and erase the memories. But your eyes are drawn to the same spot you kneeled down in, the first night Acacius touched you. The fish inside the small basin are as animated as ever, small ripples following where they move under the surface.

You raise your head when you hear footsteps from upstairs and as they draw closer, they are joined by two male voices. One you can’t immediately pinpoint but the other is soft yet deep and you swallow at the thought of standing in front of Acacius again.

He appears from behind one of the columns, talking with the servant who let you write the note. When they spot you, they pause their conversation and you can see Acacius’s face change ever so slightly.

“My lady,” he says politely. “I was not informed that you had already arrived.” He nods into your direction and then turns back to the young man beside him. “Eros, why don’t you go and fetch the lady a refreshment?”

“Of course,” the man named Eros responds immediately, giving you a small smile and turning towards the back of the atrium. Your voice shakes slightly as you speak, shaking your head. Your eyes fly back to Acacius.

“That will not be necessary. I had refreshments at home and brought some for the travels.” You’re not sure why you are doing this. It may take an hour or two before you actually have to leave and the refreshments from the kitchen are surely nicer than what is stored in your bag. But the way that Acacius won’t offer you anything himself, hasn't even told you to sit down–it bothers you more than you'd like to admit.

You feel Eros hover in his spot, looking back and forth between you and the General when Acacius smiles politely. “Very well. Then bring some refreshments upstairs please. I have to have a word with some of my men.”

The servant hurries away and the awkward silence between you and Acacius is cut short by another soldier walking in, carrying several maps and showing some of them to the General. You take a few tiny steps back and forth as you watch them and for a few minutes, Acacius seems completely enraptured by what's in front of him, tracing streets and seas with his index finger. It's like you're not even there.

“Acacius.” Lucilla’s robes move around her as she hurries past you, the General’s attention immediately on her. The soldier beside you has to repeat his question twice before you hear him.

“May I take the chest to the carriage, my lady?” There is a hint of impatience in his tone but he’s too aware of your status to make it sound like a proper accusation.

“Oh, of course. I am all packed,” you say quietly, your eyes never leaving the couple on the other side of the atrium. A sad smile spreads over Acacius’s lips and you notice his hand on her waist. You silently wonder if he touches her in the same places he did you, if he uses his tongue the same way, if he moans the same way.

“I want you to take it.” She whispers, barely allowing you to make out the words. You pretend to busy yourself with your stola, fumbling with the fabric that is draped over your arm, hanging on to every word that carries through the room. “It would be my honor if you wore it. And his.”

“Lucilla–” He mutters back and out of the corner of your eye, you see her holding something up to him, something so small that it is covered by her palm. “I gave it back for a reason. I wanted you to have it again after–” Acacius drifts off, his eyes suddenly flying to yours. Caught red-handed.

You cough awkwardly and step back, keeping your head low as you all but run out of the atrium, hearing their conversation start up again as you fall out of earshot.

***

“Your Vestal may give you trouble if she decides to deem listening in on high-ranking officials like yourself as appropriate.” Lucilla jokes weakly as she presses the ring into his palm. “She does not seem scared. I would have thought she would be, so young and never been out of Rome I presume.”

“She is not that young,” Acacius immediately responds before softening his tone again. He looks down at the gold ring in his hand, running his thumb over it. “I am sure she will be fine.” It feels like he is trying to convince himself as much as Lucilla.

She glances around briefly, making sure that no soldier remains in the shadows to listen to their words. “I wanted to join them when I was younger. After Maximus and I were separated in our younger days … it seemed more merciful to live a life of purity than have my father marry me off.”

“You never told me of that.” He hopes that the woman in front of him can't notice how strained his voice has suddenly become. “Why did you decide against it?”

He can tell that he has posed the wrong question by the way her face falls slightly. Acacius takes in the small crease between her brows as her blue eyes fly back down to the ring. “I had my reasons. And I imagine I never felt pure enough. And afterall, purity is in their name.”

“Yeah. Yeah, they are very pure.” Acacius agrees quietly and their words just hang in the air for a moment. Would he have done the same if Lucilla had been wearing the veil? Would their paths even have crossed if it had not been for the loss of Maximus? Would he have touched her too, tainting her the way he had you?

A sigh leaves Lucilla’s lips, snapping him out of his thoughts, and she pats his cheek with the palm of her hand, touching him so gently that it feels like she believes he could fall apart at any moment. Not unlike you traced his scars in the thermae, like he was a vase that had been broken and was made whole again, only thin lines telling of his past. “Write when you can. And come back in one piece.”

“You know not everyone will.” Acacius whispers. Every assignment, every campaign means death. The price seems unbearably high these days.

“You are not conquering new lands. You are just keeping the peace.” Lucilla responds quietly, her eyes flying between his. She leans forward, giving him a gentle kiss. “Try and keep your own as well.”

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