#City State of the World Emperor

[oldschoolfrp]

Viridistan, the City State of the World Emperor (map approx 34x22", Judges Guild 1980, 1982 printing). The three books of this campaign setting include hundreds of brief entries describing shops, taverns, temples, and palace inhabitants, as well as the customs of the land and nearby monster lairs.

[orphicmeliora]

May I Have This Dance?

PAIRING: Colonel!Caleb x Noble!Reader

SYNOPSIS: You and Caleb share a dance or two. Turns out all it takes is a glance, a brief touch and a dance for a heart to set ablaze.

WORD COUNT: 2k

NOTES: kinda Regency au, but don't expect historical accuracy. Also this art is heavenly, I'm still screaming. Credits to the artist.

He wasn’t meant to be looking.

Not at you.

The ballroom shimmered in candlelight, golden chandeliers catching on crystal and ambition. Laughter spilled from polished lips, titles clinked louder than the glasses, and powdered wigs bobbed like decorum-bound ghosts.

And yet—amid all the pageantry and politics, Caleb’s world stilled the moment you entered.

You. In that infernal, exquisite gown. As though the moonlight had slipped in through the high windows and shaped itself into your silhouette.

You weren't looking at him. You were curtsying to a Marquess, smiling politely as he asked for your hand in the next dance. You played your part well—dutiful daughter of the Duke, sought-after gem of the season, the one they whispered about in admiration and envy alike.

And Caleb, decorated soldier, sworn protector of the state, a man who had faced down cannon fire and bloodied fields without blinking—he faltered.

God help him.

He didn’t know your name yet, but he suddenly understood why men had once razed cities and crumbled kingdoms for a glimpse of beauty.

Why emperors had traded empires for a sight.

Your laughter floated across the room like a melody meant only for those who deserved joy. Caleb, with his gloved hands and iron discipline, felt undeserving and utterly ruined in the same breath.

You turned, then. Just slightly. Your eyes brushed over the crowd—and for a second, just a second, caught his.

And that was it.

Caleb knew, with the quiet devastation of certainty, that he would never recover.

Not from this.

—

It begins with the soft snap of your fan.

The terrace is nearly empty, save for one couple whispering by the balustrade and the persistent hum of crickets beneath the hedgerow. Caleb had intended to seek a moment’s quiet—remove himself from the suffocating splendor of the ballroom and the parade of powdered peacocks vying for his attention. But there you stood, half-silhouetted by moonlight, dressed in ivory and dignity.

He was meant to keep his distance.

After all, your name had been spoken in every drawing room from Mayfair to the halls of court—your father a Duke, your hand practically promised to a Viscount with impeccable bloodlines and the personality of a doorknob.

But then fate, cruel conspirator that it was, placed you on the terrace at the same time as him.

The night air was cooler than expected. The laughter and waltzes muffled by the doors, replaced by the hush of rustling ivy and your quiet sigh.

He didn’t plan to approach. Truly.

Instead, he watched you from the shadows for a moment too long, the wind tugging a curl from your coiffure. You did not shiver, though the night had teeth. You stood like a sovereign—still, composed, untouchable.

“You stare,” you said without turning. Your voice was even, unbothered. “Are soldiers always so brazen?”

Caleb smirked before he could stop himself. “Only when outnumbered.”

You glanced at him then. A fleeting look over your shoulder, a flick of lashes that didn’t quite hide the way your mouth twitched in amusement.

“And what odds do you calculate here, Colonel?” you asked, finally facing him, eyes dark and unreadable. “Do you intend to charge?”

His gaze lingered on you longer than was proper. “Not without permission, my lady. I was trained better than that.”

You tilted your head, amused now. “Was it battlefield training or ballroom etiquette that taught you to answer impertinence with charm?”

“Both. But I’ve found charm wounds more deeply.”

You laughed. It was soft, surprised. As if you hadn’t expected him to meet you toe-to-toe. Most men probably didn’t. He could see it in the way you watched him now—not with admiration, but calculation. You were measuring him. And he’d never wanted more desperately to be deemed worthy.

“You’re not what I expected,” you said, stepping closer to the balustrade. The breeze caught your gown like it favored you too. “I assumed you’d be larger. Louder.”

“I’ve been told I’m more dangerous when quiet.”

“That sounds like something a man says before doing something reckless.”

Caleb gave a half-bow. “Only when it’s worth the risk.”

You turned to him fully now, one brow elegantly raised. “And tell me, Colonel. Am I worth the risk?”

His chest tightened. You were joking. Perhaps. Or testing him. But the truth came unbidden.

“You are the risk,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Every man here is playing at war with perfumed smiles and family names. But you—” He caught himself. Inhaled slowly. “You’re something else entirely.”

A flicker crossed your expression—surprise?—but it was gone in an instant. Replaced by something sharper.

“You assume too much,” you said, tone cooling, as though trying to reinstate distance.

“And yet, here I am. Assuming. Still breathing.” He leaned one hand against the stone rail, close enough to catch the citrus-sweet edge of your perfume. “Still hoping.”

That startled you.

Hope.

He saw it in the way your hand faltered, just slightly, against your gown. You masked it well, but Caleb had seen men try to hide pain, panic, desire. And he knew exactly when a fortress cracked.

“Do all your conquests begin with flattery?” you asked coolly.

“No,” he replied. “Most of them begin with orders and end in blood.

You inhaled through your nose, slow and deliberate. “Then I pity your enemies.”

He smiled, slow and dangerous. “So do I.”

A beat of silence stretched between you.

The music drifted faintly from inside—something lilting and romantic. It clashed with the tension snapping in the air between you, sharp as drawn steel.

He should leave. He should bow, offer some glib farewell, and return to his post near the doors like the good little soldier the nobility expected him to be. But he couldn’t.

Instead, Caleb took a half-step closer, and this time, you didn’t move away.

“Forgive me,” he said quietly. “For the staring. I wasn’t prepared.”

You blinked. “Prepared for what?”

He looked you dead in the eyes, not bothering to soften the truth. “You.”

You said nothing.

And that silence—your stillness, the slow tightening of your jaw, the way your fan stopped tapping against your palm—it said everything.

He would ruin himself for you.

And you would let him, if only it were not your ruin, too.

—

He never asked for a second chance to sin.

And yet—there you were.

Lit by chandeliers and candlelight, laughing quietly at some duke’s wife, pearls at your throat and a challenge in your eyes. You moved like grace invented itself just to wear your skin.

Caleb had never believed in divine punishment until he saw you smile at someone else.

So he moved. Quickly. Cleanly. Before someone else got there first.

“I believe it’s my turn,” he said, voice low.

You looked up at him—chin tilted, gaze glinting with mischief and mercury.

“Oh?” you murmured. “Is that an order, Colonel?”

He offered his hand, just barely steady.

“A request,” he said. “But I don’t ask twice.”

You paused. A breath. A blink. Then you placed your hand in his.

“How impertinent,” you said coolly.

But you let him lead you onto the floor.

—

The first dance was him relearning how to breathe.

You didn’t just move—you floated, flickered, flared. A thousand silent arrows aimed at his composure. Every turn brought you closer. Every brush of your gloved hand over his fingers felt like a spark he wasn’t allowed to want.

“You’re staring again,” you said, without looking at him.

“I am,” he admitted.

Bold. Stupid. Honest.

You turned your face toward him—slightly. Not all the way. Your lashes didn’t flutter, didn’t lower. You held his gaze like it was a weapon.

“How many poor girls have you undone with eyes like that?”

“None,” he murmured, “because none of them were you.”

Your laugh was low and incredulous. “You’re shameless.”

“I’m a soldier. Shame doesn’t survive war.”

That made you laugh—quiet, almost warm. “I hope that wasn’t meant to frighten me.”

“No,” he said, and it came out softer than he meant it to. “Just a warning.”

“For what?”

He looked down. Your hand. His. The impossible closeness.

“For how badly I already want to ask for the next dance.”

—

The second dance was a declaration.

You didn’t resist when he stepped in again, despite the usual ritual of switching partners. You simply lifted your chin slightly—as if daring him to keep going.

Caleb obliged.

He pulled you closer. Not improper. Not quite. But enough that he could feel the tension in your spine, the subtle flex of your fingers in his palm. And yet your expression remained infuriatingly unreadable.

The tempo picked up; the waltz spun wider, grander. But Caleb never took his eyes off you. Not when your hand shifted in his. Not when you glanced away, then back—startled, perhaps, by how intently he looked.

And he let himself look, alright. At your eyes. At the slope of your neck. Then lower—your lips, parted slightly as you exhaled.

He looked up again before you caught him. Or maybe you already had.

“Should I be concerned, Colonel?” you asked, voice velvet and silk. “You’re watching me like I’m about to vanish.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” he said.

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

He smiled. “The first time something rare slipped through my fingers.”

You tilted your head, amused. “You’re fond of theatrics.”

“Only when I mean every word.”

That made your eyes narrow. Pleased? Annoyed? Both?

“Are you always like this?” you asked.

“Like what?”

“Focused. Intense. Unnerving.”

He leaned in, barely. Just enough for your breath to catch.

“Only with you.”

There it was—your pause. A ripple. The smallest fracture in your poise.

Then you recovered.

“Flattery,” you said, tone sharp as cut crystal, “is beneath you.”

“No,” he said. “It’s the only thing I know how to offer you that won’t cost me my soul.”

He said it too fast. Too raw.

Your gaze flickered.

To his eyes.

Then his mouth.

Then back.

And still—you danced.

—

The third dance wasn’t announced. He simply kept you.

The music changed again—partners shifted. Some lord brushed past, murmuring your name, offering his hand. Another gentleman made his way toward you—some baron’s son with ambitions and hair like sugar frosting. But when Caleb felt you begin to release his hand, he held tighter.

You turned slightly, amused. “Colonel?”

“They can’t have this one.”

“I’m fairly certain they can,” you said, glancing at the crowd. “It’s a ball, not a battlefield.”

He stepped closer. Just enough for his voice to drop lower, a whisper barely for you.

“It’s always been a battlefield with you.”

This time, he pulled you closer. Barely within the limits of propriety. His hand pressed just slightly firmer against your back. You didn’t protest. But your gaze lifted, eyes steady, sharp as ever.

“You’re making a scene.”

“I’m making a memory,” he replied.

Your lips parted. He looked again. Couldn't help it.

Eyes. Lips. Eyes.

“I should be furious,” you said.

“You’re not,” he said.

“You’re arrogant.”

“You’re breathtaking.”

You stilled. The music surged. Somewhere behind you, people danced and laughed and plotted futures that would never be as bold as this moment.

“I don’t dance more than twice,” you said, softly now.

“Then let this be your rebellion,” Caleb whispered.

He stepped again into the center of the floor with you on his arm, ignoring the protocol, ignoring the whispers, ignoring everything except the thunder in his own ribs and the feel of your hand still in his.

“I can’t decide,” you said at last, “whether you’re fearless or foolish.”

“Perhaps both,” he replied. “Perhaps that’s what it takes.”

“To do what?” you asked.

“To be worthy of you.”

By the time the music slowed, everything else had vanished. The chandeliers. The crowd. The scandalized whispers.

There was only the music.

And you.

He came to a halt. Slowly. Like it hurt.

You didn’t move either.

The silence between you pulsed like a wound.

Then, Caleb took your hand—reverently, carefully—as if it were made of starlight.

And bowed.

When he brought it to his lips, it was not for show.

He kissed the back of your glove once.

Then stayed.

Longer than courtesy allowed.

Longer than was safe.

Long enough to feel your pulse stutter under his mouth.

And when he looked up again—

Your mask had slipped.

Just a little.

Just enough.

TAGLIST: @datfangirl

[shewolfofvilnius]

It's fascinating how even though you don't always hear about \ anyone other than Astarion, every origin companion in BG3 has an endgame/epilogue state that is either outright bad for them or at the very least "not as good as they deserve".

Obvious there have been books and 100,000 pages of fic and discourse written about Ascended Astarion. In the moments when he almost acts like his old self, even then it's merely humoring you with a whim.

Mother Superior DJ Shadowheart flat out admits to severe empathy for what Viconia went through, and has fully closed herself off from any sense of attachment or feeling other than Nocturne and Tav. Her continued need to find carve-outs and exceptions and loopholes parallels Viconia's own eventual disagreements with Shar. And as we know, Shar will eventually betray or abandon her if Shadowheart doesn't betray her first. It's the story of every devout Sharran we meet.

Gale, the God is a smug arrogant hubris-ridden asshole that's even mean to Tara in the epilogue. Nearly every single sentiment he expressed about why he wanted the Crown and to ascend is immediately inverted. Of course he's not going to interfere. He's a figure of aspiration. Once he received power himself he immediately forgot and forsook everyone and everything about why he wanted it in the first place. A romanced God Gale is SLIGHTLY more grounded but that's mostly just because you ground him. And if you ascend with him, that ends that.

Lae'zel's return to Vlaakith results in her ascension, which leads to her missing the party and being very dead. The things that Lae'zel claimed to value will never truly be as long as Vlaakith rules, and her not escaping and falling back into her people's death cult robs her of the ability to create a new Gith, a better Gith.

Karlach is dead, or almost as bad, a Mind Flayer. And while most of her initial personality remains, by six months in she's already grown emotionally distant and her personality is clearly and evidently being slowly overridden by the brains of the dying she consumes. She's forsaken the embrace of death for the guise of eternal continuation in her. And even surrounded by the ten people who should mean the most in the world to her, all she mostly thinks about is others' perceptions of her (ala the Emperor) and the fact that she's hungry. Mind Flayer Karlach even notes that she used to think becoming a Mind Flayer would be the worst thing ever, but now she likes it. Shades of the Emperor x1000 and a clear sign that the Karlach we know and love is rapidly becoming a memory.

and then there's Grand Duke Wyll. On the surface, it appears the happiest of the "bad" endings, but pay attention. Note how he discusses wheeling and dealing and making agreements with patriars. (How well has contracts and deals worked out for you in the past?) Oh, and in certain conditions including romance, Wyll will offer you the chance to become a Grand Duke as well - with the others being his father (Ravengard #3) and Florrick (Wyll/Ulder's longest lasting family friend). That's not a government of the people for the people. When the power is tied up by a husband, spouse, his father, and their most trusted advisor, that's the makings of a monarchy or oligarchy. Of the type of patriar power-claim to last for generations, something Wyll himself once mocked. Oh, and if you adopt a child, then you get into the worst part of it all: Wyll's been busy running a city, and oh hey, instead of y'all bringing YOUR FOUR MONTH OLD DAUGHTER with you, hey, she'll be cool being watched by the Ilmater temple for a night right? Sorry, Wyll, were you saying something a few months ago about distant parenting? Yikes.

[tossawary]

Thinking about the SW prequels versus the original trilogy again and I was trying to come up with a "Binary Sunset" equivalent moment within "The Phantom Menace". You know that moment where Luke stands alone on Tatooine before his adventure begins, looking off into the darkening horizon, and the music swells with all of these unspoken emotions?

Watching "A New Hope" after watching the prequel trilogy is interesting, because the original film is a lot slower in many ways. It allows the viewer to really sit in this fantasy world, appreciate its unfamiliar details, and think about what the characters must be feeling without being directly told. While I don't think that TPM should try to copy ANH beat for beat by any means, I do think that the prequel trilogy, especially TPM, could have used more scenes that let the actors and the music work to impress upon us that kind of emotional interiority.

For example, Obi-Wan is given a stunning lack of emotional focus throughout TPM, up UNTIL his solo battle against Darth Maul and his grief urging him to take on Anakin as an apprentice afterwards. It's good that we have those moments, and yet I don't think the battle hits as hard as it could have if we'd been offered scenes beforehand that told and showed us more about who young Obi-Wan was and how he felt about what was going on, so that we cared a little more about his deep personal loss, especially given that the Obi-Wan and Anakin later relationship is an emotional core of the trilogy's tragedy. Obi-Wan spends a lot of TPM as just "that guy standing next to Qui-Gon", leaving fans to turn to novelizations and their own assumptions for a little more depth, which I think is poor filmmaking.

Padmé receives perhaps even worse treatment than Obi-Wan in regards to her emotional interiority early on. (Especially in "Attack of the Clones", which is so focused on how Anakin feels about everything that it's hard to know from the films alone why Padmé as a specifically flawed person might find him appealing, making what could be a deliciously ill-advised affair of passion and need for comfort much more one-sided and flatter (and creepier and sexist) than it could have been.) You could even argue that TPM really ought to be "Padmé's" movie, in that it's her homeworld under attack, for which she (despite being a child) has been made responsible. Her desperation, her fear, her anger, is manipulated to put a future Sith Emperor in a position of power. The Jedi are helping her, yes, but it's Padmé relentlessly driving the plot forward.

Instead of being relegated to more of a supporting character position, I think Padmé should have been given some of those slow "protagonist" moments in TPM to showcase her emotional state, specifically a scene that would have been the rough equivalent of Luke returning to the destroyed farm after the stormtroopers attacked. Padmé's party manages to escape Naboo without the film ever really dwelling on the violence, which is yet another missed opportunity. TPM ends up treating war a lot more comedically than the shootouts and climatic dogfights of ANH.

I think it would have kicked ass if the fight to get the queen on an escape ship had been even harder. The queen is hustled onboard, the ship takes off, and then we see one of the handmaidens (Padmé) rush to the window to watch as another wave of attack rushes over her city, her people. The prequel trilogy is tonally all over the place, so it's nice to imagine another version of TPM setting the tone with its own version of the "Binary Sunset" moment in which a devastated Padmé silently looks out over a horizon that's falling to pieces. Fire reflected in her eyes and everything. With the music swelling grandly with the unforgettable, life-ruining horror of war already begun.

If I had to put a "Binary Sunset" moment in the prequels, that's where I'd put it and who I'd give it to. Young Luke still has an entire heroic future ahead of him, but young Padmé is going to helplessly watch everything she cares about be destroyed by powers far greater than her.

[dream-world-universe]

Roman Empire, Italy: The Roman expansion in Italy covers a series of conflicts in which Rome grew from being a small Italian city-state to be the ruler of the Italian region… In 200 A.D., Rome had roughly 1,200,000 citizens, and today it has over 2,500,000 residents. Rome started as a small Italian village along the Tiber River roughly 1,100 years before it became the largest city in the world.. Gladiator is loosely based on real events that occurred within the Roman Empire in the latter half of the 2nd century AD… Marcus Aurelius Antoninus better known by his nickname Caracalla was Roman emperor from 198 to 217 AD. Wikipedia

[gorbo-longstocking]

i’m thinking about time traveled yn x geta & caracalla from gladiator 2…… like

picture this: you’re a prodigy medical student about to graduate top of your class when boom. day before the big day, you’re thrown like two thousand years into the past into ancient rome. first of all, what the fuck. second of all, why you?

anyway, you’re a weird little foreigner no one in the nearby village trusts. your latin is shaky, your hair’s a strange color (it’s dyed green, gonna be the only appearance factor stated and eventually itll be grown and cut out) and you don’t know what’s going on ever. why would they trust you? until you prove yourself as a talented physician saving one of the local boys from drowning (yay cpr) and you’re hauled off to the city because you know who needs a new personal physician? preferably one who can bring someone back to life via whatever the hell that display was? the emperors.

anyway geta and caracalla are not particularly impressed with you, but you’ll do for now. until they find someone better. you’re not a citizen, but if you treat them well, perhaps they will grant you citizenship. they dangle it over your head like they would a treat for a dog, much to your dismay.

geta starts up with the nickname “alga,” (meaning seaweed in latin) mostly to be mean, which caracalla thinks is funny enough to pick up for himself too. geta started it because your green hair reminds him of seaweed and he’s kind of a mean little prick, and caracalla joins in because he dislikes your actual name. it’s too weird and foreign for him, he likes “alga” better. you’re welcome.

anyway just thinking about having to live life in their stupid little palace with the worlds meanest two little kitties of men are both vying for your attention and schoolyard bullying you to show you they like you. eventually, they get all doting, but for AT LEAST a few months theyre flicking wads of paper at you and calling you stupid to get your attention. all while you’re experiencing hell emotions because you’re stuck in ancient rome with the two worst people you’ve ever met who won’t leave you alone. surely they won’t grow on you like mold.

surely.

[elbiotipo]

A rough history of the alchemypunk world:

It Is Known that ancient civilizations such as the Egyptians, the Babylonians and the Han among others dominated the arcane arts. It is also known that there were antediluvian, more powerful civilizations like the Atlanteans, from which their knowledge only survives as fragments.

The start of the alchemical revolution in Eurasia begins with increased trade and contact through the Silk Road and the Mediterranean, especially after the Pax Mongolica

The exchange of ideas and trade sparks the development of schools of alchemy, that reach practical transmutation of materials, medicine, and also powered clockwork devices. This takes place around the 1200-1400s.

The first major use of these new technologies in warfare was when Ottoman colossi breached the walls of Constantinople in 1453. One of the first actions by the sultan is to establish a state college of alchemy in the conquered city

The Italian city-states react to this development with a rush of patronage towards alchemical and clockwork research, aided by escaping scholars from Constantinople

Meanwhile, the Ming Dynasty is also undergoing its own alchemical renaissance. With the use of practical engineering, medicine and transmutation, the Imperial academies eventually outmaneuver the court, leaving the Emperor as a figurehead as they transform the state in their fashion. Many competing sects against imperial 'orthodoxy' arise

Back in Europe, the attempts of the European kingdoms such as France, Austria and Spain to rein in the Italians backfire. With technological and economical superiority, the Lega Meccanica breaks the armies and economies of their rivals

The Lega establishes a new Holy Roman Empire covering Italy, Germany and France, appointing the Emperor and the Pope. Officially, it makes all Catholic rulers swear fealty to it, but because of many reasons, this is more theoretical than anything.

The Lega quickly dissolves among rivalries between the Italian city-states, who compete for influence in the princedoms of Europe, while fighting the Ottomans in the Mediterranean and a revitalized Sultanate of Granada after the breakup of Spain

In the search of new trade routes and new alchemical material, airships begin travelling across the world. The Ming in particular send their airships, at first as a measure against sea piracy, but then these treasure airships serve to assert their power over an increasing network of tributaries. Meanwhile, the Italians go west.

The Americas were never conquered in this timeline, as the peoples of the Americas successfully resisted. The Inca claim rulership over the entirety of South America while Mesoamerica is organizing under a new alliance after the fall of the Aztecs. There are trade posts and settlements by Europeans and also the Ming, but no colonies.

The Protestant Reformation arises, much by the same reasons but also fueled by the Italian hegemony. A few Protestants reject alchemy outright, but most others advocate for a reformed alchemy or more fundamentalist approach against the 'orthodox' schools accepted by the Church. In any case, lines are drawn across the Empire

Meanwhile, the Ming, the Ottomans and the Italians compete for trade routes over the oceans. Other centers of this alchemical revolution arise in the Hansa, in Tawantinsuyu, in the Mughal Empire, in the Republic of Novogorod. The scientific revolution continues with a new mystical understanding of the workings of the universe that hint at more beyond the fixed stars. And it seems that a 30 Years' War is brewing, this time with airships and clockwork giants...

[serpentface]

What’s the architecture/layout of old Bur, how do modern people perceive the ruins?

The city in its peak was very large and spread over both shoreline and a network of small islands. These islands comprised a waterfront district connected by a network of bridges and canals, where a large portion of its non-agricultural lower class lived.

It had a fairly well organized and efficient freshwater+sanitation system across most of its span (the canal district had less effective plumbing largely due to logistical difficulties, most of its wastewater was instead flushed by rain powered cisterns). The water system was powered by the Hsuke river and made fresh water readily accessible throughout the majority of the city (though few homes had direct freshwater plumbing). It had several major public baths, and the homes of the wealthiest members of society had their own private bathing pools.

In this part of the world, it is broadly regarded as once being one of the most beautiful cities to have ever existed. It was particularly noted for its water gardens (still a fixture of present day Burri culture) which were absolute marvels of engineering for that period, with the majority of these being entirely artificial and supported by its network of aqueducts. These hosted thousands of ornamental plants, fish, and fowl, as well as fruiting trees and shrubs. They were treated as a public work meant to benefit all citizens, and existed throughout the city.

The palace in particular was noted as impressive, in part for its architecture but mainly for its gardens. These hosted 'exotic' plants and a menagerie of animals from across the empire's territory, and existed in part as a symbol of the state's power and reach. It was a trend for emperors to bring in the fiercest animal from each conquered province to the grounds, with the an-nechoi being the beast of choice from the lands across the sea to the east, with one (Probably erroneously) cited as killing thirty servants in the process of moving it into the gardens.

The palace was located within the temple district. This district housed over a hundred shrines to the various lesser deities of the pantheon, and temple complexes to the seven chief deities (the firstborn gods who created the world, all other gods were later descendants). Old Burri temples were Kinda similar in shape to a ziggurat, though had an accessible interior space and a central tower which housed the shrine. At this time, the chief gods were believed to physically inhabit their temples. Each god had its own high priest permitted to attend to their shrine, with the emperor being the high priest to Inanariya (king of the gods) and the only person permitted to directly commune with this deity. The foundations to these temples are relatively intact in the present day, though none of the towers remain (collapsed in earthquakes with no one to rebuild them).

The city was heavily fortified, having one external wall surrounding most of its length, and an internal wall surrounding the palace/temple district (which doubled as a fortress).

---

The period of sea level rise began with a 500ish year period of mostly gradual increase, which occurred slowly enough that most infrastructure could adapt very easily and the problem went unnoticed by most (the city of Bur experienced most of its Growth during this time). It then culminated with about a century of (relatively) rapid rise, which is the direct cause of the city's abandonment.

The canals flooding had always been a problem during storms, but this began to occur with notable frequency, alongside the water level as a whole rising quickly enough to be noticed on an immediate human timespan. The canal district was maintained for a while by rerouting some of its waterways and building up barriers, but it was the first part of the city to be abandoned. Things got more serious when the mainland parts of the city grew increasingly impacted by storm surges that never seemed to fully retract, and major parts of its surrounding farmland were hit by surges and tidal waves, and rendered too saline to remain arable.

The actual single biggest cataclysm was the collapse of the city's mainland sewage system. It was built with flood canals as a failsafe, but these were built to withstand heavy rain rather than an encroaching ocean. Storm surges would cause large segments of the city to be flooded with sewage (including some of the freshwater plumbing), and serious disease outbreaks would follow.

These issues were enabled/exacerbated by earthquakes (the region is geologically active and this isn't unusual) that further damaged and mingled the sewage and freshwater systems. One earthquake and its subsequent tidal wave was a turning point, and the resulting breakdown of (already strained) infrastructure rendered a large swath of the city uninhabitable in the space of about a week. This also just caused immediate damage to much of the city's architecture/walls, and collapsed the tower of the temple to Inanariya (never a good sign). This is when the full exodus began, first with people flocking to un-flooded parts of its city and farmlands, and those who could afford it fully relocating to other cities/towns.

All of this issues were compounded by the 1st Burri Empire already being in a period of collapse at this time. This was largely a matter of simple overextension. Its borders were constantly under attack by rival states/its victims, sometimes with great success. Bur's own population had burgeoned well past what the imperial core land could sustain, and its cities relied predominantly on extraction of foreign grain/goods to feed their people. It lost most of its eastern land holdings in a fairly rapid timespan (overextended with wars at multiple fronts), which caused frequent famines in its core.

This put pressure on its final emperors to invest in increasingly desperate expansionist projects, while attempting to keep up public morale with lavish public works and objectively stupid vanity projects. The attempt to excavate a canal at the Viper seaway's 'tail' (one of the few eastern regions it retained secure control of at that point) was in part a desperate act to revive its economy by opening up/monopolizing a new trade system. The amount of money and manpower sunk into this ultimately doomed project was followed by Bur being fully ousted from its eastern holdings, and was one of the final straws in its collapse.

People in the city of Bur proper were dealing with the double front of starvation and their homes + streets + immediate water supply being flooded with seawater and literal human feces. These issues impacted the lower classes first and most severely, but ultimately transcended class boundaries. Famine grew more and more rampant, not only with the loss of the colonial holdings that supported the population but of farmland in the imperial core- much of the city of Bur's immediate farmlands were unproductive due to repeat inundation with saltwater during surges, and the farmland along the Yamage river to the north was rapidly being captured and pillaged by the Hsem (historical enemies, a nomadic group with a khait warrior culture from further west).

All this was fucking unlivable in of itself, but also had very obvious implications in the context of Burri emperors also being high priests and the chief intermediary between the gods and the people. Not only was the government failing to sustain its citizens to begin with, but signs of divine disapproval were deeply apparent.

So the last days of the 1st Burri empire were a chaotic period of civil unrest, most acute in and around city of Bur proper. This involved near-constant peasant revolts and several attempted coups. The last Burri emperor (of the First empire) ultimately fled the capital of Bur and reestablished in Titenegal, declaring it the new capital. This was then sacked by the Hsem within a year and after that it was fucking Joever.

The city of Bur was functionally abandoned by this point. People still Lived There and there were several attempts to set up a new government, all of which failed in the short term. After the collapse was complete, its inhabitants were mostly just peasants who built up new homes further inland and sustained themselves on the remaining farmland. Few people lived permanently in the city proper due to all of its intact infrastructure being effectively non-functional without the governmental bodies/human labor to sustain it.

---

It should also be noted that it was Extremely not just Bur that was flooded, the sea level rise was worldwide (resulting from a collapsing ice sheet) and almost Every coastal city during this period experienced the same issue. Bur's demise was just notably dramatic in that it was once the most heavily populated human city that has Ever Existed, and directly correlated with the fall of the empire it hosted.

The flooding was fairly gradual, but it's been 7 centuries since the first Burri empire's collapse and the fall of its capital city, and many contemporary records were lost to the immediate chaos and to the large span of time since. Cultural memory tends to reframe the flood VERY rapid on a human scale, many of the stories describe the city being swallowed in a single wave as an act of divine punishment (the popular notion at the time that the last emperors deeply displeased and shamed the gods has stuck into the narrative, often exaggerated into stories of them being horrifically debauched blasphemers guilty of the worst disgraces imaginable). Even more conservative accounts tend to imagine the totality of the destruction taking place over the span of about a year (merging the memories of the immediate earthquake devastation with more gradual elements of its slow flooding). People widely believe that most of its residents drowned in the city's cataclysmic demise, and that the ruins are now Extremely haunted.

The state of the flooding is not 'completely under the sea' and you can still walk/wade through most of the inland ruins (the canal district is effectively submerged, with most structures that Would be above the water level having collapsed against the strain). As such, some people Do Live Here. These people are mostly smugglers and pirates using the ruins as a hideout, and/or opportunistic hunters and fishermen who won't let ghosts stop them. Entering the city ruins is currently forbidden (largely Because of the criminal nature of basically every motive to go here (even hunting, which is considered poaching)), but enforcement of this rule/active patrols to prevent entry are inconsistent.

The majority of Old Bur's inhabitants are animals. The un-flooded parts of the city and its gardens are now a host to a thriving community of native plants and animals (and a few descendants of escaped non-native zoo animals/ornamental plants that adapted well to the conditions).

The egret shown here is a foreign species originally brought as an ornamental bird. In the centuries since its first import, it has become widespread and occurs on both sides of the Mouth seaway. It can hunt in both freshwater and saline environments, and a very large population lives permanently in the ruins of Old Bur.

Its common name is the ghost egret. Contemporary Burri folklore holds that the ghost egrets of Old Bur are literal ghosts, carrying the souls of those who died in the cataclysmic floods.

[i-was-today-years-old-when]

i learned what is the most bizarre government in world history?

A bit strange that no one speaks of Italian city-states here.

I think they tried just every conceivable form of government. I will tell a bit about my dearest Florentine Republic.

In 13th century, Italian city-states witnessed an intense fight between pro-Emperor and pro-Pope factions. Most nobles were pro-Emperor. Florence was one of the places where they lost the battle, which led to the establishment of democracy.

Of course, this democracy was very different from what we call democracy today. Modern Western countries are representative democracies where people only vote in the elections and countries are governed by professional politicians. A medieval Italian would call such system aristocratic.

Of course, Florentine democracy was also exclusive. Wage labourers, people in debt and women were excluded. But all others could directly participate in government of their country: 5,000–8,000 people out of 25,000–50,000 adult citizens.

Political parties were forbidden (actually, the word party was invented as a slur, something that people do not remember now). Elections were seen as aristocratic mechanism because the rich and the educated would be capable to convince or bribe others to vote for them. So the main mechanism of democracy was casting lots.

Florence was subdivided into four quarters, sixteen neighborhoods and twenty-one corporations (seven major ones representing rich citizens and fourteen minor ones representing poor citizens): every citizen was a member of one of those. Initially, corporations had something to do with profession. Nobles renounced their nobility and joined corporations to be able to participate in the government. For instance, nobleman Dante Alighieri entered the corporation of Doctors and Apothecaries, and the ancestors of Niccolo Machiavelli registered in the corporation of Winemakers.

The main government body was Signoria. It consisted of eight Priors (two representing every quarter, six representing major corporations and two representing minor corporations) and one Gonfalonier of Justice, the chairman. They ruled the city during the period of two months only and then replaced by others. Signoria was the main legislative and executive authority. However, it could take major decisions only in common with other bodies such as Twelve Good Men (three persons from every quarter, mostly rich people) and Sixteen Gonfaloniers (one from every neighbourhood). These three bodies (Signoria, Twelve Good Men and Sixteen Gonfaloniers) were all chosen by lot: notes with their names were chosen from special leather bags preserved in the sacristy of the Santa Croce cathedral.

The laws were approved by the Council of the Commune (192 people, 48 from every quarter, majority rich) and the Council of the People (160 people, 10 from every neighbourhood, majority poor).

There was an enormous quantity of other governing bodies that regulated everything that needed to be regulated in the Republic, from quality checks of the bread to the licensing of the sex workers. In most cases, people served from three to six months. It meant that every full-fledged male citizen of the Florentine Republic could hope to be chosen for one of these positions.

The judicial and military power belonged to the podestà, a foreign citizen with good reputation, legal education and a military company or at least a group of armed servants. Florentines believed that a foreigner would be a more impartial judge in Florentine discussions. A podestà was invited to Florence for six months.

Finally, the Medici family managed to circumvent the system and become rulers of Florence but it took time. The system of checks and balances did work.

However, no one was able to circumvent the government system of Venetian Republic. Do you know why?

For more than five centuries (from 1268 to 1797) the procedure to elect the doge (chief of state) did not change.

Choose 30 members of the Great Council by lot.

These 30 people are reduced by lot to 9.

These 9 people choose 40 other people.

These 40 are reduced by lot to 12.

These 12 people choose 25 other people.

These 25 people are reduced by lot to 9.

These 9 people choose 45 other people.

These 45 people are reduced by lot to 11.

These 11 people choose 41 other people.

These 41 people elect the doge.

Funny that many Americans blame their electoral system for being complicated. You may think what you want about the Venetian system but it guaranteed what was probably the most stable government in the history of mankind.

By the way, despite the fact he was elected for life, the power of the chief of state in Venice was very much limited.

He could not appear in public without other officials present (security from populism). He could not meet foreign diplomats or open foreign dispatches without other officials present (security from collusion with foreign governments). He could not possess any property in a foreign land.

However, he had a nice place to live.

[whencyclopedia]

Cathars

The Cathars (also known as Cathari from the Greek Katharoi for “pure ones”) were a dualist medieval religious sect of Southern France which flourished in the 12th century and challenged the authority of the Catholic Church. They were also known as Albigensians for the town of Albi, which was a strong Cathar center of belief.

Cathar priests lived simply, had no possessions, imposed no taxes or penalties, and regarded men and women as equals; aspects of the faith which appealed to many at the time disillusioned with the Church. Cathar beliefs ultimately derived from the Persian religion of Manichaeism but directly from another earlier religious sect from Bulgaria known as the Bogomils who blended Manichaeism with Christianity.

Cathars believed that Satan had tricked a number of angels into falling from heaven and then encased them in bodies. The purpose of life was to renounce the pleasures and enticements of the world and, through repeated incarnations, make one's way back to heaven. To this end, the Cathars observed a strict hierarchy:

Perfecti – those who had renounced the world, the priests and bishops

Credentes – believers who still interacted with the world but worked toward renunciation

Sympathizers – non-believers who aided and supported Cathar communities

Cathars rejected the teachings of the Catholic Church as immoral and most of the books of the Bible as inspired by Satan. They rejected the Church for what they saw as hypocrisy of the clergy and the Church's acquisition of land and wealth. The Church responded by condemning the Cathars as heretical and they were massacred in the Albigensian Crusade (1209-1229) which also devastated the towns, cities, and culture of southern France.

Origins & Beliefs

Almost everything known about the Cathars comes from confessions of “heretics” taken by Catholic clergy during the inquisition which followed the Albigensian Crusade. The belief structure can easily be traced back to Manichaeism which traveled via the Silk Road from the Byzantine Empire and the Middle East to Europe where it became entwined, under certain circumstances, with Christian belief and symbolism.

The orthodox view of the Catholic Church was that there was one God with three aspects – Father, Son, and Holy Ghost – but this orthodoxy was not part of the vision of early Christianity and was not generally accepted until after the Council of Nicaea in 325 (convened by Constantine, the first Christian emperor of Rome) ruled in favor of it. Even then, the Nicaean interpretation of Christianity vied with others for centuries. The so-called heretical movements of the Middle Ages such as the Bogomils, the Cathars, and the Waldensians were simply the latest challenges to the Church, but they were significant because they were the first to set themselves up as a legitimate alternative to Catholicism in any form.

Cathar beliefs included:

Recognition of the feminine principle in the divine – God was both male and female. The female aspect of God was Sophia, “wisdom”). This belief encouraged equality of the sexes in Cathar communities.

Metempsychosis (Reincarnation) – a soul would be continually reborn until it renounced the world completely and escaped incarnation.

Cosmic Duality – the existence of two powerful deities in the universe, one good and one evil, who were in a constant state of war. The purpose of life was to serve the good by serving others and escape from the cycle of rebirth and death to return home to God.

Vegetarianism - though eating fish was allowed to credentes and sympathizers.

Celibacy for perfecti – celibacy was also encouraged generally since it was thought that every person born was just another soul trapped by the devil in a body. Marriage overall was discouraged.

The dignity of manual labor – the Cathars all worked, priests as well as laypeople, many as weavers.

Suicide (known as the ritual of endura) as a rational and dignified response under certain conditions.

Earlier heresies such as Arianism, while still condemned, at least adhered to the same essential dogma of the Church; the Cathars rejected and repudiated every aspect of the Church, including most of the books of the Bible. Scholar Malcolm Barber notes:

They believed that the devil was the author of the Old Testament except these books: Job, the Psalms, the books of Solomon , of Isaiah, Ezekiel, David, and of the twelve prophets. (93)

Continue reading...

[oldschoolfrp]

Viridistan, the City State of the World Emperor -- Jennell Jaquays cover for Judges Guild's 1980 campaign setting with 3 books and 3 large maps of the city and surrounding countryside, west of the City State of the Invincible Overlord, in the larger setting of the Wilderlands of High Fantasy, often called the "City State Campaign" (1982 fourth printing; designed by Creighton Hippenhammer and Bob Bledsaw)

[divaofmads]

Forever In My Heart | King Baldwin

Part I | Part II

Gif by @princess-of-thebes-1995 Dividers by @saradika-graphics pictures by Pinterest

Summary: Baldwin knew that his illness would not allow him to live long. Unfortunately, he did not have an heir to leave the throne to, and since he was of French origin, he demanded an heir from the French kingdom to take over the throne after he died. So King Louis VII sent his younger son and his wife to go to Jerusalem and make a deal with the King.

Warnings! : Toxic Relationship, (King Baldwin is 20, Prince Hugh is 25, Y/N is 19), No Y/N using (Princess Maria), Inspired by history. It is not real historical events exactly, There are chronological mistakes, I apologize for the mistakes I made in English that is not my native language and I am trying to improve my writing skills

A/N: No one's religious beliefs were disrespected. The story was written by researching the ideas of that period.

A/N 2 : You can imagine whoever you want to play the bad guy(Please comment who do you imagine).

" 5th June 1173

My lover who is more beautiful than anything. My lady with lips sweeter than honey, a complexion that would make the moon jealous, and eyes brighter than the sun. The angel who inspires me. You're in my dreams when I sleep, you're the first thing that comes to my mind when I wake up. I miss you so much that every day we are apart I pray to Jesus that my father will return from crusade as soon as possible and start making preparations for our wedding.

After that incident, after the doctors had a dilemma about whether I might be sick, I thought that your father the emperor wanted our engagement not to be official, using his relations with the Seljuk State as an excuse. Forgive me for such impertinent ideas, my love. I would never betray you and your family. However, the crusades that my father Amalric started against the Fatimids by joining forces with the French and Germans showed me that what prevents our marriage is fate. But I know. No matter how late it is, our lives will be united, you will be the most respected queen the Latin kingdom has ever seen. Christian and Muslim healers will soon produce a cure for my illness together. Don't think about me. I will be fine, knowing that you love me gives me strength, my queen. Always be happy, be healthy. Always remember me. Dream about our future during the days we are apart, because I do. May the God who reigns in the heavens and watches over the whole world protect you.

I think the reason you didn't reply to my previous two letters is because you were busy, but this time I'm eagerly waiting for you to reply to my letter, my love. My heart is with you forever."

Who could love a man whom even God has cursed?

1180 4th June

When the night covered the lands of Jerusalem like a blanket, Baldwin stood by the window and watched his kingdom. God had given this holy city to the Crusaders and had stood by them. The Latin kingdom acted as a protector against the increasingly powerful Muslim invaders. Although the failure of the 2nd Crusade had caused a lack of trust among the Crusader countries, he was the only great king who was able to unite the Holy Land after his father Amalric died. His people were pleased with him. Despite being a Crusader commander, he did not want anyone to be treated unfairly, regardless of religion or race. But why did the king not feel proud when his people loved him so much?

When he looked at his reflection in the golden goblet he held in his hand, the answer to the question was actually very clear. Despite everything, he was the cursed king. He was weak and incapable for Muslims. How could a king who was struggling for his own health deal with state issues? He was also a servant lower than a pig. He was created so ugly because they did not believe in the same god. Just as ugly and useless as a pig. Saladin should have been ashamed of himself for being defeated by a king who was a child and a leper in the battle of Montgisard. But no one had thought about it. His smart moves in the army and state administration, his choice of advisors and the poor-looking king proved his power. He was the only king who came into being on the bed to manage the war. His courage had inspired the painter.

It was normal for Muslims to spread such prejudiced and hostile gossip, of course. But it was the Christians whose ideas he had to fight against. They thought that God had cursed Baldwin when he was born. He was the one God did not like. He knew how dark his soul was when he created him. When he grew up, the devil would be his guide. He was a cruel, barbaric ruler whose mind worked for nothing but evil. Leprosy was his mark and badge for his past and future sins. He was branded so that the people would notice and stay away from this devil.

He had long forgotten his identity. The man he saw in the reflection in the goblet, with a rotting skin, was either a pig or a devil.

But he was not human in either world. When he could no longer hide this curse and his fiancée did not even deign to write him a farewell letter, he lost the last feeling that would remind him of his humanity. Love. No one loved a pig, they would detest it. No one would stray from God's path and fall in love with the devil. He would rather die. And what were the feelings? What were the longing and love he felt in his heart? Moreover, what was the sadness that was hidden behind these two feelings and spread throughout his body? These feelings grew stronger after he received the news that the crown prince of France and his wife, the Byzantine Princess Maria, would arrive in Jerusalem tomorrow. Could a pig long for? Could a barbarian be sad, or could the devil love?

Baldwin could no longer bear to see the truth reflected in the globe and threw it to the ground. So many years passed. Baldwin stood strong against the gossip about him. He only loved his kingdom and swore to protect it. He rewarded the oppressed and punished the oppressors so that people could live in peace and not have hostile feelings. However, the seeds of love that had been waiting to sprout in his heart for years blossomed with the news that he would see the woman he loved again, and the king felt hopeless.

As the medicinal drink spilled from the glass that fell to the ground spread on the stone floor, the bare parts of his maskless, bandaged face reappeared before him like a nightmare. As his breathing rhythm quickened, he heard a voice.

"When the Physicians were preparing the drink, I could tell from the smell that it tasted bad."

When Baldwin looked in the direction of the voice, he saw William coming from the darkness. The only source of light in the room was the moonlight.

"William," he said, trying to hide his emotions, "I didn't hear you come in."

William smiled warmly. "You wouldn't have heard of it if there was a rebellion, your majesty, and forgive my impudence, but the reason for this has to do with your guests tomorrow."

Baldwin turned toward the city. "I was sure I would never see her again. But now, in the castle of Kerak, Raybald of Châtillon is hosting them."

William looked at the king. "Indeed, you should have known this day would come. Your relations with the Kingdom of France are strong."

"Maybe I was just afraid that day would come."

"You're still in love with her."

"Every minute I thought I had forgotten her, my longing for her grew my love."

"Princess Maria was a good match for you. She was very intelligent, kind, and combative. A fine queen for the Latin kingdom," he said, and the melancholy gaze of Baldwin, which he did not want to show, gave him away, caused William to apologize. "I apologize if I went too far, your majesty. I just wanted to recall a pleasant memory."

A beautiful memory. It was true. Every moment Baldwin spent with the princess was special. He could talk and laugh for hours about any memory he recalled. Baldwin was not born into a loving family. When he ascended to the throne, his kingdom was on the verge of division. His illness pretended him weak against his enemies. But in all his misfortunes, Maria was his white rose, and no matter how pessimistic he felt a moment ago, he now smiled because of her.

A bitter smile, ""Do you think she can still wield a sword skillfully?"

He had the same bitter smile on his face. ""There is no doubt about that, your majesty. Perhaps once they are settled in the palace you can challenge her to a duel and see for yourself."

Although this idea sounded nice at first, the facts were obvious. He replied in a reproachful tone, as if rebelling against fate. "How can I do this when I can't use my limbs and can't see in one eye, William, tell me!" He looked harshly.

"These words do not seem to belong to you, my king. Weren't you the king who learned to use a sword with his left arm because his right arm betrayed him at every opportunity? You designed special stirrups for your numb legs. You led fights with that blind eye of yours. Now don't tell me you avoided a duel with a 19-year-old young woman."

"I don't want her to see me like this, Will. My body is decaying day by day. God's curse is growing stronger and my resistance to pain is diminishing." He looked at the view again. "I don't want her to remember me like this. She confessed that she was amazed by my beauty the night we fell in love. He turned back to William and pointed his finger at his face. Look at my current state, the boy she fell in love with is dead. The Leper King was the end of that beautiful boy."

Baldwin suddenly felt unwell and William held him as he collapsed to the ground, his legs shaking.

"Your Majesty, you need to rest now."

William called to the servants to take Baldwin to bed. The servants came to them in a hurry and, taking kings arm, carried him to the bed. One left to get water. Another was adjusting his pillows. Finally William warned them to leave the room and approached Baldwin.

"You have always been a good boy, Baldwin. You are the best king the Latin Kingdom has ever seen. No ruler after you will be able to hold these lands together."

"I would not want this. I hope that people will recognize my efforts and protect the lands from hostile armies."

Before leaving William Baldwin's room, he spoke one last time. "Prince Hugh will take more care of you both, your majesty. Be careful."

Maria had been nervous since they arrived at the castle of Kerak. Representing the Komnenos dynasty had been a heavy burden on her shoulders. About six years before she was born, dark times had passed over Manuel I and the Byzantine lands. Constantinople had been sacked, the city almost destroyed. Châtillon had been the emperor's worst nightmare until Manuel took revenge on her. He disturbed the people as if he owned the Byzantine Empire. Maria's nanny would tell her these dark memories before she went to sleep at night. Maria was a naughty child and would tell the story that Châtillon would come back one night and kidnap the naughty children. But Maria always trusted her father. Although he seemed like an emperor who was afraid of the Turks and had a weak political mind, Maria was smart enough to understand her father's strategic steps. That's why she never feared Châtillon. Her father may have suffered great losses during those times, but later he took his revenge on Châtillon in a satisfactory way.

Baldwin did not attend her and Prince Hugh wedding. He was too tired to go to France. Otherwise, his death would have come sooner, and Saladin's army would have occupied Jerusalem long ago. Therefore, Reynald of Châtillon attended the wedding as regent. Emperor Manuel saw this as an insult, and the ties between him and the Latin kingdom were almost broken. But Baldwin, the Latin king, knew his former father-in-law well. He had observed the emperor very well during his engagement to his daughter, and had skillfully kept the bond between them together.

Despite everything, Châtillon must have been unable to stomach the emperor's revenge, for he was taking a jab at the princess who had joined them at the dinner table. He was talking badly about her father. He was making fun of the Byzantine Emperor, implying that if the emperor did not come under Crusader countries protection, the Muslims would give up Jerusalem and occupy Constantinople, and they would be successful. Therefore, it was very lucky for the princess to marry the son of the King of France. Maria would of course say something in response to these words, but the crown prince of France thought that women were stupid and should not meddle in state affairs. What did women know except intrigue, sex, and having children? Whenever Maria spoke, her husband humiliated her in front of the lords of the other kingdoms. She did not want to experience the same thing again. She felt sad enough when she thought of Baldwin anyway. But both Maria's and the prince's minds were changed by Châtillon's audacity. He had brought up the subject of Baldwin and the princess's broken engagement. Maria felt uneasy. She knew that her husband had always kept his eyes on her, for it was a sensitive subject.

When Châtillon noticed the tension between the two, he explained how strong the bond between her and Baldwin was. He had read Maria’s letters impudently several times before the curse of leprosy had set in. He disclosed some of the love poems in these letters. Of course, he could not remember the exact words, but he sang similar sentences with a mocking grin. Hearing these things made the Prince angry. The gold goblet in his hand almost bent, but he tried not to show it. He looked at his beloved wife with a meaningful smile. Not wanting to appear weak, he intervened. “I thought your engagement was a political agreement, my lady. Would you care to give me more details? I would like to hear it.” He brought the glass to his lips, finished the wine in one gulp, and slammed it down on the table.

However, Maria knew that the prince intended to ask her this question. If she was not satisfied with the answer he would give, his revenge would be severe. Hugh had threatened her with his dynasty. The prince was madly in love with her and knew that his love was unrequited. He was jealous of her in front of everyone and everything.

She was trying not to give away her lie as she pushed the toasted almonds on the Blancmange that had just been served into the rice fish paste mixture with the tip of her fork. "We were both kids at the time. Our alliance against his half-brothers brought us closer. These are childish feelings." These words were lies. Every emotion she experienced was too mature.

Raynald lifted his globe to his mouth and drank the spiced wine, smearing it through his filthy beard before scraping the remains of the wine away with the palm of his hand. "Your mind was capable of writing love poems as a child."

Prince Hugh gritted his teeth. He should have cut off the head of the daring man in front of him with his sword, but he was too arrogant to show his jealousy to anyone. Instead, he chose to show his anger to his wife by stroking Maria's hair harshly. She had to be careful.

She looked bravely at Reynald. Looking into his eyes, she put the Blancmange in her mouth and began to speak, ignoring the rules as she chewed. "I am flattered that you find the love poems written by a little girl mature. Yes, Baldwin and I were mature, and I was smart enough to see that you were a pain in the neck when you were still a mercenary."

Raynald looked to the prince to put the princess in her place, but Hugh agreed with his wife, and for once, though he didn't show it, he was pleased with her headstrong nature.

Then he looked at the princess with greed. "It was obvious that the daughter of the Byzantine emperor would not suit the future king of France."

Maria stood up, her chair leg scraping the floor. "Then you should know to watch your step when talking to me."

Then she turned respectfully, in a way that glorified her husband. "Master of my heart, if you allow me, I would like to go to the chapel and pray."

The prince was unsure of what to say. He did not want to be angry with his wife, for she had put Raynald in his place, who had insidiously planted the sin of jealousy in his heart. He was also flattered by his wife in front of the other lords and barons at the table. He only gave his wife permission to go to the chapel.

She grabbed the hem of her dress so as not to fall. So she left the room and walked quickly down the corridor. Talking about her memories with Baldwin broke her heart. His look, his smile, his conversation, his intelligence... She had never known a man like him in the Empire or the Kingdom of France. Her mind was always on her old love. She had stolen her own life. She spent her youth in the bed of a man she did not love, thinking of Baldwin. Now she was in pain and wanted to be alone, alone with the Virgin Mary.

One of her maids would come to her. She called to her lady, said that her son were crying uncontrollably. Little Philip needed his mother. She ignored the maids calling her as she ran down the hall. But the baby wanted her mother and was crying non-stop. But a child from a man she did not love would not be good for her right now.

She just wanted to go to the chapel and pray before the Virgin Mary. She was on her knees, placed her elbows on the altar. "Hail Mary, Full of Grace, The Lord is with thee. Forgive me, I cannot guard my ideas from sin as I guard my chastity. Holy Mary, Mother of God. I am weak, the love that the devil has cultivated in my heart becomes sweeter to me every day that I do not see him. Please hear me, tear down the walls between us and inspire me to forget him. O Virgin, holy and merciful, obtain for all who offend thee the grace of repentance, and graciously accept this poor act of homage from me thy servant, obtaining likewise for me from thy Divine Son the pardon and remission of all my sins. Amen." She placed her palms crosswise on her chest. She was crying, convulsing with tears.

The prince and princess of France entered the holy lands with four horse guards in front and six behind to protect the gift chests. The royal coat of arms, the 'fleur-de-lys', was carved on wood on the body of the carriage, and the windows were covered with curtains in the color of the coat of arms's base color, the blue, thus completely cutting off communication between the people and the nobles.

But it was impossible not to notice such a long convoy. The children playing followed the horses and did not leave its vicinity, hoping to see who was behind the curtain. But the princess saw them. She had slightly parted the fabric and was enjoying the excited running of the children speaking in a language she did not know. Meanwhile, her husband, who was sitting next to her, distracted her by holding her hand. When the young princess turned her head to the prince, the smile on her face disappeared.

"Don't let children know you're looking at them, my lady. Then they'll have the brass face."

She looked at him smugly. "They are children. At least don't act arrogant towards children!"

Hugh gritted his teeth. He should have put her in her place, but their baby Philip’s nurse intervened to calm the anger between them. She smiled and called out to the princess as she sat across from her, put the baby to sleep in her arms.

"Your Majesty, in a few years your son will be running around the palace corridors just like them."

Maria smiled at the woman. "I hope he becomes a guardian of peace and justice." The word that crossed her mind was 'like Baldwin'. But she could not say it.

The nurse looked at the baby. "There is no doubt about it, my lady."

Prince Hugh was very angry with his wife. He could have given her a severe punishment, but his love was holding him back. Instead, he used his ambition for his son. He smiled arrogantly. "He will be a king in the Latin lands, a nightmare for Muslims! He will send the unbelievers to hell in this world. He will slaughter the unbelievers mercilessly. Otherwise, how can he be the commander of the Crusader armies?"

Maria hated herself for marrying such a cruel man. She could assure herself that the children's voices he heard outside had become screams of pain in his imagination. And look at the nobles who considered Baldwin a barbarian! What a disgrace! The princess was about to continue looking out the window in anger when she turned her head and caught the nurse's eye. The woman gave her no words. Her expression begged his majesty to be silent. For his well-being and peace. Maria smiled with tears in her eyes and did as he said, smiling slightly.

Meanwhile, William, who had received news that the royal carriage was approaching the palace, was giving orders for the final preparations. Sybilla had to make sure that the food and organization were perfect. The servants were arranging the prince and princess's favorite fruits and wines on the table in their rooms, and the gifts to be presented to the royal family were being counted in the great hall.

Baldwin lay on his back in his bed, surrounded by four physicians who were helping their assistants apply ointment to his wounds.

"Ah," sighed the king, "at last, my love. At last, I will be able to witness your beautiful smile again."

"Be a little faster!" But even that was tiring him. He was excited to greet them and wanted to stand up in defiance of God.

The physician warned the king, "Your Majesty, you must lie down for a day and wait for your skin to absorb the medicine. It will be more beneficial."

Baldwin gritted his teeth and spoke threateningly. “Are you disobeying my orders?”

The physicianstammered. He emphasized that he had been misunderstood. He apologized and ordered his assistants to hurry. After applying the herbal mixture to the king's wounds, they wrapped clean, white bandages crosswise, using two layers of cloth so that the skin would not be visible. Cotton fabrics in particular were imported from the Mediterranean. Otherwise, his completely covered skin would not be able to breathe and would become damp, and the amount of salt in his sweat would cause Baldwin to suffer in pain. In fact, the ointment was already hurting him enough.

One of his servants came to him with a silver cup in his hand and supported his back, allowing him to straighten up. Thus, he drank the healing water easily. As he was sliding the last sip from his lips to his mouth, William entered. He too might not have been in favor for king to welcome the royal family, but he knew that his life was short. Seeing the woman he loved should have been more important than the pain he would suffer. Who knows? Perhaps the last time they would meet would be Baldwin's funeral. Maria stood in front of her childhood love's coffin, crying heartily, and they would say goodbye to each other for the last time, and the only memory she had of him would be the metal mask.

"Your Majesty," he said with a wry smile on his face, "I have come to take you. News has come that they have almost arrived. Everything is ready in the outer courtyard. After the welcoming ceremony, you may proceed to the great hall."

Baldwin confirmed William and after the bandaging process was completed, he stood up. My God! For a moment, the King seemed to forget about the curse. He thought they were just like those two beautiful children from ten years ago. Two noble children who will live their love that has not been granted to anyone else. He hadn't even gotten help from anyone when he was sitting up in bed. Love must have been such a miraculous feeling. None of the physicians' ointments could give him the strength to stand up in minutes. The verses from the Bible that were read to cure his illness were of no use. Only his passionate longing for Maria gave him strength. It healed his melted bones and allowed his joints to bend freely. It allowed his joints to bend freely. Perhaps he would soon have the power to expand the borders of the Latin kingdom. But no! The truth had a bad habit of coming out at the wrong time. He was standing from William. He was only five steps away.

"Let's go." King said. At this moment, a servant called out to him, came to him with quick steps and held out the mask in his hand.

"Your majesty, mask!"

There's that Silver mask! The evil Witch who took him away from life. The King looked at the mask's artificial lips, hollow eyes, and metal eyebrows. He was the only person in the room who saw the mask's devilish grin. It was as if the mask was mocking him. He knew how much the woman he loved would pity him when she saw his sick body. And Baldwin's embarrassment must surely be the amusement of the mask. Once again the King was defeated. Although he had the arrogance of a king when he took the mask from the servant's hand, William knew the dramatic mood of the man he had known since childhood. So he supported the king with his words while his face was completely covered with a metal mask. When the servants grabbed his arm and tried to help him walk, he gestured with his hand for them not to come.

"The king looks quite healthy. No need."

William stepped back from the door and cleared the way for the king to exit.He clasped his hands in front of him and waited for Baldwin to come out. However, after their King left the room, William followed him to accompany, followed by the servants. It was noon. Light seeping through the corridor windows illuminated the gray stone walls. The designs and art of Arab architects were on display.

"My legs are shaking William. "This is not because of my illness," he said. He could keep Saladin and his armies away from his lands. He could win the battle. But for love, he was still young.

"I know, your majesty. Although not as excited as you, I'm excited to see the princess too."

Beautiful, attractive, innocent, seductive. Which word was more appropriate to say to the holy beloved? Which one would he choose to describe the relentless love inside him? Or were the other adjectives hidden behind these words what made his fall in love? Was it her stubborn and strong stance that made her seductive, was it her helpfulness and fairness that gave her the name of innocence, was it her white skin and wavy hair that reached down to her waist that made her attractive or was her beauty and grace necessary? There was no definite answer to these questions and even the answers that suddenly came to his mind were not enough to learn the reason for his feelings for her. The way he looked at her or the way she shyly looked away from him, he would now forbid each other. If their eyes met, it would be a sin. Then how would Maria have the courage to go to church again and ask for forgiveness?

All this was going on in the king's mind. When the horse carriage carrying the royal family entered the courtyard. The prince and princess were presented. The King was sitting on his throne waiting for them. But what he was most worried about was how he would react when he saw Maria. And that moment has come. As she descended the wooden steps of the carriage, Baldwin’s eyes went there. The years had made her a mature woman and made her beautiful. The dark brown tone of her hair had lightened, and blondes were mixed in between. Her skin was smooth as in her childhood. The cherry cheeks that adorned her snow-white face had not left her. A storm had formed in his heart, his love had turned into a natural disaster. When she descended the creaking steps and her feet touched the ground, Maria looked up at the king. Her honey-colored eyes sparkled. She had seen the child behind the metal mask in Baldwin’s eyes.

But the maid who got out of the carriage was carrying something in her arms that revealed the sin of their love. One of the heirs to the crown. Prince Philip. Maria's son by Prince Hugh. This child would have been theirs if this disease had not taken him prisoner. William expected the king to make a welcoming speech. But Baldwin seemed rather absent-minded. “Your Majesty,” he warned his king, “you must pull yourself together. The princess is now a married woman with a heir."

William was right. He had to come to his senses quickly and fulfill his duties as a king. The Latin King stood up, holding on to the arms of the prepared throne, and greeted the Prince and the Princess. He said it was a great honor for them to be here. Because he was on very good terms with King Louis VII of France. That's why it was such a pleasure for him to welcome the future heir, the Prince, and his wife, Princess Maria. Of course, when he saw Princess Maria next to the Prince, these words he said were completely fake. Even though he knew that Maria and the king were old childhood friends, the Prince did not allow Maria to speak and spoke to the king himself. Because he knew she still love this king with the ugly rotting skin. The king could not look at Maria. Because if he did, everything would be understood. So he averted his eyes, but Maria looked at her old friend William and smiled. Old memories had gathered in her eyes and came out.

William spoke up. "Your Majesty, if you wish, we can place the gifts of the Kingdom of France in the great hall. This will provide a much more intimate setting for the gifts presented during the banquet."

"Good thinking, William," Baldwin said. "Let's do what's necessary."

After the prince and the king finished speaking, they went inside. The servants showed the nobles to their rooms so they could get ready for the feast while their belongings were being put away.

Baby Philip had a separate room. They went to their rooms with the nurse.

When they came to the room, the bathtub was ready. The bathtub was made of white marble, shaped by marbles extracted from the Anatolian Seljuk lands. It was filled with water containing jasmine essence and leaves. Arab servants surrounded the bathtub, one had a silver tray, a loofah and soap on it. The other had a loincloth in his hand.

Princess Maria knew that Muslims were very clean. This was the most important thing for Islam and they were very contemptuous of people who were not clean.

The servants took off Maria's clothes, covered her private parts with a loincloth, and holding her hand, they sat her in the tub.

A woman took a copper bowl and dipped it into the jasmine water in the bathtub and poured it on the princess's hair. The cold drops of water cooled the roots of her warm hair. The weather was so hot here that the coolness of the water was a relief to her. She leaned her head on the edge of the tub and positioned herself so the other woman could massage her shoulder.

Her muscles, which had been tense due to sadness and her husband's irritable character, began to relax. The woman's delicate fingers were moving around the girl's shoulders and neck. The drops of water that had begun to dry on her skin were keeping it cool in the hot air. She was half asleep, half awake, dreaming but barely aware of what was happening. She didn't even realize when the woman's delicate, thin fingers were replaced by thick, calloused ones. Baldwin was in her dreams. She was sitting in the arbor of the palace in Constantinople, in the gardens with their many varieties of flowers, with Baldwin's head on Maria's lap. His eyes were looking up, into the honey-colored eyes of his beloved wife. The sun was streaming through the wooden planks of the arbor and making the heavens in Baldwin's blue eyes shine. She stroked his light golden brown hair. His skin was soft and shiny, just like when he was a child, and his lips were thin and small.

"My beautiful lover." He said. But voice was not like him. "Are you thinking about me?" The girl's eyebrows furrowed. As if this was a rebellion against passing into the real world. She opened her eyes and sat up. When she looked up, she saw Hugh sitting on the edge of the tub, looking at his wife with longing. But the same was not true for the princess.

She was serious. "What are you doing?"

Hugh replied as she stood up, using the sides of the tub for support. "I thought my wife missed me." He stood up too and caressed her cheek with the back of his hand.

Maria lowered her eyes, raised one hand, and asked the maids to help her get out of the tub. But the prince was on edge against his wife's cold attitude. He watched with anger as he was left alone.

The servants were massaging Maria's body with various oils and combing her hair. Meanwhile, her assistant was choosing a beautiful outfit for the banquet. But Maria was nervous. She and Hugh had not touched each other for a long time. They had never brought each other to the perfect peak of orgasm. That letter from the Latin palace had changed something and the prince was aware of it. She knew that Hugh would use the maids to do this. Even though he knew that adultery was one of the greatest sins, the prince felt entitled to it. Perhaps he wanted to make the woman he loved jealous and take revenge. But he never achieved his goal. Because Maria could never love her husband enough to be protective or jealous of him.

As if it were a ritual, a rite, he would ask for sexual intercourse in the palace of the man she loved. He wanted to trouble her conscience.

While her dress and jewelry were being prepared for the feast, the servants dressed Maria in a white silk nightgown, the sleeves of which were wide and connected to the skirt like bat wings.

When the princess returned to bedroom, she did not see her husband. This was a relief to her.

"Where would you like me to put these clothes, my lady?" Maria was startled by the old woman's question. She answered with a faint smile on her face. "Put them where the emerald green surcoat is."

Then she went to her jewelry. They were in a carved wooden chest on the table. She put her fingers inside and began to rummage through the earrings, necklaces, and rings. The necklace she would wear to the banquet was very special. Among the betrothal gifts that Emperor Manuel had burned or distributed to the poor, the only gift Maria had saved was the beautiful necklace designed by Baldwin. The pearls hanging from the edges of the gold collar surrounding the red beryl, emerald, and alexandrite stones...

She called her maid over and told her that she would be wearing this necklace as an accessory to the dress they had chosen. The woman was fascinated as soon as she saw the necklace. "This is very beautiful, your majesty."

About ten minutes later, the prince called out to his wife, who was giving instructions to her maids to put away the clothes. "You must be happy to see your childhood sweetheart, my love." Maria was startled by her husband's voice as she smoothed down the pearl-embroidered dress in her hand. She ran her fingers over the soft texture of the shiny fabric and handed it to the maid. "The same topic again?" Then she looked at her husband. "That's in the past, you know. Ten years is a long time to forget."

Hugh grabbed his wife's arm tightly and turned her towards him. He clenched his teeth and swallowed. "For the mind, yes, but for your heart? Was ten years enough?"

Maria did not say a word, and that was an answer for Hugh. He squeezed his wife's arm tighter. The young woman groaned, feeling the pain in her arm deeply. She frowned under the pain and tried to pull away. "Leave me alone!"

The maids were disturbed by the tension between husband and wife and did not know what to do.

Hugh brought his face closer to hers. "If that's true, I swear..." he was cut off by a knock on the door.

Maria looked into her husband's eyes without the slightest trace of love.

She ordered. "Come in!"

The young servant girl ran to Princess Maria and bowed before her.

"Your Majesty, forgive me. Your son Philip, I believe, needs your help."

Prince Hugh was also angry. Were all those nannies interested in his heir? Just as he was about to attack the young girl, Maria grabbed his arm. "My prince, please! Have some patience!" She was worried. "Is everything okay? What's wrong?"

The girl was not very good at lying, she stammered. "He wouldn't stop crying. We thought he needed his mother. The mother's scent calms babies."

Hugh glanced at his wife contemptuously. "Your motherhood is as bad as your wifehood!”

Without saying anything, Maria left her husband and ordered the young girl to take her son.

The maid was escorting the princess to the room where Philip was staying. Maria noticed that she was quite excited. She had thought of scenarios such as her son being sick. She started asking the girl questions. Was her son sick? Maybe something bad happened to him and they were afraid of the prince and didn't tell her. The girl's nervous attitude made the princess even more nervous. "Stop, I order you!"

The girl stopped suddenly and looked like a child being scolded by her mother. Maria could see how frightened her face was in the candlelight. "What's the matter? You look very nervous."

The girl stuttered and pointed to the hallway behind Maria. “This way, my lady.” Maria swallowed and looked at the hallway the girl was pointing to. It looked much more ornate than the others. The work on its door was magnificent and decorated with gold leaf.

Maria frowned. "Philip isn't there, is he?"

The girl shook her head. “No, your majesty. Just come in. He’s waiting for you there.”

When the soldiers waiting at the door saw Maria, they immediately moved and opened the door. Maria knew very well who was waiting for her inside. She walked through the door with excited steps and went out to the balcony with the most beautiful view of Jerusalem. The two soldiers standing here welcomed their princess and escorted her to the door leading to their king's chamber.

The soldiers brought the princess to the door and left. Maria took a deep breath, knocked on the door and entered that was nervous. It was the first time she had done something in secret from her husband. She was sure he would punish her if he knew where she was. She could not leave the bedrooms. He would put guards at the bedroom doors.

She looked around. The objects were as if they were showing off in the light of evening with sun. This was not the room he had stayed in as a child. It was his father's room and its size was dazzling. It was a room worthy of a young king of the Holy Land. Maria looked at the bed across from her in admiration. Her childhood love was resting in this bed, leaving his scent on these sheets. She slowly approached the bed and picked up the burgundy-colored pillow. She wrapped her arms around it tightly, as if she were hugging Baldwin. She buried her head in the soft texture of the pillow and breathed in the scent. It smelled just as she remembered. It was so clean, smelled of soap and incense.

The princess remembered the dream she had the night of their engagement. It was a terrifying nightmare, to be exact. She had longed to speak to the bishop of Hagia Sophia. Even though the priest had interpreted her nightmare positively, Maria was always anxious. She was afraid of the end of their epic love. And one day, those things she feared separated them until death. When all these memories came to life before her eyes, a small smile appeared on her face. However, her eyes denied this smile and tears were streaming down her cheeks.

"Is that you William? I've been waiting for you." It was Baldwin's voice, and it came from afar. Maria, with the remorse of her sin, did not want to be caught by Baldwin, and her whole body trembled. When she turned her head to the silk tulle curtain that separated the room, she saw his silhouette and dropped the pillow in her lap to the floor.

Take the pillow or leave the room… While she was trying to choose the right way in this dilemma, Baldwin pulled the veil aside and entered.

“Maria, you…” Baldwin stood there in shock and could not finish his sentence.

There he was, Baldwin. The man whose happiness she had forgotten for years with his longing was standing right in front of her. Baldwin was no different. He felt much stronger now. He never expected to meet those meaningful eyes again. Alone. It was as if their cursed love had flared up again.

Baldwin did not want Maria to get into a difficult situation. As soon as he saw Maria approaching him, he spoke up. "It is not right for you to be here, my lady. Please do not do this to us."

Maria, on the other hand, was determined. She had been imprisoned by a man she did not love for years, and when she could no longer stand this torture, the man who was her ray of hope stood before her.

They were standing face to face when she replied, "I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be."

Her hands were on groin, her nails tearing at the flesh on the sides of her fingers.

Baldwin replied, his voice filled with reproach. "You gave up on me, Maria. I learned of our separation from the letter your father sent to the palace. You didn't care to send a farewell letter."

Maria was crying. She looked into the king's eyes. "This is not true. I swear."

"Tell me what is right," he said. "Of course you couldn't go against your family, I understand that. But what about your love? Your fear got in the way of your love, and I couldn't read your last letter that smelled of roses, is that right?"

"No. You don't know how strict my father is. I wrote you letters many times. I wanted to send them secretly, but my nanny betrayed me. That's why I always got caught. I gave up because a young girl died in pain because of the letters I wrote you. I wasn't afraid of my father, Baldwin. I didn't want innocent people to suffer because of me." The words barely escaped her lips as she sobbed.

The girl took Baldwin's right hand, wrapped in a white bandage, and caressed it. But the effects of leprosy were beginning to set in again, and his arm was numb. What a disappointment it was not to be able to feel the woman he loved while she held his hand! "Oh God, please," he whispered. He did not care how great a sin adultery was. He wanted to feel the touch of the woman he loved. He wanted to experience the sexual urges he felt for the only woman in his life, past and future, who would love him. Not now, his inner voice said. He did not want to die without being drunk with Maria's love.

Baldwin took his right arm and pulled it from Maria's hands. He held out his left hand. "Come on Maria, come with me. We have a lot to talk about," he said. Although the princess realized that Baldwin could not use his right arm, she did not show anything so as not to upset him. So they went behind the silk veil.

The evening view of Jerusalem was almost under their feet. They sat on the couch. Their eyes met suddenly. It was the first time Maria saw her friend, her love, with a mask on his face, and it was painful for her soul.

"God has given you the most beautiful design of all his creations, Maria. You took me back to my childhood."

Maria smiled. "You too, my dear. The innocent, well-intentioned child standing before me has not changed at all."

Baldwin took offense. "You needn't pity me. I have been the god-cursed king for too long."

Maria put her hand on Baldwin's silver mask. Since she couldn't touch his skin, she had to be content with this. "You're still that boy I fell in love with." She caressed the cold, hard, emotionless mask. "The eyes looking with courage and hope. That boy whose character and heart I admired, has now grown up and become the greatest king the Latin Kingdom will ever witness."

There was surprise in Baldwin's voice. "Do you really think so?" He knew what was being said about him outside the borders of the kingdom. Even Saladin did not take him seriously at first. Until he saw that the king was a formidable enemy, he didn't respected him. Still, his illness had become a symbol of bad luck in many kingdoms, especially Byzantium, and had caused political relations to be damaged. If an agreement was made with the Latin kingdom, the curse of God would be poured upon them.

"Even if you gave me all the jewels in the world, it wouldn't satisfy me as much as your love." Her lips trembled, the area around her eyes turned red.

She was trying to control herself not to cry. She brought her face closer to Baldwin and buried her head in his neck, witnessing his scent and warmth. "You are not only the king of the holy land, but also the king of my heart," she said.

Baldwin was ashamed. He had never been so loved and pampered by a woman. He could even see his mother at political meetings. It had been a long time since he felt like a man. He had forgotten that he was a man because in other kingdoms he was nothing. Muslims called him a pig because they did not believe in the same God. Andalusian Arab historians spoke of him as a disgusting creature. According to Christians, he was the child of the devil and God punished him with ugliness and pain as a price for the cruelty and misery he would bring to the world. Jews living in his kingdom cursed their kings because they were not under the rule of a glorious king and prayed for his death. However, even though all that was left of that beautiful child was a piece of rotten flesh, he was reminded that he was human by the woman he loved, without knowing what he had become.

"You are here with me now, Maria. We may never meet again, but it is a great chance that you are here with me now."

Maria tried to smile, but tears were flowing relentlessly down her cheeks and down her chin, dampening Baldwin's white bandage. "I beg you, don't talk like that! Make me forget about reality for one night. Let's be in a fairy tale. Kiss me and let us to live happily ever after."

"I promise, Maria. I'll only make you live your fairy tale tonight."

Maria wrapped her arms around Baldwin's still feeling hand and lifted it into the air. She brought her lips close and kissed it longingly, many times.

Baldwin kept his word and wanted to talk about the good times.

"After reading the letter from the French court, William and I discussed whether she could still use a sword."

Maria wiped her tears and smiled. "I haven't used a sword since I got married. Hugh says it's not for women."

"It is unfair, the land of France has lost its best knight."

Maria shrugged. "If you're not my opponent, I don't care."

Baldwin's voice was full of affection. "We can reminisce whenever you want."

Maria snuggled up to Baldwin. She leaned her head on his chest. "It's okay, I don't want you to get tired."

Baldwin's numb arm was finally beginning to get feel, and he lifted his arm with difficulty and effort, and as he gently stroked Maria's hair, she looked happily at him without lifting her head from his chest.

"Maria, my beautiful queen. While my illness cannot prevent me from fighting the Ayyubids and leading my army, shall I miss the chance to duel with you? I will definitely be ready for it tomorrow."

"I would be honored, my king," said Maria. If she had married Baldwin, she would have been queen, and in their correspondence Baldwin always referred to Maria as "my queen." The fact that he addressed her with the same title, just like in the old days, showed the greatness of the love in his heart.

At the end of this entertaining conversation, Baldwin grew quiet. There was an inexplicable sadness in his voice. "You said your father was strict. You said a girl died because of us, Maria. What have you been through?"

Maria lowered her eyes as she remembered. Her eyes were red and a few tears slid down her cheeks to her chin.

"Several times one of the young maids helped me to smuggle letters into my room. The niche in the wall where i had once kept my doll was filled with letters from you. But the day the nanny discovered our secret, father showed no mercy. "she sobbed . "The young girl was punished by the priest reading verses from the Bible, supposedly purifying herself from her sins. Hot irons, daggers and hot oil. The girl fainted many times due to this unbearable pain and her weak body could not stand it anymore. The girl died."

"I never thought the emperor would be so afraid of our love that he would slander God. No God would allow such a punishment to be given to a virgin girl."

"I couldn't write you back. Because I never got to your last letter. The last time I saw it was among the gifts from you were being burned, in the middle of courtyard." She was sobbing and repeated over and over, "Forgive me, forgive me, my love."

Baldwin's heart ached as if it had been thrown into fire, and it was because of sadness and despair that Maria has.

"If I had a chance, if this curse would leave me alone, I would make you the happiest woman in the world," he said, stroking her hair.

But Maria, angered by this statement, rose harshly from her king's lap, her hands resting on Baldwin's groin, gripping the fabric of his robe tightly. "Please stop cursing your illness! You shouldn't care what people think. And I don't believe the thing what they think God says in bible. God holds you up as an instance to all; the kingdom of heaven is strengthened in your hands."

Baldwin put his bandaged hand around the girl's neck and pulled back the hair that covered her beautiful neck. "How can you be so sure about God, Maria? Are the priests wrong?"

"Did you not show your power, despite the limitations of your illness, and become a king loved by your people and respected by your enemies? You keep a part of God within you. You are not that man hated by God, Baldwin. If you were, I cannot imagine the illness that Hugh would have suffered," she said, laughing wryly at the last sentence.

When Baldwin returned her smile, Maria could tell by the sound he made as he laughed. and Maria thought.

"I would like to see your smile, enslaved by the mask, one last time, my dear," she said. There was sadness on her face.

Baldwin was embarrassed. "You know it's impossible, Maria."

Maria frowned. There was a half-mocking look on her face. "Why is that impossible? Has the evil witch completely transformed your face into a silver mask?"

"No, of course not. But the man under the mask has already killed the beautiful boy you remember."

"Then how come I'm looking into that boy's eyes?"

Maria slid off the couch and sat on her knees on the floor, looking pleadingly at the man she loved. For Baldwin, this was the moment he had feared.

"I beg you, let me touch your skin one last time, my dear."

The healers did not yet know about leprosy. There was only suspicion in their conversations. Despite this, they made definite statements and the worst thing was that it was contagious. Moreover, the woman he loved wanted to touch him. If anything happened to her, she would never forgive herself. Even this idea was enough to terrify him and he quickly stood up. He was going towards the window to get away from her.

"No, Maria. Don't ask me to do this!" But his muscles had become one with his illness and betrayed him once again. Baldwin lost control of his body for a moment and stumbled. Maria cried out as he lost his balance. "My love!"

Baldwin was down on one knee, his left hand on the ground, supporting his arm.

He felt that the woman he loved had hold his arm to save her king. When he looked up, Maria looked at him with a feeling that was companions of love and fear.

"Oh Maria." He didn't want her to see him like this, but fate betrayed him once again.

Baldwin got up with Maria's help. There was almost no distance between them. They were looking into each other's eyes with love. Despite the illness, the fake marriage, the years that passed, their love had not diminished even for a day. They could see the storms in the sea of love in their eyes.

"Come on, let me touch you one last time, Baldwin."

"If it infected to you, then I'll die."

"Nothing will happen, I promise."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because I have what those incompetent healers lack."

"What was that?"

"Wouldn't some stupid servant have been infected by now?" Maria put her hand on the mask. "If they understood enough about the disease to be sure it was contagious, why couldn't they find a cure?"

Baldwin took Maria's hand and caressed it. "Okay then, I'll take off my mask. But if you care about me at all, don't ask to see my face."

Maria objected. “But…” But Baldwin was determined.

"I want you to always remember me as beautiful, Maria. Like that child whose beauty you admired and confessed to. Otherwise, I will spend the rest of my short life as an unhappy man."

Although Maria wanted to prove that she would love him in any way possible, Baldwin's request prevented her. Maybe not with words, but nodded, avoiding her eyes.

She closed her eyes and waited. But the king had another plan. When he left the dream queen and did not return for a while, Maria opened her eyes. Baldwin approached her with a piece of black cloth in his hand. He knew that Maria was a stubborn girl, so he had to make sure her eyes were closed. His hair, made of golden threads, had fallen out, leaving a purulent, bloody scalp in its place. His facial anatomy, which resembled a Greek statue, was now in a state of great destruction. His lips were falling apart, the bones in his nose were melting. He was not ready for Maria to see him like this, and he would never be ready. His concreteness should live as a memory, in Maria's dreams.

He lifted the cloth up and folded it into a strip to fit his eyes. It was much better this way. He could now let her touch him freely. He placed the piece of cloth over Maria's eyes, wrapped it around her head, and tied it at the back as ribbon. When her eyes closed, the pinkness of her sweet lips could be seen in all its glory. What wouldn't he give to kiss those lips? Her kiss reminded him of God's forgiving side. But all he had to do was get rid of the mask. He took it off, praying that everything would go well.

While Maria was waiting for Baldwin, the world was pitch black for her. It was like a blind man trying to witness life. Her ears were much more sensitive now. She could hear the friction of the silver mask sliding across his skin. She waited. She waited for the best moment for Baldwin.

"Are you ready?" he asked. Maria had been ready for him years ago.

Baldwin gently held the girl's wrists, as cautiously as if he were holding a glass rose branch. He could not control his breathing rhythm in excitement as he brought her delicate fingers close to his deformed face. And when her fingertips finally touched his rough skin, Maria sighed with joy. He needed to feel this warmth so much that he had finally managed to overcome the despair that had been following him for years.

“Baldwin,” she said, her voice catching in her breath. The happy expression on her face gave way to a sad plea. She took his face between her hands and caressed his cheeks with the thumbs. "I missed you so much. I had a hard time not rebelling against the fate that separated us. But God rewarded me with you for my wait."

"You are the only sin I do not regret, the only sin I will not beg God to forgive me, Maria," Baldwin said. Nontheless Maria's fingers seemed to be trying to explore the face of the man she loved. She saw nothing. If someone else had been standing in front of her instead of Baldwin, it would not have mattered. Still, she saw the anatomy of his face not with her eyes but with her touch. Baldwin's words fueled the impossible love she felt for him.

"You too, my love," she said, rising on her toes and pressing her lips against the calloused, chapped lips of the man she loved. A passionate act that proves that she doesn't care about his illness. Maria's lips were the heaven Baldwin had not experienced in this life. Baldwin's lips must have been dark sin for a married woman. But this sin was only the price of their desperate separation.

They said goodbye to each other for the last time, feeling their skin, before their love was lost in the sands of Jerusalem. Baldwin's virgin lips were alive with a woman's lust, and he didn't want this moment to end. God, I wish time would stop right now. If only the fairy tale these two poor lovers were living would never end.

Maria put one arm around the king's neck. With her other hand she felt around his body and found his hand and held it. She put his hand on her breasts. She squeezed his hand together to show him that she wanted him to caress it. Baldwin's hand was on the princess's breast while her hand was on his hand. Their kisses were much more passionate now. Their tongues were dancing on the wet skin. Their lips were in awe, as if they were reading a verse from the Bible. Baldwin slid his hand from his princess's breast and down to the curve of her waist. Her body shape had such an aesthetic. Her rounded lines were satisfactory. He almost lost himself in the complicated paths of love. But he suddenly remembered that he had to protect the honor and dignity of the woman he loved. He didn't want her to see her as an unchaste woman who was cheating on husband with another man. Baldwin turned away from her. “We must stop now, my lady,” he said. “This is not right for you.” He took his mask from the table where it had been placed and began to place it on his face.

"But we both want this. Or have you given up on loving me?"

He was so close to her as he untied her blindfold, he could feel her body heat. "Maybe my body will not live thirty years, but my soul will be exalted with love for you, my queen." He said. When she removed the tape completely, Maria was once again face to face with the mask that had ruined the life of the man she loved. But despite everything, she was grateful that she could look into his eyes. "Forever," he said and she looked into his beautiful eyes as he finished the sentence.

Maria's eyes got wet again. "My love is yours forever, my king," she replied.

Unfortunately, the end of this miraculous moment came early. William called out before entering. She was startled.

"Your Majesty, I have to take the princess away now."

Baldwin caressed the girl's cheek one last time. "My moon-skinned love, with eyes brighter than the sun. You gave me the most beautiful gift in the world. Thank you, I am grateful to you."

He had so much more to say, but whatever he didn't talk about turned into tears in his eyes after she left. He had to calm down before going to the banquet and pretend that this moment had never happened.

[talonabraxas]

Servant of Delphian Apollo! Go to the Castalian spring; Wash in its silvery eddies, And return cleansed to the temple. Guard your lips from offence. To those who ask for oracles Let the god's answer come Pure from all private fault. -Euripides

Apollo - God of Prophesy, Medicine & the Arts Talon Abraxas

From his holy seat on the slopes of Parnassus, radiant Apollo gazed far out over the wine-dark sea. His long golden locks rippled round his noble head like tongues of a fiery corona, illuminating the mountain crags nearby, casting a glow that streamed down to Corinthian waters below. Far-reaching was the light that shone from that godly form and more far-reaching still the penetrating gaze that followed the distant progress of a small Cretan ship that set sail from Knossos on the Mediterranean Sea. To the ends of the earth those eyes could see and into the secret hearts of men. Looking thus on the small ship's crew, Apollo saw in them the priests he would need for his Delphic shrine. He suddenly transformed himself into the shape of a dolphin and, leaping aboard the vessel, he marshalled the south wind to blow them off course. Seized by forces they could not combat, the startled sailors found themselves swept along past the yawning cliffs of Taenaron where the entrance to Hades gaped. Past Messenia and up along the western Peloponnese they were driven until, at the bidding of the god, the west wind scuttled them into the Corinthian gulf and onto the bay near grape-laden Krissa. At this gentle shore Apollo leapt out of the ship as a shining god and bid the crew to mount up to Pytho and become his priests. Dazzled by his power and beauty, they willingly agreed and marched to the melody of his lyre as he took them up the rocky slopes to Delphi.

Six hundred years before the Christian era, the temple of Apollo at Delphi stood in pristine solitude on those rocky slopes. The stadium, theatre, club and round chamber and all the treasuries dedicated by city-states did not yet exist. Even earlier, before the coming of the great god to that place, there were Pythian rituals presided over by seeresses called Pythia who derived their power from the chthonic forces within the earth. There was said to have been a remoteness and dignity possessed by these early Pythia which was enriched during the early centuries that witnessed the flowering of Apollonian religion but was lost by Plutarch's time. After the coming of Christianity the oracle became silent, and Julian the Apostate, in a last effort to restore the finest pagan beliefs, sent a famous doctor, Oribasius, to see if he could revive the spirit of Delphi. For the last time the Pythia spoke, in poignant words to the world outside:

Tell the King the fair-wrought house has fallen. No shelter has Apollo, nor sacred laurel leaves; The fountains now are silent; the voice is stilled.

The last temple of Apollo was plundered and torn down about thirty-six years later, in A.D. 398, by the Christian emperor Arcadius, not to come to light again for over fifteen hundred years. It was fitting that Apollo should have come to Delphi, whose ancient name, Pytho, referred to the sacred function of the seeresses there. The Greeks and others before them considered him to be the personification of seership, appearing to his seers without being visible to other persons present. Cassandra of Troy was one on whom the spirit of Apollo descended, not without violence to her nature. Cursed with a gift of prophecy which none would believe, the poor girl saw the details of her own imminent murder and cried out as her last request to those who could credit her dire vision of death: "Remember me, and say I told the truth!" With this last effort to convey an essential statement about the meaning of her life, Cassandra asserted the primacy of true perception to a priestess of Apollo. Coming from Ilium, she was an example of those who had dedicated themselves to the god's worship along the eastern shores of the Aegean and in inner Anatolia as well. Temples dedicated to Apollo are older and more numerous in these regions, prompting many to assume that he came to the Greeks from Asia Minor. For this reason, they argue, Homer made him the champion of the Trojans, whose persecution of the Greeks is dramatically pictured in the Iliad.

Some scholars claim an Asian, some a northern (Hyperborean), origin for Apollo. Gilbert Murray suggested a compromise which might include both locales through an Asian mother and a Hyperborean father. Of course, in later Hellenic mythology, Apollo is depicted as a son of Zeus, though this may seem to be a somewhat contrived grafting of a foreign god onto an essentially Greek cosmogonical tree. All sources agree that he was a son of Leto, who seems to have had her origin in Lycia, where inscriptions concerning the Titaness are to be found. There is, however, an occult tradition that links up Leto (or Latona) with Hyperborea and with a period of gods much earlier than even the Titanic precursors of Zeus. But in the popular belief of classical times, Leto was associated with Apollo's birth on Delos, whose island inhabitants she promised would host the building of her newborn son's first temple. The Homeric Hymn to Apollo describes how, when his birth was nigh, "she gripped with both hands the palm trees that grew there, and with both feet she kneaded the soft meadowland. The soil laughed beneath her, the god sprang forth and the goddess cried aloud." Forthwith Apollo announced: "Dear to me shall be lyre and bow, and in my oracles I shall reveal to men the inexorable will of Zeus." It is said that swans circled seven times singing around the island at his birth, a mythical detail which marks the importance of the number 7 to the god but also suggests an origin further to the north. Singing swans and the amber associated with Apollo are elements of the northern climes, of that sacred Isle of the Blessed called not Delos, but Hyperborea.

Of this mysterious place the ancients said, "No ship and no traveller can reach that land." In spite of the importance of Delos as a centre of traditional Apollonian ritual, it was commonly asserted by many drawn to the Mysteries that only those whom Apollo chose could see that fabulous Hyperborea. There, it was said, "Phoebus' ancient garden" was located and thither he vanished with his swans every year. Occult tradition reveals an intimate relationship between the name Latona (Leto) and the long (six-month) night of the Hyperborean region which, it is suggested, is the place of her origin wherein all the inhabitants were priests of her son. This polar Hyperborea is said to be the Second Continent, associated with the Second Race, which enjoyed an ethereal state of development long before newer land masses arose to become the seats of more materially evolved Races. Some say Hyperborea was a garden-island that became lost beneath the ice-cap of a changing earth. Others assert that it never physically existed but floated, nay, still floats, in a more ethereal realm where the gods dwell.

There are many mysterious and seemingly scattered elements surrounding the birth of Apollo. The swans connected with it are symbolic of both fire and water, before the separation of the elements. Artemis, Apollo's twin sister, is always present at the time of his birth, as though she were simply a female aspect of himself. It has been asserted that the name Apollo means 'from the depths of the lion' and expresses the relationship of the sun with the fifth sign of the zodiac, Leo. Though this meaning is by no means universally endorsed, it is extremely provocative and reminds one of the passage of Leo 'into the pit', which takes place every sidereal cycle. This suggestively links up with the periodic renovation of the earth, involving the polar shifts associated with the rise and obscuration of land masses on this globe. It explains the tilt of the earth in relation to the zodiacal belt, at which point first Leo and then Astraea (Virgo) disappear below the earth's equator and descend, seemingly, towards its South Pole. It requires little imagination to envision Leto in the place of Virgo and to see her providing the birth channel through which the god of light (the Sun in Leo) can manifest into the grosser, more material world. This is made more intriguing when one recalls that in classical myth Tartarus was said to be a distance below the earth equal to nine days' fall of an anvil from its edge. Pondering the nine days of intense labour Leto underwent in order to bear forth her son, several intriguing connections present themselves and also intimate the difficulty of channelling the pure light of a high solar being into the world.

Equally suggestive is the fact that Leto was the daughter of Koios (Sphairos or 'Ball of Heaven') and would seem to have provided a link between an egg-shaped substance-ancestor and an androgynous deity. This line of generation is tangentially reminiscent of the description by Aristophanes of an earlier race of men whose "bodies were round, and the manner of their running was circular. They were terrible in force and strength and had prodigious ambition. Hence Zeus divided each of them into two, making them weaker; Apollo, under his direction, closed up the skin." H. P. Blavatsky in The Secret Doctrine invites the reader to compare this with Ezekiel's vision of the four divine beings who "had the likeness of a man" and yet the appearance of a wheel, "for the support of the living creature was in the wheel". All this points to an immense evolution from etheric spheres of evolving intelligence to more fragmented and specialized forms involving the work of the lunar Pitris. The article on "Aquarian Civilization" (Hermes, December 1983) sketches in a few glowing lines a lofty overview of this process. It states that many of the gods of old belonged to the First Race of humanity, the demigods to the Second, until, in the Third Race, humanity emerged and passed through several stages from the androgynous to the dual-sexed condition of historic times.

Apollo expresses in his ancestry and nature many of the characteristics found at different levels of this evolution. He is, first and foremost, a high god who is 'Ever-Distant' and who stuns the other Olympian gods with his aloof and stern ways. In the Iliad he is called "the Greater God", said to have appeared in his own form four times in connection with the divine dynasties of the earlier unseparated Lemurians. In his role of solar deity he had thus spawned, as it were, races and lineages within races which themselves were known in the ancient world as solar dynasties. Just prior to Apollo's birth, Leto was pursued by jealous Hera, who sent Python to devour the babe. This 'dragon' represents the Naga of the North Pole who drives out the early Lemurians from a land which is withdrawing from the gradually concretizing world. Like the serpent in the Garden of Eden who precipitates Eve's fall, Python forces the birth of serf-conscious godhood into the world. For the humans-to-be this will remain in potentia, whilst in the god it is full blown. In him is the Creative Fire of Life, acting through seven aspects (as with the Kabiri) upon matter. In myth, Apollo is made to seek revenge for his mother's abuse by going directly to Delphi, where the dragon Python has his lair.

This 'dragon' was sometimes called Delphyne and said to have been female and converted into an Apollonian serpent or Pythia, which was the name of the priestesses who acted as oracles for the god at Delphi. There is, in fact, much confusion about the various dragons and it seems apparent that an older and more profound teaching passed down through the ancient Mysteries had become diminished and popularized to suit a local set of circumstances. The egg of primordial substance – being identified with heaven – had become the omphalos guarded by the Delphian Python, and the wise dragon of the Sacred Isle had become identified with the chthonic powers of the earth and the delivery of her psychic prophecy. In the myths Apollo slew this Python with his arrows, which symbolize the rays of the sun, thus asserting the superiority of solar intelligence over the limited sensibilities of elemental powers. By this assertion Apollo proclaimed himself the archetypal god of the Mysteries. With the full sunlight of mind available through him, human beings could come to see clearly the inner nature of things. In this role Apollo appeared as a mason before Laomedon, Priam's father, and instructed him in the building of Ilium (which, in reality, involved the establishment of the Mysteries at that place and time).

As an archer, Apollo is called 'the Far-Darter'. He (like his sister, Artemis) shoots unerringly and unseen from afar. As he regularly withdraws to Hyperborean darkness, so Apollo ever withdraws from men and remains aloof. In this quality he has been called the most Greek of all gods. Though given to spasms of passionate intemperance, the Hellenes were inclined to subdue this tendency and embraced a measured mode more than the enthusiasm of Dionysiac expression. The Dionysiac temper connotes intoxication, suggesting proximity, whilst the Apollonian advocates clarity and form resultant from distance, an objectivity of cognition. Everything about Apollo rejects entangling things: the melting gaze, soulful mergings, mystical inebriation or ecstatic vision are all disdained. The Apollonian desires spirit rather than soul, purity rather than ardent worship. The upholding of purity is a manifest element in the cool aloofness of Apollo. Ever mindful of the proper order and balance of things, he is quick to punish those who break the sacred codes. Vivid passages in the Iliad portray his wrath as he strides into the path of Patroclus, shattering him in the midst of his charge. It is Apollo by whom Achilles will be vanquished, along with numberless other Greeks at Troy. Because Atrides of the Achaeans refused to return the captive Chryseis to her father Chryses, the god strode down in a fury from Olympus: "And the arrows clanged upon his shoulders in his wrath, as the god moved; and he descended like to night (quickly). Then he sate him aloof from the ships, and let the arrows fly; and there was heard a dread clanging of the silver bow."

So radiant and penetrating is the purity and sharp clarity of Apollo that his fire is too intense for the impure natures of this world. Any amalgamation of partial truths and delusions was doomed before the laser beam of his penetrating glance. Mortals, nymphs and demigods with whom he felt enamoured were in danger of losing their lives in the face of its too concentrated attention. The problem of how a high solar force might manifest in the world was resolved only in stages. Leto had to leave the ethereal purity of Hyperborea to bear him into the world, and,in giving him his lordly vesture, she had to struggle through the realm of Tartarus and back again to a worldly place. The darkness into which he was born was not that of the Blessed Isle but of the world, and yet, even clothed in these limiting vestures in which he manifested from time to time, he remained utterly pure and superior to all conditioned existence. Something of this is captured in the sculptured Apollo at the temple of Zeus at Olympia. One who sees it can never forget it. Outstretched arms enjoin calm. Loftiness shines out of his countenance, whose serenity combines the most delicate curve of jaw and chin with a powerfully regal brow and nose. About the strong and noble mouth there is a delicate, almost melancholy expression of superior knowledge. Virile strength and clarity are combined with the splendour of the sublime. He displays youth in its freshest bloom and purity. He embodies the compelling manifestation of the divine. Amidst the desolation, confusion and impurity of the world, he startles the earth-bound imagination and sends it soaring heavenward.

Such fiery brilliance and purity require a mediator through which it may flow in more moderated ways into the world. And so in the myths Apollo is given a seven-stringed lyre from Hermes, who accepts from the god in return his caduceus. Before this exchange, Apollo possessed but a three-stringed lyre capable of being heard in heaven alone. With the seven-stringed instrument he symbolically acquired the means of playing upon a scale which extended from the realm of the gods all the way to earth. In addition, Hermes became his envoy to the world, the rod upon which the fiery spirit wound downwards and upwards. The intense spiritual light of the solar god presiding atop the serpent-transmitters of its electric power shone from afar, sending its darts here and there but remaining in measured aloofness.

Apollo loves music but suffers no passion from its hearing. It is in the measure of the refrain that he delights, for he is the god of measured things. During the Battle of the Gods described in the Iliad, Apollo replies to Poseidon's polemical challenge: "You would have me be without measure and without prudence, if I am to fight for insignificant mortals, who now flourish like leaves of the trees and then fade away and are dead." This is the god depicted by Pindar, who calls him the promulgator of insight, self-knowledge, measure and intelligent order. "What are we?" he asks. "The shadow of a dream is man, no more. But when brightness comes, and God gives it, there is a shining light on men, and their life is sweet." This brightness which Pindar extols is that of clarity and moderation: the solar fire channelled perfectly and in proper proportion into the changing circumstances of conditioned existence. In music as in the establishment of cities and the sacred Mysteries themselves, Apollo demonstrates an unerring knowledge of the inner and essential order of things. At the god's approach the voices of the forests and grottoes were awakened and, as with singers and dancers, he caused them all to obey his measure. The moderation and sheer beauty of his music restrain all that is wild . . . even beasts are charmed . . . "even stones follow the sound of the lyre and take their place in the masonry walls". Playing his seven-stringed harp, Apollo sits like the solar orb surrounded by the music of the seven planetary spheres. Little wonder all Nature inclines to his rhythm.

Do not give out the great Truths that are the inheritance of future Races, to our present generation. Do not attempt to unveil the secret of being and non-being to those unable to see the hidden meaning of Apollo's heptachord – the lyre of the radiant god, in each of the seven strings of which dwelleth the Spirit, Soul and Astral body of the Kosmos, whose shell only has now fallen into the hands of Modern Science.

The Secret Doctrine, i 167

Spanning the whole nature of Kosmos with his adopted instrument, Apollo embodies the audible key, the tonic note running through all the Pythagorean melodies of manifestation. Emblematic of this are both his lyre and his bow, for are not the two strung with the same sinew? It may be argued that only the lyre is strung with silver strings, but in spanning the Kosmos both must be strung with silver and with animal parts, for their vibrating chords are heard on earth as well as in heaven. The verb ψαλλο (psallo) is used to convey both striking the lyre and snapping the bow-string. Both give off a sound. When Pandarus, under Apollo's guidance, discharged his arrow at Menelaus, "the bow twanged and the string sang aloud". Greeks as well as other peoples have been familiar with the musical bow and some, like Pindar, saw the true singer as a marksman, his song an arrow that never missed. In addition to this, the Greeks habitually pictured the recognition of what is right with the image of an accurate bow shot. Thus, the arrows of Apollo striking the Achaeans sang each their melodic note as they sprang from his bow, but they also signified a precisely accurate measure which, because of the disharmonious action of the Greeks, sang forth in notes of karmic retribution. "The song of the most alert of all gods does not arise dreamlike out of an intoxicated soul but flies directly towards a clearly seen goal" – the Truth. Disharmony and chaotic disturbance are ordered with measure. The wrong is put right. It was, after all, on the day of Apollo's festival that Odysseus returned home and slew the suitors who had desecrated his hospitality.

Measure is best. It is the highest manifest Truth, corresponding with the 'Spiritual Cast' of the Delphian god. Emanating light, order and reason, the arrows he carries are like the midday sun. Like shafts of clear, omnidirectional thinking, they shatter illusion and destroy the self-satisfied complacency of men and women. In his care for purification and retribution, Apollo stands as champion of the rules of occultism, which, as William Q. Judge wrote, "are of the most stringent character, the breaking of which is never wiped out save by expiation". As he did in the case of Orestes, Apollo advises those in distress of what is to be done and what left undone, where atonement and submission might be necessary, always involving an inward clarification of being. He is the exemplar of what the Greeks called σοφροσυνε (sophrosyne), self-control and self-knowledge. His injunction to visitors at his Delphic temple was "Know thyself, and through his oracle he pointed to Socrates as the wisest of all men (who rightly interpreted this to mean that he must devote his life to the pursuit of wisdom through examination of himself and his fellow men). Owing to the primacy of this measured sense of proportionality and self-control, Apollo acts to block the sacrilege of other gods or demigods. In the last book of the Iliad he rises with the pathos of restraining reason and magnanimity in order to put to an end the horrible twelve-day abuse of Hector's corpse. He charges Achilles with ruthlessness and hardness of heart, saying he lacks respect for the eternal laws of Nature and the self-restraint which is seemly for the noble in their bereavement. He admonishes the other gods who have tolerated this abuse:

Yet now you will not even go so far as to save his corpse for his wife and mother and his child to see, and for his father, Priam, and his people, who would burn it instantly and give him funeral honours. Know, it is the brutal Achilles whom you choose to support, Achilles, who has no decent feeling in him and never listens to the voice of mercy, but goes through life in his own savage way, like a lion who, when he wants his supper, lets his own strength and daring run away with him and pounces on the shepherd's flocks. Achilles like the lion has killed pity. And he cares not a jot for public opinion, to which most people bend the knee for better or for worse. He had better beware of our wrath, great man though he is. What is he doing in his fury but insulting senseless clay?

Iliad

Apollo rejects such passion and fury. They distort the measure of Truth. His view is from afar, a broad and extended perspective which causes him to seem oblivious to the worth of an individual as a separate soul. He constantly directs attention away from the state of the individual soul to a contemplation of eternal forms. The Christian may humble himself before God in order to become worthy of nearness, but Apollo, almost harshly, reminds man of his limitations and his finiteness. Only man's truly spiritual virtues (the essence of his perfections and creations) can prevail after death and persist from life to life, "for only the form belongs to the realm of the imperishable". This notion of form is Platonic. It refers to essential archetypal forms which are based on the highest and most abstract mathematics, embodying the noumenal levels of the manifesting Kosmos. Apollo, in accepting the seven-stringed lyre of Hermes, did not abandon his three-stringed instrument. Together they form the Pythagorean decad, but the original three expresses the unchanging, periodically manifest Eternal. The highest element of the classical Greek spirit was associated with Apollo and required a clear-eyed cognition, capable of looking upon all existence as form, "with a glance free alike of greed and of yearning for redemption". The elemental, momentary and individual aspects of the world are thus negated, whilst the essence is acknowledged and affirmed.

A serious consideration of the nature of Apollo should include an examination of the story of Orestes. Written by Aeschylus, who was an Initiate of the Mysteries at Eleusis and who was celebrated by Cicero as a Pythagorean and poet, the saga presents in dramatic form difficult questions concerning levels of right action. For killing his mother, Clytemnestra (to avenge her murder of his father, Agamemnon), Orestes is hounded by the Erinyes (the Eumenides, Furies and Moirai), the guardians of the holy ordinances of Nature. The shedding of his mother's blood is regarded as a violent crime against Nature. The spirits of the spilt blood cry out to heaven and pursue the perpetrator as though he were a wild beast. Madness comes over him. At every step they are near and stare at him with gruesome eyes. Apollo, who has ordered Orestes to avenge his father's murder, stands by him at his trial, where he is to be condemned or acquitted under the presidency of Athene, The prosecutors are the Erinyes, who represent the old feminine gods of the earth confronting the new order of the Olympian spirit. Apollo is repelled by the ghastly earth-spirits, whom he sees as brute and blind in their purpose and procedure. They are knowers of deeds only (not motives) and respond with mechanical inflexibility. They ask: "Have you slain your mother?" Orestes' admission decides the issue for them.

Apollo, as defender, asserts that the issue is not that blood has been shed. The worth of the victim and the indignity visited upon him determine the gravity of the deed. When one remembers the sacrifice of Iphigenia and his obtuse resumption of his kingly estate in Mycenae, it is difficult to see the worthiness in Agamemnon. But he was a noble warrior. His name means 'resolute', referring to his years of hard-fought battle. Apollo recognizes a deeper worth than the deeds that appear on the surface. He condemns the motives behind the seeming piety of Clytemnestra and recoils from the low cunning that guided her in the murder of her husband. He is equally unimpressed by the arguments of the Furies, who reflect the same maniacal passion as Clytemnestra herself. To the jury Apollo proclaims, "The mother is not progenitor of what is called her progeny, but nurse of the new-sown seed. He procreates it who impregnates her." Athene, retaining a vote for herself, also sides with the claims of the father over the mother. She gives her motherless birth as an explanation for defending the masculine spirit of reason against the earth's appeal for revenge.

In one sense, the Aeschylean tragedy celebrates the institution of reasonable authority supplanting the bloody expiation of the old order. The old magic of the seeresses, whose patron is Gaia herself, is put in its place very much like the Pythia of Delphi were incorporated as servants of the new god. But it would be an oversimplification to see Apollo as merely masculine. In his representation of order and clarity he defends his mother and finds his feminine counterpart in his twin. In his pursuit of Daphne he is driven by his love of feminine beauty and purity. When she is taken in by her mother (Earth) and becomes a laurel tree, the tree flourishes at the heart of Delphian religion and remains ever sacred to the god. The love Apollo showers on young boys who have not yet crossed the threshold leading to manhood is of the same essence. He rejoices in the delicate balance of their purity, when their hearts and minds are still clear and unsullied by gross desires. As a great solar deity, Apollo loves such purity not as something outside himself but as reflections of the truth he himself personifies. As it flickers and shines in others, he is quick to recognize it and become its ally. It is not a question of the masculine over the feminine but rather an unswerving embrace of a higher unconditional truth in whatever form it takes. The rights and wrongs of the world produce an endless tangle of accusation and retribution. The deeper measure of morality lies hidden within the mathematics of cosmic form. Always cleaving to this hidden measure, Apollo remains the ever-distant god, but his voice can yet be heard by one who listens intently with inner perception. Did he not promise Orestes, "I shall not fail thee. I shall be thy guide and guardian to the end"?

Apollo's voice speaks in the melodious twang of his unerring arrow, in the penetrating clarity of vision which he represents. His is the cool unsullied beam of Spirit which streams from the earliest Races, wherein the highest intelligence shrouded itself in the most ethereal levels of substance and became gods. From the 'Ball of Heaven', the ancestral substance of his mother, Apollo gained a further footing in the world. Appearing with each increasingly materialized Race, he would then withdraw into solitude where he watched from afar. If his mother is of Asia in origin, it is the East of Sacrifice which provides the means of his periodic manifestation, and he embraces his Hyperborean ancestry with each withdrawal into his Father-Spirit. Thus, as champion of solar intelligence, Apollo ever asserts its penetrating illumination over the limiting sensibilities of elemental powers. The victorious splendour of his clarity conquers all and startles the imagination, which, freed from its subjectivity, soars up to those Parnassian heights where the great god dwells. There, from the ruins of his worldly shrine, will it conquer Python and meet the Mysteries face to face.

Apollo, thy golden-framed beauty Floats along that rocky hill Floats along that rocky hill No Corinthian curve of soil Or hopeful wall of Ilium Could enclose thy brilliant symmetry. For thine is the pure Light of Truth Born at the cosmic dawn And sent like arrows, radiantly.

[im-not-a-ghost]

I wish you were here...

A portrait of the person that wishes you were by their side. Images found on Pinterest.

Group 1 | Justice, Emperor, page of cups, 4 of wands, 2 of pentacles, ace of wands, The Fool

-> Possible confirmation signs : Aries, Pisces, Libra, number 4, April, rainbows, cats, mices/rats, doves, rams, castles

This person could be someone you are in a separation with at the moment. With the combination of Justice and the Emperor, I get the message of a figure of authority, which is reinforced by the sense of home provided by the 4 of wands. So, for some of you, this could be a father figure or a mentor of some kind. That may be true especially if you left your home city some time ago. The page of cups denotes an important emotional connection. This isn't just someone that you met randomly and chatted with. This is someone you have history with. A person that deeply cares for you and wants to protect you. Emperor combined with Justice and 4 of wands can also talk about a person you are linked with by a legal contract or at least in the eyes of the law, you and this person are a pair. So that could also be a husband/wife, your partner with whom you've been in a relationship for quite a while, or for some of you a boss or important business partner. You may be in a state of limbo with this person at the moment where nothing much is happening, you may be in contact but not as much as you used to. There may have been a fallout of some sort or you just are both very busy. This is someone that is very driven and passionate, a bit bossy and guarded around you. They may sometimes make you feel like they don't care about you or like they ignore you but this is the complete opposite. You matter a lot to this person. You are a source of comfort and peace for this person. You are the person they go to when they're in need of reassurance, when they have something they are proud of, when there's a good news they want to share or just when they want to relax. This is someone that is creative and ambitious, that gives a lot of importance to reputation and rules. They like things to be clear and their work to be done properly. They pay attention to details and put a lot of effort into their work because they are conscious of the consequences of their actions. This is someone that is youthful and joyous, that likes to have fun and tease people. Someone that enjoys travelling and trying new things regularly. Someone who's curious and knowledgeable. In terms of Zodiac signs, I get the energy of Aries, Libra, Pisces and maybe a bit of Virgo as well. This person can be pretty stubborn but they're also extremely loyal and caring. This is someone that views you as their home. You bring them peace and courage, which means a lot to them. I get the feeling of someone that feels so positively towards you that they would do anything to make you happy, to make you smile. I heard "I'm a fool for you" and "if anything happened to you I wouldn't be able to forgive myself". If this person is your parent, they're really protective of you, maybe a bit too much at times but in their defense, you mean the world to them and they are so proud of you.

Group 2 | 8 of pentacles, 8 of cups, King of cups, 2 of cups, 8 of swords, 7 of wands, 9 of cups

-> Possible confirmation signs : number 8, August, water signs especially Scorpio, mountains, goats, ladybugs, penguins, torches, BI Flame, BTS Butterfly, butterflies and moths

This person loves you so much, group 2. Their feelings are so pure I feel like it would be impossible to be mad at this person. This is someone that is extremely dedicated, kind, nurturing. Someone that gives their all in everything they do, especially if other people are involved. This person has a very soft and feminine energy. They could be a parent but they don't have to be specifically. They would make a very loving parent for sure. This is a person that either has romantic feelings for you or loves you unconditionally. They have the energy of both a best friend and a lover, but that may vary depending on your situation. That could be your mother for some of you but I am mainly picking up on romantic energy so that would be for some of you only. This is someone you may have met through work or studies. This person feels deeply connected to you and I would even go as far as to say they are devoted to you. They give you so much importance that sometimes they may forget about themselves. That's how much they love you. This person misses you dearly. They feel rejected by you to some extent. Or at least they fear that you will reject them. They feel like they have to fight for your attention. Again, there may be a disconnect here. You may be living at a distance from this person. There might be a misunderstanding of each other's feelings and intentions. This person believes that you are their wish come true. That you both belong together. I pick up on the energy of very spiritual people, that may belive in the concept of fate and soulmates. This person considers you as their one. They've chosen you as their one. Their heart is filled with nothing but love and admiration for you. They wish to be a reliable source of help and comfort for you. They may be working extremely hard to be able to be a person you would take interest in. They want to protect this connection at all costs. This is someone that has a lot of faith and a lot of dreams. They are extremely empathetic and soothing, they have a strong intuition and that may be the reason why they are so determined to care for you and be with you. In terms of zodiac signs, I'm picking up on Scorpio very strongly, water signs in general. Taurus could also be significant. I pick up on the energy of someone being in their bubble, spending time day dreaming and listening to music. Wandering in nature near bodies of water. Painting, especially using water colors. Writing poetry and making playlists that remind them of their person. I picture someone wearing flowy dresses or very soft fabrics. A person with a bit of a bohemian look or a soft chic appearance. Someone that looks a bit magical, like they came out of a fairytale.

Group 3 | The World, 10 of pentacles, Hanged man, 8 of pentacles, 10 of swords, 5 of wands, 2 of swords, Hierophant

->Possible confirmation signs : snakes, forests, graveyard, pine trees, spiders, mountains, BTS Dynamite, libraries, books, fixed signs especially Taurus, earth signs in general, number 10, October, infinity symbol

This person could be from a different culture than yours. You could live at a distance from one another. This is someone that is well traveled, educated, well established. A hard working person that values family, companionship and hard work. This is someone that has been through a lot in their life and has faced a lot of struggles because of their mind, their beliefs, their perception of life. I pick up on someone that has a very unique personality and that may be perceived as weird or stand off-ish by others. This is someone that is very independent and has a hard time asking for help. They're not used to relying on others. Life has been hard on them. They possibly have struggled with depression. I'm also picking up on the energy of someone that has dealt with racism, sexism or any other kind of discrimination. This is someone that is focused on their career and the legacy they will leave behind. Someone that has to fight many battles to be able to stand where they are now. This person is not afraid to stand for what they believe in. They say it as it is. They always speak their mind, no matter if people agree with them or not. They expect nothing more but respect and authenticity from the people they interact with. I get the feeling of someone that is wary of others because they've been hurt too many times before. Someone that is tired of fighting and having to fence for themselves, that wants to find peace of mind and be appreciated for who they are. Someone who's tired of having to work so hard to prove their worth. And I feel like this person wishes you were here because they don't have to be that tough and super independent person around you. This is someone that values the opinion you have of them and the opinion you have of life. They value your work ethic and your principles. This is a person that thinks the world of you and admires your perseverence. This person respects you a lot and is loyal to you. For this group I'm picking up on all kinds of connections. This can either be romantic or platonic, work related or not. But there's a lot of Earth energy coming from this group so education and work, social circles and family matter a lot. This person is wealthy. Not only because of their income but also because of their knowledge and connections. They are generous and open minded. They like to learn from others and be challenged. I get the feeling of someone spending a lot of time reading, going to the library and researching about other cultures. Someone cooking meals from various cultures, speaking many languages, exchanging with people from all over the world. They can be pretty active on social media.

[megsdoodletag]

@cardinalcanis YES HELLO THANK U strap in, ur getting both of them (they are a Pair, Not Sold Separately, Etc.)

Their names are Mercurius and Medea, and they're based on famous mothers! and i am putting this under a readmore for your own protection sorry in advance

We'll start with Medea since he's a straightforward adaptation of Euripides Emps probably should have seen coming. For those unfamiliar with one of my favorite plays, Medea is the wife of Jason of Argonaut fame, and they have two children. After Medea does a bunch of stuff for him (like helping him with that pesky golden fleece business) Jason leaves her to marry a princess, stating that the boys will have a better life if they come with him to be named his heirs, that Medea's wedding vows don't count as she is a foreigner, and also by the way she's being chased out of the city. Medea is so insulted, disrespected, and left without recourse she, even with the entire ensemble cast of the play attempting to talk her out of it, murders Jason's new princess and then also her own sons. She kills the boys with her own hands and then refuses to let Jason see the bodies, stating that, seeing as how Jason is so preoccupied with heirs and having a legacy, this was the only way she could hurt him in kind. It's an act she knows is terrible and she herself wrestles with her love for the children as she makes her decision, but the fact that, as a woman, she has no way of truly harming Jason's reputation in the way he's harmed her drives her to it. What makes Medea interesting to me, personally, is that, while unquestionably condemned by every mortal present on stage including herself, the boys' murder is framed as justified by the gods, because she gets to ride off in a golden chariot at the end of the play. Olympian gods play eye-for-an-eye rules and Medea has dealt herself in.

anyway. I'm sure you understand where this is going. Medea the primarch is one of the boys who does Not appreciate getting dragged into this Imperium of Man mess, but he is not one who hates his sons. He asks for certain concessions, largely regarding the rearing of his legion and cultural practices on compliance worlds, which are initially granted. The legion is perhaps literally the Emperor's Finest. They are efficient combatants but pride themselves largely on politics. Medea leaves marines on worlds he conquers, and they integrate into the populous as vaunted heroes and benevolent guardians, solidifying the compliance into permanency. Many of the higher-ranking marines are known by name by serfs and citizens, appearing as individuals in pop cultural creations and imperial propaganda alike, and many of those left on world have families and extensive communal networks. Medea's legion quickly receives new recruits to fill the absences after every compliance. His is a stable geneseed, and his rate of compliance never falters. Eventually, his is unquestionably the largest legion, rivaling even the eventual height of the Ultramarines, though it never appears this way because most of the vets are scattered, happily guarding their new home planets. Except to one who is paying attention to all the numbers. The Emperor orders Medea's legion to rendezvous with him. The entire legion. Any stationed marines are to take leave of their posts and return to Medea's command, just...for the time being. Ostensibly this is for a moment of recognition, a ceremony of honor to commemorate their incredible service. So incredible a service, it involves, in part, the Emperor joining them to personally direct the next leg of their crusade.

Realizing the emperor intends to command over him, use his precision tool as a sledgehammer, and otherwise does not intend to uphold the concessions initially granted to the legion in the process, Medea is left backed into a corner. Feeling as though something terrible will happen if he does not comply, he summons his scattered marines, and the massive fleet makes the trek to the rendezvous planet. The Emperor boards the flagship and finds the entire legion carefully, methodically executed, any geneseed and trainee of any level destroyed, and Medea alone, having single-handedly dismantled the pride of the Imperium over the course of the trip. Even if they spun it as an incident of primarch-gone-crazy, the total loss of what are essentially the early Imperium's posterboys is a bad look for Emps. Worse, he hesitates to destroy Medea and the primarch gets away, slipping into the warp. It's an embarrassment, and one best forgotten. Many of Medea's planets have to be re-conquered, as even with their minds wiped they fracture from the Imperium without the guidance of their beloved marines; not even the nicest legions seems to be able to fit themselves into the gaps Medea's veterans have left behind, to say nothing of those that draw unlucky and are met with unforgiving new overlords.

So. Mercurius is based on Hermione, from The Winter's Tale not [redacted], who's name is taken from Hermes/Mercury. Hermione is a queen whose jealous husband accuses her of infidelity, causing the death of her eldest son, the abandonment of her new (supposedly bastard) daughter, and her own death by broken heart. Despite all the drama, The Winter's Tale is, technically speaking, a comedy, (it's the one with the 'Exit. Pursued by bear' stage direction), and at the end of the story it's revealed that Hermione is not dead, but has been living in seclusion nearby, which she exits when the remorseful king has found and accepted his rejected daughter as his own.

Mercurius is a jovial fellow who likes to give gifts and make jokes. He grew up on a planet that had. well. absolutely nothing wrong with it actually. It's fine. He lived in a city called New^2 York and had access to the internet and regular therapy sessions. His mom sends him birthday cakes every year. Every conversation with his brothers feels like the 'that's rough buddy' exchange, but he's got a dual degree in liberal arts and psych so he generally makes it out ok. His geneseed isn't UNstable, but there's certainly something weird about it. Nobody can quite figure out what it is though, so they leave it alone; it certainly isn't smarts. His marines aren't exactly the sharpest crayons in the box. Instead, they mostly find work as communicators and messengers, running between legions.

Mercurius and Medea were close confidants, paired in an attempt to facilitate better standards in Mercurius' marines via proximity with Medea's perfect darlings, and when Medea's thing goes down, Mercurius has a hard time of it. He slept through his alarm that day and walks into the confrontation between E and Medea like

and is distracting enough that Medea gets out. He is accused of having known about Medea's intentions beforehand, though he insists if he had known he would have stopped his brother (true). Still seething, the emperor doesn't believe him and orders him stripped of his title. Mercurius' legions are separated and disseminated among the others, largely the Ultramarines, while his own presence is redacted from the records and memories of all in the imperium. Mercurius is sent out with a small remainder of his faction in a kind of deathwatch penance and, according to records destroyed as soon as Emps memorized their contents, he died during a warp-related incident, before the heresy.

My Totally 100% Ultramarine Successor Chapter They're Totally Blueberries I Promise, the Imperial Lares, have a high concentration of Merc's geneseed in circulation (they are not aware of this). They're terribly lucky, have mostly spent their time as a chapter chilling in a suspiciously quiet part of Ultima sector, and are generally just kind of. well. my friend started calling them The Emperor's Silliest for a reason. That's a whole nother discussion though please ask me about the Lares.

anyway that is the very long serious narrative version. Real talk, mercurius and medea are the comedy/tragedy twins. like in a narrative, genre-defining sense.

Medea, as Tragedy, basically cursed the imperium in its entirety but also mostly his dad, and is probably some kind of chaos god in his own right at this point. probably absolutely responsible for whatever kind of luck the lamenters have going on.

Mercurius is the fridged mom, the Comedy that's only allowed to shine because the Tragedy goes Too Far. he’s still not a great fighter, but he is good at saying what a down-on-his-luck space marine needs to hear. He appears as a blackshield deathwatch marine and is a sort of saint figure; things just end up ok if he’s around, in a kind of indirect way. Your reinforcements will make it on time. The cultist trips on a rock trying to shoot you. The guardsmen you’re camping with share their seasoned meat. things that are too small to be properly documented. nobody really knows where a lone blackshield marine goes when their missions are over. Nobody asks.

further notes:

-A lot of people think Medea is using warp equivalent jedi mind tricks to do the compliances the way he does. while he is most certainly a wytch, his strange ability to waltz into a place and declare imperial law without getting shot to hell is actually largely due to a quirk of his geneseed that involves the production of specific human-affecting pheremones. Whatever the opposite of transhuman dread is, that's what Medea's legion has. This is a part of why he leaves a few on every planet, and why those planets fall back into chaos so quickly after they leave

-Medea's legion was so good at peaceful compliance the marines had a culture of being proud of de-escalation, often boasted about limited combative deployments, and it was considered a status symbol to keep 'virgin' weapons - bolters that had never been fired, swords that had never seen blood, etc. They can definitely fight, don't misunderstand, they just pride themselves on not having to.

-Medea's thing going down the way it does provides the overarching plot for Juno's story; her returned uncles (largely Horus and Konrad) are now free of the spell that forces their minds not to think about their lost brothers and they immediately start digging. From their perspective, something just Went Wrong out there and Merc and Medea were never heard from again and dad immediately came home and handed off the reigns so he could retire. hello.

-like merc, medea is never directly responsible for any misfortune suffered by his proximity, it's mostly an aoe on such a narrative scale it usually can't be traced back directly to him, but he's also tucked a lot deeper into the warp than merc is and way more fucked up about things so. he probably could be directly responsible for things. if he wanted to be.

-medea and merc's situation is part of why horus is made warmaster (as opposed to emps continuing to handle things himself as a commander). He figured at least having the appearance of giving the boys autonomy would be better received.

-the psykic backlash from medea's sons' murder is responsible for an amount of warp entities, many of which go on to attach themselves to word bearers (it's very important to me that medea is not the cause of the heresy, because imperialistically inclined nation imploding badly under it's own weight is perfectly satisfying as is, but he's certainly not Not involved. the wb would have found other daemons to pact with but there is something about a selection of them being basically they're cousins. not that any of them are aware of this of course)

-merc is fully blind due to an accident during the scattering (the amount of ‘never saw it coming’ jokes is. not few.)

-merc is the one who taught tarik the bear joke.

-merc's faceclaim is Jared Padaleki but SPECIFICALLY season 1 sam winchester. bc that's exactly the vibe i want from him. ur estranged brother shows up and tells you u have to drop everything and jump in his junker of a car to go fight demons and ghosts and shit with shotguns full of salt and he's like we have to do this. we have to go live out of motels and stab people in alleys. to save the world. and ur like. dude i'm trying to get a 4 year degree. from like. college. like in real life. ????

-merc looks kind of intimidating in blackshield armor bc. well. it’s deathwatch blackshield armor. and he’s small for a primarch but that’s not saying a lot. and then he takes the helmet off and it’s like oh! friendly :))

-i think originally merc's deathwatch mission was to find and kill medea himself, but he decided he wasn't really feeling it tripped through a warp portal and got a little distracted. He wasn't lying, he would have tried to talk medea out of killing his own kids, but he isn't exactly a loyalist either. I think now he'd like to go find his brother and bring him back around, but again, he's not particularly competent and he keeps ending up involved in Various B-Plot Shenanigans so. that might take a bit.

-if they had ever fought, medea would not have killed mercurius. Like he wouldn’t have tried i mean. I’m not sure you can kill merc at all tbh, my man’s basically a loony toon, but i digress. medea held no ill will towards anyone except emps when he did his murder spree, and he definitely has no interest in trying to kill merc.

-following that: medea left all of the mortals (techpriests, serfs, guardsmen, etc.) alone when he killed his legion. His personal remembrancer actually followed him into the warp when he escaped, which is how there's unfinished art and shit of the event floating around on abandoned ghost ships for juno and pals to discover later

-are the Lares lucky because they're merc's, or because medea's grimdark shroud avoids them out of courtesy to his brother? who knows.

-ahriman is going to finally get into the good part of the black library and he's going to find merc reading calvin and hobbes strips with his feet on the coffee table and he's going to be so upset about it. (cegorach does get a kick out of the two of them, medea for giving emps what he deserved (he might have been involved with helping medea disappear after the incident, now that i think about it) and merc for just kind of existing as he is. merc thinks cegorach is a little mean, but because merc's kindness doesn't come from a place of pride, he generally isn't the target of whatever cegorach is pulling)

-recognizing either entity will drive the viewer insane because the spell (which is not a memory wipe per say, it's more like a blocker that won't let you linger on it, even if you are directly presented with knowledge of them) will try to erase the knowledge as fast as it appears. this is why neither of them have made a true reappearance. other than the fact that medea is sulking harder than anyone has sulked before, and merc is in Genre Containment for Plot Reasons.

-juno would not go insane if she saw either of them bc the spell malcador cast did not account for xenos primarch hybrids, so she’s fine, actually.

if u made it down this far ty!! hope u enjoy my guys, feel free to ask more about them. or juno's verse in general. I Just Think They're Neat etc. also if anything contradicts canon directly somewhere. it's my canon now it's literally fine. james workshop said so himself.

[tightjeansjavi]

Et Auream - Act III : Even In The Darkest of Places

A/N: despite the state that our world is currently in, I’m really proud of this chapter and how it has turned out. This was another chapter that I had completed gutted and rewrote from July. As always, a huge thank you to @sinsofsummers for being my beta 💗

word count: 4.8k

Summary: Even in the darkest of places, hope remains.

Pairing | Marcus Acacius x f!oc

Warnings: canon typical violence, enslavement, power imbalance, domestic abuse, language, transactional sex (not between Marcus & oc) misogyny, derogatory language, +18 minors dni! Let me know if I missed anything

series masterlist

SENATOR CASSIUS’S VILLA

“Amalthea, I have never witnessed such an act of defiance!” Aurelia whispered excitedly. The kitchen maid had become one of her dear friends—perhaps even a mother figure to her. She cherished the moments away from Cassius where she could simply be. Amalthea was old and wise, and she served Cassius longer than any of the rest of his servants had. She had taken Aurelia under her wing in every sense.

“It has been many years since a gladiator so boldly defied an emperor,” Amalthea said in disbelief. She was seated at the meager prep table, a basket of freshly plucked peas from the field were waiting to be shucked for Cassius’s dinner later. “Come sit with me, child. Help shuck these peas and tell me more of this brave gladiator.”

Aurelia tore her gaze from the archway window where in the distance she could just make out the city of Rome, and the looming Colosseum. She could still hear Cassius’s voice droning in her ear about how rogues like Acacius should be terminated. With a sigh she walked to the empty seat next to the older woman and sat alongside her. She reached into the basket and pulled out a few pea pods.

“They called him Acacius the merciful, but I fear that he is not receiving the same mercy that he gave his opponent,” she said quietly, her voice laced with genuine concern.

Amalthea reached over the table and gently squeezed her forearm with a saddened smile. “Defiance against an emperor is often met by cruel punishment, Aurelia. Acacius the merciful may not live to see another day,” she said pensively.

Aurelia’s shoulders slumped forward at the thought of Acacius being wrongfully punished for his defiant actions. She knew that this was customary, but it didn’t make it any less morbid.

“I want to go to him,” she said suddenly, surprising not only herself, but Amalthea as well.

“Aurelia,” she warned. “That would be foolish of you, and not to mention extremely dangerous. Our Dominus wouldn’t stand for it either. You and I both know his disdain towards the gladiators all too well.”

“Amalthea, your concern will not go unnoticed, but our Dominus will be at the brothel for hours after dinner. He won’t return till the early morning hours, if at all.” She had wishful thinking in her mind that her abuser would miraculously never return again and she would never have to endure his cruelty for another day.

“Would your intrigue for this gladiator weaken if he had not acted in defiance?” Amalthea said teasingly, a playful lilt in her tone.

“Amalthea!” Aurelia gasped and giggled softly at her teasing. “My admiration for Acacius is not what you’re thinking it is, I swear!” she protested.

The older woman laughed and the corners of her eyes crinkled, showing her own buried youth appearing, even if just for a moment.

“Forgive me, child. I had to ask,” she said softly and reached for another peapod. “I know well enough that once your heart is set on something, there is no deterring you. The Ludus Magnus is no place for a woman, Aurelia.”

“Rome is no place for a woman, and yet, here we are,” Aurelia solemnly reminded her.

Amalthea huffed out a laugh and shook her head with a knowing grin, “I just want you to be careful, Aurelia, but if you’re truly that determined, take Luna from the stables. She will guide you.”

“I knew you would come around eventually,” she winked subtly at the older woman, and the two returned to their fits of giggling as the sun began to slowly make its descent from the heavens.

When dinner was prepared, Cassius requested for Aurelia to present him his meal in his private study and she knew what this entailed, but she had no choice but to obey.

Amalthea gave her a sympathetic look as she placed the tray that contained Cassius’s meal in her awaiting arms and Aurelia wordlessly turned on her heel and walked towards the direction of his private quarters.

Cassius was seated at his desk, hunched over and focused on the parchment laid out in front of him when he heard a soft knock on the other side of the door.

“You may enter,” He said.

Aurelia took a deep breath and quietly pushed the door open while keeping the tray steady in her arms.

“Good evening, Dominus,” she bowed her head slightly before approaching his desk and gently placed the tray down in front of him, careful to not disturb the papers laid out in front of him.

Cassius paid no attention to her and reached blindly for a piece of thigh meat from the perfectly roasted chicken and tore off a chunk with little care when the savory juice dribbled down his chin.

Aurelia assumed that she could take her cue to leave, but as soon as she turned to walk away, Cassius finally acknowledged her presence.

“I did not dismiss you, Aurelia,” he sighed through his nose. “Sit with me,” he commanded.

She steeled her expression, her fists clenched at her sides. She had foolishly hoped that tonight she would not have to endure his unwanted touch.

“Don’t be shy,” He said wryly, and with his freehand he tapped his knuckles along the desk impatiently.

Aurelia moved towards his side, expecting that he had wanted her to sit in his lap, but when he tilted his head to the side and his eyes flickered towards the floor, she slowly lowered herself to her knees.

He placed his hand against the crown of her head and threaded his fingers through the tresses of her mahogany hair and let out a content sigh from the back of his throat.

“That’s better.” He was pleased, but not as much as he would have liked to be. And when he sensed her discomfort, he tightened his grip around her skull, just enough to make her wince from the sensation. “Although, you could be doing more than just sitting there,” he said suggestively, not masking his true intent when he guided her head towards his lap. “It would please me even more if you were so kind as to tend to me with your affections.”

So much for wishful thinking.

—

When Cassius finally left for his evening excursions, Aurelia crept from her chambers and headed down to the stables. Amalthea was waiting for her, unexpectedly, and while she focused on tacking up Luna, Amalthea reminded her of the very real dangers to being out after dark. Aurelia appreciated her concern, but this did not deter or sway her mind to stay within the safety of the villa.

“I will be back before the sunrise, I promise. Cassius won’t even know that I was gone,” Aurelia reassured her as she gracefully swung her leg over the front of the saddle and gathered up the reins in her hands gently.

“I’ll pray to Fortuna for your safe return, and to Salus for the gladiator Acacius. Ride swift and silent and do not let anyone see you. Bona fortuna, Aurelia.”

“Et videbo vos ante solis ortum,” (and I will see you before the sunrise) Aurelia whispered and gently squeezed her heels against Luna’s sides to ease her into a trot down the gentle sloping hill. She used the moon as the only guiding light to where Acacius and the rest of the gladiator’s were imprisoned within the city.

A cloak over her head concealed her identity, and when she neared the Ludus Magnus, she slowed Luna to a walk before she carefully and quietly dismounted in a secluded area. She imagined that the structure would be well guarded, but after investigating the area, she discovered a side entrance that was well hidden by shrubbery.

The interior was dimly lit, with only a few torches providing limited light. As far as she could see, there were no guards keeping watch in the immediate vicinity.

She could hear the crackling of flames from the torches, and the scurrying of rats along the floor, and just as she was turning a corner to head down one of the many corridors, a hand reached through the darkness and clamped down around her mouth. She struggled in its grip as she was forced back against a hard chest.

“Well, well, well,” a darkened voice chuckled against the shell of her ear, holding her captive. “What do we have here?” The voice belonged to a male, one of the guards she had presumed. “A pretty little lamb that has wandered far from her flock? Perhaps the gods have finally answered my prayers!” he cackled gleefully.

Her voice was muffled against his hand as she continued to struggle in his grip. “Un-hand me!” she cried out, but it was useless.

“Absolutely not!” he laughed and with his freehand he blindly searched for the knot to her stola. Her eyes widened in fear, and she bit his hand that held her mouth captive as hard as she could. He let out a surprised yelp, and his hand instinctively loosened around her mouth just enough for her to wriggle out of his grip, but he recovered quickly and shoved her roughly against a nearby wall. “Stupid fucking bitch!” he spat and unsheathed his dagger. “You’ll pay for that,” he snarled and pressed the edge of the blade against her throat. “Been waiting for something pretty to stick my cock into. I’ll give you a real reason to scream, whore.”

“Wait!” she yelled in fear. “If you release me now, I will see to it that you are rewarded!”

He narrowed his eyes, brows pinched together and dragged the tip of his blade down the column of her throat, but he didn’t get very far, not with the iron collar on her neck blocking the path of his blade. There was even a tag dangling in the middle of it, and when he leaned in closer, he could make out the engraved lettering: Si repertus sum, Cassium me senatorem redde. Retribuetur vobis. (If I am found, return me to Senator Cassius. You will be rewarded)

The guard stowed his dagger back into its sheath. “I wonder how well rewarded I will be when I return you to your Dominus,” he mused with a grin.

“You will be rewarded less if you have come to harm me. My Dominus will not take it lightly if there is even a scratch upon me,” Aurelia said boldly.

“Senator Cassius will reward me for what I feel is owed,” he snapped and grabbed her roughly by her forearm.

“Before you return me to him, I have one request,” she winced from his tight grip on her arm. “Must you handle me so roughly? I will go without a fight, I assure you.”

“I don’t believe you’re in the position to be requesting anything of me,” he scoffed and started to drag her towards the exit, but she dug her heels into the ground in an attempt to slow him down.

“Please!” she cried. “It is one simple request,” she pleaded. “I can offer you more than just coin if you agree!”

He sneered at this and loosened his grip around her arm. He turned around and faced her fully. “Is that so?” his eyes trailed down her body, lingering at the gentle swell of her covered breasts, and the curve of her hips. He licked his lips in anticipation. “Perhaps I can be…persuaded.”

She fought the urge to turn her nose up in disgust at the way he was violating her with his eyes alone.“I will give you what you want, and I will not fight it. But in return, you will show me where the gladiator Acacius resides.”

“Acacius?” he questioned with a scoff. His frame towered over her and his eyes held nothing short of malice in them. “What’s a pretty thing like you want him for, hm?”

She refused to make direct eye contact with him and turned her head to the side. “It does not concern you.”

“Oh,” he laughed. “I think it does concern me and unless you want me to make it hurt, I suggest you start talking. Don’t be so naive to think that just because your Dominus would be angered to see his prized whore scuffed up, that I won’t be cruel.”

Aurelia had always found it morbidly fascinating to experience just how quickly men would resort to threatening violent measures if women did not immediately give them what they wanted. She had experienced this exact scenario many times with Cassius, and by now she was numb to the mistreatment and cruelty she endured almost daily. Her heart, nonetheless, would always sink to the pit of her stomach whenever situations like this would arise.

Were all men truly this cruel?

He studied her intently, and when she didn’t respond, he grabbed her chin between two fingers and forced her to look at him. “Do you want to fuck him, is that it?” he questioned her dryly, amusement dripping in his tone.

“I beg your—”

“Oh, don’t act like you’re pure all of sudden. Besides, it was a fair question.You think you’re the only whore that has skipped down here in hopes to lay with a gladiator?” he snorted. “You’ll be met with sheer disappointment m’afraid. I heard a rumor that all of the gladiators were gelded.”

She fought her immediate urge to glare at him and his wild accusations.“I do not wish to lay with him.”

“Sure, sure,” he waved her off dismissively. “That's what they all say.”

“Well, rest assured, that is not why I am here. I just found his act of defiance in the arena today…admirable,” She admitted truthfully.

“Admirable?” he released her chin only to grab her by the waist and yanked her roughly in his grip so her chest collided with his own. “Defying the emperor’s command is admirable? Hm. I’m sure that’s exactly the reason why he was punished for his merciful actions then.”

Her face fell at his words. Was she too late? Was Acacius beaten to death for his defiance? No, he couldn’t be. The guard was just toying with her vulnerability. Acacius was surely alive. He must be.

“Don’t look so sad, whore. Acacius is still breathing. I’ll gladly escort you to his cell, after you complete your end of the deal, of course,” he said with a twisted sneer.

A deal is a deal, after all.

____

Just down the corridor, in a compacted cell, Marcus Acacius laid in filth. His bed, the single form of comfort that he had, was stripped from him, and he was forced to sleep upon the cold, unforgiving floor. His ankles were bound in iron, shackled to the stone wall, and his back was bare. The lacerations on his marred skin had since begun to crust over with dried blood, but he was badly wounded and received no care. His dreams were restless, and images of his mother flashed behind his trembling eyelids.

Let me go home, please. I wish to feel her gentle embrace. To hear her voice. Gods, take me out of my misery, I beg you.

“In this life and the next, you will always be my son, but your time has not yet come, Marcus. There is much life you have left to live. Remember, you must continue to be brave, gentle, just and compassionate. No matter what life throws your way, promise me you will always remain true to your heart and the values I have instilled in you.”

“How can I be brave, gentle, just, and compassionate in a world that is so cold, and has only been cruel to me?”

“You have to believe in your heart that there is goodness left in this world. There is kindness you have yet to experience, my son. Do not close the door on the possibilities of happiness. There is evil, yes, but there is also light in this world, Marcus. There is hope and there is love that dwells even in the darkest of places.”

Her image began to fade from his conscience as his body began to stir and wake at the sound of approaching footsteps, and hushed voices.

“Wait! Please, don’t go! Mother, please!” he called for her in his dreams and his hand reached for her in the darkness, but he grasped nothing but cold, damp air between his calloused fingers.

“Why has no one tended to his wounds?” a soft, feminine voice filtered in through his semi-conscious state.

“The orders were not given,” the guard, who Acacius knew as Cato, said to her in a hushed tone.

“Well, I am giving them. If his wounds are not treated soon, they will fester and he will die of infection,” she whispered in urgency.

“What do I look like to you? A charity service?” Cato laughed, and the sound grated Marcus’s ears.

“Please, just fetch me a pail of water, and do so quickly.”

Cato let out a grumbled sigh and nodded before turning on his heel and walked back the direction they had come from with little urgency in his pace. He was unsure as to why he was so willing and compliant to obey her request, but did little to question it.

Acacius sensed her presence as she knelt on the floor outside of his cell. Who was she? Why had she come? What was her purpose? Questions ran wild in his head.

She was relieved when she could just barely make out the shaky rise and fall of his chest, and the wheeze of labored breaths escaping through his chapped, parted lips. The pale moonlight from a single window in the cell, casted an eerie glow upon his severed and torn back and the stench of death permeated her senses.

He will not die tonight, this is certain. I will save him. She was determined.

“Sir!” she whispered through the stagnant air, not wanting to raise her voice enough to startle him from his rest.

Acacius, however, did not stir from his light slumber, and even when she rattled the steel bars that kept him imprisoned from her, and her from him, between her fists, he laid there, unmoving except for the slight twitch of his hand that was still outstretched, as if he had been reaching for something in the never ending darkness that consumed him.

“Acacius, please! You must—”

His eyes snapped open at the sound of his name leaving her lips like a plea, and out of reflex he immediately reached for his sword, forgetting that it was no longer on his person. He was in a daze, feeling delirious from dehydration and the unbearable pain he felt in his pulsing shoulder and in his back from the deep, exposed gashes that marred his beautiful tanned skin.

He let out a grunt as he struggled to pull himself up into an upright position from where he laid on his side. Every muscle and tendon in his body screamed at him to rest, his brain sensed danger until he whipped his head around and his hardened, and disoriented stare landed upon her.

“I mean you no harm, sir. I swear it,” her words were rushed as she wanted to reassure him that he had nothing to fear, not from the likes of her. She didn’t even have the desire to harm a mere fly.

“How do you know my name?” he rasped through clenched teeth. His voice was even deeper than she imagined, with an edge of hardened grit, but she could sense a warmth residing in his tone; hidden but unmistakable.

She opened her mouth to speak and explain herself, but Cato had poor timing and arrived with a pitcher of water and a vial of olive oil.

She tore her gaze from Marcus’s and glanced upwards at Cato with a desperate look in her eyes. “Unlock his cell.”

“I will do no such thing.”

“How am I to tend to his wounds if I am not in there with him?” she retorted.

“Di boni sint,” (Gods be good) Cato muttered under his breath and reached inside of his tunic pulling out a set of bronze keys. Acacius warily watched him from where sat.

The iron bars swung open, making a creaking sound along the hinges, and Marcus scrambled towards the wall till his back was met with cold hardness. His eyes widened with fear, and for a moment he was just a boy again and enduring the cruelty from a father who never wanted him.

“Peace, Acacius,” she said softly and rose to her feet. Her features were illuminated by the torch clasped in Cato’s hand and Marcus felt that the gods themselves were playing a cruel trick upon his already mangled brain. Surely, he was dreaming, for he had never gazed upon a maiden as beautiful as her. Was she even real? Or was she just a sick figment of his imagination? He did not notice the iron collar fastened around her dainty neck, he saw the softness in her eyes, a genuine kindness and warmth in them that he had not experienced for many years. He was awestruck.

“Gods, am I truly being blessed by Venus in the flesh?” he gasped. His eyes widened further before drooping from exhaustion. His mouth was dry, lips cracked and bleeding.

Cato couldn’t help but snicker at his delusions, but he was silenced by a stern look from her and quietly backed off.

“Leave us,” she said firmly, without looking at Cato and he retreated from the open doorway.

“Sir, I’m afraid you are mistaken. I am not the goddess Venus. I’m just…a girl,” she said quietly.

His fear manifested when she crouched down in front of him, the sincerity in her eyes did not fade, and she cautiously outstretched her hand in his direction. “I am here to help you, Acacius.”

His posture stiffened at this. His apprehension was apparent and he glowered in her direction. “I am not requiring your help, girl,” he hissed.

“You are untrusting of me, and I understand why, but if I do not tend to your wounds, they will fester and you will die,” she said soberly.

“Do you think I am not aware?” he scoffed. “Let them fester. Let me die. Why should you care what becomes of me?” he snapped.

She did not flinch or cower from his tone and her hand hovered near his reach, but he still did not acknowledge it. “I cannot allow you to die, Acacius. It is against my morals and nature.”

“Then you must be a figment of my imagination,” he muttered and turned his head to the side to stare at the wall. “Morals don’t exist here, my lady. Only suffering and death. It is only a matter of time,” he said defeatedly.

“I am as real as they come, I assure you.”

He tore his gaze from the nearest wall and looked upon her once more. He eyed her hand suspiciously, and then trailed his gaze across her face and down to her neck. His stare paused at the mark of ownership, and his lips pressed into a thin line.

“You’re just a slave to the Empire…like me,” he whispered and his hand slowly rose from his side, brushing the brass tag attached to the collar. He expected her to flinch from his touch, but she did not.

He dropped his hand back to his side and sank further against the wall with a deflated sigh. He eyed the pail of water and vial of olive oil alongside her that would be used to cleanse his wounds, if he allowed it. “You have yet to answer my question, my lady. How do you know my name? How did you know where to find me? Who sent you?” he fired off questions that were buzzing in his brain.

“No one sent for me, Acacius. I came here on my own accord after watching you bravely fight in the arena today. That is where I learned of your name.”

“I wouldn’t say I was brave,” he said humbly. He eyed the collar around her neck once more, and despite his guarded demeanor, and his engrained nature to lash out like a wounded animal, his shred of empathy extends to her. “My lady, I mean no disrespect, but the Colosseum is no place for a selfless, kind soul such as yourself. You shouldn’t be exposed to such…brutality,” he trailed off.

“Acacius, I am no lady. I am just—a common whore. My Dominus takes great pleasure in watching you and other Gladiators fight to the death. I’d even say it’s his favorite event.”

“Who is your Dominus?” his question lingered heavily in the stagnant air.

“Senator Cassius.”

“He may have labeled you as a whore, but in my eyes…I see a lady,” he whispered without understanding just how greatly she appreciated that he saw what others did not.

“You are too kind, Acacius. Your words touch me.”

His grim, hardened demeanor quickly returns in the form of a deepened scowl on his face and he leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes. He inhaled a lungful of air, his chest expanding and then deflates as he released the air through his flared nostrils. “You truly should not be here. This is no place for a lady, and if something were to happen to you, I could not protect you. These chains bind me till the morning,” he said quietly and yanked on the chains that bound his ankles to stone for good measure. “You should leave immediately. Leave me to rot here.”

“Acacius, I cannot stomach leaving you here and allowing your wounds to fester. Not when you have done nothing to deserve the punishment you endured. Bravery should not be met with the cruel lash of a whip,” she reached her hand near his shoulder, to brush her fingers against his tarnished skin, but he recoiled from her touch and pressed himself further against the wall. He felt the torn skin on his back wailing for reprieve, but he grits his teeth to mask the pain.

“Bravery?” he seethed through clenched teeth. His pupils seemed to darken under the shallow guise of the pale moonlight. “My acts of mercy upon my opponent made me appear weak. As if my heart wasn’t forged in steel! As if my compassion for humanity means more than the pride I feel when my blade pierces through the hearts of my enemies! I am a gladiator. I was raised as a ruthless fighter as soon as I could grasp a sword!” he exclaimed. The whites of his eyes showed a faux fierceness, but hidden in the depths of brown, there was fear.

“I have the blood of the innocent on my hands. Killing has been ingrained in my being since I was a small boy! My duty and honor lies with the empire, to the Emperors. It is all I have ever known, and all that I will ever know,” he gritted out, but his voice wavered, trembling with each syllable spoken as if he was trying to convince himself that being a gladiator under the Emperor's rule was truly all he’ll ever amount to in life. That he would never know softness, or genuine—real love from another unfortunate soul like his own.

She felt his pain, heard it seep in through his somber tone, and saw it in his anguished expression on his rugged, gold-kissed face. He may have been a bloodthirsty warrior in the Emperor's eyes, but in her own softened gaze, she saw a frightened boy that had been broken, ripped apart by cruel hands. “No,” she said sadly, “You’re just a boy.”

Aurelia and Acacius were two sides of the same coin; slaves to the Empire and forced into a life of endless servitude, bowing at the feet of those born into riches with their fancy silks and golden adornments. Their cruel whips in their dominant hands, and overflowing goblets of wine in the other.

A heavy charged silence simmered in their close proximity. He could hear her heart beating from where he sat and the sharp inhale of breath that she took.

“Please leave me here, my lady,” he said quietly, tone deflated of any emotion. He was giving up, she was certain of it.

“Please, Acacius,” she tried one more time to break through his guarded exterior. “Let me help you.”

His feelings were conflicted, it was written across his face, between the furrow of his brows, the subtle pout of his lips, and the swirl of brown and flecks of gold in his irises. He wanted to fight against the softness inside of him that begged to be released. The part of him that he had buried for so many years. He wanted to fight it tooth and nail, barred teeth and sharpened claws ready to strike at a moment's notice, but he remembered the words his mother had spoken to him.

“There is evil, yes, but there is also light in this world, Marcus.”

Could this unnamed stranger be the light that his mother spoke of? Could she be his purpose? His reason to fight to see another day?

“Marcus,” he whispered, “my name is Marcus.”

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