#gold fibula

[uncleclaudius]

Very fine Etruscan fibula made from gold dated to the 7th century BC. It is decorated with geometric and floral motifs, and of course, ducks.

[theancientwayoflife]

~ Fibula with an Enamel Bust.

Culture: Langobardic

Date: A.D. 7th century

Period: Early Medieval

Medium: Cloisonne enamel on gold.

[blueiscoool]

Merovingian Gold and Garnet Fibula in the shape of a Rooster European · ca. 500 - 600 A.D.

[nona1323]

Change of clothes AU "Deal with the Time"

This episode is small, but important. It begins, ironically, not in the house, but in the sands of Chronos (for more details, see separately). While in his domain, Chronos summons Chrysa (Χρυσός [chrysós] – "gold"), a scorpion created by him from his own sands.

Titan takes her away to be the personal guard of their new prisoner, since Chronos himself will not be able to monitor Hypnos all the time. Initially, Chronos does not lock Hypnos in time or in a cell because of his own triumph – he likes to play with chthonic and watch how he hardly accepts a new reality, and is also forced to obey him. But, importantly, Chronos initially does not plan to leave Hypnos, albeit chained, conditionally free to move around the House on a permanent basis. Initially, this is rather a temporary measure, until Chronos has played enough with a new toy, so that after throwing it into the camera and/or putting him on pause, depending on how quickly Hypnos will give the key to understanding Oneiros. As you can see, everything is not going according to plan and it turns out to be a little more complicated.

Chronos returns to the House and picks up the package that was delivered by the servants, and then goes to Hypnos. The first meeting of Hypnos with Chrysa takes place: Chronos introduces her to chthonic with a grin, and Chrysa quickly runs from the titan's shoulder to his arm. Chronos pulls it out, and scorpio finds himself dangerously close to Hyp's face, definitely scaring him, even if he doesn't show it. Chrysa jumps off Chronos and runs away, quickly losing herself in space, Chronos puts the package on the table and, saying that he has something else for Hypnos, opens it.

This something turns out to be clothes, but not easy. As you can see from the illustration attached to the post, it consists of two parts: the lower red chiton and the upper blue peplos. And, well, the fabrics they are made of are what is really of interest to us. They were spun and woven by Persephone and, to Hyp's horror, by Nyx, respectively. Chronos found them in the House when he was settling in and changing it for himself. And now he finally had a chance to use them.

How freely Chronos treats things that do not belong to him is insulting to Hypnos. Especially when it comes to the fabrics of the Mother, because she herself wove them from the night sky and stardust. And this is if you do not take into account how valuable and rare these canvases are considered among the gods also because of their properties and beauty alone. In addition, the outfit itself is sewn with the help of a night spindle, which also angers Hypnos. Chronos has no right to dispose of these things, and yet he does it, and Hypnos can't stop him in any way.

Chronos hands the outfit to chthonic, and Hypnos is forced to accept it with undisguised anger. After that, Chronos asks (demands. He demands) Hypnos to change clothes. The god of sleep waits for the titan to leave, but Chronos just sits down and watches. Hypnos realizes that Chronos is not going to leave the room. They have a silent duel for a while. Chronos ends it with a quiet remark: "I can just rip your clothes off. Your persistence will only make things worse."

Hypnos clenches his teeth and turns away. Slowly, he takes off his chiton, feeling the burning gaze of the Time on himself, and then he changes clothes as quickly as possible, remaining with his back to the titan. Before he can fasten the last fibula, Chronos tells him to stop. Hypnos freezes.

The Titan slowly approaches him.

"Turn around," Chronos's voice is calm.

Hypnos turns slowly and tries not to think about the bed behind them. Chronos looks down at him, and then holds out his hands. He fastens the last fibula, the hourglass symbol, his symbol, himself, stroking it contentedly after, and then his hands run lower, straightening all the folds that arose due to the haste of Hypnos. He is forced to stand and wait for the titan to finish. He's angry, but the last thing he wants is to provoke Chronos now. 

Chronos steps back and looks at he with a satisfied look. "Yes, you look much better this way. And now – give me these rags and trinkets."

Hypnos has to collect his clothes and jewelry and hand them over to Chronos. He won't see his chiton for a very long time.

To sum up, Hypnos will look like in the picture almost throughout the entire plot, although some details will be clarified later. 

The author of the art: @do-n0t-be-afraid

Masterpost AU "Deal with the Time" here

The description of the au is here

(English is not my native language, sorry for the mistakes)

[punk-in-docs]

A song of rage and salty waves: part I

— Emperor Geta x reader (Salacia)

— 2.5k words

— Read all parts here: Part I — Part II — Part III — Part IV

Summary; You were raised outside of this Rome. Born into peace. To know of fathomless deep seas, and skies so big, they wrapped around your whole sight. The way that at night all you can smell are lemon trees kissed by salt. The jasmine plants wound around the white walls of the villa. Salacia. And now you are sent to Rome for your father in the Senate. There you will catch the attention of Geta; in all the wrong and darkest of ways— any reblog and comments are greatly appreciated 💙💙💙

TW!! some dub con/ threat/violence/basically forced marriage/forced smut situation/Geta is such a vile human being/Macrinus is villain sorry denzel ily

You’re imprisoned in Rome.

You certainly didn’t come here of your own free will. Your father had tugged you here from Corsica. Employed clever charm with letters and schemes from his high position in the senate.

As the role of your sex; you were born to obey.

He sent you imported silken stolas the colours of cornflowers or lazurite, with gold fibulae at the shoulders. Gem inlaid jewellery, rings to decorate every finger, and earrings the sway. A golden net for your hair. Wheedled you into coming to join him. Sending servants to travel with you and take heed of your every comfort.

He made sure you dined on plump fresh fruit. Seafood of lobsters and crabs. Drank wine so rich dark it looked black.

You despise it. The stone pillars and temples. And gods of old. Eyes watch you everywhere. See you. Follow you.The governing heat and noise and sweaty heaving mass of all forms of life.

You were raised outside of this Rome. Born into peace. To know of fathomless deep seas, and skies so big, they wrapped around your whole sight. The way that at night all you can smell are lemon trees kissed by salt. The jasmine plants wound around the white walls of the villa.

Salacia. The ocean nymph and the being of your name. Crowned with seaweed in your hair. Sea foam dripping off your fingers. Ripped from your home, an isle by the sea, at the whim of another.

Imprisoned here in this cold marble city. A fish out of water. Gasping dry on the shore.

Pulled inland and stolen away. You can’t hear gulls or waves anymore. It sickens you. Heart pangs that throb for home.

When you arrived, pulled back your folded palla down to your shoulders. He welcomed you with open arms and fondness. Wrists linked in gold cuffs. Tugged you to his chest and embraced you warmly. Hissed in your ear - abrasive like harsh sea spray - spies are everywhere.

He needed you close by. For reasons you had yet to fathom.

You dined like spoilt deity’s. Breads and wines, fish, fruits from far regions fattened by the suns heat, and succulent meat roasted in sweet cassia spices on a spit.

He had urns of flowers - picked by the servant - placed in every room. Lilies, juniper branches still bearing dark fruit, lavender, oleanders.

Companions join him and he is boastful of you. A nubile creature offered placement at a table of old muddled men. He introduces you to trusted friends and advisors in the senate.

One man in particular takes keen interest as to your recent arrival. His name was Macrinus. Man of information and resources. Dealt in cunning and cruelty though you found him sincerely charming. Your father watched you with a desperate eye.

Macrinus bore a smile so dazzling and blinding it made you dizzy; made think of the sun god. Apollo and his light cast across golden wheat fields. Notes of fine music. He sipped his wine slow, as he learned the flavour of your name. Where you came from. Understanding the rolling sea foam in your veins.

There’s a game to be held at the coliseum. He will have your father as his guest - and you by a very pretty extension. He nods at you; his eyes glimmer like pooled liquid gold in the half lit dark. It almost makes you feel safe.

They dine and drink into the small hours. Yet you slip away.

You watched this awful city out your window that night in your silk dress the colour of night time tidal waves. The air is stale. Carrion to you. Hot. Full of dust and sweat. Here, It smells like mulberry trees and a green garden waiting for blessed rain.

You couldn’t hear the sea. Or your sisters. Your mothers humming as she wove cloth and mended clothes. And you wept.

Salt found in your tears to be your only sacred comfort of home.

~

You are soft to this hard stone city. The coliseum is magnificent. As large as it is those who hold their powerful fists over its rule. Clutched in gold. Fine for the rich. Deadly for the slaves and warriors thrown into the pit at the whim of others. Met with carnivore teeth and sand and death.

The senators, generals, and the rich merchants watch from their perch, up among the gods they serve, presiding in shade and clothed in perfumed silks and jewels. Ladies and men both.

Your hair took hours to fasten in its current coiled style. Plaited and weaved. Your dress is the colour of the softest blue shore. Your servant lavished your arms and fingers in golden finery. A serpent cuff coiled around your arm. Skin draped in lemon oil because it’s the small piece of Corsica you carry here with you. Serenity to push against this place of gore, butchery and death.

You find yourself seated here amongst giants. Macrinus is seated one side. Your father the other. He fondly lays his hand across yours in gentle touch.

His palm is damp. Gold rings wet.

His face looks haggard with age. The lines by his eyes more prominent. Rome is poisoning him. The golden apple just a fingertip shy of his reach. St Bartholomew flayed and stripped of skin piece by piece. Schemes and plots lay thick in his mind like rot. Sweat beads down across his brow and the thinning salt pepper of his hair.

He says something to Macrinus that you’re too absorbed to hear. It’s low. Dragged through a growl. He appears unmoved, with a slow flick of his eyes to you. Watching this finery and loudness devour you. Your eyes so full wide and round. Salt and innocence entwined.

You all rise when the emperors pass by, Geta and Caracalla, who stride in, garbed in gold and cloaks. Come to take their rightful place at the mouth of the box where you are seated.

They are like twin suns to the Roman people. Lion gold hair kissed by fire. They burn and twist and shine with it. Make noises like gold coins that clack when they move. Strung in riches and golden crowns of olive leaves and branches.

Together they make you think of Romulus and Remus. Raised rabid by wolves. And they certainly make an impression. You’ve heard tale of the voracious nature of the blood sport they all but live for. Faces limned in the glory of gore.

The crowd cheers for them. They nod and wave but it appears barbed. The games begin with a wave of applause and a regal hand.

Caracalla twists and casts an eye in your direction. Seeing new meat.

The way you sit sedately and can’t cast your mind into the butchery and violence happening below. The clash of steel. The hollow squelching cries that proceed death. The spill of viscera and the scatter of brain matter from split heads.

Each new gash or split in skin made them smile. The taint of blood. Metallic sour. Spilling of offal and exposed bone.

He tilts his head like a clever wolf. Eyes darken. His sneer as terrible as a skulls. He leans across and whispers something to his brother with a knock of his arm to gain attention.

Another set of wolfish eyes join the first in hooking to your skin. Silly soft girl. Made of gentle sea breezes and lapping blue waves calm and soft enough to wade in. Pearl shining in moonlight. So watery and weak. So good. Untouchable.

Geta swept his gaze on you from head to toe. Appraising you hungrily through greedy eyes. The beauty of your figure in that soft folds of that stola. The gold that crushed your neck. Broaches at your fair shoulders. Hair glistening and finely arranged.

He liked the way you winced when another sword blow came. The pull of your brows and how you had to look away. He wanted you gathered up in his lap; fingers crushing your jaw as he turned your head; force you to watch as the men cleaved at each other and drew blood. Hacked off limbs. Laugh at your revulsion.

Looking at you sat there; He has an urge to take his dagger, slit that fine silk from your shoulders and bare your real beauty. Grab it off you and snatch your dress down. Spoil himself on your curves. Grab your breasts. He’s sure you’ve tits that even a goddess would envy. He’d reel you in by grabbing your ass that definitely needs a spank and some attention.

You’re even prettier than some of the finest whores he’s had grace his bed. They never kept his interest too long. Too entwined in filth and sin like him; you look pure as a vestal virgin.

He likes that. He wants to pluck it off you and spoil it.

You don’t dare meet his eyes. Of course you don’t. He’s an emperor. He could have you executed for looking at him wrongly. Instead; you wring your hands in your lap and squirm. Close your eyes tighter with every dying wail.

He turns back to the fight. As do you. A gasp flies from your mouth when you draw your eyes to one of the measly soldiers in the arena. Your father left his seat to stand, mouth gaping.

You saw the familiar arrangement of strong limbs. Garbed in warriors clothing. The way his arms shook holding a sword. Inexperienced and struggling. The fight was not fair. The same head of hair that matched your own.

Your oldest brother.

Macrinus grinned. “He’s not my finest fighter. But I wager he’ll be good sport.” He smirks.

Your father turned, cursed the gods, and exploded with venomous rage. Flew for the man with his fists. Grabbed his clothing. You tried to restrain the storm of his temper - but then you’d got that trait from somewhere hadn’t you? - an ocean thrashing wild and free. Terrifying in its rage.

“You promised me.” Your father roared. Spittle flying.

“I never promised to protect your traitor of a son. Let us see if the gods spare him. Yes?” Macrinus commented.

You couldn’t take your eyes from the pit. Nor could your father. He clutched to you like he could barely stand. Weakened and shrinking. Hand a vice on your shoulder. It burned like the sting of sun but you couldn’t shrug him off.

Your brother was meeting with an opponent far larger than he was. A Retiarius. Helmet, trident, dagger and a net.

Of which had currently knocked your brother to the blood dusted dirt. Spearing the trident deep into his thigh. Pinning him to earth like a bug. His cry of pain ringing out. Blood sheeted down one side of his head. His scream is the most horrible thing you’d ever heard.

You can’t help it. Where you’re stood, you cry out. It pours forth from you.

The Retiarius loomed over your bother like a terrible storm cloud. Looking up at the stands for direction. The whole audience cheered and screamed for more.

Geta stood up and the crowd bayed. He sneered at the sight before him. All the power of a god; crammed into a mortal man.

He raised his arm. And hesitated for a moment. Before he smirked. And pointed his thumb right up.

Death.

Your father wailed. The huge lumbering gladiator descended onto your brother. Flinging the net off and cutting his throat in one fast slice. Blood poured and pooled around lifeless eyes. Stained the sand.

Macrinus stood to his feet and clapped along with everyone else. The emperors’ laughed like hyenas at the sight. Blood and pain only made their smiles grow.

Before you knew what was happening, the palace guards had you and your father surrounded. Hands viced around your arms. Your shoulders. Your father too.

Traitor. He decried. A traitor in the senate. The tarpeian rock.

Just like his now dead son. People’s poised against the glory of Rome. Against Caracalla and Geta. Death to all.

Macrinus spoke harshly to the guards to release you. He backhanded you across your cheek. Your eye felt like it was going to burst. Cheek flamed with fire. Lip cut and bleeding down your chin from his ring.

He then wasted little time in digging his fingers into your finely done hair. Hauled you along screaming. Tears streaming.

Your father could only watch, limbs wrenching forwards in terror to help, as Macrinus marched you across the stands to where they sat.

He threw you to the ground like a feral animal. Tumbled you onto your knees. Skimmed your hands. As you squirmed and cried at your body twisted to his cruelty.

“Your majesties. I have personally uncovered a traitor in your court. Senator Aurelius. Not only was his first born placed in rebellion against Rome. But he himself has been sowing seeds of treason in your senate. I bring you his filthy kin as recompense…” He spat at the Emperors. Releasing your mussed hair to throw you to their feet.

They examined you as one would a creature. Nothing of humanity left. Devoid of any feeling. You crawled slowly to your elbows. Tried to claw away sobs. Raising up but not daring to look at them. You weren’t worthy. You feared them.

Geta was the one who rose slowly to his feet. Coming to stand before you. “We are most grateful for your revelation, Macrinus. You will be rewarded for such loyal service.” Though he spoke to him, his eyes never left you.

You father shouted and cried pleas. They go unheard. He snaps to the guards who hold him. “Silence that treacherous snake-“ he barks. They beat him into submission.

You stay cowering on the ground. In amongst the gritty dirt, and the blood like those slaves and gladiators. That’s how they saw you. That’s how much you were worth. Held in the same regard as the dirt on their shoes.

You feel a ring clad hand tip a finger under your chin. Blood dripping down onto that digit as he made you raise your head to look at him until your neck hurt.

“What is your name, pretty little traitor-“ He sneers. Because that is all you are. They’ve tarred and feathered you with the same brush.

You give it to him through tears that run freely. You give this awful golden haired emperor with dark lecherous eyes your name.

“Salacia.” You cry. Voice watery and cloaked in heavy salty sobs. Lips parted. So soft and pliable. Lovely and ripe and waiting for him. A gift from the gods-

He tilts his head down at you. Looking like some sun gold lion. Showing his canines in a cruel white smile.

“Imprison them. Both.” He smirks.

He thinks he may have them bring him your fathers head on a platter. Strangulation seemed too soft. Too forgiving. He had to make an example of you.

He had a particular way in mind for your fate. He watched you get led away crying as he sucked your sweet blood off his thumb.

You tasted like salt and sea foam

~

Tagging in the hopes this finds its way to the right people—

@indouloureux @trashmouth-richie @atabigail @lunatictardis @waywardrose @ceriseheaven @hillarymurray4 @lurkingprincess @ramona-thorns @joequinnswhore @iliveforotps @eddiesskittle @roosterisdaddy36 @rose-tinted @lluviamg06 @ravensfromvalhalla @fujiihime @youaremyfamiliar @captain-tch @ghosttownwherenoonegoes @svenyves @sammararaven @feralgoblinbabe @groupie-love-71 @andromeda-andromeda @morganamoonstone @gvtosbith @munsonswhore @shenevertricks1831 @hazzaismyreligion @harrys-titties @anaisweird @cinnamoncunt @red-lipstick-bisexual @wheels-of-despair @tvserie-s-world @callmeloverr @ho-for-joequinn-fics @bettyfrommars @rip-quizilla @songforeddiemunson @usedtobecooler @peachesandfiends @littlelioncub43 @heyndrix @babybluebex @blueywrites @joejoequinnquinn @cool-nick-miller @sheneedsrocknroll92 @rehfan @pedgito @dracomaledicte @gamingaquarius @mypoisonedvine @ddejavvu @sharp-and-swift @chaptersleftunwritten

[memories-of-ancients]

Gold fibula with enamel bust, Lombardic, 7th century AD

from The Walters Arts Museum

[insirisarts]

Origins of Olympus - Reimagined

Chapter 1: Welcome to Camp Oasis!

The sun beamed down onto the sand; the sky was clear of any clouds. The heat of the desert would’ve been unbearable for any human unlucky enough to be caught in its never-ending expanses. After all, mortals could not find their way to a place like this, especially not to its oasis. Even if they did, the gods would smite them for trespassing onto the sacred land. A place where the finest of greenery and produce grew; food was abundant, the water was so clean, you could drink it from the source, and filled with fauna so docile, even tigers could have been considered house pets. However, these individuals are by no means ‘mortals’. For these people are children of the gods. Blessed to walk the lands of Gaia with the grand powers of their parents. Striking the earth with powerful volts, bringing the motions of the tides, guiding souls to their final resting place, and even becoming the light of the sun themself.

An echidna stood tall on the entrance platform, backlit by the magic doorway behind her. Orange scales shining in the mid-afternoon sun. Her large wings sat solidly on her back, accentuating her posture. The woman's human upper half was covered with a red-orange dress, which was trimmed and decorated with gold. Gold bracelets were also placed on her upper and lower arms, and on the end of her serpent tail. Each of these bracelets were jeweled with three bright orange stones which matched her fiery irises. Scales traveled up the young woman’s body, spotting her shoulders, ears and face with the same burnt orange as the asymmetrical horns buried in her dark brown hair. Her heavy-lidded eyes surveyed over the slowly building group. Demi-gods to be specific.

“Hello everyone, I am Kaykrea and welcome to the Oasis of Demeter.” Kaykrea introduced, catching the attention of the present demi-gods. She had situated herself on the marble steps leading to the entryway of the camp, which was blocked by a form of powerful magic that none of the others could quite figure out. 

Beside her was a girl who had arrived earlier that day, a harpy named Marshie. She was white winged harpy, in a dark crop top with a long striped light purple shawl that fell past her shoulders. Her laurel was decorated with small golden sunflowers and sat atop her long strawberry blond hair, some of which had been pulled back to make a cute loose ponytail. Her outfit was finished off with some jean shorts that stopped above her more eagle shaped legs and taloned feet. They had taken time to chat during the wait and already found that they got along rather well.

“I will be your designated camp counselor.” Kaykrea's large, scaled wings spread to frame her sculpted body; her lower serpent body raising the human half to stand tall over all of the campers. “Today will just be a simple meet-and-greet with a tour of the campgrounds. Then we will have a short session with The Oracle later this evening.” 

Many already had looks of admiration or excitement on their faces; except for a man with long shaggy white and red hair off to the side, who simply rolled his eyes at her. She figured that this one may eventually become a problem and mentally noted to keep an eye on him. “First will be introductions, we will start with you.” She stated, pointing at a man with black hair and yellow highlights, frizzed by what appeared to be static. 

The man stood a bit straighter now that the attention was on him, his black eyes widening slightly from being singled out, “I am Mario, son of Zeus, God of storms and lightning!” Mario proclaimed. His looks only pushed the idea. His toga was black and yellow with hints of white under the garment and light blue accents. Lightning motifs could be found in his laurel, arm armor and his white sash in the form of a lightning shaped fibula brooch. Throughout his arms and legs, his veins seemed to glow an electric yellow on his sun-tanned skin. He stood with confidence, almost looking like he was about to burst with unstoppable energy.

The Echidna nodded in approval; a child of Zeus was sure to bring some excitement. “Thank you, Mario. Now you, the one in blue.” She moved on, gesturing to a man with a much shyer demeanor, as he sat much more hunched over compared to the rest of the group.

“Uhm… Jakey, one of the sons of Poseidon.” Jakey mumbled, just loud enough for Kaykrea to glean. Besides the small, high collard coverup on his shoulders, he was shirtless, showing off his swimmer's body. The armor over his left pec was layered and traveled over to part of his back, with large light blue inset jewels glittering in the light. At his hips sat a blue 5-layered skirt-like bottom that split at his right hip, the exposed part of which was covered by a cloth tied to the skirt. His arms and legs were protected by silver armor shaped like fish and similarly jeweled like the rest of his armor; his hands were covered in dark blue fingerless gloves. A tasteful crown was planted in his brown and blue hair with the same light blue gem, his hair had been put into a french-styled braid on both sides of his head that then came together into a long skinny braid in the back. On his back, sat a long bident with jewels spotted on the head, and the end had a shark fin shape.

Kaykrea nodded in satisfaction and was about to move on to the next camper when a new voice joined the group.

Distant shuffling sand could be heard from the distance. “I’m sorry, I’m here, hold on-!” Shouted a young man with short white hair. His ears were pierced with round red earrings and accompanied by golden ear clips covered in rose leaves. His neck was adorned with a red choker. A cropped himation draped over his right shoulder which was pinned by a sort-of star shaped fibula brooch. His two-layered red skirt with gold trim swayed with the movement of his legs. He had shoulder pads that appeared to have rose designs that matched the rose on his dark gray belt, which matched the leather armor on his arms. Small white wings flared from the shoulder pads and his golden shoes. Two hooked swords were connected at the hilts which gave the shape of an S sat on his back along with a small satchel, assumedly a physical god pocket, likely it had all of his other essentials in its magic confines. He skidded to a stop with the rest of the group; bending over to catch his breath, using his knees as support.

“I, huf, apologize, hrff, I was distracted, hooh…” He rushed between labored breaths; his body lightly shook from overexertion.

“And… who might you be?” The orange serpent inquired, drawing out her sentence. 

With one last deep gasp of air, the white-haired man responded, “I’m Bryan, the son of Aphrodite; the goddess of love, beauty and passion herself!” Bryan flicked his hair back haughtily and stood with his head held high. The motion made him look back and lock his eyes onto Jakey. This made him freeze in the middle of his display; a light pink softy grazed his face, and he awkwardly took a few steps back to get a proper look at the other man, honey brown eyes holding an intense stare.

‘…Poor guy…’ Kaykrea sympathized, even though the boy in blue didn't even seem to notice Bryan. However, she quickly corrected herself and went back to the meet-and-greet. “Thank you, Bryan. Now then, let's move on to… you.” She brought attention to a man with ashy skin.

The man with the sides of his head shaved and a braid going down the back of his scalp, a chunk of which was bronze. Thick sideburns lead to a scruffy but well-trimmed beard. He awkwardly lifted his hand in a wave. 

“Ah, Xylo. Son of Apollo.” Xylo greeted. His laurel also had a bronze color, sporting, strangely enough, pomegranate leaves. Bronze spartan armor on his torso and lower legs, along with a layer of leather pteruges at his waist along with shoulder pads that had sun designs glazed on. Over his protective layer there was a bright multi-colored sash, going from a dark purplish blue to a bright sunny yellow curving around his body to also become his belt and dangling the leftover fabric in the front. The cloth was pinned down by bronze peronai on his right shoulder and where the cloth hung off at the belt, they were in the shape of the sun with four points, inside being bright yellow glaze. He had single point claw gauntlets in a similar sun shape attached to thick fingerless leather gloves. At his hips, an open hip cape hung to his knees, a bright pattern depicting a sun in a wavy sky adorned the garment. Another odd part of his look were his dark purple eyes, it almost looked like they didn’t belong, or that he didn’t belong.

Kaykrea had scrunched her nose in frustration, heavy lidded eyes glaring aggressively, bowing her head to show off her dark orange horns at the ashen man. Apollo… Apollo… Mother…

“Ah… thanks.” She bluntly stated.

Xylo had an expression of mild offense but decided to leave it be for the time being.

As the rest of the meeting went on, more of the godly children introduced themselves. A second son of Poseidon named Mitch. He too, lacked a shirt and wore a coverup on the upper part of his torso and wore a far more gaudy golden crown. Although, his face was half covered in black scales. He was much darker than Jakey, with a more deep sea/ocean look to match with his black and blue clothing, with small bioluminescent adornments. He also held the trident, at this mention, Jakey made his own snide remark about poor choices in part on their father. 

The man KayKrea had taken note of earlier was named Brandeen, who was a son of Ares. His style leaned towards more human than Olympian it appeared, not that it was any concern to her as plenty of gods and demi-gods had spent at least some time around mortals and their ever-expanding culture. His overall appearance was dark, his disheveled black and white striped shirt and ripped black pants made up part of his look. A dark red pleather biker jacket with the sleeves measly ripped off, which was accented with smaller bits of a brighter red, brought it all together. Around his arms were bandages with blades tied at the ends that pulsed with divine energy; those must be his weapons.

Further back was a Satyr woman named Relena, the adopted child of Artemis. Her hair was a subtle mix of light and dark brown and subtly blended into the fur on her ears and face; which were both rather animal-like. She was dressed in much more casual human clothing, having a halfway split turquoise and light pink short jacket over a plain white crop top, the pink matching her horns. The jacket had its sleeves ripped off, showing her strong arms. Her jeans were intentionally ripped at her knees, keeping it out of the way of her more animalistic legs and hooved feet. An attempt was made to paint her hooves the same pink as her horns. Slung across her hips sat an ornate silver bow with a quiver of arrows.

At the end of the lineup stood a man almost completely clad in black, battle armor being placed over his original clothing. His name was Brick, one of the very few children of Hades. He had a black war helmet with the holes for the face covered by a bright purple energy. His speech was short and abrupt, only giving his name and heritage in a sharply cold manner.

Kaykrea knew there were other campers yet to arrive, but she had to start with the tour before it got too late in the day. So, with a large flap of her orange wings, she instructed the present campers to follow her for the tour of the grounds. With an expert waver of her hand, she dispelled the magic that blocked off the entrance to the camp.

Entering through the enchanted doors of Camp Oasis, guarded by large spear-wielding statues, they followed a small path. The path led to a sort-of roundabout, which had small sections of path that lead away to other parts of the camp. Surrounding the group was a quaint little garden, and at the roundabout’s center was a marble fountain that poured water as blue as the sky. Many flowers covered the area surrounding the outer rim of the path around the fountain. However, Bryan took particular interest in the Rose bushes.

“Oh, I heard about the nature here!” He exclaimed with adoration and fondness, earning him odd stares from the others. “About how it all seems to live or even thrive! These roses are beautiful, what do you do to make them grow like this?” He would have continued to fawn over the red flowers if he weren't interrupted.

“Bet you sure know a lot about this junk, huh?” Mario taunted. It sounded playful, but that didn’t stop Bryan from shooting the other with a sharp glare.

“Sure do…” The white-haired man mumbled. Mario sucked in his lips, like how one would with something sour, he figured that he shouldn’t have spoken up.

“Alright!” Kaykrea interjected, clapping her hands together to catch the two boys' attention. “Let's get a move on up the path!” She ushered, wanting to avoid a first day conflict.

Up the path was the training area. Fully packed with dummies, targets and even a small sparring ring with a little viewing area. A good handful of campers took potshots at the targets, using either their weapons or godly powers, with varying rates of success and accuracy. Further down was a sports area, consisting of both old Olympic sports and modern human sports. Next to the sports fields were the cabins. They were charming, being made in a rustic style and crafted from the same wood as the surrounding towering trees. She said that cabins would be assigned after the tour, during dinner. Most were able to house two or so people and stood overlooking the surprisingly close gulf that led out into the ocean. Nearby, a dock sat with fishing boats stranded on the shoreline. Fishing equipment had been provided on the dock, along with some outdoor cooking equipment in a small shed nearby. Next was the camp hall, for campers to meet and socialize. A bonfire circle sat just beside the mess hall, it had yet to be lit, although it seemed to have been recently stocked with firewood. 

“This is where we will have our rendezvous after you settle in and have dinner this evening.” She explained, letting everyone gather before continuing. “Then The Oracle will come and give us a free prophecy. Afterwards, you will earn the right to meet with them eventually, but that is a discussion for later throughout your stay.”

Then the mess hall. The Hall was very large, it would have no trouble fitting the entirety of the camp once they were all there. A heavenly smell came from the building, a mixture of sweet and savory that caused the campers mouths to water with anticipation. Finally, was the shower and bathroom area, having both separate and unisex washrooms, and a small bath house.

She pointed to a distant building. It was a small temple, with a securely locked door. So secure in fact that there was no lock, only magic.

“That is where The Oracle resides. You are not to bother them unless you are given passage, or they decide to summon you.” She declared with finality. Asserting that the building was fully off-limits otherwise. 

  With that the campers were released and left to their own devices. Some had gone to chat by the cabins and others went to either look around the camp or to use the training area. Kaykrea herself went to the mess hall to finish preparing for that night's feast.

Soon enough, they were brought back to the mess hall, where an entire buffet was set up. Different tables had different types of food. Fruits and vegetables were set to one side of the buffet. Large fruit bowls held exotic fruits not even native to their part of the world, and the veggies had been grown right on camp property and harvested that day. A range of different meats sat in the middle of the arrangement, from the finest steaks to moist and well-seasoned fowl and poultry, to fish from both fresh and saltwater. At the other end were deserts and drinks. Pies, cakes and pastries alongside juices, nectar and ambrosia. It was now bustling; some others had arrived at the camp over time and joined in on the festive atmosphere.

During this time, Kaykrea went around telling campers to take a card from a small deck. The cards were in pairs of colors and a cabin number, and those with matching pairs would bunk together. On occasion, some did not get a cabin mate, not that any of them seemed to mind, like Mitch. However, most did have two people. Xylo and Jakey, Relena and Brick, even Brandeen had a cabin buddy. Although, she had not learned his roommate's name yet. Glancing around, she could see the Demi-gods socializing, looking for anyone who had a matching card or simply enjoying the food. Bryan approached her to receive his card, fittingly, red. Not that she knew if anyone else had a red card, but she had caught a glimpse at his. She internally chuckled at the mild irony.

“Did anyone else get red?” He inquired over the crowd, causing a brief awkward silence as everyone else double checked their cards.

“Over here!” A voice replied, a hand darting up over the crowd to display their card.

Bryan made his way over to his roommate for the summer. Only to come face-to-face with Mario. He could hardly hide his disappointment. Obviously still salty about the comment made earlier that day. Mario held a poorly disguised expression of awkwardness, not knowing how to tackle the subject. Kaykrea was about to confront the two about perhaps changing cabins before the man in black and yellow asked if the shorter boy would be willing to meet with him outside. With a stiff nod, Bryan followed the fellow demi-god out the door. Just to be safe, the serpent woman discreetly accompanied the two.

The full moon hung at the edge of the sky, the final dim glow of the setting sun moments from vanishing. Cool night breezes chilled the earth from the heat of the summer day. The pair stood in silence, not sure how to begin the conversation. The tension was thick enough to be sliced by any blade. Which Mario dared to do.

“Listen, I’m sorry about earlier… I thought it sounded joking enough, but I could tell it flumped entirely.” He kept his warm black eyes on the ground, not really wanting to see the look the other man was possibly giving him.

“Yeah, I get that.” Bryan spoke blankly, staring off in a random direction. “But it still hit a cord… kinda sounded like my mom…” This came out far more dejected.

“Really? Why would Aphrodite, of all gods, judge flower stuff?” The raven-haired man replied in mild shock.

Kaykrea was inclined to agree, very odd for the goddess of love.

Bryan continued, waving his hand in circles to sort his thoughts. “Not so much the flower thing, more so just not really understanding or accepting my interests…” The other supplied, “Me not being like my siblings… or her.”

“Whoof, I feel you there, my dad doesn’t really give me much thought. Given that he has so many other kids.” Mario chuckled at his little jab at his father; he was right after all, Zeus wasn’t known for his… marital devotion.

Kaykrea had to quickly stifle laughter at the thought. She couldn’t risk getting caught.

“Not to mention that a lot of them have become either legendary heroes or have impacted history in some major way.” Mario ended his sentence with a light huff of amusement and an awkward lean “Those kinds of expectations can make someone pretty awkward huh?” he asked rhetorically, obviously trying to railroad to find common ground. 

Quickly, under his breath the black-eyed man added on, “and dad can’t keep his clothes on so-”. The smug smirk that plastered his face made the other demi-god snerk a little, a light red came to his cheeks and ears in embarrassment as his lips scrunched to a futile attempt to hide his amusement.

“Gross-“ the man in red shot back with a humorous sly grin, gently shoving the other. “-but… same… only with my mom.” He amended, “Anyways, no one likes to think of the goddess of love and beauty being a violent god, despite her history. I just can’t help but wonder about it.” This came in a more soft-spoken cadence, walls starting to fully drop.

“Yeah?” Mario tentatively eased. “I’m sure it must make things awkward?” He raised an eyebrow. Although drama in the Aphrodite family was not surprising, nor unheard of, seeing that outward facade be shelved for honesty and openness took Kaykrea aback slightly. Maybe she shouldn’t have eavesdropped on this conversation. It was beginning to become a little too personal and raw.

Bryan began to lean in, speaking both softer and with sincerity, the haughty persona being fully abandoned before responding.  “Mhm.” He started with a small nod. “You see, I’m a huge fan of the legendary wars and heroes of the past. That led to me digging, especially since my mother was one of the main causes for the biggest war in our history…” his eyes seemed to shine excitedly, passion bleeding from his slight movements and the small grin on his face.

“I couldn’t help myself.” Bryan continued, “I just wanted to understand why we had to throw that part of our past away. Just because our family represents the many forms of love doesn’t mean we couldn't enjoy combat or sparring. Heck, I even got a gift recently that-”.

All of a sudden, Bryan trailed off, his eyes becoming listless, losing that excited bright shine. The feeling of discomfort filled the still air, and his muscles tensed.

“What?” Mario cocked his head, “Something else on your mind?” He pushed.

Bryan backed off, glancing to the side in embarrassment. “Sorry, shouldn’t have said anything…” he muttered under his breath, shoulders sinking subconsciously.

The black clothed man quickly waved his hands, trying to brush off the others embarrassment. “No, no! I was just… uh.” He took a pause; he was ruining this again.

“It’s ok. Not many people know about my mother’s past with war. Especially after The Iliad was published.” The shorter man chuckled, starting to backtrack “But I want to know… even if she doesn't really like me digging into it.” Bryan was standing normally now, a lot more bashful and uncomfortable talking about his family.

Mario planted his hand on the other in a comforting gesture, rubbing small circles into his back. In return, Bryan leaned into the touch slightly, the muscles near his shoulders flexing oddly. It was like he wasn't used to touch, or at least it had been a while since he's been comforted. Although, from what Kaykrea had observed, and her prior experience with the Olympian gods. The awkward nature of the white-haired man seemed to suggest the former.

Bryan lifted his head to look at Mario, taking a small calming breath before speaking again. “To be honest, I don’t think I know much anyway. A lot of my own memories are fuzzy…” This earned him an odd look from Mario, and Kaykrea couldn’t help but do the same. It is rather strange that he would have a bad memory. Was this what the smaller was trying to talk about before? Well, whatever the case may be, the black-haired man let it be and merely nodded in acknowledgment.

It seemed the two had spoken their peace. Overall, a little more comfort had been built between the two. Mario stuck out his hand, offering an apology and a truce to their minor conflict, which Bryan accepted with a small smile. Kaykrea huffed a small sigh of relief, glad that a fight hadn’t broken out on the first day, nor that any enemies were made. She made a quick escape back into the mess hall, moments before the other two made their reentry. It was felt in the room, everyone could tell that whatever issue was happening between the two, it had been sorted out. They went off to join the others again, starting to take far more enjoyment in each other's company than before. At least that was resolved.

About two hours had passed at this point, Kaykrea taking the time to clean up as the festivities came to a close. Many campers had joined together into small groups or cliques and every once in a while, there would be thunderous laughter that would trail back into a comfortable buzz and light chatter. She was frankly quite surprised; no fights, mild and quickly resolved conflicts, and not a single misunderstanding! It was almost as if they were in a normal human camp and not a camp full of physical embodiments of natural concepts. Although she knew that it all had to come to an end soon, it was almost time to meet with The Oracle and she needed to pick up the mess hall before then.

“Okay, everyone!” Kaykrea called, waiting for the campers' conversations to end before she announced, “It is almost time to meet The Oracle, I would like all of you to go to your cabins and drop off your things, decide who wants what bed and such. We will meet back at the bond fire, I will move on with the night whether you make it or not, so be there if you wish to listen to The Oracles’ predictions.” With that, she went to clean the tables of the leftover dishes and scraps of food.

The campers had left for their cabins to drop off their things and to get sorted before heading to the large bonfire. When it seemed that all had arrived, Kaykrea used her flaming blade to ignite the kindling, and soon enough, a fire was brought to life. The flame was large and danced with the slight breeze of the night. Cracks and pops from the wood soon followed, allowing the meeting to officially begin. Xylo, with hardly any regard for the current evening event, suddenly pulled out a large bag of marshmallows, announcing a query of whether anyone wanted some. Most around the fire whooped at the human treat, receiving their share from the armored man.

Mitch had grabbed two and offered one to Jakey, who had taken it upon himself to grab his own from the son of Apollo rather than accepting one from his brother, Mitch practically looked scandalized. Mario had done the same with Relena, who happily accepted the offer, and Bryan, who simply denied the sugar pillow after giving it a questioning glance of uncertainty. Brandeen seemed all too eager to receive the food from the violet-eyed man. The two had been talking a lot earlier and appeared to have hit it off in some fashion, although Xylo did give him a standoffish look. Kaykrea was far from amused, seeing how all began to disregard what this meeting was about. She simply rolled her eyes and slithered away when Xylo attempted to offer her the bag's contents. In return, he merely shrugged and received a plush confectionary for himself.

The fire in the center of the gathering began fully burning in a bright blend of reds, oranges and yellows. Accenting the woman's appearance and making her look just as bright as the flames. With a faux clearing of her throat, she called to attention all of the present campers for the night's announcements.

“I’m sure some of you all are anticipating the reason as to why we are out so late.” She began, more so wanting to give a reminder to the campers. She continued “First, I do have a few announcements. Starting off, in a few days we will be having the Trial of Ares, which will be a sort of… death match.” This statement brought a few panicked faces and alarmed exclamations to the campers “However, with less… death involved. Close to death, I should say.” Her amendment melted some tension, but the atmosphere still weighed heavy in the group. “It will allow us to see who is at the top, and where others' experiences lie before we get into the real training.” Uncertainty followed the final word of the first announcement, nervous glances were shared between the others.

“Will we get anything?” Was a quick question from Xylo.

“Excuse me?” Came the indigent reply from the camp counselor.

“If one of us wins the trial. Do we get anything?” He clarified.

“That will be discussed at a later time” Was the firm response from the brunette woman.

“Now then. Secondly, as you all know, there is a special guest for you all tonight. They would like to pay a visit to all of you.” Suddenly the meeting area was filled with gasps of awe and excited mermers at Kaykrea’s reveal, some nodding that they did, in fact, remember the prior mention. “There is a message that they would like to give you all, a prophecy.” Her voice suddenly hardened as she followed up with a demand. “I do ask that as a way to show respect to The Oracle, you must stay completely silent, and to not have… snacks, while they are here…” This prompted Xylo to quickly hide the bag of marshmallows and for everyone else to swiftly finish their part of the treat. “Are we clear?” The serpent finished, allowing for any present questions.

Xylo ended up asking another query, the primary one on everyone’s minds. “What if we have questions about what they say?” Soon pipings of agreements followed and Kaykrea was quick to respond.

“There will be no questions for The Oracle at this time.” she asserted. “Although, perhaps in the future, but not today. Am I clear?” She took a pause so the campers could give their affirmation, albeit tentatively. “Alright. Introducing… The Oracle.” The winged woman slithered back as the flames of the bonfire began to grow unnaturally, responding to the approaching powerful presence. The once gentle breeze started to pick up and blow back locks of hair. Even the moon appeared to shine brighter as a soft flapping of wings could be heard just over the cracking and popping of the fire. A small shadow formed in the glowing space above the flames, and as it came closer to the light, The Oracle was revealed.

They were small, looking no bigger than the length of an arm vertically and horizontally if the wings and tail were fully stretched out. Right, they had a tail, covered in small iridescent scales that transitioned from black to a deep blue to a bright green, speckled throughout were small white spots, it’s unclear if those were the scales shining or just part of the pattern. Underneath was a black belly with long smooth scales that came up to the main ‘head’. The bat-like wings shared similar traits to the tail, with the black, blue, green with white speckles, pattern. Their head could hardly be considered a ‘head’, since it was just a single large eyeball. The unnerving sight was only enhanced by the odd shaped iris and pupil, which had the shapes of diamonds. The iris itself shared the previous color pattern of the tail and wings. The eyelashes themselves didn’t help either, being large and thick. The top half was long and had two protruding chunks on either side that enhanced the bat-like look. The bottom came to multiple sharp points. Large openings where the eyelids met showed the connective corners. It all was so disproportionate and unnatural, yet here they were, right in front of the small crowd.

A voice, as soft and smooth as the nearby ocean waves, whispered through the open air. Despite not having a mouth, The Oracle spoke as though projecting their message straight into the minds of the camp's inhabitants. “Ah, and so arrive the children of the gods…” Like a knife through butter, the voice cut through the silence, demanding the attention of all those present. The single eye glanced with a piercing gaze over the group, barely stopping on anyone specific. But still, The Oracle already was seeing the future of the campers. “How interesting… hmh… very interesting.” The eye began to glow in rings, looking like the flaring of the sun when looked at through a window or from a recording. The fire began to build, and the smoke rose in large plumes as the small bat-serpent form took to hovering over the pit. Finally, they spoke of what they were seeing. “Darkness looms over the future for one of you, and with it will come terror and destruction. Greatness follows another, a coming day where you will become a great hero. But, not without great loss of those who you love and believe to be close friends. And one of you will assist to break open the earth, and free The Titans from Tartarus. The Future is filled with bloodshed.”

With the final declaration from The Oracle, the fire suddenly is extinguished, leaving all to be shrouded in the darkness of night. The Prophecy held very few good omens it seemed. An unnerving silence filled the air as the small eyeball-bat disappeared into the star-filled sky, swiftly blending in and vanishing from the scene. Soon hushed whispers filled the area as uncertainty and fright began to grow. Kaykrea was quick to initiate the ending statements for the night and sent the campers back to their designated cabins to rest. Although, it would best be assumed that not many got much rest, whether if it was discussing the words of the Oracle, concerns on the upcoming trial, finishing unpacking, or ponderings on how the summer may be more interesting than at first predicted.

Kaykrea stood at the shoreline straddling the camp, nearby was The Oracle’s abode, where the small creature was resting. She didn’t want the others to see, but the prophecy frightened her. She knew that the lives of gods and demi-gods could get dangerous, but… bloodshed… terror… The Titans. What would this mean? Was everyone here doomed right as they crossed the threshold? Perhaps even before they arrived? Not only that, but nothing said that The Oracle was safe either. It appears that maybe She has bitten more than she could chew. But she would do anything for the camp, anything for The Oracle.

Next chapter

Previous chapter

First chapter

Please watch the original Origins of Olympus series, while this story does make major changes; the series made by the Origins MCRP crew is important to understanding the Reimagining, and it's good to support the original material if you can. It's free on YouTube with multiple perspectives. If you see any way that I can improve my writing, or any grammar/spelling mistakes please let me know!

[baebeylik]

Gold disk fibula. Avar. 7th Century CE.

The Hungarian National Museum.

[hapalopus]

Fun fact about Moussa: Their hairstyle is about as untidy as an adult hrihriwa can get away with, without being accused of indecency. Most A'atwe hrihriwa have much tidier braids, usually tying up all their hair or only leaving a fringe loose.

At the same time, the use of fibula rings is considered archaic - they're usually reserved for ceremonies where a specific mode of dress has been preserved for centuries. The A'atwe clan has limited access to metals and uses them for tools, first and foremost so, in addition to being archaic, gold/copper rings are considered frivolous. Moussa's hairstyle paints them as an ungovernable weirdo.

It doesn't help when he's exiled and his forelock and tail are clipped (something never done within the clan as it's believed to dishonor the gods and strip a hrihriwa of their powers).

Anyone who takes a cursory glance at Moussa can tell they're a rich kid with a rebel complex, who's stubborn as a donkey and contrarian on purpose.

[merovingian-marvels]

Dorestad Fibula

The Dorestad Fibula (brooch) was found in the Dutch village Wijk bij Duurstede, the successor of the Early Medieval Emporium Dorestad.

Dated between 775-800, this brooch is classified as Frisian. Decorated with gold, garnets from East Asia, pearls, enamel and glass, this brooch belonged to an exceptionally rich merchant.

The brooch depicts the tree of life with leafs and fruits. The green inlay portray stylized bird heads.

RMO Leiden, Netherlands

Object nr. F1978/1.1,

Found in Wijk bij Duurstede-Utrecht, Netherlands.

[4eternal-life]

Intaglio with Bust of Antinous, A.D. 131–138

This gem depicts Antinous, the young companion and lover of Emperor Hadrian (AD 117-138), who drowned in the River Nile during their visit to Egypt in AD 130. The grief-stricken emperor instituted a cult in honor of the youth, who was revered as a semi-divine hero.

Artist/Maker:  Unknown Culture: Roman Place:  Italy; or Greece (Place Created) Date:  A.D. 131–138 Medium: Intaglio: Black chalcedony; modern mount: gold Object Number:  2019.13.17 Dimensions:  3.5 × 2.9 cm (1 3/8 × 1 1/8 in.) Inscription(s):  Inscribed, in Greek: ΑΝΤΟ

Alternate Title:  Antinous (Display Title) Department: Antiquities Classification: Jewelry Object Type:  Gem

The J. Paul Getty Museum, Villa Collection, Malibu, California

Antinous is shown here in profil facing to the left; a fibula pins his chlamys in place at his left shoulder. Over his right shoulder, he carries a hunting spear. Behind his left shoulder is a fragmentary vertical inscription written in retrograde Greek letters, beginning ΑΝΤΟ…, perhaps the name of the gem engraver. The intaglio is fragmentary

[barbariankingdom]

Etruscan gold disc fibula, from the Necropolis of Ponte Sodo, Vulci, Etruria, Italy. 650 BC, from the "Orientalizing period". Currently in the Antikensammlungen, Munich, Bavaria, Germany.

[theancientwayoflife]

~ Gold fibula with a bow in the form of a winged Chimaera.

Cultures/Period: Etruscan

Date: 525-500B.C.

[blueiscoool]

A VILLANOVAN GOLD FIBULA CIRCA 675-650 B.C. 3 in. (7.6 cm.) long.

[oflights]

wip snip 4.3

yeah i think about the roman empire:

Harry finds himself caught up in staring, in taking in every familiar detail of Draco, and some newer ones, too. He’s dressed as many of his colleagues are, but it doesn’t look like a costume on him: he looks as though he gets out of bed every morning and dresses like an ancient Roman, like every piece of the ensemble was made especially for him. “Close your mouth, Potter,” Smith says in a snide undertone. Harry doesn’t listen. Draco’s white tunic is short, falling in gentle, rippling folds above his knees. Heavy golden cords keep it fitted and tight to his waist and his chest, the tasseled ends dangling where a belt would be. Over the tunic drapes a heavy scarlet red toga, pinned to the chest with what looks like a solid gold fibula stamped with the image of a swan. A golden crown hugs the back of his head, nestled in his tousled hair with the ends at his temples. The gold is delicate and bright, molded into the shapes of grass, leaves and stalks of wheat, and when the candlelight hits it, the brightness warms up the color of his hair until it looks like a sun has risen just above his head. “He is such a fucking git,” comes Smith’s voice again, but when Harry finally manages to glance over—never mind that his mouth is still open—he’s staring, too, his face lit up in genuine, undeniable pleasure. “Scarlet red, the bloody—and he’s paying tribute to Apollo, the absolute nuisance he is. Jack is going to shit himself.”

[punk-in-docs]

A song of brides and hounds: part III

— Emperor Geta x Reader (Salacia)

— 4.3k words.

— Read all parts here: Part I — Part II — Part III — Part IV

Summary: You were raised outside of this Rome. Born into peace. To know of fathomless deep seas, and skies so big, they wrapped around your whole sight. The way that at night all you can smell are lemon trees kissed by salt. The jasmine plants wound around the white walls of the villa. Salacia. And now you are sent to Rome for your father in the Senate. There you will catch the attention of Geta; in all the wrong and darkest of ways— any reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated 💙💙💙

TW: for this chapter - mainly violence and some gore, also Caracalla being a nasty little bitch -- enjoy!

The servant girls’ hands are kind.

They undress you softly, and handle you with such reverence. Strip from you the ruined stola and tend your wounds.

They wash your feet, ply your cuts with a herbal paste of yarrow and uva ursi, wrap you in bandages. They rub new sweet smelling oil onto your unwounded skin.

Pick off your old jewellery and finery to be discarded. Slip you out your shoes. Lay you bare. Stood before them in naught but your skin as they tend you.

One is wetting, oiling and combing your netted hair to silky serenity again. Another is cleaning the wound on your elbow. All traces of dirt - and your previous life along with it - slowly removed.

Stood you in a shallow golden tub of warm water that laps at your ankles. Milky with oils and soaps. They put rose petals in the water. You watch them swim and dip.

You beg for one of the girls to keep the fibulae broaches that held your now damned dress to your shoulders. Your very last essence of home. Venus was enshrined in those very broaches. They gave you hope. Carrying a small kind piece of goddess with you. Laying your devotion to the majesty of the ocean on your simple shoulders.

They guided you to rooms draped in blue and gold. Stars moulded on the ceiling with the ornate marble that drips from every wall and corner. Giving the false illusion of a night sky. The flat ceiling between them clouded with bursts and puffs of dark blue that indicated churning night clouds. Boundless skies. Endless seas.

It felt like showing all the maps of the world to a caged bird.

Soft feminine blues befit these chambers. Statues and devotion to goddesses crown the walls and doorways. Urns of large stemmed white flowers. One wall holds a table lined with a huge offering of fruits, dried and fresh. Some bread and cured meats and oiled small fish. And an amphora of wine and goblet for after your bathing.

The air in here is scented all floral herb and clean. Too clean. No hint of sea salt or dried weed that tumbles on the shore to bake in the sun. It’s unfamiliar.

The huge slab of the cushioned bed is draped with silks and gauzy canopy curtains the colour of dove feathers. You don’t want to look at it. You dread thinking what will happen in it tonight.

A large maw of balcony gapes at another side of the room. This shows you the wall of rain outside. The violent tumble of thunder that must be shaking the very hills and peoples of Rome.

You feel as if the sea is raging because you’ve been stolen from it. Now it seeks vengeance on the land. Lashing and storming mercilessly until you’re found. Back where you belong.

Unlikely. It will have to rage on.

You stand, undressed, unseeing. Uncaring for the wealth of the room you’ve been pulled into.

The maid behind you, Oriana, a sweet and silent blonde, is scooping your hair back from your neck to comb and ply it with vanilla and orchid oil. Dark sweet musk.

Geta had specifically requested it.

Your head servant is a maid called Aeliana.

She has an accent you can’t place. It’s pretty, her tone husky. She had wonderful raven hair spilling silky and free over her shoulders, eyes dark as cassia bark, almond shaped. Long lashes. The epitome of tranquil beauty.

The colour of her dress is different to the rest of them. Indicating her higher status. Rusty red and it readily compliments the natural darkness of her skin. She wore golden bangles threaded on each wrist, and her touch is cloud soft.

She has a scar that intersects down from the middle of her forehead, across her left eye and cheek and ends there. Skin twisted and healed shiny. An old wound. It makes her striking to look at.

Worse still; She catches you staring.

Lowers her eyes as she tended you. Layering the sticky wet herbal treatment to your wounded elbow.

“Does my appearance displease you, my lady?” She lapses into silence for a moment or two.

“If you’d prefer I could send for another handmaiden to come tend you-“ She asks. Not harshly. There’s a hint of shame to her tone.

You look to her. Fearful of offence.

“I am not displeased. Forgive me. To stare so openly is rude.” You mutter. Eyes falling to your feet again. You watch rose petals sway on the water. You swallow thickly.

If she’s amused at your asking her, a servant, for forgiveness, she doesn’t show it. She calmly counters;

“You are Empress Salacia of Rome. You are allowed to stare at whomever you wish.” She tells you plainly.

Your eyes water. You bite inside your lower lip before you respond.

Not yet I’m not. And I don’t want to be.

“How came you by the scar?” You ask. Knowing full well you won’t like the answer. She gently washed your shoulder with a cloth.

“The Emperor.” She tells frankly.

At your doe eyed expression of horror she elucidates.

“Not Emperor Geta. His brother, Caracalla. Emperor Geta’s temper may be foul and quick to boil. But, Caracalla he is… far crueler.” She explains.

Your mouth purses into a thin line.

Oriana has finished oiling your hair. Now she was styling it into waves. Decorated with ornaments of netted gold. Geta requested it down as opposed to the normal bridal style. Emperors have what they want.

“What was the reason…” You sought. Fearing the answer.

“I was too slow in bringing his wine one night.” She offers. Plucking a vial of oil from the side table and coming back to rub it into your bare arms.

You squeeze your eyes closed. Ignore the tickle of tears that threaten your scrunched eyelids.

This is the savage world you must inhabit now. Try to navigate with sharper hungrier teeth and deadlier instinct. You don’t feel ready. You must become lionhearted and fierce. Carry knives. Be ruthless.

You hear your mothers reverent voice in your head. Sweet sea child. You were not made that way.

“I am sorry for your pain. Aeliana. But I am grateful for your warning.” You decide.

She nods. “I thank the goddess’ for you. Empress.” She smiles at you.

Before going to the side to fetch your tunica recta, and the belt you’d wear on your waist in a knot of hercules. Which tradition dictated only Geta was allowed to undo.

Your husband.

You wince. Aueliana notices.

“Your majesty?” She seeks. Sensing your unease.

“I am nervous.” You tell her. You confide your worry in this woman with kind eyes and soft hands.

“It is expected of a bride to be nervous.” She awards you.

“I’m not a normal bride.” You confirm fearfully. She can see them shaking in your gaze. Threatening to breach your lash line.

She nods in understanding. You’re sure they all knew. The reason that placed you here. Spread like wildfire on dry plains through the servant halls.

“I know little of managing a husband. Of… starting a family.”

“If I may, your majesty. Your family is a noble one, yes?” She asks.

You nod. You lived in one of the richest houses in Corsica. You were never lacking in money or ribbons and new jewels. But at best you were a senators daughter. Not the ideal stock for an Emperors wife. Not the type to be governing one great nation.

“My grandmother is a well known seer in these parts. A healer. Purveyor of white magic. Many a time she has seen things that have yet to come to pass…” She explains as she wraps the belt around your waist. Speaking as she does.

“She foretold your arrival. Said the future of Rome would be written by rain and storm, when blood spills on the ancient serpent stone.”

Serpent. Synonymous with the Traitor. Two faced and shedding skin. Blood spilling, the death of your Brother. Rain on the rocks- this storm hammering down. You can’t believe it.

“What if Rome is your destiny?” She explains. Her voice kind and brave as the candles flicker and the storm rages on.

“Then I pray the goddess’ convey me the strength to survive it.”

“I will pray too.” She takes your hand. It feels like kinship.

They stepped you out of the tub and began to pat you dry with cloths and then dress you.

With each pass of their hands wiping the water from your skin, it removed you further and further from yourself.

Aeliana rubs a sweet balm like texture onto your pebbled nipples before she robes you. Said it was to increase your fertility. She also lines your eyes with burnt kohl.

They pulled your dress on around you. Let it fall into beautiful waves. You stood sedately and let them manoeuvre you.

Your skin positively draped with as much fragrant oil as it could take. Anointed with your new life as it drips off you in unbearable sweetness. Decorations not of your choosing put into your hair, on your ears, around your neck, on your arms. Strangled by someone else’s finery.

Slid fine golden sandals onto your feet. Aeliana brought a flame red veil and pinned it in place over your head. It floated down to your shoulders. Securing a crown of myrtle flowers over it.

It may have been gauzy fabric; rich and fine. But it felt like iron to you. Iron veil and a crown of thorns.

When they finish readying you, they bow and leave you alone to eat the fresh bread and fruits. Drink the sweet wine. Night closes in around you.

You didn’t ever picture the night before your wedding being like this. Alone and noiseless save for rain. You pictured the noise and gaiety of your sisters, dancing in their fine dresses. How they’d carry golden stalks of wheat to signify your prosperous marriage - how it would bear fruit. Be blessed by gods and fortune.

Your mother would bind your hands to the man you’d marry. To the man you’d love.

And you are here. Miserable in cold indifference. Clothed in perfumed oil and silence. With only your dour thoughts for company.

You pick at your offering of food. Feeling the milky eyes of those female deity marble statues watching you carefully. Judging. Maybe even disappointed.

When the doors next shudder open as the guards outside push them open, a divine older woman comes striding slowly, surely, into the room. Confidence woven into her steps like the very fine lavender purple cloth folded around her shoulders. A beautiful sage green palla. Her hair is dark and braided masterfully on her head. Shot through with bolts of silver.

You recognise her from coins. From statues. The Dowager Empress of Rome. Julia Domna.

She looks wise as Minerva. Goddess of education indeed. All of Rome had heard tale of not only her beauty, but her mind. Sharp as an arrowhead. A gentle mediator between her rabid sons.

Out of sheer politesse and nerves, you bolt out your seat and bow your head to her. Words shrivel on your tongue. Royalty is stood before you. Here you are plucked from the dungeons. You feel unworthy.

“Rise, my child.” She bids you. Holding out a hand laid with jewels on nearly every finger. Standing before you. Close enough to discern some of your beauty through the veil.

She examines you. Not unkindly. The way you’d expect a mother to examine the vessel that will carry her sons legacy. She’s discerning.

“Let me see my sons choice then…” she bids. Hands crossed in front of her, diplomatically, as she lets her deep set, serious eyes become acquainted with all of you.

Choice? Or chattel?

She walks around you. Eyes your hair. Your build. Your hips. The way you’ve been presented like a prized sacrificial swine before the crowds on Saturnalia.

And she doesn’t appear to find you lacking

“Goodness. You really are beautiful.” She says. It sounds mournful. Introspective. As if she didn’t intend on you hearing it.

“He’s made a fine choice.” She lauded

“Corsica, I hear you hail from?”

“Yes, Dowager.”

“I want to know one thing.” She says. Voice hard as newly forged steel. A shiver runs your spine. So she could be terrifying if she wishes.

“Are you a traitor against Rome?” She demands. “There are spies who would conspire to align themselves with this great house, under false guises, to murder my sons.” She speaks, crossly. Eyes aflame.

She has bite after all. Lions teeth and knows full well how to use them.

“I am no spy. I am not a murderer I have no guise. Like you. I only want to protect those whom I love.” You answer calmly. Placid easy waves. Gently now.

She smiles. Though something curious still lurks in her eyes.

“Then we are on the same page.” She awards slyly. You feel as if you’ve passed a test.

Her smile crooks on one side. Relieved.

She turns to the doors. The great sway of her earrings are big as chandeliers as she moves. Stunning gold. Bands of gold also cross her well formed upper arms. Every inch a woman of gentility and riches. She is perfumed with lavender. Oil made from dried plants fetched all the way from purple fields in Aquitania.

“My son grows impatient to see his bride. Come. Salacia. It is time.” She offers her arm to you.

Apparently your destiny lays in wait.

~

The wedding was a short and simple affair. The Dowager Empress led you to the grand rooms where they were to be held.

Grand, just like the rest of this humongous sprawling palace.

When you see Geta, he is clad in so much gold and armour. A blinding white cloak draped off his form. Armour golden. Carved with gods and victorious hero’s of battle. Golden laurel crown adorns his head. His smile at the sight of you makes you blush with attention.

You are suddenly grateful for the veil. It manages to hide you from every stranger in this room. You can make out Caracalla. Some other senators. Other guests you’ve no idea who.

The celebrant, a rather portly priest, ordered the evil spirits away. Asked for the fire spirits to bless you. He invoked Janus to watch over you from single people to a joined couple. New beginnings.

When it is time, he takes your hand and carefully threads an engagement ring on your finger. It is weighty, pure gold. An imitation of two dog heads joined together. A round sapphire cradled between their mouths. As if they’re fighting for it.

Remus and Romulus. It reminds you of him already.

You dare to meet his eyes as he does it. He looks ravenous. Umbra catching you where you stand. Swallows you whole. You don’t think you can get used to it yet.

“Wherever you go, there also go I, as your wife.” You speak.

The dowager Empress binds your hands together with blood red linen as the rest of the vows are read. The way his fingers turn and grip the inside of your forearm - firm pressing, hot like a brand - it makes you shiver.

Then comes the time for the marriage to be sealed with a kiss. Hands freed.

Your stomach is squirming unpleasantly as your stranger of a groom steps forwards to lift your veil. When he lifts the red gauze from your vision, you keep your eyes lowered until the last moment.

You feel the urging of his eyes. You could hear the fierce nature of his words as if he’d spoken.

Look at me. Salacia.

He looks entirely too boastful. His perfect little nymph. Caught and landed at last.

Hepulled you in by your waist. Locked his hand around your back. Gave you a kiss that was certainly gentler than before. Softness of his lips was maddening when the rest of him was all armour and metal. But you still felt the edge of his teeth on your lower lip. Bursting new pain from where it had split.

It was official. You had been dragged out a golden net cast in the sea. And now property of the Emperor of Rome.

You had no time to let your thoughts wander. There’s been quite the celebration planned for after. He walks beside you as congratulations ripple around you from nobles, senators, generals and high officials of the courts.

You ignore the way Caracalla sneers a particularly vile look your way when you pass him. Plotting.

You are lead to an opulent triclinium. Open to one huge side, guarded by pillars, which overlooked a garden where fountains trickled and plants bloom even in the storm that’s still brewing. Spitting rain on the landscape.

There are torches at the sides of the rooms, huge bowls boasting orange flames that lick at the walls, and freshly plucked flowers, still green branches and fronds sit in urns to the side. Filling the room with petals and heady nectar scent.

There’s a huge swarm of lectus’ in the centre of the room. Bronze laid with cushions. All pointing towards a huge table were bread and wine goblets awaited. You’re not used to how the room echoes. Unused to the sheer amount of people and formality that fills it.

The wine is poured freely by silent servants who sweep in and out. Some of them carrying plates as huge as carriage wheels. A whole roasted boar with grapes spilling out its mouth is brought in. Trays upon trays of cooked moray eels, cod and oiled anchovies. A whole platter of stewed nightingale birds, arranged around stalks of herbs and plums.

There’s fruit and bread the like of which you’ve not seen before. White bowls filled with cut purple figs and waxy oranges. Apples and yellow golden pears on tiered stands. Grapes and dried apricots heaped in dishes. It’s dazzling. So much wealth thrust before you.

You have a cup of sweet honey wine and take some of the unleavened bread. Watching as others around you gorge and toast with their goblets. Drinking strong wine and telling jokes and bawdy stories.

You feel disjointed from it all. You feel the Emperors eyes pass over you. The dowagers too. You are a source of mystery and intrigue.

Plucked from misfortune and placed here at the feet of gods.

You do feel when your new husband slides some pieces of fruit, or fresh breads onto your plate. A small bunch of sweet red grapes. His head may be cocked to conversation in this room. But his attention remains somewhat on you.

“Eat. Wife. I do not wish to force you.” He commands you. Prodding food and more wine in your direction.

Nursing his own cup and barking at the servants when he wanted more. You know his tongue must be stained with the taste by now. Sour purple. You wonder if you’ll taste it later in another of his animalistic kisses.

It feels like there is a boulder in your stomach. You swallow. You sip. You try to breathe. It all feels too restricted.

“Refill my wife’s cup.” Geta demands of the nearest servant. You flinch at his cutting commands.

You meet the servants eyes for a second and flicker them a smile. They look to the ground as they fill your cup. Their poor hands shake. You thank them. They don’t respond.

You’ve a feeling his plying you with wine has more than one ulterior motive. To make you loosen. Make you pliant. Make you slip down easier in his crushing grip.

“I have no appetite.” You admit weakly.

You can’t stomach the way the fat on the meat before you glistens. These poor stewed birds with clipped wings. The gutted boar. Glistening fat and dead meat. Same as the way of those poor flayed men in the coliseum.

Butchered animals. One and the same. The way blood sprayed out on the biscuit brown dirt under the sun. The way viscera glistened bright when spilled free from once living flesh. How these animals looked served on a platter. There’s no difference.

You take some grapes. Pick them from the vine. Bite into some apricots. The fruit rots on your palate. Fine sugary flesh and it bursts on your tongue like ripe putrefaction. You place it gently back on your plate.

“Do they not have fruit in Corsica?” He asks. It’s vaguely mocking.

“We had lemon trees in the gardens. An olive tree in the courtyard. Over 200 years old.” You state quietly. Not taking your eyes off the plate in front of you. You picked and prodded at it.

“You have more now. You are Empress. You have anything you want.” He impressed on you.

“I miss the ocean. The sun on the shoreline. My sisters.” You mutter.

“Don’t risk sounding ungrateful.” He threatens.

Geta followed the path of your reluctant hand with his eyes. He then scans across all of his guests. People of the senate. Rich merchants. Fellow royalty.

They come to snipe and drink wine and watch this new wedded spectacle.

“They are all dull.” Geta decided.

You wonder if the only source of amusement he could delight at was seeing people being beaten to black and blue paste in the coliseum. To have to see the spray of blood to feel something.

“They are intrigued. Their Emperor has placed a traitor in his marriage bed.” You comment.

Geta turned to you. “That sounds like treason to my ears.” A warning.

“Perhaps.” You answered. Boldly.

“But is it inaccurate? It is what they are all thinking.” You add. “You’ve wedded yourself to someone disloyal. Someone who is not their kind. They are curious.”

Geta scans his eyes over everyone again. Their laughter. The flow of wine. The way they stab and cut into food and fruit like they’re half starved. None of them quite meet your eyes.

Perhaps they don’t wish too.

His hand finds the meat of your thigh. Flesh firm and warm.

“They will believe what I tell them too. Wife. You only need worry about your loyal duty to me. Nothing else.” He makes clear.

You go back to pushing bits of fruit around your plate. Taking no more sustenance.

“No doubt you are unused to such finery.” Caracalla pipes up. Seeing you toy with your food. “I wonder what they eat in Corsica. Peasants sea food?”

You meet Caracalla’s eyes across the tables and mountains of rich food.

Getas eyes were dark. Fired by lust for you. That’s what you saw in them when he looked at you.

The same could not be said for Caracalla.

You saw nothing. Just darkness and his love of cruelty. Geta unnerved you. But it was Caracalla who scared you most. It was like gazing into a tomb. A bare skull eye socket. You’re certain nothing but darkness refracted back. Splintered twisted darkness. The purest distilled form of malice.

“Perhaps you are jealous, brother. The fact that I will have heirs meant for the future of the empire. And you will… not.” He snaps. Petulant.

“If she makes it that far.” Caracalla sneers. Daggering a smile right at you. A sneer that make you feel cold. He’s twirling a dagger in his other hand. Eyeing you with sick lustful interest.

He wants your goodness too. He wants it so he can spoil you for himself and ruin Getas legitimacy. By whatever means necessary. Geta has cruelly inserted you into this feud.

“And who’s to say the heir will be yours… who knows where her eyes will stray.” He jabs. Eyes widening as he leers.

Geta stabs into his food. Glaring at his smaller twin all the while. Eyes dark as shadow cloaked black jewels.

When some servants near you move from pouring wine, the sight of the persons impeded by them, slowed your world to a halt, ringing gongs in your ears when you caught sight of someone you recognized.

Macrinus.

The food in your mouth turns to ash which you can hardly stomach swallowing. Your gaze locked on the man as he lays content at your wedding feast. Drinking wine and roaring laughter with Caracalla. Garbed in robes of rich Aquarian blue trimmed with gold pattern.

Exactly the gracious easy way he had been when he dined with you and your father in his home.

His smile remains as he locks eyes with you. And raises his glass in a toast in your direction. You hear him drink to your new name with a blazing smirk aimed your way. “Empress.”

You mumble a pithy excuse. You don’t know if anyone hears you or if they’ll even look up from their plates when you get up and rush to leave.

Caracalla snorts as you race from the room on the verge of tears.

“She’s a flighty one. Your Empress. So full of tears.” Caracalla comments loudly. Cruelly. Turning his head to meet the acid stare of his brother - and the Dowager Empress as she lowers her goblet from her lips. Eyes cool as metal.

“Maybe if you shoved your cock into your broodmare, brother, as you doubtless plan to do this night. Maybe that would settle her down? Or maybe a good beating from the guards will see her right, make her see her place… maybe let a few of the guards bend her over a lectus and see to her first? Loosen her up a little for your uses.”

“Caracalla. Enough.” The dowager snaps. Lightning power in her voice. Tone fashioned from a fury storms could envy. Her dark eyes glow with it.

She turns to Geta and lays a gentle pacifying hand to his arm. “See to your bride, dear. She looked unwell.”

Geta sighs a snarl. Glaring at his brother as he does as mother suggested.

She watches him leave. Turns to her other son with barely concealed ire.

Caracalla snorts into his wine with the other guests. Making sneering, high handed remarks.

“Such marital bliss.” He mocks to the guests. Twirling his favourite silver dagger in his other hand. Laughing as he played with the dead meats on his plate with a sneer. His tooth winked golden in the light.

~

Tagging in the hopes this finds its way to the right people- thank you--

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