#the golden emperor ; ic

[jess-the-vampire]

Owl House Ice Cream Parlor

✨✨✨✨

for all your upcoming summer needs

[gelidemperor]

Tag Dump

[skitskatdacat63]

Anytime someone out of the loop reblogs any boy king au art, I always just wanna put a huge asterisk like "THIS IS PART OF A PREEXISTING AU, A VETTONSO AU, PLEASE ASK ME ABOUT IT 🙏" cause most people are very surprised to learn how much of a narrative there is sjfklf

[dioaureo]

tag dump.

[mysticalcrowntyrant]

I love your writing so much is it okay for me to request yandere emperor like in 1800 or 1900 with ballerina reader?

Yandere Emperor x Reader

The gas lamps lining the cobbled streets cast pale halos in the mist, a golden haze spilling over the frostbitten city. Somewhere beyond the ivory walls of the Imperial Palace, violin strings hummed through the winter air like ghosts—sweet, aching, and low. And you? You were center stage, wrapped in satin ribbons and dreams stitched tight into your bodice. The audience held its breath as you moved, every step on pointe a story of heartbreak and hope, every pirouette a prayer in motion. But one pair of eyes—dark, hungry, unblinking—watched with more than admiration.

He was there every night. Emperor Adrien IV, sovereign of half the continent, draped in velvet and military medals, never missed a single performance. You had never spoken to him. Not directly. But his gaze followed you like a tether, unseen and warm against the nape of your neck even when the curtains fell.

You told yourself it was nothing.

Until the letters came.

Elegant parchment, edges gilded, sealed with crimson wax and stamped with the imperial crest. The first one was simple—compliments on your performance, praise for your artistry. Polite. Harmless. But then came another. And another. They grew longer. More personal. He wrote of how your movement stilled the ache of war in his bones. How he dreamed of your silhouette long after sleep had left him. He quoted poems that no one else remembered and ended his letters with a single plea:

‘Dance for me alone.’

You tried not to tremble as you read them by candlelight, the flicker catching the edge of each obsessive flourish in his calligraphy. You never responded. What could you say to a man like him? A man who could summon armies, raze cities, extinguish lives with a nod?

Still, he persisted.

Then came the night the theater went dark.

You arrived at the company only to find your dressing room gone. Your director vanished. Dancers scattered like birds, whispering of patronage too powerful to defy. That evening, a carriage awaited you—sleek, black, and silent. The driver held no invitation. He simply opened the door and gestured.

You stepped in.

The palace was colder than you imagined—opulent but hollow. Marble floors so polished you could see your reflection tremble. Servants avoided your eyes. No one spoke. They led you to a grand chamber gilded in gold leaf and shadow, where a single man sat at the throne’s edge, his crown resting on a side table like an afterthought. Adrien.

Up close, he was even more terrible. Beautiful, yes. Impossibly so. Black curls like ink. Eyes the color of polished obsidian, glittering with something not quite sane. But it wasn’t his beauty that held you still. It was the intensity—the way he looked at you like you were the only thing he had ever truly wanted.

He stood, closing the distance between you in slow, deliberate steps.

“You’re here,” he murmured, as if the thought alone was enough to keep the stars turning. “At last.”

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t.

He circled you like a man inspecting the edge of a dream, hand brushing the folds of your coat, the exposed line of your collarbone. “You should never have danced for them. They didn’t deserve it. They watched with filthy eyes, unworthy of even your shadow.”

He took your hand. It was ice against fire.

“You’re mine now.”

And just like that, you realized what he had done.

The letters. The shuttered theater. The silenced staff. He hadn’t courted you—he’d hunted you. Slowly. Patiently. Piece by piece, he had torn the world away until only he remained.

You pulled back. “I want to go home.”

A shadow flickered across his face. It passed quickly, but not fast enough. When he smiled again, it was softer—almost sorrowful.

“There is no ‘home’ outside these walls. That world forgot you the moment I decided to make you mine.”

You stumbled away, skirts brushing the edge of the throne room’s vast emptiness. “You can’t keep me here.”

“I can,” he said, voice like silk and steel. “And I will.”

A hand clapped. The doors swung open. And before you could scream or run, music began. Live, echoing, played by a hidden quartet. Your song. The one you danced to on your final night.

His voice dipped to a whisper behind you. “Dance for me.”

You stood frozen.

And then—because you feared what he might do if you didn’t—you danced.

Each step felt like surrender. Each turn like a chain pulled tighter. Adrien didn’t speak again. He simply watched, silent and rapt, the firelight dancing in his eyes.

And when the music ended, when you dropped into your final bow, he rose.

“You’ll dance every night,” he promised, reaching out to cradle your cheek. “For me. Only me. Forever.”

You could see now the depths of it—his madness, his devotion. This wasn’t love. It was worship. And you were no longer a ballerina.

You were an idol.

A prisoner.

A queen.

Forever.

Masterlist

[the-bed-gremlins-reading-list]

My Marriage to the Cursed Royal

Demo: Twine on Itch.io Last Update: 9/6/2024

Rating: 18+

Synopsis

When you meet with an unfortunate accident in the real world you find yourself cast into the role of the younger Medulloi sibling. Your elder brother is the Duke of Ausones, a small and recent addition to the Nasennii Empire.

For three hundred years the Imperial war machine has fueled the Nasennii expansionism across the continent of Fantasia. A war machine that has been unable to advance across the northern expanses that make up Ithel.

Imperial superstition maintains that it is unlucky for a commander to remain unwed - so when the Royal Bastard, the Emperor's cursed child, makes little headway in the campaign a marriage in absentia is arranged.

A marriage to you.

It's a new world with a spouse you have never met.

Oh, except one itty-bitty thing - Fantasia Crown Wars is one of the most popular media franchises to exist. (Oh, and a savvy fan knows that Auberon Medulloi's younger sibling died.)

Characters

Auberon Medulloi - The Duke of Blood

Your new half-brother. He's famous among fans for his brutality as a military commander and the cold calculus with which he approaches his alliances when he's introduced during the third book of the main series. You know him as your warm, slightly fussy elder half-brother who frets himself silly over taking care of your family's lands and makes you sweets when you feel sad. He's joined you in the Imperial Capital to insure that you're safe and have all the support you could possibly stand. In the books he becomes the most feared leader of a rebellion against the Nassenian throne. One that was destroyed by your spouse and leads to Auberon's eventual execution.

Lucius/Lucia Nasennia(us) - Your Spouse, the Cursed Royal (RO)

They are the emperor's eldest child, the illegitimate one whom misfortune follows like an old friend. They were born in the dead of a moonless night and gifted with the ice magic of Ithel through their mother's veins. The priesthood has sworn should they ever take the throne it will be the end of the Nasennian Empire. And yet they are among the most gifted commanders of the age, it is on them victory against Ithel and peace among the conquered lands depend. The books described them as cold and calculating. The blockbuster movie saw them behead their younger brother after arranging the death of their father. They were also supposed to be unwed.

Marcus Nasennius - The Golden Prince (RO)

The third child of the emperor and the heir to the throne after the death of their sister. Marcus has always been the charmer of the royal family, the one for whom life was easy and joyful. He's said to have been blessed by the Empire's gods - born on a bright summer day in the heat of noon, and gifted with command of light magic he has always been placed in competition with his elder brother by the court, but they were friends once. Marcus was one of the main characters of the books - and the classic prince charming had always quite popular. So popular, in fact, that after his tragic demise in the movie he was brought back to life in the television show.

Rossella Catilia - The Red Mage (RO)

The Catilia family has stood behind and beside the throne of Nasennia since the War of Sparks founded the nascent Empire. They are wealthy and powerful and Rossella is the same age as Prince Marcus. She was brought to court at a young age and raised with the expectation that she would be among those considered as his match. A marriage she's openly appalled by due to her close friendship - and lack of romantic feelings for both the royal brothers. Still she's publicly considered the picture of what an Imperial Lady should strive for. Like many Imperial nobles she has some talent as a mage with a reputation as a skilled healer. In the books Rossella played the part of peacemaker between the brothers until her sudden foreign marriage removed her from the picture during TFCW's brief period as a graphic novel. (A move her fans hated almost as much as the scarlet color her hair was colored with on those pages.)

Caerwyn - The Assassin from Ithel (RO)

Bright, obnoxious, oh, and a vampire. This Ithellen assassin was meant to be your death. You're still not sure what changed his mind, nor why he's decided to serve you as your personal "spy-slash-assassin-slash-bodyguard-slash-gossip-gatherer". Caerwyn's appeared in the plot far earlier than he should have based on the books, where he only emerges out from the shadows after Ithel's defeat. Following the demise of his homeland he had come to serve your brother, Auberon. Caerwyn is among those that is supposed to be killed by your spouse, having dramatically sacrificed himself to ensure the escape of the rebel army and leading to that arc lasting much longer than anyone expected it would.

Rune Leleux - The Knight? (RO)

Like the assassin Caerwyn, Rune Leleux has shown up in the story far earlier than they should have. In fact you have a strong suspicion that the next book that was suppose to release in a month will reveal that the person introduced as a wandering bounty hunter and oath-breaking knight stole the real Leleux's identity. The Rune Leleux you know serves as your brother's faithful knight and right hand. They've been your friend since you were children. You can't see how the soft-spoken, if sometimes sarcastic, warrior who helps you live in Fantasia could possibly be the brutal and heavily scarred murderer draped in wolf skin that the Bastard Royal hires to help assassinate the emperor and sabotage the capital's defenses.

Robin Watcher - The Bard (RO)

This sweet natured bard is a minor character in the canon - like your new identity is. Or at least, she must be, because you definitely can't remember her from anywhere. (Maybe she was one of those unnamed extra in that one made-for-tv movie that everyone prefers to forget exists?) Whoever this bard is she always seems to know quite a bit about whoever happens to be around - and, well, she's rather curious about you. (In more ways than one.) Also, no one seems to know who she is or where she came from, just that she's great with instruments and has a very pretty voice.

WIP Warning: Any information contained in this post is subject to change as the project develops. The same goes for information posts on this blog.

[gojozballs]

Gojo x Reader "Consumed by Emperor"

Warnings: [This story contains dark themes, including obsessive behavior, yandere tendencies, manipulation, and violence. There are depictions of physical and emotional abuse, and elements of power imbalance.]

Yep, guess this is turning into a yandere series

Materialist

In the blood-soaked arena of Ancient Rome, where violence is the highest form of entertainment, a woman trapped in the vicious cycle of gladiatorial combat must face not only the brutal fight of her brother but the terrifying interest of the Emperor himself, Gojo Satoru, who sees in her something far more intriguing than the battlefield.

Ancient Rome a civilization where violence was the highest form of entertainment, and bloodshed in the arena was nothing but a spectacle for the masses. The Colosseum roared with life, a deafening mixture of jeers, laughter, and thunderous applause.

Among the sea of cheering spectators stood a lone woman, her fists clenched tightly against her sides. Y/N, a woman who loathed the brutality of these fights, yet found herself trapped within their cruel grip.

She had no choice.

Because the man in that pit, the so-called "punching bag" gladiator, was her older brother—Fushiguro Megumi.

"Megumi, you promised! You promised that you'd stop! That was supposed to be your last fight!" Y/N’s voice cracked as she grabbed his wrist earlier that day, desperation clear in her eyes.

Megumi scoffed, shaking off her grip. "Quit it, Y/N. This is my dignity and pride we're talking about."

But what was dignity when it was at the cost of his life?

And now, here she stood, watching yet another fight where people cheered for his defeat, waiting for her world to be shattered yet again.

The announcer’s voice boomed across the Colosseum, making Y/N’s stomach churn.

“Are you ready for yet another brawl?”

A deafening roar of excitement surged through the stands, making Y/N grip the edge of her cloak. She hated this. She hated them. She hated this place.

“Fushiguro Megumi the all time punching bag returns!”

The crowd erupted into laughter. Y/N felt her blood boil, her nails digging into her palms so hard that she almost drew blood.

But the next words that left the announcer’s mouth?

They sent ice through her veins.

“However—there’s a twist! Since someone of immense power has decided to grace us with his presence… What an honor for such a punching bag to fight against our one and only Emperor Gojo Satoru!"

A collective gasp rang through the Colosseum before the crowd exploded in cheers.

Women squealed, men chanted his name, and a heavy air of admiration thickened the arena. Y/N could hear the people around her gossiping, their voices buzzing in excitement.

"The Emperor himself? Is this a joke?" "Why would someone as powerful as him waste his time on that pathetic gladiator?" "Well, it’ll be fun to see him crush that loser in an instant!"

Y/N shut her eyes tight, forcing herself to drown out the noise. She already knew who Gojo was a ruler as untouchable as the gods themselves, a man who basked in absolute power, a man whose icy blue eyes had never once flickered with mercy.

She had seen him before, countless times, but he never mattered enough for her to care.

Until now.

The arena fell dead silent as two figures entered the pit.

Megumi stood tall, his muscles scarred from countless battles, his breath steady. He had been preparing for this moment his entire life, but even he knew this was different.

Across from him, Gojo Satoru stood with an air of effortless arrogance, his golden laurel crown glimmering under the Roman sun. Unlike the usual battle-worn gladiators, he wore pristine, snow-white robes, a stark contrast to the blood-stained sands beneath his feet.

He didn’t even bother drawing a weapon.

"This is disappointing," Gojo hummed, rolling his shoulders lazily. "You’re the one they keep throwing in here? What, are you Rome’s favorite plaything?"

Megumi’s jaw clenched.

Gojo grinned, his piercing blue eyes twinkling with amusement as he took a slow step forward.

"I expected at least a little challenge, but look at you so serious. So angry. Hah, is it because your little sister is watching?"

Megumi lunged without hesitation, his gladius slashing toward the Emperor’s throat.

But in the blink of an eye—Gojo was gone.

The next second, Megumi found himself on his knees, a crushing force pressing down on his body. His breath hitched as he looked up—Gojo stood above him, completely untouched, a smug smile dancing on his lips.

"You’re slow," Gojo sighed dramatically. "And here I thought you’d be fun."

The crowd erupted in laughter.

Y/N’s nails dug into her palms so hard she could feel blood seeping from her skin. She wanted to look she wanted to see what was happening but she knew if she opened her eyes, she would break.

Gojo’s voice was mocking, playful, yet dripping with something much darker beneath the surface.

"Tell me, Megumi, does it feel bad knowing she’s listening?" His voice lowered, only for Megumi to hear. "Knowing she’s hearing every little insult, every little laugh, every little whimper you make?"

Megumi growled, trying to push himself up, but Gojo’s boot pressed against his back, forcing him down.

"She must hate this."

A slow, taunting chuckle escaped Gojo’s lips as he leaned in closer, whispering just loud enough for Y/N to hear.

"Or maybe… she’s just too scared to open her eyes."

The laughter of the crowd roared in her ears. Y/N’s entire body trembled, her chest tightening with rage, with helplessness, with hatred.

And for the first time—Gojo turned his gaze directly toward her.

Even though her eyes were shut, even though she refused to look—she felt it.

A slow, creeping sensation of being watched.

A chilling amusement, a predator’s interest.

And worse?

The suffocating feeling that this man this untouchable, all-powerful ruler had just found something new to entertain himself with.

Her.

[spinchip]

(Baby Kotori doesn't feel well. The Ice Emperor calls for a healer from a nearby village.)

Mother braids her hair before she leaves. The thick strands of her hair pulled taut and plaited flat against her scalp, a pale red ribbon woven down the middle in order to make the simple hairstyle appear elevated and fancy so it doesn’t look out of place sitting against her finest set of robes. Mother would have liked to do more- something nicer, beads or metal clasps along sets of perfectly smooth cords of hair. Delicate golden chains strung with beautiful stones, maybe, like the kind she’d inherited from her great, great grandmother. Chiyo had refused it all. She had no desire to carry herself into the house of the emperor with every inch of her body adorned in jewels and silks. It was the only way she could protest, really. She would wear those things when there was a ruler she respected on the throne again- not now. Not while the usurper and his kin poisoned the palace halls.

The braid was a compromise her mother insisted upon. It was improper to speak to the emperor in plain clothes, and downright disrespectful to come to his home with your hair undone and loose around your shoulders. Mother would spend hours preparing to leave for the palace when the invitations came for her, freshly washing her hair and having Chiyo's aunt do her makeup. Her sisters would pull out the smooth wooden case her mother kept the pearls she’d worn on her wedding day, polishing the delicate stones while Chiyo pressed the wrinkles from her fanciest clothes. Any other time, Chiyo would be preparing her mother for the trip like usual.

Not today. As the second most experienced healer, Mothers invitation had been passed to Chiyo this time and it was her turn to get her hair and makeup done in preparation for her visit. She refused anything more complex than a braid, turned away from any makeup other than eyeliner and lipstick, and had almost managed to weasel out of her ceremony robes before her mother had finally put her foot down.

“Grimfax would have never demanded such opulence.” She had argued as her mother held up her pearls for Chiyo to wear.

“Things have changed.” Her mother said tensely, but she’d placed the pearls back into their case anyway.

Soon after her robes were tied and her hair smoothed down one last time, the Emperor's escort had arrived. Several teams of wolves with ice along their fur hooked up to sleds made to traverse the snowy ground quickly and efficiently. Of the three vehicles, two were simple ice sculptures while the sled she was to ride in was a beautifully crafted wooden thing painted pale blue. It was so large it had doors so she could sit inside during the trip. A handful of samurai accompanied her- two with cold, sallow skin and dead eyes. They used to be alive, like her, but now they were covered in a thick rime with that same wretched diamond etched into their forehead. The other three warriors were archers and swordsmen made completely of ice, their skin translucent in the mid-morning light and their movement uncanny and mechanical. One of the inhuman things rode inside the carriage with her, staring unseeing at the space between them as the wolves carried them away from her home.

She had been to the palace a few times as a child. Emperor Grimfax would often hold festivals in the large courtyards with feasts and games and music filling the air- she’d loved the summer solstice festivals the most, with the soft sugary lumps of fried dough and the fireworks shot late into the night. It had always been such a warm, welcoming place. As they crest the hill that she used to sit at to watch the firework show, she sees a palace that is a cold shadow of its former glory. It seems smaller with the spires of ice shooting up from the ground around it. There’s a stillness to the air. As they ride through the front gates into an empty, frost-dead garden she can’t help but feel a wave of loneliness crawl over her skin. This once grand place was simply… sad, now.

The wolves come to a silent stop and the snowman sitting across from her stands abruptly, opening the door and stepping outside with little fanfare. He holds the door open for her and tips his head as if to beckon her out into the frigid air. She’s not nervous, not really, but she takes a moment to smooth the fabric of her skirt out before she stands to follow him out. Standing in front of the large doors in front of the carriage is another man- and he’s frowning at her.

“General Vex.” She bows at the hips, tilting her head down demurely.

“Who are you.” Vex doesn’t phrase it like a question. It’s a demand for her to answer.

She straightens up and holds out the letter her mother had sent her with. Thin parchment wrapped with another pale red ribbon and pressed closed with a thick wax seal, “I am Lady Takara's eldest daughter, Chiyo.” She introduces herself as he snatches the letter from her and rips through the wax roughly, “My mother is unable to come to the palace, so she sent me in her place.”

“I can read, girl.” He says rudely as he skims the letter. He hands it back to her, “The Emperor will not be pleased.” Vex grunts before he turns towards the door, “Follow me.”

He, along with the three ice constructs, lead her deep into the bowels of the palace. As they walk, she considers what she will say to the emperor when she meets him.

Do not speak out of turn Mother had said while she braided her hair, you must behave, Chiyo. Please, you must behave.

Chiyo had no intention of behaving. This man who called himself king did not have her respect or her loyalty. She would speak to him as he deserved to be spoken to- with scorn and hatred. He was a monster. This was her one and only chance to rebel and she planned to take full advantage of it- the knife she’d strapped against her ribs weighed hot and heavy with each breath she took. She is not nervous- she is certain what she must do. She will free her home or she will die an honorable death trying. Chiyo is not afraid of him. She will speak her mind, spit and scream and fight, and she will kill him.

General Vex leads her right up to an ornate door- it’s a bedroom, she is certain. He pauses as his hand hovers over the knob leading to her destiny, “Samurai, stand guard.” He says curtly, and the warriors boxing her in turn away from the door to survey the long hall they’re standing in.

Vex opens the door and the two of them walk inside.

The first thing she notices is the toys on the ground. Soft, plush things, lovingly handmade- animals of all different shapes and sizes, little ones shaped like a prince and a princess. Wooden blocks with letters carved on each side. Papers and colorful wax sticks for art stacked on a low table filled with primitive, scribbly drawings on every inch of available space. It is a child's bedroom- of course it is. The child was why her mother was invited here in the first place.

There’s movement to her left and she turns to face the Emperor as he stands from his seat by the bed.

Any bravado she had vanishes in an instant. Whatever words she thought she’d throw at him quietly die in her chest- the air in the room grows thin and her hands begin to shake. Fear cascades down her spine in thick, icy rivulets as the emperor towers over her. His very presence floods the room with something animal and violent. His skin is not like hers, not like the warriors who were once human- but not ice, either. Something thick and tough and brilliantly reflective. The knife she’d brought is woefully useless. It would not even leave a scratch on him, she is certain.

More than that, she would not even be able to raise it. He is so much more intimidating than she thought he would be.

The staff he holds is long and tall and wickedly sharp.

“You,” He says after a long moment, “Are not Lady Takara.” His voice is deep and sonorous, but surprisingly soft in the space between them. There is no anger there, just curiosity- a bit of suspicion, maybe.

Another moment passes before she can find her voice, “i-” She holds out the letter sharply, realizing too late how the jarring motion might be misconstrued as an attack as the parchment pokes his chest. He doesn’t seem at all phased by it so she continues shakily, “I am Chiyo. Lady Takara is my mother.”

He takes the letter from her gently, unfolding it to read. No one speaks as he looks over her mothers curly handwriting, the harsh bright blue of his eyes moving back and forth over the explanation her mother had written out for him. It was the fourth draft her mother had written. She'd agonized over every word as she wrote about her own surplus of patients she was dealing with, apologizing over and over for not being able to come to the palace herself.

“There is a sickness in your village?” His eyes flicker up to pin her in place.

“Yes, my Emperor.” She nods, fidgeting with her hands, “The Red Plague. Many of us have been immunized against it through inoculation with a lesser sickness in the same family, split-hoof Pox, but those who have not… they will struggle to survive. Mother believed it was not wise for her to leave the village while the outbreak occurred. She has the most experience with treating the disease.”

“You are immunized?” He clarifies, folding the letter up and tucking it into the overlap of his robe.

“Yes, my emperor.” She confirms, “I did not bring any illness with me into your house.”

She’d brought up the idea to her mother- but Lady Takara had shook her head at the suggestion, we are healers. She had said simply, then added, the emperor will not succumb to infection. He is not… like us. The only one you will harm is the baby, and she is innocent.

“And you have much experience treating children?” He asks now, surveying the youthfulness of her features with open curiosity.

“I have been training under my mothers tutelage since I was very young,” She nods, “I am the most experienced healer after her, and I am certain I can take care of your child effectively.”

“I do not doubt it. Lady Takara spoke very highly of you in her letter.” He says slowly.

“Am I still needed, my Emperor?” Vex interrupts, his voice dripping with annoyance, as if he can't believe he hasn’t been dismissed from this meeting yet. “There are a great deal of things that need my attention since you have been too busy here to tend to the land.”

“You may go, my advisor.” The emperor says curtly before he steps aside, beckoning Chiyo closer to the bed tucked against the wall in the center of the room. “Please, Lady Chiyo, approach.” he says as Vex closes the door behind himself.

Everything in her screams against taking a single step closer to him, but she can see the small bundle on the bed and the healer in her is hard-wired to tend to the sick, even if it means stepping within striking distance of a deadly beast.

You must always be gentle with little bird, her mother presses that into her firmly, he is her first, and he worries for her.

She was familiar with the overprotective, nervous nature of new mothers and their children. She knew how to handle it. Her mother had told her a bit about the Emperor's nature around his child- how his hackles had raised the first time her mother had firmly patted the child's back to encourage a burp after feeding.

Where is her mother? Chiyo had asked curiously.

Gone. Lady Takara has said sadly, I do not know the whole story. She is not his child by blood, but he has taken her in after her mother passed.

Chiyo had frowned then. The emperor does not seem the type to take care of a child. Everything she knew about him suggested he would not do well as a father. If he did not even know to burp her after a bottle, how could he safely raise her? And why was her mother so content to leave the babe with an unfit parent? She’d brought this up with her mother, Perhaps it would be best if you could convince him to give the baby to us she suggested.

He is good with her. A little guidance is all he requires, her mother says quietly, but… I had considered it, at first. Offering to take her, that is. Her mother shook her head, It is not safe to bring her here. She is his child, that is very clear.

She hadn’t asked what her mother had meant, but as she lays eyes on the baby for the first time she understands why she said that instantly.

Upon her forehead is the mark of the emperor, bright and clear and unmistakable. There would be many people who would not tolerate that diamond mark in this land- while Chiyo likes to think her village would not cast out a child, she finds she is not certain the baby would be safe. Superstition and fear could lead good people to do awful things. She is safer here.

“She is hot to the touch,” The emperor says as Chiyo surveys the baby's face, “A persistent cough has kept her up these past two nights and her nose is running constantly. She does not take her bottle well.”

She examines her carefully, noting the slight fever and the way the babys sleep doesn’t seem to be restful. Each breath she takes drawn in with more force than a healthy baby typically would, “How does her cough sound?”

He ruminates over the question, “Sudden and sharp,” He informs her, “Like the bark of a dog.”

“Is there anything you do that lessens her symptoms?” She asks, uncertain that he would be doing anything to help other than calling her mother in for her expertise.

“I have been spending more time with her.” The Emperor says calmly, “the illness has been making her distressed and she is quick to cry, but I believe she finds comfort in my presence. Sitting with her on my lap upright seems to help, and she sleeps easier when I am with her to cuddle. She enjoys when I read to her, so we have been making our way through her books together.”

Under her hands, the baby makes a pitiful, sad sound. The Emperor immediately reaches over with his free hand to smooth an errant hair down, gently stroking her cheek, “It is alright, Little Bird. Daddy is here.” he says softly.

Chiyo feels strange watching him do this. It goes against the version of him she’d built in her head- the emperor was not supposed to be kind. He is not supposed to read silly children's books or lovingly dote on a chubby cheeked infant who so clearly loves him too. Under his comforting pet, the baby settles back into her rest.

Chiyo swallows around the feeling in her throat, “It sounds like croup.” She says quietly.

He looks up at her instantly, “Is it serious?”

“No.” She pauses, “Well, it can be, but from what I'm observing now it looks to be a very mild case.”

“What can I do to help her?”

“Honestly, you’re doing everything right.” Chiyo says, almost shocked at the truth of it, “Crying will make the symptoms worse, so staying with her and helping her stay calm is good. Sitting her up while she’s awake is something I would have suggested if you weren’t already doing that. Moist air helps too, so boiling water to humidify the room would be beneficial. Keep trying her with her bottle, Hydration is important during any type of sickness. Gentler cases like this typical pass in a few days, maybe four or five at the most.”

A line of tension in his shoulders relaxes, “She will be alright?”

“I am confident she will recover just fine.” Chiyo says with a smile.

To her surprise, he smiles too. It’s a tiny thing- just the barest upturn of his mouth.

He looks so human suddenly that it’s jarring.

“Thank you, Lady Chiyo. I will have my blizzard warriors escort you back home in a few hours.” He says with a nod.

“A few hours?” She questions.

He’d gone back to stroking his baby's hair. He doesn’t look away to answer her question, “I have ordered them to gather supplies for you to take back to your village. Things that may help support your people while they deal with the red plague- food, blankets, any medicine we may have available. It will be ready in a handful of hours for you.”

The knife feels heavy against her side.

“Thank you, my emperor.” She says, startled.

“My warriors will bring you to the sitting room to wait for transport home. I will ask the chef to prepare you dinner before you go.” He says simply, “Have a safe trip back.”

Just like that, she’s dismissed.

Later, after she’s home and she’s helped distribute the amenities provided by the palace to the ill, her mother asks her how it went.

“It went… well.” She admits, and doesn’t say much more than that.

[greenwitchfromthewoods]

nymph. [part 5] l General Marcus Acacius

Summary:  you have been with him for a long time, but he has never seen you. but everything has changed.

Warnings:  angst, fluff, memories of death and arena fights, old romance, lots of sadness, some tears, gods and mythology are treated in a simple way

A/N: I hope you enjoy this chapter. I've hidden something there… something that happened a while ago and came back to them. I'm curious… I'd like to know what you think of this series. or anything I write. My inner critic probably does too well. But I'll leave you with this and thank you for your time.

I hope you will be gentle with me. your feedback is very important to me and I thank you for all the reblogs, comments and likes. 🖤 sorry for all the mistakes

nymph [masterlist]

It was another hot day and even though you were in the shade, you could feel the heat pouring off the sand in the arena. You had never seen a place like this before. It was massive, raised above the rooftops, as if it was shouting to everyone "I will be here for eternity while you turn to dust".

Marcus was strangely quiet and nervous that day, you could see it in his gaze and how close he was to you. Brutus and Aurelia, as they had promised, showed up at the coliseum with you, but it didn't help.

The crowd around you, the greetings from the other guests and the place itself, General Acacius was restless and would have given anything to be able to take you away from there.

But your eyes, like the eyes of a child, absorbed it all, absorbed his world.

"Marcus! How good to see you!" a cheerful and resonant voice reached your ears as well.

"Lucilla." Marcus nodded as the woman smiled fondly at him. "I’m glad to see you in good health."

She was beautiful. Golden hair fell in waves down her back, a robe draped around her shapely body, and precious stones and gold sparkled on her hands and neck. 

Lucilla was beautiful and she definitely knew it. How else could you explain the spell she cast over the people gathered in this place.

She gave him a smile. "I was glad to hear in what glory you returned to Rome. Why haven't you visited me yet? It's not nice to keep old friends waiting."

"I had my duties."

"Duties?" she repeated, and her gaze wandered to you. You didn't look in her direction, but you could clearly feel her searching gaze on you. "Is this your new..."

Your name left his lips like the words of a prayer, Lucilla immediately felt it. Despite everything, the smile didn't leave her lips.

"I'm glad to see you're happy, Marcus." she said, her hand tenderly squeezing his arm. "If she gives you this happiness..."

"She gives me more than I dare to ask for."

The woman nodded. After a short moment, she withdrew to her seat, but you still had the impression that her eyes hadn't left you and Marcus.

"Everything’s good? Come on, let's take our seats."

You sat down at the back and after a moment you saw Emperor Geta and his brother appear in the box. All the majesty and splendor of their personas was overwhelming, but you had the impression that the people around them seemed to stiffen and began to weigh their words more carefully.

However, you didn’t have time to look at them more closely. The fights had begun.

Marcus felt ashamed and embarrassed. When he saw the expression on your face, his heart stopped for a moment. He wanted to take you away from there, to erase from your memory what you had seen, what you had heard... 

Your fingers tightened on the ornate armrests of the chair and you slightly leaned forward as your widened eyes watched the bloodshed in the arena with horror.

"My dear..." he whispered in your ear, but only a sigh escaped from between your parted lips.

He took your hand and kissed it, but that didn't help either. Your fingers were ice cold. Gods, Marcus regretted ever letting you see all this!

The conversations and laughter of his companions reached him as if from behind a curtain. All his attention was focused on you and only his alertness allowed him to react appropriately when any words were directed at him.

Let this all be over! Please...

Brutus and Aurelia took you back home, Marcus's duties forced him to stay. You barely spoke to him or his friends, still dazed by what you saw.

"Take care of her." Brutus ordered Melitta when she appeared to welcome you home.

You were barely able to understand her words, although she spoke to you calmly and with concern.

"Where is she? Melitta!" his loud voice echoed through the darkened corridor.

The girl quickly approached him, leaned around the corner, and bowed quickly.

"My lord." she said "I tried my best, but she..."

"What about her?" Acacius growled, approaching her "Speak, girl, if you value your life!"

She raised her head, looking at him pleadingly "I prepared her a bath to ease her nerves. She's still there..."

"How long?" he frowned.

"Since she came home."

"It's been a few hours!"

He pushed Melitta aside and went inside. The stuffiness and the smell of incense immediately filled his nostrils. You were there, sitting on the edge with your feet immersed in the water. The maid had to cover your shoulders with a robe. But what frightened Marcus was your gaze. Glassy eyes stared into space, you looked like a sculpture.

"My love." he said quickly approaching you, he touched your cheek, directing your gaze to him "I'm so sorry."

"Marcus..."

He saw the tears running down your cheeks, your trembling lips, the crease between your brows. He had never felt so helpless before.

"I'm sorry you had to see this. I have no words to justify myself, but please... Just say something."

"I don't understand this, Marcus." Your whisper was barely audible. "I've seen the wrath of the gods, I've seen the battlefields, but this... Just to please a handful of people? Do you all despise your lives so much?"

"I have nothing to defend what you saw."

"How could you defend it? There were ordinary people there too..."

"Thieves and bandits. Slaves."

"People." You took a deep breath. "So who am I, Marcus? What am I? I feel like I'm floating between worlds, not belonging to any of them... I saw the delight on the faces of some, and the terror in the eyes of the dying. Where am I in all of this?"

Warm, large hands cupped your face. Gentle brown eyes looked at you with fear, but also with love and care.

"You're here with me. That's what matters." He said. "Our life is beyond all of this. I'll take you away from here, somewhere where you'll feel free, safe... You belong to me, and I belong to you. That's all that matters."

He saw the shadow of a smile on your chapped lips and couldn't help but taste them. They were salty from tears, but still soft and comforting. 

"Come on, love. Let me take you to bed."

With incredible ease he lifted you into his arms and carried you to the bedroom. You were so fragile in his arms, when he placed you on the bed he was still surprised that you were real. It was late, the house was silent and the room was filled with the sweet scent.

You watched as Marcus removed the gold bracelets from his wrists and then his toga, which he placed on a nearby chair. The glow of the candles danced on his wide back.

"Lucilla."

Your quiet voice caught his attention as he poured himself some water from the jug on the table. He turned around, you were sitting on your heels and staring at him. Your face was so soft in the light.

"I saw how she looked at you." you continued calmly. "Something connected you. Feelings, right? Strong ones."

Acacius nodded.

"What happened?"

He cleared his throat and took a few steps, his thoughts returning to those times, the times of his youth.

"It was years ago..." he began "I was a young soldier, gaining experience. She was lonely. Like me."

"She's beautiful."

"Not like you." you smiled slightly and continued "Our paths crossed."

"Did you love her?"

Marcus sat on the edge of the bed, staring at his hands, which suddenly seemed colossal, rough. Inappropriate for you. However, your presence next to him was so soothing, he closed his eyes.

"I thought so." he replied "I thought it was love. But everything changed suddenly."

Your hand rested on his shoulder "How so?"

"I don't know. I was away from Rome for a while. When I came back, when I met her again and kissed her, I felt like I was betraying someone. It sounds crazy, but it was true. The shadow of an unknown person, someone I had lost and didn't even know, hung between us. I couldn't... Lucilla sensed it, she didn't ask questions. I devoted myself to the army, to Rome." He looked at you, a faint smile playing on his plush lips. When you stroked his cheek, Marcus sighed quietly.

"I've never told anyone about it. Is it possible to suddenly wake up one day and feel like something's been lost? Because that's how I felt. I didn't know what it was, but I felt like someone had cut out a piece of me. No one could fill it. And then, years later, you appeared... You were there like the wind, like a breeze or a warm gust." his lips brushed your wrist, you rested your forehead against his and closed your eyes. “I felt you before I saw you. And once I saw your face, gods, it was like I woke up from a long sleep.”

For almost four days, General Acacius's house had been just you, Melitta, Antigonus, and the rest of the servants. His duties had forced him to report to the barracks, and this time he couldn't find an excuse.

It was your first separation in a long time, and although you missed him, every day surprised you with something. Like when Antigonus said you could accompany Melitta to the market. Or when you went to the nearby temple together.

Aurelia and Brutus, Marcus's friends, also visited you, but seeing that they had torn you away from sitting among the maps and notes you were so passionately devouring, they decided that nothing would threaten you. So if it weren't for Antigonus' complaints, you would probably have moved the bedding there.

You felt it again.

You didn't tell Marcus about it, but you waited for the familiar scent to fill the bedroom again. Maybe you were wrong? Maybe it was all just a vivid dream?

But when you stood by the open window to the garden, you heard the quiet words of prayer, you knew you were right. The grass was soft under your bare feet, and the pleasantly cool wind brought relief after the hot day. You walked quietly so as not to scare anyone away.

And when you stopped behind the rose bush, you saw her.

Melitta was kneeling in front of burning candles, with incense made of herbs and flowers that gave off a scent so familiar to you. Her quiet voice mixed with the rustle of leaves and cicadas.

You didn't want to interrupt her prayers, it wasn't right. But you listened to the words and with each subsequent one you felt as if your heart was sinking.

These were not ordinary prayers. Regret, sadness, a plea for forgiveness, a promise to improve... All these words were accompanied by Melitta's silent sobs, carried through the night to the stars along with the smoke of her incense.

And then you understood.

She was just like you.

☆☆☆☆

Thank you for your time.

@ashleyfilm @gothcsz @littlenicpascal @missladym1981 @axshadows @psychoenergy @sabsunflowergirl @pedrofan @heckzprince @hard-candy-writing @mynameisbaby9 @94namkooksworld @bbyanarchist @picketniffler @tranquilty @psyched2b @jeewrites @tuquoquebrute @aotfantasmagorias @mynameismothra @kluvspedro @fefa-la-printcessa

[moodymisty]

Hiii!!! I LOVE everything you write since I followed you a long time ago. I would like to read something about Rogal Dorn. I can't find ANYTHING about him and i just can't stop thinking about him.

I don't mind if it's smut, whatever you feel confortable with, but if it can have a little bit of fluff i would LOVE It.

Thank you for everything.💞

Author's note: Ok so I am deciding to do an idea i have for awhile, that I believe someone else posted but I cannot remember who. anyhoo, enjoy. Perhaps it's not as fluffy as you might have wanted, but fluffy Dorn is sort of awkward, nice Dorn so I hope you still like it;;

Relationships: Rogal Dorn/Fem!Reader (reader is a remembrancer)

Warnings: Perturabo calls you a whore but other than that nothing really of note

"I never did thank you properly for all of the clothes, Lord Dorn."

You look up at him, golden armor still shining in the relative dimness of the bridge- to only get a light nod of his head in response.

Inwit is freezing, unfathomably cold, and the clothes you had worn previously on Olympia failed to cut it. That had been a very quick, and very upsetting realization. Dorn had- in his stalwart silence - requisitioned you more only a few days later. Many more, custom-made. They were lined with warm furs and comfortable, built for hard winds and ice, trapping your body heat close to you. You had taken some of the layers off since you were arriving to Terra, a planet with a much more tempered climate. You don't miss the burning of your cheeks and frozen snot, but you do miss the planet overall.

Terra... Coming here makes you nervous. You know who is going to be here. Take a few deep, self-assuring breaths before looking in Dorn's general direction. The large glass viewport at the front of the bridge illuminates most of the floor, casting you all in a variety of colors.

"Lord Dorn, may I ask you a question about something?"

He turns to you, looking down at your hesitant expression.

"Did Perturabo make you beg permission to speak to him? Just ask it."

He did, more often than not. You remember more than a few instances.

"Well, he was actually going to be what I wanted to ask about."

You twisted your wrists in your hands, trying to do some sort of fidget to focus on while Dorn had his full attention on you.

"Has he always hated you? The entire time I was in his company, there was always just undertone of pure, seething hatred for you, but whenever I saw you, you didn't seem to even care."

There are a few other Imperial Fists on the bridge, watching as Terra comes into view. You're in the process of getting caught by the planet's orbit and mooring close enough to come down to the surface. You can see the palace already, even from this far, a golden target that is still growing larger with each day.

"Perturabo has always been that way, yes."

Dorn turns to briefly give an order to a questioning Imperial Fist, before returning to you and his explanation.

"He sees competition in my existence. I don't care."

Polux approaches, choosing to stand on your opposing side and wait patiently for his moment to speak. You give him a brief smile as greeting before returning your eyes to his primarch. Dorn looks forward and out the viewport, watching the palace of his design inch closer and closer.

"Sanguinius and Horus' rivalry is even matched. They both find growth from it. Perturabo's rivalry with me is a childish urge to beat me into the ground and prove to everyone that he is better."

You don't disagree with him in even the slightest. Perturabo was always so desperate to beat Dorn above all else, even to the detriment of other facets of his life.

"Despite the fact that he isn't?"

Dorn looks at you fully again, eyebrows raised and you swear, you swear, the inkling of a smile on his face.

"You have spent more time with him than I. Do you think that?" He turns on his heel slightly, armor shifting and clanking against eachother to face you more.

"Do you think The Emperor was right in claiming me Praetorian over him?"

You've been with the Imperial fists for a few months now, and this is far from the first time you've spoken to Dorn. Far more than you ever interacted with Perturabo, despite the fact that Dorn is known for being tight lipped and humorless.

You nod.

"Yes, I do. Perturabo's plans are always so complex, and he hinges them and his entire self worth on being better than you. And when he fails, he sulks." You smile. "I don't imagine you or your sons to be the type to sit and pout if something went wrong. You would all be too busy trying to correct it."

Dorn looks down at you, face as stoic and frozen as you've become quite used to. You don't know entirely what he's thinking, but you don't get a chance to ask before someone else's voice interrupts you.

Polux has a younger astartes walk up to him, stating some information that flows in one ear and out the other for you before walking away. He turns to the both of you, looking two his primarch but referring to the both of you.

"My lord, we are ready to depart for the palace. Is she accompanying us?"

You've never stepped foot on Terra before, to even come into it's orbit is an idea that you could barely handle; Alongside the fact that the primarch and his captains have little need for you there. You gather yourself, preparing to return to the Librarium aboard the ship to continue your work before Dorn's voice stops you in your tracks and sends almost every emotion through you at once.

"She is. Let us go."

Your first time on Terra was going well, in the first hour or so.

Dorn isn't much of a communicator, so he has spent the long of it conversing with his men, giving orders even while not aboard his ship. Either orders given to send back to the Phalanx, or to the Imperial Fists on Terra assisting with the Palace construction. You stand idly by and occasionally draw, or write something down that interests you.

The smoothness stops however, when Dorn looks away abruptly. His sons are confused, before they also perk up not a moment later. You look to Polux, as you know he's the one who will most likely acquiesce to your questions.

"What is it?" You say. He tilts his head vaguely in your direction, but doesn't actually look at you.

"Primarch Perturabo is on his way. He must've heard we had arrived," Polux takes a breath, presumably steeling himself for whatever is to come.

"His... footsteps are quite loud." Not a few more moments later now even you can hear them, and then see him shortly thereafter.

Perturabo storms closer; You can tell by the red flush over his tanned skin, that he is beyond furious.

Dorn looks down at you, and points behind him. His voice leaves no room for question, not as if you would even considering doing so in the first place.

"Go to Vulkan."

The Salamander's primarch had finished speaking to Dorn not long ago, now standing across the massive open area that you presumed served as a training ground for the astartes. You do as your now primarch commands and rush towards him, feeling his eyes on him as you approach.

"I am terribly sorry to bother you Lord Vulkan, but My lord Dorn told me to-" He ushers you closer with a hand, his voice gentle despite his overwhelming size.

"I am well aware of your circumstances, and what is more than likely about to play out. You can stay here with me."

You take refuge close to the Salamander's primarch, both standing and watching as Perturabo confronts Dorn. Multiple of his Imperial Fists straighten up and hold themselves at the ready, prepared to fight for their primarch if it ever be needed.

"Dorn!"

A disrespectful finger points his way, but Dorn pays it no mind. The white fabric of Perturabo's Olympian clothes flow softly and comfortably in the gentle wing, in contrast to the sharp, unforgiving features of his face.

"You think you can just steal from me now? Are you truly so bold now that you're praetorian?"

Dorn only speaks up when Perturabo is close enough that he doesn't have to yell.

"She wanted to leave."

Dorn speaks plainly, bluntly, as if he's just totally uncaring of the conversation.

You've learned over time that Dorn is far from emotionless; He merely doesn't waste it on things he deems pointless. This is pointless, and so he only speaks with the most blunt, monotone voice. It pisses Perturabo off to an unfathomable degree.

To think he was so upset about your departure without his dismissal. He had been nothing but cold and cruel to you, despite the fact that you were merely there to document his legion's progresses.

"I don't care what she wanted. She was indebted to my legion, and I will not tolerate deserters no matter how useless I think they are,"

Perturabo yells. Once his frustration at Dorn is exhausted enough that his attention can be deviated, he turns his gaze to you.

It feels like the gravity of a planet is pushing down onto you, the sheer weight of his anger. Even from so far away. Even the weight of Primarch Vulkan's hand on your shoulder does nothing to shield you from it.

"I hope you heard me, you lying, traitorous little whore. I hope you know I'll wring your neck myself when I catch you."

It takes every bit of energy to avoid crumbling instantly, at the threat of a primarch. Thankfully he leaves shortly after, storming off with the flowing white fabric of his clothes flowing behind him.

Vulkan sighs. You think he said something to reassure you, but you can't hear it over the thumping of your heart in your ears.

"I truly don't think there is much we can do to change him." Corvus- whom you've only just realized was here the entire time with a startle upon hearing his voice - shakes his head.

"His desire to be superior is tripped up at every point by his insufferable personality."

Vulkan looks down at you as an Imperial Fist approaches.

"Are you alright?" He says, and the caring nature of it is a bit overwhelming.

"I, I hope so." Vulkan doesn't laugh, but there is a softness on his face as he smiles at you. Corvus simply watches, and you once again realized that he was there.

"We all know Dorn. He has mentioned you quite a bit,"

"For him," Corvus adds. Vulkan gives him a quick look before turning back to you.

"I do not think he would ever allow anything to happen to you."

The reassurance of a primarch is a feeling next to none; But so it's the threat of one. They both battle in your heart and soul as the Imperial Fist reaches you.

"Lord Dorn is going to have one of us escort you back to the ship."

You nod, looking up to Vulkan to thank him. He simply smiles and speaks before you have a chance to give any gratitude.

"Stay safe, little one."

You follow that Imperial Fist back, before he leaves you on your own close to your quarters. Once you get into them, the door shutting behind you with a hiss, your chest starts to tighten like something has a hold on it.

Every Iron Warrior now likely knows that Perturabo wants your head on a pike. You try to steady your breathing, dumping your papers onto your small desk and sitting on the edge of your bed with a soft thud.

It's getting harder to breath, you swallow a massive knot in your throat. You try to shake your leg, dig your fingers into your palms to stop the feeling, like your heart is going to explode, the thumping of blood in your ears-

It starts to level down after awhile, the room steadies and no longer is spinning. Once that happens, the tears actually start to come, and you keep trying to wipe them away each time a few fall.

You don't regret leaving the Iron Warriors; Olympia. You don't know what Dorn saw in you that was enough for him to offer you a place but you don't regret taking it. His legion's treatment of you compared to your time on Olympia was incomparable, but the petty nature you had witnessed from the primarch was now focused on you; Your betrayal of fleeing to Dorn.

You have your arms wrapped around yourself, tightening them as someone opens your door. Your momentary startle fades when you realize who it is.

It's Dorn. You don't know when his presence stopped being so intimidating, even as a primarch; Perhaps it's the time you've spent with him recently that has gotten you used to him.

"You have been crying."

It would surely be easy to tell- you can still fear the wetness of tears on your face. You take a deep breath and clear your throat to try and speak normally.

"Primarch Perturabo wants my beaten corpse at his feet, and I don't, I don't know what to do-"

He comes closer, face neutral and stoic. You try and contain the emotion on your face.

Stupid, all of it, is what Perturabo would've said to you. You were always a stupid, pointless inconvenience forced upon him. But yet one he was still so upset to see leave.

"I knew very well how he would behave when I offered you a place here. I will not allow him to harm you."

In his own, odd way, the sentence calms you. It's not a lie, it is the utmost truth put into blunt, simple words. You sniffle and unwrap your arms from around yourself, returning to some level of normalcy.

"Thank you..." You say, and Dorn- to your surprise - kneels.

"Do not thank me for something I should do. I put you in this predicament and made you an enemy of him."

Dorn is quiet for a moment. You look at him questioningly, but he doesn't seem to notice. Then suddenly a hand rests heavy on your shoulder, and he leans in to press his lips to yours.

It's only a split second, it's chaste and quick, and he pulls away as a string of spit snaps between you both. You barely even have a chance to process it all; A primarch just kissed you. You had liked him, but you firmly pushed those thoughts from your mind for the sheer absurdity of them.

“You shouldn’t cry.” At first you think he’s telling you not to be weak- To suck it up.

“I, should not have allowed him to speak to you that way. I allowed him to make you cry.”

Crying is nothing; the fact that he has said he would protect you from an enraged primarch that by all intents and purposes you betrayed, is more than worth its weight. You don’t care about the crying.

"I'll be fine. I just needed a minute, and," You laugh. "Hopefully that's the last time I ever see his face." Dorn doesn't smile, but his voice has a gentle tilt of amusement that makes you smile a bit wider.

"I admit I would be jealous of you if that were to be the case."

You don't envy that he will have to continue to deal with Perturabo, especially now that your presence has created a deeper rift. Alongside his duties as Praetorian.

Dorn rises up from his knee and reaches out a hand.

"I am going to speak to my men about progress of the Palace walls. Come with me."

You take his hand, and you expect him to just allow you to pull yourself up, but instead he wraps his fingers around it and holds your hand, guiding you out of your room. He lets go moments after, but the gesture was there none the less.

[thepascalparadox]

Chapter Five: Everything Changes

Word Count | 4.1k Pairing | General Marcus Acacius x OC F!Reader Chapter Warnings | Switch pov, some minor violence, there will be mentioning of death

The grand hall was alive with splendor, but tonight, none of it reached you. The towering marble columns and golden drapes, the laughter that rippled through the air, and the lilting melodies of lyres and flutes—all of it felt distant. The wine tasted bitter, the music grated on your nerves, and the thought of dancing with anyone seemed unbearable. Even Vera, who used to entertain you in such events is not here.

Where is she?

Seated just below your father’s throne, you watched the room with detached eyes. Senators gathered in small, murmuring groups, their wives whispering behind jeweled fans. The celebration swirled around you, yet your thoughts were locked on a single, suffocating question: who would you name as your husband by the end of the night?

Yesterday, the answer had been so clear. General Marcus Acacius. But after the cold disdain he had shown you, his indifference after all his words and that fleeting kiss, the thought of him now churned your stomach. Anger flared within you—sharp, consuming. If he cared so little, if he had not fought for you, then he did not deserve you.

Your gaze drifted, almost unwillingly, to where Marcus stood behind your father, steadfast and composed. Even with the wine he had consumed, he remained vigilant, every inch the soldier. The sight of his calm demeanor only deepened your frustration. Was it arrogance? Or duty? Either way, it ignited a storm within you.

“More wine,” you murmured to a maid, and as the cup refilled, boldness surged within you, fueled by indignation and despair. Draining the goblet in one resolute motion, you turned abruptly and interrupted the Emperor's conversation with Macrelius, the senator who had been commanding your father’s laughter.

“Senator,” you said, your voice unwavering, “would you honor me with a dance?”

His expression flickered with surprise before morphing into a sly grin. “Of course, mia cara,” he drawled, taking your hand and pressing a kiss to it—a touch that lingered too long, too close.

For the briefest moment, your gaze darted toward Marcus, not out of provocation but instinct. His eyes met yours, dark and unreadable, yet there was something there—a flicker of hurt, or was it anger? It vanished almost as quickly as it appeared.

You let him guide you onto the dance floor, but as his hand rested on your waist, unease began to creep in. You told yourself to give him a chance—perhaps the man wasn’t as insufferable as his reputation suggested.

“Are you enjoying the evening, carissima?” he asked, his voice as polished as his appearance.

“Not particularly, Senator” you admitted, preparing yourself for the usual hollow pleasantries.

“There’s no need for such formality,” he said, stepping closer than was proper. His voice dropped to a whisper. “After all, we are to be husband and wife.”

Your steps faltered and the blood in your veins turned to ice. Surely, your father hadn’t spoken to him already?

“That has not yet been decided,” you replied, your tone sharp.

He ignored your protest, tightening his grip and steering you away from the other dancers in an erratic spin. “Oh, but it has, my dear,” he whispered, his lips far too close to your ear. “And you should be grateful. Your father’s time grows short, and when the Senate rises against him, you’ll need me. A match between us secures your survival.”

“That is enough,” you hissed, trying to pull away, but his grip tightened, his smile twisting into something sinister.

Macrelius only laughed, his breath reeking of wine. “I do enjoy a spirited bride,” he said, pulling you even closer.

Panic clawed at your throat, but before you could act, a shadow loomed behind him. A hand clamped down on Macrelius’s shoulder, making him stiffen..

“May I have this dance, Princess?” The voice was deep, measured, and unmistakable. Marcus.

You felt weak and could only nod. Macrelius hesitated, but Marcus’s hand tightened, his tone dropping into something colder. “Move,” he commanded "Now."

The senator relinquished you with a scowl, muttering under his breath as he retreated into the crowd. You felt your knees tremble, but Marcus caught you. His touch, so unlike Macrelius’s, was steady, grounding.

“You’re safe now,” he said softly, guiding you into the next dance. His tone was firm, but his eyes betrayed concern as they darted to your wrist. One hand rested at your waist, while the other gently cradled your wrist, his thumb brushing over the reddened skin where Macrelius’s grip had bruised you.

The soft strains of flutes and strings filled the grand hall, weaving a melody both somber and elegant. Around you, couples moved in perfect synchrony, their steps following the prescribed rhythm of the court.

“I came as quickly as I could, did he-” he murmured, his voice low enough that only you could hear. “Are you hurt?”

“I—he spoke of treason,” you stammered, your voice barely above a whisper. “He said—my father—he implied—”

His eyes darted across the room, scanning the crowd like a hawk observing its prey. You noticed the subtle way he turned his head, as if following an invisible trail, his jaw set and his brows furrowed in concentration. It was as though the dance was a mere pretense for something far more important.

"General," you whispered, your voice barely audible over the music, "are you even paying attention?"

His gaze flickered to you for the briefest of moments, a flicker of warmth in his otherwise steely expression. "I am," he murmured, though his tone betrayed that his attention was divided.

"To me, or to the room?" you pressed, unable to hide the frustration creeping into your voice.

"Shh," he interrupted softly, his fingers grazing your wrist briefly as he adjusted your hold. "Keep dancing. Smile, if you can. We don’t want to draw unnecessary attention."

"The General seems... indifferent to love. He’s spoken of how he would never make a woman a wife..."

Your father's voice echoed in your mind, each word reverberating like the distant rumble of thunder, striking you with an intensity that left you breathless.

How could you have expected anything different from him?

His actions—those rigid gestures and steely glances—now made perfect sense. He, the General, the man of war, the one who had seen the cruel faces of the world, could never be one to understand love. He seemed to know only duty, honor, and respect. And, perhaps, for that very reason, his approach to you was not borne of affection or the fire of jealousy—no, it was the cold, unyielding instinct of a soldier.

He had come not as a man, but as a sworn protector, bound by oath to safeguard the daughter of the Emperor, a duty he had sworn before the gods themselves. That was all he knew, that was all he could offer. The warmth of care, the tenderness of a heart exposed—these were foreign to him, unreachable, like a distant shore shrouded in fog.

“You're a brute,” you muttered under your breath, pulling away.

This time, he let you go, his gaze finally meeting yours. The hardness in his eyes softened, and for a moment, it felt like the entire hall faded away. The music, the laughter, the lights—all of it seemed distant. It was just the two of you, caught in a fragile, unspoken understanding.

"Please, just-" he murmured, his voice dropping even lower "Stay close"

"What is it?" you asked, trying to follow his gaze.

You scanned the great hall, the dimming light casting long shadows over the vast space, yet your mind couldn’t settle. Every movement, every laughter, every clink of the wine cups—everything felt distant, out of place, as if the evening itself were somehow holding its breath. The couples danced with a feverish joy, their forms spinning and swaying in perfect harmony with the music, the air thick with the scent of perfume and roasted meats. Yet amidst all the merriment, something felt amiss, though you could not name it.

A fluttering unease settled in your chest, and your gaze drifted over the crowd. They seemed so content—lost in their revelry, yet something tugged at the edge of your thoughts. There it was, elusive yet undeniable.

Where were the men of the Senate?

You hadn’t taken much notice before—these faces were unfamiliar, yet they all seemed accustomed to the grandeur of the castle. But now that the thought had crossed your mind, it gnawed at you, drawing your attention back to the men dancing. Their absence was so subtle, so unnoticed by the others, but it felt as though a puzzle piece had gone missing. The people around you, the strangers laughing and dancing, seemed… different. Stronger, perhaps.

They did not belong to the court.

Before you could dwell further on your thoughts, a sudden sharp noise shattered the atmosphere. The heavy door to the hall swung open with a force that made you startle, and you heard the deep, commanding voice of General Acacius cut through the rising din.

"Guards, the Emperor!"

His voice was a roar, urgent and filled with authority. Your heart skipped a beat as he surged forward, his body colliding with yours, pushing you downward with a force that stole your breath.

The world erupted around you. Arrows hissed through the air, their deadly path lighting up the room with flashes of silver. The laughter stopped. The music came to an abrupt halt. Chaos erupted in every corner. Screams filled the air, mingling with the sharp clash of metal against metal, the cries of pain and the groans of men wounded in the frenzy. A fear, darker than anything you had ever known, gripped you, suffocating.

Amid the frenzy, you searched the room frantically for Marcus. Your eyes finally met his. But his gaze was different now. His focus wasn’t on you. His eyes were sharp, calculating, taking in every movement, every shifting shadow. He wasn’t the man you had seen earlier—this was the soldier. This was the General in battle.

“Listen to me,” his voice was low but firm, laced with authority. His eyes locked onto yours, unyielding. “We need to get to that column,” he pointed to a distant pillar in the corner, hidden in the shadows of the hall. “No matter what happens, stay close to me. Do you understand?”

You nodded, your voice caught in your throat, too choked with fear to speak. His grip on your hand was firm, and in that moment, you knew that you were no longer a princess at a feast—now, you were just another soul caught in the storm of battle.

His hand found yours, strong and unrelenting as he helped you to your feet. The General moved through the chaos with purpose, his sword cutting through anyone who dared approach. Men fell around you, blood pooling beneath their lifeless bodies. The clash of steel against steel, the cries of the wounded, the sounds of death—it was all too much to comprehend. The room that had once been filled with joy now seemed like a hellscape, where even the air itself had grown heavy with the scent of blood.

You stumbled, your legs unsteady, but he never let go. His hand remained wrapped around yours, pulling you forward, guiding you through the carnage. His gaze never faltered; he was constantly scanning, constantly aware of the danger that threatened you both. He never let go of your hand—never once relinquishing his grip—except when he was forced to fight. When that happened, he sought you out again with an almost frantic urgency. There was no hesitation.

You reached the column, and the General pushed you behind it, hiding you in the shadowed corner. You felt the cool stone against your back, and for a moment, you dared to catch your breath.

“My father…” you started, but the words faltered. Your entire body shook as the terror and uncertainty gripped you, stealing away what little calm you had managed to hold onto. “We have to—”

The General didn’t look at you. His eyes were scanning the room, every part of him alert, calculating. He moved to the wall and began patting it, his hands feeling for something.

Great. He’s gone mad.

But before you could voice it, the wall shifted. A brick clicked loose, and with a quiet grunt, Marcus pulled it free. Behind it, a dark, narrow passage yawned open. The sight sent a chill through your spine.

He grabbed a torch from the wall and handed it to you, his hands briefly brushing against yours. His gaze softened just for a moment, but there was no time for sentiment.

“Go down,” he commanded. His voice was low but insistent. “Walk straight to the end. There’s a room with supplies and weapons. Wait for me there. I’ll be right behind you.”

You opened your mouth to protest, to ask what he meant—but the urgency in his eyes silenced you before the words could leave your lips. He pushed you gently but firmly toward the hole, and just as the door began to close, he leaned down and whispered, the words just for you.

“I will come back to you, Lumina Mea. I promise.”

And with that, the world went dark. The only light was the flickering torch in your hand, casting eerie shadows against the walls as you descended into the unknown.

· · ───────── ·𖥸· ───────── · ·

This was not how things were supposed to unfold.

He had imagined himself elsewhere, perhaps at home, nestled in the quiet peace of the night, free from the chaos of the world. But here he was again, sword in hand, striking down enemies with a cold precision, every breath he took weighed down by the burden of survival.

This was not how things were supposed to unfold at all.

All the anger that had accumulated within him, all the fury he had kept bottled up, was now channeled into his every movement. His sword cut through the air with a force borne not of skill alone but of sheer will to stand firm, to outlast the storm that raged around him. But even as he fought, The General knew that his efforts were futile.

Before the battle erupted, his instincts had already screamed at him that something was terribly wrong. The number of strangers among the guests far outnumbered those he could trust. And then, the wine, the laughter, the loud music—it was all a carefully crafted distraction. A trap had been set, and even the sharpest minds, like his, could have never predicted its cunning precision. The festivities had been nothing but a veil, a ruse for the treason that had been plotted in the shadows.

Finally, he reached the Emperor, who had sought refuge behind the great throne, surrounded only by a few loyal soldiers. But the sight of him—pale, breathing heavily, his face drawn in despair—shook him to his core. He could feel it in the air: if they did not leave this place soon, death would claim them all.

"Your grace, we must move," The General’s voice was steady, though his heart beat with urgency.

The Emperor’s gaze was distant, filled with confusion and helplessness. "No... No, Marcus, I can’t, son..." Antoninus murmured, his voice weak, strained with pain. He slowly pulled his hand away from the wound that he had only now fully acknowledged. The blood soaked through his tunic, staining the fabric a dark red. The wound, perhaps from an arrow, was grievous, and Marcus could see the life slipping away from his old friend.

"I need you to listen," the Emperor continued, his voice trembling as he struggled to speak through his pain. "You are the one who must take the imperium. Do you hear me?"

Marcus knelt beside him, pressing his hand to the wound in a futile attempt to staunch the flow of blood. The Emperor’s breathing was labored, each breath coming in shallow, pained gasps.

"The Senate," Antoninus managed to say, his eyes clouded with exhaustion. "They are corrupted beyond repair... Take the troops in the north. Regain control of Rome." His hand, trembling, reached out and grasped Marcus’s, pressing his ring into the younger man’s palm. "I trust you like a son, Marcus."

The General felt the weight of the ring, its cold metal heavy with the responsibility it carried. He nodded, though the world around him seemed to blur, his thoughts swirling in a haze of confusion and dread.

“I am going to my lover’s arms, Acacius,” the Emperor whispered, his voice barely audible now. “Don’t leave Aemilia alone... She’s...”

With those final words, the Emperor’s breath faltered, his eyes closing, and Marcus knew that the soul of his friend—his ruler—had left this plane. The silence that followed was deafening, a cold, final stillness that settled over the room, as if the very air had been stolen from their lungs.

And in that moment, The General felt his heart break, feeling as if the weight of the world now rested solely on his shoulders.

"The Emperor is dead," Marcus whispers, his voice barely audible, like a breath of cold air cutting through the heavy silence that has overtaken the chamber. The words hang in the air like a weight too heavy to bear, their finality settling deep in his chest. He turns away, his eyes hard as iron, yet they betray a flicker of grief—swift and fleeting—before he masters it again.

The few soldiers that have huddled in the shadows, their faces grim and strained from the chaos, exchange solemn looks. One, bolder than the rest, steps forward, his hand clutching his sword as though it might anchor him in the sea of uncertainty.

"We stand with you, Dominus," the soldier declares, his voice unwavering, though the tremor beneath it speaks volumes. "Rome is to be yours, as the late emperor wished."

Marcus does not reply immediately. The words of loyalty, meant to reassure, only serve to deepen the chasm of unease in his heart. He knows the weight of what is being asked of him, the legacy he is expected to carry. But in this moment, the future of Rome feels like a distant horizon, unreachable amidst the bloodshed that has consumed the present.

"This is not the time to think of it," his voice cracks, betraying him more than he would like. His mind is spinning, but his body feels rooted in place, numb from the exhaustion of battle and the shock of losing his oldest ally. He tightens his grip on the sword, the cold steel a bitter reminder of what he must do next. "Take your horses and ride north," he commands, his tone gaining strength despite the fatigue weighing him down. "I'll catch up with you. Go in separate routes—don’t allow yourselves to be followed."

The soldiers nod, a mixture of respect and fear flashing in their eyes. As they begin to disperse, Marcus watches them go, his chest tightening with the weight of responsibility.

And yet, in this desolate hall, amidst the carnage and the fading light, Marcus steels himself.

I have to get to Aemilia, she's alone.

He exhales sharply, the breath a silent surrender to the numbness that has settled in his bones. What was once a future filled with certainty now seems like a distant memory, slipping away with the shadows of those who have fallen.

· · ───────── ·𖥸· ───────── · ·

The torchlight cast flickering shadows against the damp, stone walls, each shift in the flame’s dance pulling your attention to the room's oppressive stillness. The floor beneath your feet felt slick, a dampness clinging to the air that made every breath heavy with the scent of earth and moisture. You couldn’t be sure how long you’d been walking—it felt like hours, though logic insisted it had only been minutes—when at last you reached the room the General had spoken of.

It was spartan in its contents: a single bag containing a modest loaf of bread, an empty flask, and garments so light they seemed a cruel mockery of protection. The weapons, however, were another matter—blades, bows, and arrows arranged with a purpose that spoke of preparation for moments like this. An escape route for emergencies. For betrayals.

Your thoughts churned as you stood in the dim light, fingers trembling slightly as they gripped the bow now in your hands. Your mind raced through the events that led you here: the senators' whispers, the unnerving absence of familiar faces, the chaos of bloodshed, and above all, the uncertainty surrounding your father and Vera. The dread in your chest felt like a stone dragging you down into darkness.

"If anything happens to me, I want you to be ready, vida mea," your father's voice echoed in your memory. You saw yourself as a little girl, perched on his lap, staring up at him with wide, frightened eyes. That was not a conversation for a child, you had thought then. He had smiled at your alarm, trying to soften the weight of his words. "As emperor, I am always in danger, but do not fear, Aemilia. I will always watch over you and protect you—in this life, and the next, and the next." His voice had grown lighter as he tickled you, laughter replacing the foreboding shadows in his tone.

Now, in this moment, that laughter felt a lifetime away.

You waited as the General had commanded, the bowstring taut under your fingers, an arrow notched and ready to fly. The door loomed in front of you, a silent sentinel guarding against the unknown. He had promised to return. You repeated that to yourself like a mantra. Acacius was a man of his word, a soldier bound by duty and honor. Whatever your feelings toward him, you could not deny that truth.

But why did he calling me by those names? Vida mea. Lumina mea.

They unsettled you, those tender words from a man whose exterior seemed carved from stone. Could they be sincere? Could his feelings from that night—that night—have been real? Or had you misjudged him entirely, blinded by your own pride and your father's warnings?

Your spiraling thoughts were interrupted by the faint scrape of stone against stone. You snapped your head toward the far side of the room, where a hidden door creaked open, revealing a narrow passage to the outside.

"It's me," came a low voice, rough with exhaustion. A shadowed figure stepped into the light, pulling back his hood to reveal Acacius. Relief washed over you, though it was quickly tempered by the sight before you.

His hair was unkempt, dark strands clinging to his damp brow. A faint smear of blood streaked across his cheek, and his eyes—those piercing eyes—were heavy with weariness and something deeper. Sadness, perhaps, or regret. He looked like a man who had faced death and walked away, but only just.

"What took you so long?!" The words tumbled from your lips before you could stop them, your voice sharper than intended. It wasn’t anger, not really—it was fear, frustration, the unbearable weight of the unknown.

He raised a hand, silencing you with a tired but steady gaze. "Listen," he began, his voice low, almost a growl. "I'm tired, Aemilia, and I need silence." He gestured toward the passage. "We need to leave. I will answer your questions later. For now, get on the horse—and be careful with that arrow. I’d rather not have you wound yourself or anyone else."

The admonishment stung, but you complied, mounting the horse with a stubborn huff. "I know what I’m doing, General," you muttered, your tone defiant.

You sat atop the horse, waiting for him to guide the reins, your thoughts spinning as you noticed there was only one mount.

Surely, this meant the destination was close. He wouldn’t ride with me on the same horse, would he?

Without a word, Acacius swung up behind you, his large frame effortlessly closing the space between your back and his chest. The sudden closeness left you breathless, the warmth of his presence impossible to ignore. You stiffened as his chest pressed against your back, the reins held firmly in his hands just in front of you. The proximity was unnerving, though he seemed completely unfazed, his focus fixed straight ahead.

The horse began to move, its hooves pounding against the earth in a steady rhythm. Your heart raced, though not from the ride. His nearness was suffocating, every breath you took mingling with the scent of leather, sweat, and faintly, blood.

You dared a glance at him, his profile sharp and unyielding in the faint light. His gaze was fixed forward, unrelenting, as if he could see through the darkness to the path ahead.

The bulge in his vest does not go unnoticed.

--------------------------------------------- AN: I was actually so anxious to post this one! I think we are officialy entering a diferent phase in the story and we'll be able to see a diferent Acacius and a diferent Aemilia, both burdened with their new role after all that's happened. There'll be a couple of more characters that I also want to develop, and maybe I'll make these two finally work out their feelings together. Please leave a comment, tell me what you're expecting to see, what you've been missing... Hope you're all enjoying!

[m0chisenpai]

some sunny day

˚｡⋆platonic! emperor geta x black fem!reader x platonic!caracalla

in which you find a way to survive the heat of Rome without the 21st century comforts

Gods above it is HOT. You sit in the gardens along the more shaded parts of the private gardens. Cushioned by the long chaise while your handmaidens fan you slowly with leaves. You wear lighter robes, though if it were up to you, you’d be completely nude. There is no central air in Rome.

Suddenly the 21st century doesn’t seem to suck.

There’s no ice cream. No swimming pools. So you make do with camping outside in the shade, the breeze that comes every few minutes provides very little relief.

It was too much of a hassle to get into the baths, you didn’t need to bathe you already did in the morning. And the waters were lukewarm offering no relief. The moment you got in you begged to be clean as quickly so that you could get out the humid baths. You felt ill by the time you were dressed as you ladies suggested the fresh air.

When your eyes settled on the beautiful fountain during your walks, you felt a plan formulate. It could be likened to a children’s pool, shallow and with a statue in the middle and engravings along the sides. But the waters you were certain, were cold.

You informed your maidens you would spend your early afternoon in the gardens. They quickly set you up with something close to a chaise. It’s low to the ground and cushioned with soft pillows. Now all you needed was to get in the water, but you are instantly told no.

You tried slowly sneaking over but your maidens herd you like a sheep back to your cushions beneath the shade.

You tilt your head back, and catch the gaze of your personal handmaiden, Livia. She was old enough probably to be an aunt, and when she isn’t in the presence of your brothers she speaks more freely. And she was the one who was highly aware of your schemes, as was the beautiful General Acacius who stands beside her.

The two roadblocks to your little scheme.

“Marcus,” you coo rolling over to lay on your stomach and look up at the older general. He stiffens at that tone, it’s the same tone you use on your brothers, the same tone that leads to mischief. And he feels your eyes on him, when you call him again. But he keeps his gaze outward, not falling prey to your mischief. 

“Yes, my lady?”

You push yourself to sit up, curling your legs beneath. “My brothers, they will be spending this day with the Senate,” and by now you have Marcus’ full attention as you reach down to unstrap your sandals. You then begin to work on the bands on your arms and your earrings. 

“My lady?” You place the last piece on the cushions Beside your golden laurels.

“And if I am correct, they will be there for quite some time. You were tasked to be by my side the entire day yes?” When you look up at him you are free of your jewels and gold and stand barefoot in the grasses. 

“Yes my lady.”

You grin bunching up your robes in both your hands, “very well. Then that gives us more than enough time.”

You break off into a sprint toward the stone fountains. And Marcus along with your handmaidens can only watch until they see your target and they quickly bolt after you, helplessly calling. “My lady no! If you wish to bathe we can return to your chambers!“

“Oh none of the formalities! The gods bless us with cool waters here, who are we to ignore such a refreshing gift my dear ladies” you sing as you lift your robes more as to not let the bottoms wet. You quickly wade into the waters just barely avoiding their reaching hands. And a pleasant shiver racks your body. This was what you needed, you sigh reaching one hand down to dip your hand into the water. 

Livia leans as far as she can with an arm held out to you, “my lady please come you’ll catch a cold!” 

“In this heat? Hardly!” You playfully flick the water at her and the general drags a tired hand down his face, “The water feels sooooo nice. I think you all would find it quite soothing,” as you trail off you wade deeper into the fountain. Livia can only huff and reach down to shuck off her own sandals not missing Marcus’ shock.

“Our imperators insisted we remain where her majesty is, and if she is in the waters then so shall we!” One by one each of your maidens ease in and try circling you like a lost sheep out of the water. Little do they know this was all part of your plan.

You could see the exhaustion of those who were tasked with caring for you, the very least you could was offer them the same relief for having to follow at your heels every single day. And slowly they forget their task and sit on the edges or splash one another in the waters with your boisterous laughter leading to their own. 

It feels like you are in one of those giant old paintings at the museum. As you sit beside Livia she begins to braid your hair into a crown. 

“Just for today my lady and then it is off to the baths with you.”

“Yes mother,” you playfully reply and from the corner of your eye you see her shake her head with the smallest of smiles.

As soon as they release the Senate, Caracalla shoots out of his seat toward the private gardens. It has become your secret sanctuary for the three of you and he knows it better than his twin. Geta follows behind at a more leisurely pace, though his excitement is more silent to see you.

Their days are spent planning festivities and the upcoming campaign. All of it brings nothing but a dull ache to his mind and makes his nights tiresome. Fittings for ceremonial robes, the fights, the aquatic games, it all piles up and leaves him weary. But you are the sweet soothing balm to the headaches of these meetings. 

So he will sit through long meetings, will speak of politics and negotiations and plundering if it brings him closer to the days of celebrations and festivals that allow them both to soak up your presence. 

 Geta and Caracalla don’t know whether to scold or coo at the sight of you lying in the grass atop linen sheets. Your head is lying atop the folded legs of Livia while the others seem to be setting food up with drink for the three of you. 

At the sight of the two emperors they all stop to bow before both rulers. 

Marcus looks nearly as exhausted as you are, and just as soaked from the way his hair is pushed back out of this face. “Dear sister! You have gotten into great mischief once again without me.”

“Calla!” You squeal back holding your hands out to the younger twins who is quick to dive into your outstretched arms. You squeeze him close and he returns the sentiment. Geta flicks a hand back and his guards tuck themselves far enough to give you the space, but close enough to see any impending threats.

“Did you get into the fountain?” Geta’s lip turns up as he takes note of how the fabric clings to you. And when you shrug he can only tut and cross his arms like a mother.  

“It was hot! And the both of you were taking much too long.”

“Then why not return to the baths, I am sure your ladies are more than capable of assisting the empress?” The women shrink beneath his stare but you quickly break the ice that begins to form between you all.

“Oh ignore him, he is the lesser of us two when it comes to the enjoyments of things.” You giggle with Caracalla and Geta can only roll his eyes and sit in front of you both atop the chaise. Caracalla looks peaceful, he has been more often these days since you entered their lives. Your idle chatter and small giggles warm his own heart. 

You were truly the missing piece they needed. So nurturing and loving. Looking past the younger twins ailment and his moments of confusion and rage. Geta felt he could lay his crown and title as emperor and eldest down with you.

You are odd and uncaring and have no problem being unladylike. You walk around the grounds barefoot often, your make up oftrn applied quite dramatic, your hair wild and free when it is not braided. You prefer the sweet breads and fruits at every meal and you are adored by your maidens.

As Geta rests his head on his fist, he takes a quick sip of wine.

He would do anything to shield you against the vipers of Rome. he knew politicians, he knew of rulers. How quick they were to move the pieces to turn the tides for their own favor, and he’d be damned if any try to use you as a ploy for their throne.

Caracalla’s concubine has taken a similar position as your handmaidens. He looks picturesque as the young woman strokes the younger twin fiery locks. Slowly he is lulled into a sleep and your idle chatter goes silent. You lay on your side, watching his eyes fall shut and Dondus cuddled against the sleeping twin.

You wish you had your phone now to get a picture, so for now you’ll drink in this moment. When you tilt your head you catch Geta’s gaze. His eyebrows are still pinched, and you can tell he is doing anything but relaxing.

So you stand, stretch your arms over head and hold a hand in front of him, “Geta come.”

“No.”

“Getaaaaa.”

“Never, come and eat.”

“At least just your feet! Then I will share a meal with you,” and with a childish groan he stands lifting his laurels to sit on the cushions and his own servants unstraps his sandals. He hates to admit the water does feel good when you pull him in. 

You slowly walk to stare up at the statue. And while Geta wants to fuss at your robes being soaked, he can’t bring himself to bring your mind back down.

“Do you think we will find one another in another life?”

Geta was no pious man, but he believed the gods to be real and true. The glory of his empire, the riches and comfort he and his twin share, and now your return. How could one not believe the existence of their beloved deities? “If the gods brought us back together in this one then surely we shall be reunited in the next.”

“Who knew you could be so charming,” you smirk and Geta rolls his eyes kicking a wave of water at you.

“Oh! Do not start- Marcus!”

“Marcus ignore her! This is to be a fair fight!”

[solspina]

i’m up thinking about being tortured for some reason but it’s hot and it’s sanguinius! have an unedited blurb as an apology for my absence

***

there’s something about being tortured by towering asatartes that makes your heretical beliefs impossible to conform to.

with every move they make, they bring you closer to death. the sweet release of your life ending is dangled in front of your face like bleeding meat to a starving dog, but one that is muzzled and frail. you were beaten past being a viable threat long ago, yet no words you could say nor action you could commit seemed to satisfy their idea of submission.

even the idea of why you were kept alive was a mystery to you.

emperor, someone you never thought you would pray to, everything hurts.

your throat stung from screaming, the skin on your neck ached with numerous bite marks from numerous men clad in red armor. some form of daemon, they had to be. their sharpened and elongated canines were nothing human, nor was their ability to pin you down with impossible brute force and drink blood from the gaping wounds they inflicted on your body.

you’d long lost count of how many times your head hit the ground, or how many times you had been painfully thrown against ceremite or concrete. being left to bleed out or falling into days long unconsciousness was nothing new to you.

you feared the men in red armor. you hated them.

but the angel was kind.

torture meant that you got to see him, if you came close enough to death. he was not cruel or torturous like the things he called his sons. his whispers to you were soft and gentle, as was his golden hand that smoothed down your hair whilst you laid sobbing against him within your cage.

“it will be over soon… as soon as they have cleansed you of your doubts and brought you into the light” he would speak.

but you had seen the light. you had been tortured back into the dark each time you came close enough to beholding the emperor’s glory.

was it the fact you screamed your curses each time the red armored men walked to drag you from your cage in shackles?

or was it the fact that you believed beholding this angel was enough?

time and time again you would endure. not for the emperor, but for him. your mind clear of heresy and focused only on the fact that no matter how much suffering you were brought, the angel would bring you peace.

for something about being wrapped within ice white wings is cleansing on it’s own. something about being unapologetically cared for. something about the fact that the red armored men too seemed to look at you with care when the golden angel held you in his arms.

you loved him. you revered him. even when he ripped you away from his warmth and lovingly chained you up again in your cage. even when he promised you redemption that seemed to never come.

by your beloved emperor, you would wait for that day.

[maryu-fics06]

The Casket of Venus

Chapter VII

𝐘𝐨���’𝐫𝐞 𝐚 𝐑𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐥𝐞, 𝐅𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐮𝐬

𝐆𝐞𝐭𝐚 𝐱 𝐨𝐜

Summery: the only pillar who hold the empire, it was him.

Hi guys, this chapter is a little strong, especially for our poor Geta and his damned past.

If you like it leave a heart and a follow for more chapters!❤️

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠: violence, assault, breakdown, Geta is only a broken man, flashback, angst.

Haydee didn’t dare utter a word—she felt empty. The only sound was the steady clatter of hooves.

They passed through the gates of the Palatine in silence. Geta hadn’t spoken a single word the entire ride back.

The emperor brought the horse to a halt, and a servant swiftly took the reins. Geta dismounted first, then grabbed her by the waist—but he didn’t let her touch the ground. He lifted her into his arms just like before, her hair falling into her face.

She could feel the cut on her nose throbbing in sync with her split lip. The cold gold of Geta’s armor offered relief to her aching temple.

Instead of entering through the main gate, Geta chose the garden path—he didn’t want to draw attention.

The silence between them had never felt so excruciating—and yet, strangely comforting.

She recognized the room by the red marble with golden veins. Then Geta finally spoke—but not to her.

Haydee was surprised to see Lemonia holding a bowl of water, accompanied by a younger servant carrying towels.

She couldn’t make out what Geta said—she only saw everyone swiftly dismissed from the room.

She was thrown onto the bed. Her blood ran cold.

She tried to move, but he held her down. His face was as cold as ice.

Haydee tried to push him away, but he gripped her face violently—the other hand tore open her tunic, and part of her breast was exposed.

She felt tears stream down her cheeks, a sob breaking from her throat.

Geta suddenly froze, as if jolted awake. His hands trembled.

What was he doing?

His eyes widened at the sight of her tears. Her hands lay at her sides, as if she had given up.

Geta pressed a hand to his lips, disgusted. He felt bile rise in his throat as a memory blurred his vision.

The two brothers had been playing with wooden swords in the palace halls when a loud crash of glass shattered the air.

They froze. Their mother’s scream made their skin crawl.

Caracalla—still young and unaffected by the illness—grabbed Geta’s hand. They both hid under the banquet table, trembling.

Geta clung to his brother, holding his breath.

“Septimius, please…” their mother sobbed.

“Where are they!? Those little brats!!” the emperor shouted, clearly drunk from too much wine.

“Where did you hide them, Inutilis Mulier!?”

The sharp sound of a slap was followed by a cry of pain.

When they heard the banquet hall door swing open, they both stifled sobs.

Their poor mother’s moans echoed through the corridor—she was likely on the ground.

Suddenly, the tablecloth was yanked away.

“Found you. Liberi nothi!” their father’s face appeared—his maniacal smile made them scream.

Geta snapped back to reality, stumbling away from the bed. His back hit the carved headboard.

He looked down—blood stained his hands. His own blood.

He remembered his mother’s swollen face as she treated the lash wounds on his back.

Caracalla, unconscious from the beatings.

Haydee sat up, noticing his breakdown.

Geta buried his hands in his hair, tugging at his ginger curls as if to tear them from his scalp—trapped in his madness.

A rotten apple. You’re a rotten apple, Filius.

Haydee thought of running. But she stopped.

Her mind told her one thing—her heart, another.

This city, somehow, had infected her too.

She slowly knelt before the emperor, who now sat on the cold marble floor, his hair disheveled, eyes distant and full of tears.

Haydee saw the Geta from the mural again—but this version wasn’t joyful. He was terrified.

Gently, she tried to pull his hands away from his face. At first, he resisted.

But then, slowly, he let her.

She hushed him softly as he whimpered, his makeup smudged across his face.

Geta seemed to come back to himself, but stayed silent.

Haydee dipped a cloth into the bowl and began to clean the mess from his face.

Geta’s tears started falling again, heavier than before.

But this time, the silence felt safe.

Geta then took another towel and gently wiped the blood from her battered face.

“I should have killed them more slowly,” he whispered.

She didn’t understand at first—then it hit her.

The two soldiers he had killed earlier.

“They shouldn’t have touched you,” he said.

She silenced him gently. “They didn’t deserve death,” she whispered.

He didn’t answer at first.

“Then you shouldn’t have run,” he said.

Haydee felt a pang of guilt. “Then you should’ve given me more freedom” she replied.

Geta said nothing—because she was right.

Gently, he helped her sit on the bed. He cleaned her feet and knees while kneeling before her.

His hands were calloused—but careful.

Haydee was stunned when he kissed her now-clean feet.

He didn’t seem like himself.

Where had the cold, impulsive Geta from just moments ago gone?

He finished wrapping her wounds, then rose. He stared at her for a moment, then grabbed a clean tunic laid out on the table.

Haydee felt a flicker of fear.

He handed it to her and turned away, moving toward the table to pour himself a cup of wine.

“Change. That toga you’re wearing is filthy.”

She obeyed. He didn’t even try to look.

When she was done, he turned around.

They stared at each other in pure silence.

“You’re afraid of me,” she said—it wasn’t a question.

Geta bit his lip. That alone was answer enough.

He was afraid? No—he was terrified.

But not of her appearance.

Of what he felt when she was near.

“Why are you afraid? You’re the emperor. You rule a vast empire. You have all the concubines you want. You can do whatever you wish without needing anyone’s permission” she said.

Her cerulean eyes met his amber ones.

Geta smiled bitterly.

His father’s words echoed in his mind.

You’re a rotten apple. You’re a rotten apple, Geta. You’re a rotten apple, Filius.

“You think it’s easy, Graeca?” he snapped. “To be the only sane emperor between the two on the throne?”

“To be the one the senators feast on like vultures?”

“To stand between my mad brother and the people?”

“You think that’s easy?”

The weight he carried came pouring out with every word.

Haydee finally saw the emperor for what he truly was—a man bearing the weight of the entire empire, the last pillar holding everything up before it all crumbled into chaos.

Geta sat down on the triclinium, far from her, sipping his wine slowly.

“Starting tomorrow, your chambers will be connected to mine. You’ll have more freedom, just as you wished ” he said.

Haydee listened quietly.

“You’ll attend the dances tomorrow. It’s the Quinquatria. You’ll dance with the other concubines,” he added.

Haydee didn’t have the strength to refuse—she simply nodded.

Not long after, he called for a servant.

Lemonia herself escorted Haydee to the rooms linked to the emperor’s.

Before leaving, she cast him one last glance—Watching him drown his sorrow in wine nearly broke her.

That night, she slept alone.

No warm body beside her.

She should’ve felt relieved.

But instead, she felt an aching void in her chest.

Masterlist.

I hope you are liking the story!

Stay tuned for more!

I think that Geta suffer from bipolar disorder ( in my story, in reality i don’t think).🙃❤️

Translations 💐

Inutilis Mulier= useless wife

Liberi Nothi= bastards sons

Filius= son

Triclinium= Roman couch

Quinquatria= festivity for Minerva

[ninjamelissajulien]

I'm gonna rant about Zane for a moment so bear with me

Zane's Motif is Humanity and Betrayal.

From his first conversations with the group, to his chapter book, to Night of the Nindroids, to Tournament of Elements, to SOG/Hunted/MOTO, to the Ice Emperor, to Crystalized, and now Dragons Rising- there is a repetition of Zane not being human. 'He's not like us'. 'He's weird... no, he's weird weird.'

Going into the Pilot Era (Season 0 through S1E6 The Snake King), Zane was always different in how he spoke, acted, and almost existed. Part of this is the brilliant voice acting by Brent Miller- he/Zane speaks very eloquently, a bit monotone but still full of emotion. "Yes. It was a joke. Ha, ha." "The Golden Weapons have left this realm and are now in the Underworld. The end is drawing near." Zane is blunt in how he speaks, yet internally he's in pain. He doesn't know where he comes from, where his family is, or who is family is. One of my favorite lines is from the early chapter books, Kai: Ninja of Fire. "I envy you." "No, I envy the fact that you know they're gone." Zane, at this point, is orphaned with no memory of his family. Kai decides to drop everything to help Zane find his old village and look for any sign of his past (fun fact: Zane and Kai are drugged in his book, I'm dead serious). Although, they do not find anything to help Zane and his past, it allows the pair to bond and grow closer.

In Zane's own chapter book, he is tempted by Garmadon for information about his past. If he gives up the Golden Weapons (and betrays his friends), Garmadon would tell him about his family and their whereabouts. This is the first of numerous instances of someone in power tempted Zane with something he desires, but to achieve it he would have to betray his friends. Zane is tempted. He misses the idea of what his family could be, the false idea of where he came from. Zane, of course, doesn't fall for it, but it's a lingering wonder of is Garmadon telling the truth? Did he really know who Zane's family was? Were they still alive, looking for him?

My favorite graphic novel, (other than the first volume, The Challenge of Samukai), is Night of the Nindroids. This book, taking place between the Art of the Silent Fist and Blackout, focuses on Zane and his feeling of isolation. Yes, he's a ninja, but he's a nindroid. Is he truly on the right team, or should he be with his own kind? In NITN, Zane is separated from the team and brought to the Overlord (Garmadon calls him a "toaster with attitude").

"What are you afraid of? Or can a collection of nuts and bolts even feel fear? No, you can't. Not fear, not hate, not even love, just imitations of those feelings. You are a robot. But I have the power to make you more! Defeat the other ninja for me, and I will transfer your mind into one of their bodies! I will make you human!" the Overlord to Zane.

On a side note: Night of the Nindroids is an incredibly fucked up concept. Zane would get to choose who's body he would take over, inevitably killing the original person. He chooses Kai, meaning (if) he went through with it, he would be living in Kai's body while Kai himself is dead. :)

Back to the point. Zane is tempted with the idea of becoming human. Of feeling emotions, of being able to get hurt, of "feeling the sun on your skin", of being normal. And, he does agree to work with the Overlord (as mentioned previously, choosing Kai's body to inhabit). He, single-handedly, takes down Cole, Jay, and Kai. Zane, though, doesn't want Lloyd anywhere near the events so he sends him away to bond with Sensei Garmadon, but he also sends Nya on a mission. He knows that Nya is intelligent and needs her out of the way for everything to succeed. Even the cover itself shows Zane's separation from the team; while Kai/Jay/Cole are caught, Zane is in front with his internal systems being revealed. He's even in his damaged appearance, showing the mechanics under his false skin. I won't spoil it, because it is a fantastic graphic novel, but it shows that Zane by himself is incredibly strong and powerful.

Tournament of Elements is the death of Human!Zane and the introduction of Titanium!Zane. In his previous appearance, he was able to pass as a human, unless he was drastically injured, but now, in his titanium form, it's even more obvious that he's different. He has PTSD and panic attacks from his encounter with Death. Zane, at this point in time, is the only one who's died and come back, further separating him from being human. But, I feel like, this could aid in his desire for humanity. He knows how precious life is, he knows how easily things can go from bad to impossible. His whole reasoning for living is "to protect those who cannot protect themselves"- from an outside perspective, it's a way for him to be a hero. But, on a deeper level, its almost a suicidal way of seeing things. He was built to face the danger so others wouldn't. Now, that's just my perspective on that.

The Oni Trilogy brings in Zane's cloaking. A way for him to be human again, while still being himself. He's able to switch between blending into the crowd in plain sight versus being himself. Though this does not change how he acts, it allows him a cover especially for when he needs to be hidden (Snake Jaguar).

Now. The Ice Emperor. Arguably the opposition to Zane himself. The Ice Emperor is what could've happened if someone found pre-pilot Zane and used him for their own selfish desires. Both start out as someone with no memories, no compass, just a lost child. Zane, pre-pilot, finds the village he later lives in and allows himself to be aided. Here, he is given things to do and ways to help others before being given the chance, by Wu, to find and better himself. The Ice Emperor is turned into a weapon. He's not allowed to think for himself, every decision is made and manipulated by Vex. The dialogue between IE and Vex is repetitious. The Ice Emperor is stripped of his humanity, betraying himself in the process. His powers are used to cause pain and suffering, killing Krag's family, freezing the Formlings, and causing a realm-wide ice age.

Even how the Ice Emperor sits on his throne shows how captive he is to Vex. Every time that IE moves from the throne, he has to shatter the layer of ice that forms over his arms/body. He's constantly asleep/powered down, possibly due to the amount of energy the Staff is demanding (especially for holding it for so many decades).

Crystalized is the closest Zane gets to voluntarily losing his humanity. the Ice Emperor was forcefully stripped from him, but Crystalized has him choose to lock his emotions away. He doesn't know how to deal with the grief of losing Nya. Even being with Pixal and Cole can't get him out of his depressive funk. It takes an outside perspective of allowing emotions out for him to see that its okay to be emotional, that being emotional is being human.

[druidwolf21]

Ambush

A silent sister struggles when her vows to the sisterhood comes into conflict with her own morality.

When push comes to shove, will she uphold her promises, or will she turn her back on her order ?

I hope you enjoy this short story introducing my OC Cala!

(if it's not clear, everything in italics is sign language)

TW: canon typical violence.

Tags: @beckyninja @moodymisty @thisuserislilsilly @jaghatai-khock @echo-of-damnation @laura-naruto-fan1998 @cosmic-cryptid-from-beyond @astrohymn @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan @incrediblethirst @lemon-russ

Cala crouched low, her shoulder pressed against the frosted stone of the cliff side as she peered into the cave, drawing the golden power blade from her back. Gauntleted fist wrap tightly around the hilt, she waved across the entrance to the other side of the cliff, gesturing to her sister in thoughtmark as she signed.

Cultists located. Reports suggest at least 5 hostages, multiple signs of chaos incursions, high possibility of ritual preparation.

She paused, cocking her head as she listened, before brushing her tawny braid back over the obsidian black of her pauldron.

Your orders, Hestia?

Her battle sister drew an axe and hefted the weight in her hand, Red hair streaming behind her as she raised her hand.

Purge the area, burn the taint from the earth, leave none alive.

Cala froze, ice wind whipping her hair and biting her skin as a frown creasing across her chilled face.

The civilians?

She could feel Hestia's scowl, despite the gorget that concealed her face.

Grant them the emperor's mercy.

Without a second glance, Hestia barreled forward, snow exploding around her as she charged, axe arcing through the air as it cleaved into a cultist. Blood sprayed across the snowy floor in a scarlet bloom as his body hit the floor, detached head following suit soon after.

Hissing, cala sprung up. The metal sung as her blade carved through flesh and bone, electricity dancing across the honed edge as she turned and twisted.

Their enemies dropped one by one as the sisters worked, spinning through the cave in a grim, silent dance. Cultists submitting to blade and bolter, climbing over their own dead in a frenzied rage to claim the glory of felling a silent sister, only to join their fallen brethren in a crumpled heap of shredded sinew. Over and over and over.

Until silence fell.

With a sickening crunch, Cala ripped her sword free from its gory prize and slowly turned. Ruby rivulets collected in small pools and dripped from the walls as she surveyed the aftermath.

Hestia stood a few feet from her, golden armour now flecked with splashes of ichor as it glinted in the dying Torchlight.

Ritual site.

She signed before gesturing to the ground beneath her feet. Arcane sigils, gouged deep into the stone, pulsed faintly with a deep violet light before sputtering and fading.

Demons?

Hestia nodded, kicking at the twitching corpse before her before kneeling.

Filthy heretics.

Reaching out, she wrestled a data slate from the cultists hand. Cold blue eyes trailing across the screen before she tossed it across to Cala.

Another ritual site, sweep this area before moving out.

Cala flicked her blade, discharging the current as she motioned to sheath it before she stilled. Glancing at her sister she followed her gaze to the back of the cave as a muted whimper echoed softly across the chamber.

Nodding to Hestia, she reached out, grasping a torch and wretching it from its bracket before tossing it into the shadows.

The baselines flinched at the flames as the shadows writhed and retreated, their eyes wide as they beheld the gore soaked women before them.

"sisters?"

A man shielded his eyes as he rose groggily to his feet, eyeing the pair cautiously before a smile cracked across his face.

"The emperor has blessed us this day! The sisters have come to rescue us!"

He reached down and began pulling others to their feet, shaking their shoulders and laughing as they stood. An elderly couple clutched each other, tears pricking their eyes and a woman clambered to her feet, hugging a child to her as she smiled.

"The sisters are here to-"

The man paused, mouth moving silently before collapsing forward as a bullet shattered through his skull.

Hestia stood behind him, smoke still twisting from the barrel of her bolt pistol before turning its muzzle on the others. The old woman screamed as her husband fell, her hands clutching the wound on his chest as blood pumped between her fingers.

"WHY? WHY WOULD YO-"

Bang

Her cries falling silent as a round found it's mark between her eyes.

Hestia finally stood before the young mother. Her knuckles white as she clutched her offspring desperately.

"please stop, please, she's just a child"

Cala stepped forward, her fingers catching the glowing muzzle of the bolter and tilting it upwards. Furious eyes met her own as she stood between her officer and the wailing woman.

No more.

She glanced down, the wide eyes of the girl meeting her own, pupils wide and tears streaming down her face.

I cannot watch you kill an innocent.

Hestia scowled, her mouth down turned behind her cage gorget as she wretched the gun upwards and grasped Cala's shoulder.

Then don't look.

Shoving Cala aside, the commander realigned her gun and fired.

🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀

Cala sucked the cold air between her teeth as she stepped in line with her sister, brown eyes downcast as they left the cave behind them.

You will learn, sister.

She looked up, stopping as Hestia stood before her placed a hand against the golden aquilla emblazoned across her chest.

Those touched by chaos can be returned to the emperor's grace in death.

Releasing her, the woman turned and carried on, her bolter bouncing at her hip with each step.

Do not spare them your thoughts, we execute his will, nothing more.

Staring at the golden back of her officer, Cala sighed, casting a last glance back towards the cave before following.

The snow was piling high, muting their steps to a soft crunch as they approached the overpass. The ravine below them eerily silent as they crouched and surveyed. At the end of the deep passage, a purple hue flickered off the crystalline ice, dancing along the walls before dissipating into the frigid air.

Guards, Acolytes and tzaangors.

Cala tossed her binoculars across the Hestia, pointing to a crevice in the opposing wall, hidden well behind a curtain of icicles. Shifting behind the ice, huddled with weapons in hand, was the faint distorted shape of the falcon headed demons, skin pale and pearlescent, even against the white sheen of the walls.

They must be expecting an attack, we should remain cautious. Immunity to demonic possession and the warp is NOT immunity to claw and bolt.

Cala nodded, eyes fixed on the gorge as a flash caught her eye. Taking back her binoculars, she trained her sights to the mouth of the valley, twisting a small bronze dial until they came into focus.

It's not us they are expecting, sister.

Passing the lenses back, she watched as surprise flickered across Hestia's face.

Astartes? And Space wolves no less.

She rose to her feet, brushing snow from her greaves.

It makes no difference, our mission is clear, if they join us at the ritual site, we can accept their help, otherwise, allow them to deal with any stragglers.

Cala rose to join her, gesturing furiously.

There is an ambush, sister! We need to warn them.

They are the emperor's angels, if they fall to the demons, they are not deserving of that title.

Cala blaunched, blinking dumbly as Hestia strode towards the encampment, preparing to drop in from above. Stepping after her, she grabbed her shoulder guard, spinning the older woman to face her again.

Sister! We need to tell them! If they survive, they can help us prevent a summoning, we need to-

Hestia grabbed Cala's hands, metal grinding under her tight grapes.

Enough! How would you even warn them? They will not notice you up here. We have our duty, cease this at once!

Icy eyes stared into Cala's as they stood in tense silence. Fat lazy flakes drifting down and settling into the creases of black and gold vratine armour.

I will not sit idly by.

Wretching her hands from the iron grasp, Cala spun and sprinted, diving from the edge and skidding down the rocky slope. Behind her, she could hear the pounding steps of her brethren following her rapid descent.

Waving her hands furiously in the air as she stumbled and skidded before hitting the bottom, she sprinted towards the approaching pack. The Marines stature growing larger as they walked to meet her.

AMBUSH, CHAOS DEMONS, ARM YOURSELVES

The leader raised a fist, hailing their approach. Thick fur rippled around his shoulders as the yellow of his sigil glinted with the motion as the unit halted behind him.

"Well met sister, we did not expect to see imperial agents out here"

DANGER, HERETIC, TRAITORS.

The captain's visor flashed as he cocked his head, amused as Cala flailed her hands.

"does anyone understand this?" He queries, turning to his men. He was met with a resounding grumble and nonchalant shrugs as they looked amongst each other.

Throwing her hands up in frustration, Cala turned, hopeless as she watched Hestia slow to a stop, having finally caught up.

They don't understand!

Hestia shrugged, eying up the space wolf before answering.

I told you it was a waste of time, next time, listen to me before wasting everyone's time.

The space wolves began to shift, uncomfortable with the silence that sat heavy around them. The captain hefted his bolter and stepped forward, the Ceremite boot sinking into the churned slurry as he stepped around the women.

"sisters, we will be taking our leave, join us, or do not, emperor protects"

The wolves began to step around the silent warriors, emotionless helms turning to stare at them as they passed. Cala jumped forward, pressing her fists into the captains chest, her feet sliding beneath her from the exertion as she gestured up at the cliffs.

STOP, STOP.

Hestia reached out, grasping her wrist and pulling her to side, nodding to the captain as he grunted and passed, heading towards the ritual encampment.

Towards the ambush.

Panic rose in her throat as a gun barrel snuck between the ice, it's sight trained on the shimmering grey of the captain's head, each step taking them closer to a dishonorable demise.

The grip on her wrist became excruciating, Hestia's eyes boring into her as her body trembled.

Motion at the end of the gorge, the camp was alerted as Acolytes and horned demons emerged from the shelter of their base. At their head, a bald man, garbed only in a stained loin cloth and the twisting glyphs carved into his skin, a staff raised high over his head as he shrieked.

Rifles and chain swords raised as the wolves howled, baying for heretic blood.

Unaware.

"AMBUSH"

The words ripped from Cala's throat, hoarse from misuse as she broke free from the iron grasp and charged forward. Pistol raised high she fired as she ran, felling the wrenched creature from its vantage point, it's body twisting and snapping as it fell at the feet of the Marines before dissolving into lilac ash.

A blood claw snarled as she reached their group, following her aim as he raised his heavy bolter and rained down iron and gunpowder, churning through the sniper's nest with bloodthirsty glee.

Following their lead, Cala charged forward, flitting amongst the clashing giants as she wove through their shadows. Hestia's axe crackled amongst the frey and the smell of iron and burning keratin filled her nose as the battle consumed the area. Blood thundered in her ears as she searched, hacking through human and demon flesh.

"captain!"

The soldier turned, crushing a cultists head in his fist before tossing the carcass aside, his stormy armour slick with gore.

"found your voice at last, sister?" He bellowed, firing a bolt through a tzaangor as it screeched towards him.

"we need to find the offering and kill him before he completes the ritual" she yelled back, ducking as a spear sailed past her head, bouncing harmlessly off the skull helmet of a wolf priest. "If he opens a gate, he could -"

A pulse rippled through the air, slamming the cultists to the ground and flinging the avian beasts aside. The marine held firm, their servos groaning under stress as they braced against the force, buffeted as they strained to stay upright. Cala clung to the captain as he forearm shielded her from the worst. Peering behind her, she spotted Hestia shielding herself behind the width of the wolf priest, her axe embedded in the frothed soil. Their eyes met for a brief second as her companion raised her hand.

Oathbreaker

Unable to hold her gaze, Cala turned back, fighting to peer over the massive vambrace that supported her.

The body lay contorted and twisted in broken curves, the pulse of the runes etched into his skin reaching a crescendo as a rip tore open. Thin at first, it hung in the air, leaking hazy fog and the thick stench of ozone. A ripple passed through it, before it began to fracture, cracks emanating outwards as a hole tore open in the center, spewing indigo smoke and sparks.

A clawed hand erupted from the portal, talons long as sabres and just as sharp as they carved deep into stone, reaching for purchase as a head followed through the tear. Six glowing blue eyes stared back at Cala as a beaked maw opened and screamed, reverberating through her skull. The beast heaved and scraped at the snow, trying to squeeze its massive feathered form through the rip, its body too large as it fruitlessly swiped its arm for grip.

"GREATER DEMON"

The warning came too late as a marine was cast aside in a fell swoop, body cleaved apart and discarded as the lord of change battled to escape the immaterium. Toothed beak snapping and claws dismembering any who came to close as it heaved and squealed.

"get me close"

The captain did a double take, staring wordlessly down as he ejected his spent magazine, sliding a full one back in its place.

"I'm a Null, a blank. Ican send it back, but you need to get me close"

Around then, the wolves yelled and hollered as they rolled and fired, diving from blasts of warp magic before retaliating with the biting sting of bolts and lasguns. Hestia stood back to back with an apothecary as swarms of lesser demons began to swarm from the warp rift, the ride of battle was turning fast as overwhelming numbers fought to escape the realm of tzeench.

Grunting, the wolf threw down his emptied gun and hefted his chain sword.

"together then, sister"

"Cala. My name is Cala"

"...jarl Sturvek."

Cala smiles grimly, testing the weight of her blade as she braced.

"A good day to die, Jarl Sturvek"

The man hummed, a chuckle reverberating in his chest.

"Hiljah kah uhtganjen mev tarvahettan. Greet the end with courage, sister"

Together they ran, charging headfirst through the throng, the honed edges of their swords sliding through skin and bone effortlessly, feathers and iridescent blood flying into the air with each swing. The demons recoiled from the null field of the blank as she ran, only to be felled by bloodied soldier as he cleared her path.

The demon lord shied from her as she approached, screaming as it's connection the warp weakened with each step. With Sturvek at her back, Cala expanding her null field, watched as the rift undulated, phasing through unimaginable colours as it began to recoil and dissolve.

"How long, sister? We cannot hold here"

The demon wailed as it began to retreat into the warp, its head lashing from side to side in fury as it finally lost its battle and fell back into the void.

"just one more ah-"

"CALA"

A single swipe of flailing talons caught the blackened armour near her throat, casting her down and dragging Cala into the warp.

Order/chaos,

Decay/Rebirth Endings/Endless, Destiny/fate

Lies

Falling

Falling

Falling

🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀

Cala woke with a start, whispers fading to silence as she jolted upright. Her chest heaved with exertion and her head pounded like a wardrum as she swing her legs off the bed.

Wait, a bed?

Blinking, she looked around. The snow and cold mountains were gone, replaced by metal walls and an oversized bunk. A large fur spread across the floor beneath her feet, coarse but warm between her bare toes. Gone was the armour, replaced by a soft metal grey robe, a snarling wolf embroidered on the breast. The blood has been washed from her, leaving only bruises and a dull humming behind her eyes.

Standing, she swayed for a moment, before shaking her head and stepping towards the weight iron door. Swinging it open, she peered out suspiciously.

The walls were slate grey and peppered with wooden etchings, furs and tapestries, many displaying endless snowbound forest, patrolled by wolves with eyes of ember fire and fur black as soot. Fires sputtered in brackets, dimly lighting the passage as she stalked towards a massive door at the end. The smell of salted meats, drying herbs and fur perforated every inch as she hugged the wall, head swivelling as she watched for motion. Underneath it all, the ever present groan and sighs of a Gloriana engine.

Voices became louder as she approached the end of the hall, arguing loudly. Pressing an ear to the cold metal, she listened.

"she said that the girl is a traitor so she should be punished"

"Groxshite is she"

"she said, the girl broke her oath"

"To warn us!"

"she is a sister of silence, not a space wolf, it is not up to you to decide"

"well you're a-"

A deep voice over the squabble. Heavy fenrisian tone, thick and warm like spices mjord it commanded attention, undivided and rapt.

"Enough. Why not let her speak for herself."

Cala froze as the silence became overwhelming.

"I can hear your breath, your heart is running faster than a hunted doe, come in and speak"

Steeling herself with a steady breath, Cala pushes the door open, stepping into the room swinging it shut behind her with a creaking groan.

The room was warm, flames from a well fed fire heating the spacious area as it burned in an intricate hearth. Above it hung a spear, huge and golden it glinted as sparks twisted into the air. A huge fur sprawled across the metal paneled floor and large desk sat at the center, data slates and paperwork scattered across its oaken surface.

Hestia stood at one end of the wooden table, arms crossed and eyes furious as she stared, a small seed standing beside her with downcast eyes. On the other end stood a marine, red hair wore long with several braids, A long scar across his face, closing a yellow eye. A familiar helmet tucked under his arm.

"jarl Sturvek?"

A toothy grin appeared, as he nodded.

Movement caught her attention, darting her eyes after the shifting figure sat behind the desk.

In a large ornate chair, sat Leman Russ.

He lounged in the chair, slouched with his chin propped in a large hand. Blonde hair braided and swept back from eyes as clear as ice. A lazy smile crept along his face as he watched the woman.

"I have heard a lot of opinions today, now I will hear it truthfully from you"

Cala held his gaze, tilting her chin up definitely as she stepped forward towards the desk. The primarch's eyebrow twitched as his smile grew larger, sharp canines appearing as he grinned.

"I am no traitor, lord Russ. I may have broken my silence, but had I not, your pack would be short a few good men"

Cala sucked in a breath, feeling dizzy under the intensity of the primarch's presence.

"everything I have done, I have done for the imperium. I have walked the sanctum imperialism and I have laid low it's enemies across the galaxy, my voice has not changed that"

She stood tall, turning to her sister as she spoke.

"I am sorry, sister, but I will not regret my actions"

Hestia paused, glancing between cala and leman before signing. The serf stepped forward, nodding at the motions.

"she said; you have dishonored you vow and dishonored yourself, tainted with chaos. Will you not at least repent?"

The wolf king leaned forward in his seat, interrupting before Cala could respond.

"I heard you were dragged into the warp, yet you don't seem particularly cursed to me."

He sat back again, running a hand along his jaw.

"tell me, what did you see?"

The beginning, the end, fire and water, space and time spread before you

"I am.. unsure, my lord"

He nodded, seemingly lost in thought.

Sturvek stepped forward, clapping a scarred hand on the young woman's shoulder as he scowled at the sororitas.

"My lord, the girl has more bite than her sister, she -"

Leman waved him off as he rose to his feet, stepping round the desk he towered over Cala, staring her down for a moment before leaning down.

"perhaps we should kill you, to save the headache of trouble later"

"Hiljah kah uhtganjen mev tarvahettan, lord Russ" she replied simply, repeating the same chant the jarl had said to her earlier.

"HA! well said, little maiden"

He rose back to his full height, laughing as he slapped a hand on her shoulder, ignoring the way her knees buckled slightly under the impact.

"I have heard enough! Sister, you may take your leave off my ship. This one is mine now"

He returned to his seat, elbows on the desk as he propped himself upright.

Hestia's face contorted, before she bowed and spun, casting one last unreadable look at her battle sister before exiting the room.

"Sturvek"

The marine shot to attention, back stiff as he fought to smother the smirk etched on his lips.

"yes, my lord?"

"make sure the witch hunter is off my ship within the hour"

"yes, lord Russ" helm hissing sealed, he turned on his heels and strode after the silent sister, nodding one last time at Cala, and slamming a salute to his chest as he left.

"now, little doe"

Cala turned, her breath catching in her throat as she came face to face with the wolf king crouched in front of her. The smell of spice, pine and winter berries was heady and strong as he stared, eyes predatory and reflective in the guttering fire.

"let's have a chat, shall we?"